A Thousand Kisses Deep Chapter 7
I'm doing better and starting to write more. This makes me very happy. So I come bearing the next chapter of ATKD. An interlude in London. Jensen is a bit of a flirt. Uncle Neddy tries to take advantage.
Chapter 7
It’s raining when Jensen steps out of the cab. That shouldn’t be surprising, seeing as how it’s the same weather he’d left behind months ago when he moved from London to Gull Cottage. The clouds are gray. The rain is gray. The buildings, drenched in the steady downpour, are gray. It seems fitting. Jensen can only remember grayness when he thinks of his life here.
Clapping his hat down firmly with one hand, he makes a mad dash for the sheltered portico of Eton Brothers, Publishers, hoping his arrival without an appointment will not see him back on the pavement in a matter of minutes. Inside, there is a suitably reverent air, even the telephones ring in a subdued hush.
“Can I be of assistance?” the mustachioed gentleman in a blue pin-striped vest asks. Leaning over the counter separating Jensen from his goal; the office of one Phineas Eton III, Editor-In-Chief, his eyes take in Jensen’s rain drenched appearance with amusement..
“I’d like to see Mister Eton, if I may.”
Jensen’s smile is falsely hearty. It falls away entirely at the clerk’s response.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” comes the business-like reply. “Mister Eton’s appointment calendar is booked through the first week in November. He is a very busy man, you know.” Running a finger along his mustache, the man drops his voice with a confidential air. “Call ahead. That’s the ticket. I think we might be able to squeeze you in between the fifth and the eighth if you call ahead.”
There is a sinking feeling in the region of Jensen’s toes. “That’s...that’s very kind of you. But you see, this is a matter of great urgency. I might even say life and death.”
Jensen concentrates on looking sincere, his heart stumbling drunkenly in his chest. There were barely enough funds left in the bank to get him to London. Going home empty-handed isn’t an option he can contemplate.
“Surely you can squeeze me in somewhere. I’ll wait. Over there.”
Jensen’s waves a hand towards a row of wooden chairs along one wall of the office. They look particularly uncomfortable. It is most probable their aim in life is to drive away unwanted petitioners of Jensen’s ilk. Behind him, a cough suddenly sounds close to his ear and a large hand wraps itself around Jensen’s suited forearm, turning him with gentle insistence.
“May I be of some help?”
The blue eyes that beam down at Jensen crinkle at the corners with good-natured interest. A thatch of dark hair falls boyishly across the smooth, white forehead of the man towering over Jensen by several inches. It really is unconscionable, he thinks, to be perpetually made to feel small by those around him when Jensen is, in fact, a tall man himself.
“Thomas Welling,” the man says, sketching him a bow, more comic than serious. “And you are?”
Jensen unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. The stranger is very handsome, and Jensen can’t help but feel a little kick to his heartbeat, which for some reason plucks a cord of guilt in his vitals.
“Jensen Ackles.” He extends his hand politely to have it engulfed in Welling’s larger grip.
“You’re wanting to get in to see Michael.”
Jensen frowns. “Michael? No. I...”
“Phineas is hardly a name that rolls trippingly off the tongue, now is it? His friends call him Michael. Of which I number myself one.”
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Jensen catches the clerk’s indignant expression.
“Really. Mister Welling. It’s hardly dignified to cal Mister Eton by his....,” the man flounders, then ends with, “...by his Christian name.”
“Come along, Elliot. Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.” Welling turns to Jensen with an infectious grin. “This is obviously a matter of some importance.”
With his new ally closing ranks beside him, Jensen feels a swell of optimism. “Yes. Exactly. It’s very important. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Welling’s face turns serious for a moment before he gives Jensen an understanding nod and taps the counter resolutely.
“Give Mister Ackles...”
“Jensen,” Jensen interrupts. Then his cheeks flush at his rudeness. Welling winks at him.
“Give Mister Jensen my appointment, Elliot. I’m only here to go over a few proofs. Nothing earth-shaking. The little rug rats won’t curl up and die if I postpone for a few hours. I’ll come back later” Welling turns to Jensen, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s my pleasure, dear boy, to be of assistance.”
