Mystery Chapter 5
It seems like a very long time since I've posted any fic. The muse deserted me, there for awhile, like the evil thing she is. I think I have too much on my plate and I'm close to panicking with the approach of whenboymeetsboy *whine* Oh why, oh why did I ever sign up for a deadline thingy. I know better. :C
Now I have to go work on Notting Hill, when I'm actually more intrigued by the thought of The Ghost and Mr. Muir. I did a couple of trial pages on that one and liked what I came up with, but I'm shoving it to the back of the shelf. Also, as soon as I can, I want to do another chapter of Burn. I haven't forgotten it for anyone who's still interested in reading.
This chapter of Mystery is dedicated to angelwatcher17 because she kindly asked what had happened to me. (I keep her in a closet with chocolate, but she sneaks out sometimes and I have to recapture her and put her back.)
Title: Mystery
Author: englishblue
Pairing: AU Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jared Padalecki is a hard-boiled cop. He doesn’t have time for love in his life. So how can he fall for a dead guy, one’s whose murder he’s investigating? It doesn’t make any sense. But then, nothing does.
The collar of Jensen’s shirt is folded against his throat, casting a shadow over his Adam’s apple as he speaks. The shadow makes him real, even as his blanched face makes him real. He’s not the cardboard phantom who has been filling Jared’s dreams every night.
“Are you crazy,” Jensen gasps, some of the calm draining from his voice at Jared’s brutal statement of violence and death. “I’m here. How can I be...dead? I’m not...dead.”
His hand finds the door jamb, and he grips it with whitening fingers. Jared can see belief washing into the irises of Jensen’s eyes, a rising tide of shock darkening his gaze. As stunned as Jared is himself, he leaps up from the floor, catching a solid elbow in his hand as Jensen’s knees give signs of buckling. Guiding him carefully to the couch, Jared can smell the cold from outside clinging to his skin and an underlining rich scent of spice and man.
“Come on. Sit down. I’ll get you something. Think I spotted a bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cupboard.”
He’s gone before Jensen can marshal a response. Jensen plucks at the coarse denim of his jeans with numb fingertips, shivers quaking through his body as realization gets him in its grip and rattles his teeth. He can’t stop the bone-clattering shakes until Jared has pressed a tumbler full of whiskey in his hand, and he gulps down a sloppy mouthful, the harsh burn setting his throat on fire.
“You,” he starts and coughs helplessly as the Scotch backs up, trying to exit through his nose. He hunches over concentrating on breathing, before he looks up into a pair of hazel cat’s eyes devouring him. “You’re a cop?” He tries again. This time managing to get more out. “You’re here investigating my murder? That’s just...nuts. You can see I’m not dead.”
Jared’s answer is calm and reasonable. What you’d expect from a man whose livelihood is based on man’s worst impulses towards his fellow creatures. But Jensen can see a pulse beating heavily in the hollow of Jared’s throat, belying a stranger’s detachment.
“What I want to know is why you haven’t told anybody you’re alive. Your close friends? Your ex-lover? The police?” Jared stares at him steadily, waiting. As though Jensen is the one in the wrong here and needs to explain himself..
“Because, you ignoramus, I didn’t know I was suppose to be dead!” he storms, slamming a fist against his thigh.
“You don’t watch TV? Listen to the radio? It’s the lead story on the six o’clock news-every channel.”
At that, Jared’s head snaps around. He takes in the fact that there is no television in the room. No flat black screen to bring the world into this tiny retreat. The dead snake of the radio cord, with the plug a severed head under the desk, registers next.
“Why’d you unplug the radio?” he blurts in an accusatory tone.
Jensen, the raw edge of his disbelief beginning to peel, blinks angrily. “Because I came here to get away from all that crap. Sometimes I do listen to music. That’s why the radio’s here. But I have a lot on my mind this trip, and I didn’t want the distraction. You imagine I’d let my friends go through the pain of thinking I’m dead if I knew what happened?” Jensen belts back the rest of his drink. He can feel some of the color surging back into his cheeks, flushing his skin with a fierce warmth.