A flustered thank you is all Jensen can manage before the man strides to the office door and is gone. Turning back to Elliot, the clerk, Jensen finds him leaning confidentially on the counter, eyes more appraising than before.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” he asks.
At a loss for an answer, Jensen only shakes his head.
“That’s Uncle Neddy.” When there is no immediate response, Elliot can’t hide his peeved expression. “Uncle Neddy,” he says again with more emphasis. “The best-selling children’s author. Arthur Goes to the Seaside, Weevils and Other Mystical Things?” Elliot lifts an eyebrow.
Even as removed from the world of children as Jensen is, he has heard of these. The man is a legend. Jensen always imagined the author of those books to be short and jolly looking something like Mister Pickwick. The actuality is a decided jolt to his system; long legs, broad shoulders and a sensuous mouth. Jensen smiles weakly and earns a nod of approval from Elliot.
When the clerk ushers Jensen around the counter to an unpretentious door set flush in the room’s back wall, the arched jamb makes Jensen thinks of Alice in Wonderland, perhaps by association with Uncle Neddy.
“Wait here. I’ll announce you,” Elliot says and slips inside, the door snicking shut behind him.
The office is dim. Rain is sluicing down the windows in silvery ripples that make it appear as though everything is underwater. An occasional gust of wind rattles the glass, the storm held at bay by a few well-placed bricks and man’s ingenuity. Jensen takes a several hesitant steps forward.
Behind a large mahogany desk, a bald head gleams like a beacon at the bottom of the sea. “Mr. Ackles, is it?” a voice asks. “What can I do for you?”
Given such an opportunity, Jensen says the first thing that comes into his head. “You can publish my book.” The hearty laugh that greets this statement makes Jensen smile back, despite the nervous flutter curling in his belly. “You won’t be sorry. It’s the kind of story that grabs you by the...umm...balls and won’t let you go until the last page. The unvarnished tale of a sea captain who’s been everywhere and done everything. Ahh...from the bawdy houses of London to the south China Seas.”
It’s what Jared told Jensen to say, and he says it. He can’t help but feel his cheeks warm with discomfort at the unaccustomedly crude remarks. Balls and bawdy houses. Jensen has never put those words together in a sentence before.
“Is that so? Unvarnished, you say? Bawdy houses?” Eton leans forward and stretches out his hand. “Let’s see it then. I have a few minutes between appointments. But I’m not promising anything. More than likely....”
He bends over the first page, eyes skimming quickly down the lines as Jensen settles in the seat across from him. A smile lifts the corners of Eton’s lips. Glancing up at Jensen with a raised eyebrow, he turns the page and settles back in his leather chair, a chuckle escaping. It’s nearly three hours later when he carefully places the inches deep stack of papers on the corner of his desk and lifts his eyes to where Jensen stands gazing out at the deepening gloom, unable to sit still after the first nerve-wracking hour.
“You didn’t write this yourself,” is the first thing that Eton says, tapping his steepled fingers together. “It’s a magnificent yarn. This man has chewed life up on his own terms and spat it out when it didn’t please him. A true voluptuary. That isn’t you lad, though I can see you have a bit of the piratical about you.”
The flush of pleasure warming Jensen’s face makes him stuttered a little. “Mister..uh...Eton. It was my honor to assist at the birth of such a fine book, but, of course, you’re right. It’s not my story. However, the author is determined to remain anonymous. And I must respect his wishes”
“Please. Call me Michael.” Michael claps his hands together, making Jensen jump. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to introduce me?” At the suddenly closed expression on Jensen’s face, he shrugs good-naturedly. “Ah well. I’m not surprised, just disappointed. I’ve a feeling we’re going to have a long and prosperous association, my friend.”
Rising from behind his desk, Michael strides to where Jensen beams at him and extends his hand. “I’ll be proud to publish your book. Now. Tell me. How did you manage to get past my dragon? Elliot’s usually more of an immoveable object than that.”
“Oh, he was. But Mr. Welling was here for his appointment and hearing my predicament, kindly offered it to me.”
Eton clears his throat, eyes suddenly weighing Jensen in a different light.