Jared reaches out, taking the empty glass from his hand, nodding at Jensen’s explanation. “That makes sense.” He runs a hand over his stubbly jaw, the silky curls around his ears and forehead flopping forward with the motion. Jensen takes in the gesture, wondering how soft that dazzling mop would feel if he stroked his fingers through its dark waves.
“All right. Say I believe you.”
Jerked back to the moment from his side trip, mouth dropping open in amazement, Jensen prepares to protest the insult and defend himself. Jared waves him to silence.
“Look. Just because you’re out here at the back of beyond doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. You have no alibi. Or am I assuming wrong, and somebody came to visit, who can corroborate you never left? Even if, like you say, you’ve been at the cabin the whole time, there was nothing to stop you from hiring somebody else to do it.”
“Somebody to do what? Kill me? You’re nuts, Mr. I Am-A-Cop.” Jensen says it in an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice that manages to make Jared feel both dumb and muscle-bound at the same time. “ If you thought the dead guy was me....”
The sentiment falls into the room with an echoing loudness. Jared, his usual perfect instincts afire, snatches at it, hears the truth and the implication.
“They didn’t know it was’t you. Whoever did this thought it was you at the door. Christ. Why didn’t I see it before. The doorbell rings. The victim answers, back lit from inside the apartment, wearing your pajamas and robe, by the way, and BAM!”
The bam comes out far too loud. Jensen jumps, eyes gone wide and horrified. After a frozen second, he buries his face in his hands, shoulders slumping.
“My god. It’s true then. Some poor bastard got murdered because the killer thought he was me.”
“Yeah. That’d be it. I don’t understand why I didn’t see it. Whoever he was, he was your size and shape. A body double. Or close enough. Nobody thought to question the identify of the dead guy. Me included.”
It’s pretty clear now. Jared was too centered on the trees to see the forest. It never occurred to him that the dead man wasn’t who he was suppose to be. Jared drops awkwardly down on the couch beside the devastated man, patting ineffectually at a broad shoulder.
Jensen physically is larger than Jared expected. The painting gave no perspective as to size. The solid bone and muscle under his palm speaks of youthful strength. He can’t help the small shift of his cock in his pants at the proximity to a man he’s been fucking every night and most of the day in his dreams. It seemed harmless then. Well, only harmful to himself. Now, it feels perverted. An invasion of privacy. Not that he can help it one bit.
“We need to get you back to the city,” he murmurs, eyes on the way Jensen’s hair wants to curl at the nape of his neck. The pale skin there cries out to be tongued with broad, flat licks. Jared holds his breath.
Jensen’s head suddenly comes up, as though hearing Jared’s thoughts, his gaze, agitated and sharp, darts to Jared and away.
“Is it safe?” he asks quietly, a thumb plaiting the flannel of his shirttail with nervous tremors.
“If the killer finds out you’re alive? No. But we’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen until we’re ready for it. Then I’ll have the bastard.”
Jared’s fist clenches fiercely over the curve of his knee.
The expression of concern on Jensen’s face slips from the plains of his cheekbones, a hopefulness left behind. “We?” he says softly.
“We’re in this together, Jensen. Nobody’s gonna touch a hair on your head. It’s a promise. You’re safe.”
After that, Jared is eager to go. To start the hunt for the murderer. Jensen is the wild card in his pocket. They pack Jensen’s few necessaries in his overnight bag. The road is rain-washed in the headlights. Trees, bare-branched, lean down to snatch along the sides of the car on the narrow ribbon of asphalt. Jared flips on the radio, aware of the irony, tuning to a station of soft jazz. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Jensen seems lost in a place Jared can’t follow.
He wants him to talk. Wants to listen to the gruff rumble of his voice after so much silence. The painting never spoke to him. This Jensen is full of words that he’s not sharing. Jared longs to pry them out with his fingertips, his lips sealed to the stem of Jensen’s throat. He knows the vibration will wake the sleeping vessel of his heart. He’s in too deep already. He’s lost and trying to be the hard cop-failing miserably. The soft push of desire in his belly is a sure sign. It’s shameful to him, this sexual passion for a stranger. Only Jensen Ackles isn’t a stranger to Jared. He’s so much more.
The steering wheel is cool under his touch. It makes him realize how cold the car is, the fog of his breath a mist hissing in and out from between his lips. He cranks on the heater. The first warm blast earns him a look of gratitude from his passenger.
“Gets really cold in the mountains.” Jensen indulges in his first small talk, fully aware of Jared’s sneaky glances coming his way. “Where...? Uh. Where are we going.”
Jared senses Jensen’s trepidation. He wants to calm him, so clarifies the plan. It’s already thought out in Jared’s head. He can see himself breaking the news to Beaver. To Morgan. To Ruby Ogden and poor Mrs. Perkins, who no doubt will be overjoyed and need smelling salts. Jared quickly revises that. He wants Mike to break the news to the cleaning lady. Jared can already imagine Mike’s flailing hands and soaked shirt front. His partner’s gonna kick his ass. The potential threat of revenge won’t deter him.
It will be an intense shock for all the usual suspects as well as Jensen’s other friends. And one of those people will take the knowledge that Jensen is alive with a hot burn of fury, realizing they’ve failed. Jared is putting his money on Morgan. His gut doesn’t like the man. Doesn’t like the fact he’s bedded Jensen. The bastard has an air of having put something over on Jared. And he knows it’s not the fact he’s fucked Jensen up the ass. There’s more to it than that.
“I said where are we going.” Jensen’s question comes out stronger this time, an eyebrow lifting to indicate he wants an answer.
“It’s the old Poe trick. Hide in plain sight. We’re going back to your apartment. The killer won’t be looking for you there. He thinks he’s got what he wants. You dead.” Before Jensen can protest the danger this entails, Jared plunges on. “I’ll have round-the-clock surveillance on the place. Believe me. You won’t make a move without protection. I’ll be there most of the time, and when I’m not, it’ll be my partner Mike. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think you’d be safe, Jensen. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“You’re damned sure about that, are you, Detective? It’s my life up for grabs here.”
“Have a little confidence.” Jared flashes his dimples.
They’ve been an invaluable tool his whole life, those deep indentations that make him look like an over-grown child-or an eager puppy. He’s self-aware enough to know their attraction is universal. The few reasons he’s had to smile lately him have left him out of practice. His cheeks ache from disuse. He wonders if he’s over-doing it. In the seat beside him, a live Jensen stares at his transformed face.
“Okay. I’ll try,” Jensen murmurs under the power of Jared’s searchlight grin. “You’ll forgive me if I feel a little less trusting now than when we met. The idea that someone wants to kill me does that.”
Despite his sarcasm, Jensen’s own lips curve up in a small, answering smile that takes his face from gloomy to amused.
The silence that falls between them after that has a comfortingly familiar rhythm. It’s made up of slick tires on wet pavement and the swosh, swosh of the windshield wipers pushing away the impatient rain.
Jensen sits slumped in his seat, head angled against the passenger window. His closed eyelids are almond-shaped and pale, fringed with darkness. The street lights swim past in the dripping night, painting alternate shadow and soft gold across his face, reminding Jared of the times he’s spent caged in the dark apartment, eyes pinned to the canvas image of the man beside him.
The drive in puts them at Jensen’s building near midnight. Full of an exhausted tension, Jared’s spider senses twitch their thin legs along his spine as they exit the elevator and his glance darts ahead. Listening to the doors glide closed at his back, Jared automatically slips his gun from the holster inside his suit coat.
With a two-handed grip on the comfortable steel, Jared eases silently down the corridor, his back to the wall, feet sinking into thick carpet. He keeps Jensen behind him, made too aware of their physical proximity by the soft respiration tickling the nape of his neck.