“I’ve no doubt he found a...private incentive. Tom’s a decent sort. As long as you don’t take him too seriously.”
“I quite liked him.”
Michael eyes Jensen’s innocent expression with a raised eyebrow before clasping him by the shoulder and guiding him back to a chair.
“We’ll need to sign a few papers. Make a few decisions. But first...” Michael lifts his checkbook from a drawer and plunks the heavy, leather-covered book onto the desk. “A binder. How does five hundred pounds sound to you, my friend?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Jensen stumbles dazedly from Michael’s office a short while later, the check tucked carefully into his breast pocket, he finds Uncle Neddy sitting in a chair in the waiting room. His long legs are crossed at the ankle while he pages disinterestedly through a magazine. He glances up with a bright smile as Jensen appears, pausing on the threshold of the editor’s office.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Jensen blurts, striding forward, extending his hand. “They’re going to publish my book!”
“That’s damned decent of old Michael,” Welling drawls, unspooling his giant frame from the dangerously creaking chair he’s nearly squashing.
Jensen is tempted to laugh at the incongruous sight. The impulse is short-lived. Welling shakes Jensen’s hand warmly, the mass of him looming in Jensen’s personal space, drowning everything but the sudden thunder of Jensen’s heart.
“Why don’t you let me buy you dinner by way of celebration? You can tell me all about this great tome that’s captivated our dour Michael in the space of a few hours?”
It appears to be the most innocent of requests. After a slight hesitation, Jensen accepts. It’s been a most taxing day. At the least, he deserves a good meal with congenial company before he starts the long journey back to White Cliff. Tom already has a hold on Jensen’s elbow, steering him down the stairs and out of the building in a proprietary rush, ignoring the clerk’s astonished shout.
“Mr. Welling! Your appointment.”
“I can talk to Michael anytime,” Welling confides in Jensen’s ear. “You, on the other hand, are a rare treat.”
The flattery is soothing to Jensen’s ego after too many brushes with the Captain’s harsh assessment. He can still hear Jared’s voice, teasingly amused, “Don’t imagine you have anything to teach me about passion or love, Jensen. It’s not so. You’re the one who has lessons to learn...”
The pressure of “Uncle Neddy’s” hand at the small of his back fills Jensen with a mild sense of triumph. It is quite obvious his new acquaintance finds Jensen of more than adequate interest on first meeting. If Jared were here, Jensen would snap his fingers under the man’s nose. Not everyone, it appears, sees Jensen as wanting in that area.
Dinner is a pleasant affair. The restaurant Welling chooses is upscale and decidedly romantic, low lighting, cosy booths, and waiters who rival Jared for their ghostly comings and goings. Jensen knows when he is being wooed. Tom makes no effort at subtlety, capturing Jensen’s hand whenever given the chance, dark eyes focused on the movement of Jensen’s lips as he chews and swallows his lamp chops with the difficulty of the observed.
“I’m sorry. Am I making you nervous?”
“You know you are. You’re doing it on purpose.” Jensen smiles shyly, then drops his gaze away from the burgeoning heat in Tom’s gaze.
“I can’t help it. Look at you. At those eyes and that mouth. It makes me think very naughty things about you.”
“Stop making fun of me.”
Jensen’s reprimand is more coquettish than severe. He knows he is being a shameless flirt. It’s more than likely the three glasses of champagne he’s downed with his meal have something to do with it. But it’s also the fact he is in the real world, interacting with a real man, not some nebulous ghost who has bullied and seduced him for months on end until he doesn’t know which way to turn for relief. He is possibly quite mad, and most days he’s happy in his madness, the touch of Jared’s mouth enough to make him grab insanity with both hands. But. There's always a but...
A soft nudge along Jensen’s calf brings his attention back into focus.
“We could stop at my apartment for a nightcap?” Welling is saying with a lazy smile.
It is suddenly clear to Jensen that as attractive as he finds the man, Welling isn’t Jared. No one will ever be Jared, but Jared. Laying down his napkin, a hint of formality slips into his speech.
“It’s been a lovely evening, Tom. But it’s late, and I’ve a long journey ahead of me. I hope you’ll excuse my rudeness. It’s time I went home.”