“What are you....” Jensen hisses, the half-question pouring almost directly into Jared’s ear from lips only millimeters away.
“Look,” Jared whispers back, repressing the reflexive quiver that churns across his shoulder blades.
He angles the gun barrel forward, giving Jensen a quick look, a jerk of his head indicating what has him on alert. In the dimly lit hallway, the front door of the apartment shows a sliver of open black. The flimsy barrier of gold crime-scene tape dangles listlessly near the floor, confirming the breech.
“Someone’s been inside. Not the police.”
Jensen crowds closer. For a moment, they’re pressed back to front, before Jared steps swiftly over the threshold, swinging his weapon in a wide arc. There is a light coming from the bedroom, but all is still with the stillness of vacancy. Just as at the cabin, Jared senses immediately that there is no one there. But there has been.
Cautiously, he strides across the foyer and the dark sitting room. The light is coming from Jensen’s bedroom. Despite an attempt to hold him back, Jensen surges ahead and bursts through the doorway into his room.
“Nobody,” he says, a rancorous slur of fury limning his voice.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker! What were you going to do if you found somebody? Maybe the murderer? Get your face blown off for real? You’re a jerk, Ackles. Don’t make me punch your lights out. Over there, where I can keep an eye on you, before you wreck any chance of a clean crime scene.”
Jensen’s head swivels at the harsh insult. He’s full of adrenalin, wanting somewhere to expend it after feeling like a helpless maiden in distress since he’s met the big detective. His hands ball into fists. An aggressive stride in Jared’s direction brings him face to face with a seriously pissed off and abnormally large wall of toned flesh. Jensen’s gaze slides upwards to tangle with his tormenter.
“This is my home. If anybody’s going to protect it, it’s gonna be me, asshole.” Even as he’s shouting, the edge of Jensen’s rage crumbles. It’s aimed in the wrong direction. Jared isn’t the bad guy here. “Fuck me.,” Jensen grumbles. “Shit. Guess I’m wound a little too tight.”
Jared understands. He does. But he still seethes with the inner fright Jensen has given him. It isn’t beyond possibility that Jared’s scenario could have played out. The perp could still be in the building, in the apartment, looking for incriminating evidence he or she’s left behind.
“Okay. Okay. I get your point, Mr Author.” Jared frowns. The taunt doesn’t come out as successfully as Jensen’s Schwartzenegger impression. “I hope you get mine,” he finishes lamely.
Tension draining from his shoulders, he holsters his gun. He shuffles backward a couple of steps, allowing Jensen some space. The man looks suddenly grateful. The import of what’s just happened blind-siding him as it sinks in.
“All right. If you want to help, take a look around. See if you can spot anything out of place or missing. We’ve been over the joint with a fine tooth comb, but you’d have a better idea the way things should be.”
Jensen holds himself together with his fingernails, trying to hide the fact a case of the shakes is threatening to turn him into a human castanet. Taking a deep breath steadies his thumping heart. He looks around at Jared’s injunction, seeing the ruffled surface of his bed, the closet door ajar. Before he can investigate, his gaze falls on the bedside table. A prized Deco lamp sits on it, white and narrow with a wide red shade. Jensen has never noticed before how the light spilling around its base is tinged pinkish, like blood swirled in water. The thought barely passes through his head when he see it.
The lighter is thin and gold. Jensen recognizes it instantly, the initials TW curling in elaborate script on one corner. Jensen was at the party when Tom unwrapped it, his face alight with pleasure. The occasion? His thirty second birthday. The gift was from Jeff Morgan, Jensen’s lover.
Jensen had never seen Tom smile quite so wide before. It was the first hint Jensen had that something was going on between Jeff and his friend. The expensive little piece of Cartier magic told him without the need for words that Jeff and Tom were fucking behind his back.