Jensen feels a certain satisfaction as he strides across the crowded restaurant, weaving his way between tables of happy, chattering people, thinking only of Jared and sharing the news with him that Gull Cottage is finally safe.
Chapter 7
It’s raining when Jensen steps out of the cab. That shouldn’t be surprising, seeing as how it’s the same weather he’d left behind months ago when he moved from London to Gull Cottage. The clouds are gray. The rain is gray. The buildings, drenched in the steady downpour, are gray. It seems fitting. Jensen can only remember grayness when he thinks of his life here.
Clapping his hat down firmly with one hand, he makes a mad dash for the sheltered portico of Eton Brothers, Publishers, hoping his arrival without an appointment will not see him back on the pavement in a matter of minutes. Inside, there is a suitably reverent air, even the telephones ring in a subdued hush.
“Can I be of assistance?” the mustachioed gentleman in a blue pin-striped vest asks. Leaning over the counter separating Jensen from his goal; the office of one Phineas Eton III, Editor-In-Chief, his eyes take in Jensen’s rain drenched appearance with amusement..
“I’d like to see Mister Eton, if I may.”
Jensen’s smile is falsely hearty. It falls away entirely at the clerk’s response.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” comes the business-like reply. “Mister Eton’s appointment calendar is booked through the first week in November. He is a very busy man, you know.” Running a finger along his mustache, the man drops his voice with a confidential air. “Call ahead. That’s the ticket. I think we might be able to squeeze you in between the fifth and the eighth if you call ahead.”
There is a sinking feeling in the region of Jensen’s toes. “That’s...that’s very kind of you. But you see, this is a matter of great urgency. I might even say life and death.”
Jensen concentrates on looking sincere, his heart stumbling drunkenly in his chest. There were barely enough funds left in the bank to get him to London. Going home empty-handed isn’t an option he can contemplate.
“Surely you can squeeze me in somewhere. I’ll wait. Over there.”
Jensen’s waves a hand towards a row of wooden chairs along one wall of the office. They look particularly uncomfortable. It is most probable their aim in life is to drive away unwanted petitioners of Jensen’s ilk. Behind him, a cough suddenly sounds close to his ear and a large hand wraps itself around Jensen’s suited forearm, turning him with gentle insistence.
“May I be of some help?”
The blue eyes that beam down at Jensen crinkle at the corners with good-natured interest. A thatch of dark hair falls boyishly across the smooth, white forehead of the man towering over Jensen by several inches. It really is unconscionable, he thinks, to be perpetually made to feel small by those around him when Jensen is, in fact, a tall man himself.
“Thomas Welling,” the man says, sketching him a bow, more comic than serious. “And you are?”
Jensen unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. The stranger is very handsome, and Jensen can’t help but feel a little kick to his heartbeat, which for some reason plucks a cord of guilt in his vitals.
“Jensen Ackles.” He extends his hand politely to have it engulfed in Welling’s larger grip.
“You’re wanting to get in to see Michael.”
Jensen frowns. “Michael? No. I...”
“Phineas is hardly a name that rolls trippingly off the tongue, now is it? His friends call him Michael. Of which I number myself one.”
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Jensen catches the clerk’s indignant expression.
“Really. Mister Welling. It’s hardly dignified to cal Mister Eton by his....,” the man flounders, then ends with, “...by his Christian name.”
“Come along, Elliot. Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.” Welling turns to Jensen with an infectious grin. “This is obviously a matter of some importance.”
With his new ally closing ranks beside him, Jensen feels a swell of optimism. “Yes. Exactly. It’s very important. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Welling’s face turns serious for a moment before he gives Jensen an understanding nod and taps the counter resolutely.
“Give Mister Ackles...”
“Jensen,” Jensen interrupts. Then his cheeks flush at his rudeness. Welling winks at him.
“Give Mister Jensen my appointment, Elliot. I’m only here to go over a few proofs. Nothing earth-shaking. The little rug rats won’t curl up and die if I postpone for a few hours. I’ll come back later” Welling turns to Jensen, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s my pleasure, dear boy, to be of assistance.”
A flustered thank you is all Jensen can manage before the man strides to the office door and is gone. Turning back to Elliot, the clerk, Jensen finds him leaning confidentially on the counter, eyes more appraising than before.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” he asks.
At a loss for an answer, Jensen only shakes his head.
“That’s Uncle Neddy.” When there is no immediate response, Elliot can’t hide his peeved expression. “Uncle Neddy,” he says again with more emphasis. “The best-selling children’s author. Arthur Goes to the Seaside, Weevils and Other Mystical Things?” Elliot lifts an eyebrow.
Even as removed from the world of children as Jensen is, he has heard of these. The man is a legend. Jensen always imagined the author of those books to be short and jolly looking something like Mister Pickwick. The actuality is a decided jolt to his system; long legs, broad shoulders and a sensuous mouth. Jensen smiles weakly and earns a nod of approval from Elliot.
When the clerk ushers Jensen around the counter to an unpretentious door set flush in the room’s back wall, the arched jamb makes Jensen thinks of Alice in Wonderland, perhaps by association with Uncle Neddy.
“Wait here. I’ll announce you,” Elliot says and slips inside, the door snicking shut behind him.
The office is dim. Rain is sluicing down the windows in silvery ripples that make it appear as though everything is underwater. An occasional gust of wind rattles the glass, the storm held at bay by a few well-placed bricks and man’s ingenuity. Jensen takes a several hesitant steps forward.
Behind a large mahogany desk, a bald head gleams like a beacon at the bottom of the sea. “Mr. Ackles, is it?” a voice asks. “What can I do for you?”
Given such an opportunity, Jensen says the first thing that comes into his head. “You can publish my book.” The hearty laugh that greets this statement makes Jensen smile back, despite the nervous flutter curling in his belly. “You won’t be sorry. It’s the kind of story that grabs you by the...umm...balls and won’t let you go until the last page. The unvarnished tale of a sea captain who’s been everywhere and done everything. Ahh...from the bawdy houses of London to the south China Seas.”
It’s what Jared told Jensen to say, and he says it. He can’t help but feel his cheeks warm with discomfort at the unaccustomedly crude remarks. Balls and bawdy houses. Jensen has never put those words together in a sentence before.
“Is that so? Unvarnished, you say? Bawdy houses?” Eton leans forward and stretches out his hand. “Let’s see it then. I have a few minutes between appointments. But I’m not promising anything. More than likely....”
He bends over the first page, eyes skimming quickly down the lines as Jensen settles in the seat across from him. A smile lifts the corners of Eton’s lips. Glancing up at Jensen with a raised eyebrow, he turns the page and settles back in his leather chair, a chuckle escaping. It’s nearly three hours later when he carefully places the inches deep stack of papers on the corner of his desk and lifts his eyes to where Jensen stands gazing out at the deepening gloom, unable to sit still after the first nerve-wracking hour.
“You didn’t write this yourself,” is the first thing that Eton says, tapping his steepled fingers together. “It’s a magnificent yarn. This man has chewed life up on his own terms and spat it out when it didn’t please him. A true voluptuary. That isn’t you lad, though I can see you have a bit of the piratical about you.”
The flush of pleasure warming Jensen’s face makes him stuttered a little. “Mister..uh...Eton. It was my honor to assist at the birth of such a fine book, but, of course, you’re right. It’s not my story. However, the author is determined to remain anonymous. And I must respect his wishes”
“Please. Call me Michael.” Michael claps his hands together, making Jensen jump. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to introduce me?” At the suddenly closed expression on Jensen’s face, he shrugs good-naturedly. “Ah well. I’m not surprised, just disappointed. I’ve a feeling we’re going to have a long and prosperous association, my friend.”
Rising from behind his desk, Michael strides to where Jensen beams at him and extends his hand. “I’ll be proud to publish your book. Now. Tell me. How did you manage to get past my dragon? Elliot’s usually more of an immoveable object than that.”
“Oh, he was. But Mr. Welling was here for his appointment and hearing my predicament, kindly offered it to me.”
Eton clears his throat, eyes suddenly weighing Jensen in a different light.
“I’ve no doubt he found a...private incentive. Tom’s a decent sort. As long as you don’t take him too seriously.”