Jensen picks the slender gold case up carefully, surprised at how steady his hand is. He turns to Jared, arm extended, the cool metal cupped in his palm. When Jared frowns, not understanding, Jensen clears his throat, nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.
“I know who the victim is."
Now I have to go work on Notting Hill, when I'm actually more intrigued by the thought of The Ghost and Mr. Muir. I did a couple of trial pages on that one and liked what I came up with, but I'm shoving it to the back of the shelf. Also, as soon as I can, I want to do another chapter of Burn. I haven't forgotten it for anyone who's still interested in reading.
This chapter of Mystery is dedicated to angelwatcher17 because she kindly asked what had happened to me. (I keep her in a closet with chocolate, but she sneaks out sometimes and I have to recapture her and put her back.)
Title: Mystery
Author: englishblue
Pairing: AU Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jared Padalecki is a hard-boiled cop. He doesn’t have time for love in his life. So how can he fall for a dead guy, one’s whose murder he’s investigating? It doesn’t make any sense. But then, nothing does.
The collar of Jensen’s shirt is folded against his throat, casting a shadow over his Adam’s apple as he speaks. The shadow makes him real, even as his blanched face makes him real. He’s not the cardboard phantom who has been filling Jared’s dreams every night.
“Are you crazy,” Jensen gasps, some of the calm draining from his voice at Jared’s brutal statement of violence and death. “I’m here. How can I be...dead? I’m not...dead.”
His hand finds the door jamb, and he grips it with whitening fingers. Jared can see belief washing into the irises of Jensen’s eyes, a rising tide of shock darkening his gaze. As stunned as Jared is himself, he leaps up from the floor, catching a solid elbow in his hand as Jensen’s knees give signs of buckling. Guiding him carefully to the couch, Jared can smell the cold from outside clinging to his skin and an underlining rich scent of spice and man.
“Come on. Sit down. I’ll get you something. Think I spotted a bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cupboard.”
He’s gone before Jensen can marshal a response. Jensen plucks at the coarse denim of his jeans with numb fingertips, shivers quaking through his body as realization gets him in its grip and rattles his teeth. He can’t stop the bone-clattering shakes until Jared has pressed a tumbler full of whiskey in his hand, and he gulps down a sloppy mouthful, the harsh burn setting his throat on fire.
“You,” he starts and coughs helplessly as the Scotch backs up, trying to exit through his nose. He hunches over concentrating on breathing, before he looks up into a pair of hazel cat’s eyes devouring him. “You’re a cop?” He tries again. This time managing to get more out. “You’re here investigating my murder? That’s just...nuts. You can see I’m not dead.”
Jared’s answer is calm and reasonable. What you’d expect from a man whose livelihood is based on man’s worst impulses towards his fellow creatures. But Jensen can see a pulse beating heavily in the hollow of Jared’s throat, belying a stranger’s detachment.
“What I want to know is why you haven’t told anybody you’re alive. Your close friends? Your ex-lover? The police?” Jared stares at him steadily, waiting. As though Jensen is the one in the wrong here and needs to explain himself..
“Because, you ignoramus, I didn’t know I was suppose to be dead!” he storms, slamming a fist against his thigh.
“You don’t watch TV? Listen to the radio? It’s the lead story on the six o’clock news-every channel.”
At that, Jared’s head snaps around. He takes in the fact that there is no television in the room. No flat black screen to bring the world into this tiny retreat. The dead snake of the radio cord, with the plug a severed head under the desk, registers next.
“Why’d you unplug the radio?” he blurts in an accusatory tone.
Jensen, the raw edge of his disbelief beginning to peel, blinks angrily. “Because I came here to get away from all that crap. Sometimes I do listen to music. That’s why the radio’s here. But I have a lot on my mind this trip, and I didn’t want the distraction. You imagine I’d let my friends go through the pain of thinking I’m dead if I knew what happened?” Jensen belts back the rest of his drink. He can feel some of the color surging back into his cheeks, flushing his skin with a fierce warmth.
Jared reaches out, taking the empty glass from his hand, nodding at Jensen’s explanation. “That makes sense.” He runs a hand over his stubbly jaw, the silky curls around his ears and forehead flopping forward with the motion. Jensen takes in the gesture, wondering how soft that dazzling mop would feel if he stroked his fingers through its dark waves.
“All right. Say I believe you.”
Jerked back to the moment from his side trip, mouth dropping open in amazement, Jensen prepares to protest the insult and defend himself. Jared waves him to silence.
“Look. Just because you’re out here at the back of beyond doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. You have no alibi. Or am I assuming wrong, and somebody came to visit, who can corroborate you never left? Even if, like you say, you’ve been at the cabin the whole time, there was nothing to stop you from hiring somebody else to do it.”
“Somebody to do what? Kill me? You’re nuts, Mr. I Am-A-Cop.” Jensen says it in an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice that manages to make Jared feel both dumb and muscle-bound at the same time. “ If you thought the dead guy was me....”
The sentiment falls into the room with an echoing loudness. Jared, his usual perfect instincts afire, snatches at it, hears the truth and the implication.
“They didn’t know it was’t you. Whoever did this thought it was you at the door. Christ. Why didn’t I see it before. The doorbell rings. The victim answers, back lit from inside the apartment, wearing your pajamas and robe, by the way, and BAM!”
The bam comes out far too loud. Jensen jumps, eyes gone wide and horrified. After a frozen second, he buries his face in his hands, shoulders slumping.
“My god. It’s true then. Some poor bastard got murdered because the killer thought he was me.”
“Yeah. That’d be it. I don’t understand why I didn’t see it. Whoever he was, he was your size and shape. A body double. Or close enough. Nobody thought to question the identify of the dead guy. Me included.”
It’s pretty clear now. Jared was too centered on the trees to see the forest. It never occurred to him that the dead man wasn’t who he was suppose to be. Jared drops awkwardly down on the couch beside the devastated man, patting ineffectually at a broad shoulder.
Jensen physically is larger than Jared expected. The painting gave no perspective as to size. The solid bone and muscle under his palm speaks of youthful strength. He can’t help the small shift of his cock in his pants at the proximity to a man he’s been fucking every night and most of the day in his dreams. It seemed harmless then. Well, only harmful to himself. Now, it feels perverted. An invasion of privacy. Not that he can help it one bit.
“We need to get you back to the city,” he murmurs, eyes on the way Jensen’s hair wants to curl at the nape of his neck. The pale skin there cries out to be tongued with broad, flat licks. Jared holds his breath.
Jensen’s head suddenly comes up, as though hearing Jared’s thoughts, his gaze, agitated and sharp, darts to Jared and away.
“Is it safe?” he asks quietly, a thumb plaiting the flannel of his shirttail with nervous tremors.
“If the killer finds out you’re alive? No. But we’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen until we’re ready for it. Then I’ll have the bastard.”
Jared’s fist clenches fiercely over the curve of his knee.
The expression of concern on Jensen’s face slips from the plains of his cheekbones, a hopefulness left behind. “We?” he says softly.
“We’re in this together, Jensen. Nobody’s gonna touch a hair on your head. It’s a promise. You’re safe.”
After that, Jared is eager to go. To start the hunt for the murderer. Jensen is the wild card in his pocket. They pack Jensen’s few necessaries in his overnight bag. The road is rain-washed in the headlights. Trees, bare-branched, lean down to snatch along the sides of the car on the narrow ribbon of asphalt. Jared flips on the radio, aware of the irony, tuning to a station of soft jazz. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Jensen seems lost in a place Jared can’t follow.
He wants him to talk. Wants to listen to the gruff rumble of his voice after so much silence. The painting never spoke to him. This Jensen is full of words that he’s not sharing. Jared longs to pry them out with his fingertips, his lips sealed to the stem of Jensen’s throat. He knows the vibration will wake the sleeping vessel of his heart. He’s in too deep already. He’s lost and trying to be the hard cop-failing miserably. The soft push of desire in his belly is a sure sign. It’s shameful to him, this sexual passion for a stranger. Only Jensen Ackles isn’t a stranger to Jared. He’s so much more.
The steering wheel is cool under his touch. It makes him realize how cold the car is, the fog of his breath a mist hissing in and out from between his lips. He cranks on the heater. The first warm blast earns him a look of gratitude from his passenger.
“Gets really cold in the mountains.” Jensen indulges in his first small talk, fully aware of Jared’s sneaky glances coming his way. “Where...? Uh. Where are we going.”
Jared senses Jensen’s trepidation. He wants to calm him, so clarifies the plan. It’s already thought out in Jared’s head. He can see himself breaking the news to Beaver. To Morgan. To Ruby Ogden and poor Mrs. Perkins, who no doubt will be overjoyed and need smelling salts. Jared quickly revises that. He wants Mike to break the news to the cleaning lady. Jared can already imagine Mike’s flailing hands and soaked shirt front. His partner’s gonna kick his ass. The potential threat of revenge won’t deter him.
It will be an intense shock for all the usual suspects as well as Jensen’s other friends. And one of those people will take the knowledge that Jensen is alive with a hot burn of fury, realizing they’ve failed. Jared is putting his money on Morgan. His gut doesn’t like the man. Doesn’t like the fact he’s bedded Jensen. The bastard has an air of having put something over on Jared. And he knows it’s not the fact he’s fucked Jensen up the ass. There’s more to it than that.
“I said where are we going.” Jensen’s question comes out stronger this time, an eyebrow lifting to indicate he wants an answer.
“It’s the old Poe trick. Hide in plain sight. We’re going back to your apartment. The killer won’t be looking for you there. He thinks he’s got what he wants. You dead.” Before Jensen can protest the danger this entails, Jared plunges on. “I’ll have round-the-clock surveillance on the place. Believe me. You won’t make a move without protection. I’ll be there most of the time, and when I’m not, it’ll be my partner Mike. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think you’d be safe, Jensen. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“You’re damned sure about that, are you, Detective? It’s my life up for grabs here.”
“Have a little confidence.” Jared flashes his dimples.
They’ve been an invaluable tool his whole life, those deep indentations that make him look like an over-grown child-or an eager puppy. He’s self-aware enough to know their attraction is universal. The few reasons he’s had to smile lately him have left him out of practice. His cheeks ache from disuse. He wonders if he’s over-doing it. In the seat beside him, a live Jensen stares at his transformed face.
“Okay. I’ll try,” Jensen murmurs under the power of Jared’s searchlight grin. “You’ll forgive me if I feel a little less trusting now than when we met. The idea that someone wants to kill me does that.”
Despite his sarcasm, Jensen’s own lips curve up in a small, answering smile that takes his face from gloomy to amused.
The silence that falls between them after that has a comfortingly familiar rhythm. It’s made up of slick tires on wet pavement and the swosh, swosh of the windshield wipers pushing away the impatient rain.
Jensen sits slumped in his seat, head angled against the passenger window. His closed eyelids are almond-shaped and pale, fringed with darkness. The street lights swim past in the dripping night, painting alternate shadow and soft gold across his face, reminding Jared of the times he’s spent caged in the dark apartment, eyes pinned to the canvas image of the man beside him.
The drive in puts them at Jensen’s building near midnight. Full of an exhausted tension, Jared’s spider senses twitch their thin legs along his spine as they exit the elevator and his glance darts ahead. Listening to the doors glide closed at his back, Jared automatically slips his gun from the holster inside his suit coat.
With a two-handed grip on the comfortable steel, Jared eases silently down the corridor, his back to the wall, feet sinking into thick carpet. He keeps Jensen behind him, made too aware of their physical proximity by the soft respiration tickling the nape of his neck.
“What are you....” Jensen hisses, the half-question pouring almost directly into Jared’s ear from lips only millimeters away.
“Look,” Jared whispers back, repressing the reflexive quiver that churns across his shoulder blades.
He angles the gun barrel forward, giving Jensen a quick look, a jerk of his head indicating what has him on alert. In the dimly lit hallway, the front door of the apartment shows a sliver of open black. The flimsy barrier of gold crime-scene tape dangles listlessly near the floor, confirming the breech.
“Someone’s been inside. Not the police.”
Jensen crowds closer. For a moment, they’re pressed back to front, before Jared steps swiftly over the threshold, swinging his weapon in a wide arc. There is a light coming from the bedroom, but all is still with the stillness of vacancy. Just as at the cabin, Jared senses immediately that there is no one there. But there has been.
Cautiously, he strides across the foyer and the dark sitting room. The light is coming from Jensen’s bedroom. Despite an attempt to hold him back, Jensen surges ahead and bursts through the doorway into his room.
“Nobody,” he says, a rancorous slur of fury limning his voice.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker! What were you going to do if you found somebody? Maybe the murderer? Get your face blown off for real? You’re a jerk, Ackles. Don’t make me punch your lights out. Over there, where I can keep an eye on you, before you wreck any chance of a clean crime scene.”
Jensen’s head swivels at the harsh insult. He’s full of adrenalin, wanting somewhere to expend it after feeling like a helpless maiden in distress since he’s met the big detective. His hands ball into fists. An aggressive stride in Jared’s direction brings him face to face with a seriously pissed off and abnormally large wall of toned flesh. Jensen’s gaze slides upwards to tangle with his tormenter.
“This is my home. If anybody’s going to protect it, it’s gonna be me, asshole.” Even as he’s shouting, the edge of Jensen’s rage crumbles. It’s aimed in the wrong direction. Jared isn’t the bad guy here. “Fuck me.,” Jensen grumbles. “Shit. Guess I’m wound a little too tight.”
Jared understands. He does. But he still seethes with the inner fright Jensen has given him. It isn’t beyond possibility that Jared’s scenario could have played out. The perp could still be in the building, in the apartment, looking for incriminating evidence he or she’s left behind.
“Okay. Okay. I get your point, Mr Author.” Jared frowns. The taunt doesn’t come out as successfully as Jensen’s Schwartzenegger impression. “I hope you get mine,” he finishes lamely.
Tension draining from his shoulders, he holsters his gun. He shuffles backward a couple of steps, allowing Jensen some space. The man looks suddenly grateful. The import of what’s just happened blind-siding him as it sinks in.
“All right. If you want to help, take a look around. See if you can spot anything out of place or missing. We’ve been over the joint with a fine tooth comb, but you’d have a better idea the way things should be.”
Jensen holds himself together with his fingernails, trying to hide the fact a case of the shakes is threatening to turn him into a human castanet. Taking a deep breath steadies his thumping heart. He looks around at Jared’s injunction, seeing the ruffled surface of his bed, the closet door ajar. Before he can investigate, his gaze falls on the bedside table. A prized Deco lamp sits on it, white and narrow with a wide red shade. Jensen has never noticed before how the light spilling around its base is tinged pinkish, like blood swirled in water. The thought barely passes through his head when he see it.
The lighter is thin and gold. Jensen recognizes it instantly, the initials TW curling in elaborate script on one corner. Jensen was at the party when Tom unwrapped it, his face alight with pleasure. The occasion? His thirty second birthday. The gift was from Jeff Morgan, Jensen’s lover.
Jensen had never seen Tom smile quite so wide before. It was the first hint Jensen had that something was going on between Jeff and his friend. The expensive little piece of Cartier magic told him without the need for words that Jeff and Tom were fucking behind his back.
Jensen picks the slender gold case up carefully, surprised at how steady his hand is. He turns to Jared, arm extended, the cool metal cupped in his palm. When Jared frowns, not understanding, Jensen clears his throat, nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.
“I know who the victim is."