“I quite liked him.”
Michael eyes Jensen’s innocent expression with a raised eyebrow before clasping him by the shoulder and guiding him back to a chair.
“We’ll need to sign a few papers. Make a few decisions. But first...” Michael lifts his checkbook from a drawer and plunks the heavy, leather-covered book onto the desk. “A binder. How does five hundred pounds sound to you, my friend?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Jensen stumbles dazedly from Michael’s office a short while later, the check tucked carefully into his breast pocket, he finds Uncle Neddy sitting in a chair in the waiting room. His long legs are crossed at the ankle while he pages disinterestedly through a magazine. He glances up with a bright smile as Jensen appears, pausing on the threshold of the editor’s office.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Jensen blurts, striding forward, extending his hand. “They’re going to publish my book!”
“That’s damned decent of old Michael,” Welling drawls, unspooling his giant frame from the dangerously creaking chair he’s nearly squashing.
Jensen is tempted to laugh at the incongruous sight. The impulse is short-lived. Welling shakes Jensen’s hand warmly, the mass of him looming in Jensen’s personal space, drowning everything but the sudden thunder of Jensen’s heart.
“Why don’t you let me buy you dinner by way of celebration? You can tell me all about this great tome that’s captivated our dour Michael in the space of a few hours?”
It appears to be the most innocent of requests. After a slight hesitation, Jensen accepts. It’s been a most taxing day. At the least, he deserves a good meal with congenial company before he starts the long journey back to White Cliff. Tom already has a hold on Jensen’s elbow, steering him down the stairs and out of the building in a proprietary rush, ignoring the clerk’s astonished shout.
“Mr. Welling! Your appointment.”
“I can talk to Michael anytime,” Welling confides in Jensen’s ear. “You, on the other hand, are a rare treat.”
The flattery is soothing to Jensen’s ego after too many brushes with the Captain’s harsh assessment. He can still hear Jared’s voice, teasingly amused, “Don’t imagine you have anything to teach me about passion or love, Jensen. It’s not so. You’re the one who has lessons to learn...”
The pressure of “Uncle Neddy’s” hand at the small of his back fills Jensen with a mild sense of triumph. It is quite obvious his new acquaintance finds Jensen of more than adequate interest on first meeting. If Jared were here, Jensen would snap his fingers under the man’s nose. Not everyone, it appears, sees Jensen as wanting in that area.
Dinner is a pleasant affair. The restaurant Welling chooses is upscale and decidedly romantic, low lighting, cosy booths, and waiters who rival Jared for their ghostly comings and goings. Jensen knows when he is being wooed. Tom makes no effort at subtlety, capturing Jensen’s hand whenever given the chance, dark eyes focused on the movement of Jensen’s lips as he chews and swallows his lamp chops with the difficulty of the observed.
“I’m sorry. Am I making you nervous?”
“You know you are. You’re doing it on purpose.” Jensen smiles shyly, then drops his gaze away from the burgeoning heat in Tom’s gaze.
“I can’t help it. Look at you. At those eyes and that mouth. It makes me think very naughty things about you.”
“Stop making fun of me.”
Jensen’s reprimand is more coquettish than severe. He knows he is being a shameless flirt. It’s more than likely the three glasses of champagne he’s downed with his meal have something to do with it. But it’s also the fact he is in the real world, interacting with a real man, not some nebulous ghost who has bullied and seduced him for months on end until he doesn’t know which way to turn for relief. He is possibly quite mad, and most days he’s happy in his madness, the touch of Jared’s mouth enough to make him grab insanity with both hands. But. There's always a but...
A soft nudge along Jensen’s calf brings his attention back into focus.
“We could stop at my apartment for a nightcap?” Welling is saying with a lazy smile.
It is suddenly clear to Jensen that as attractive as he finds the man, Welling isn’t Jared. No one will ever be Jared, but Jared. Laying down his napkin, a hint of formality slips into his speech.
“It’s been a lovely evening, Tom. But it’s late, and I’ve a long journey ahead of me. I hope you’ll excuse my rudeness. It’s time I went home.”
Jensen feels a certain satisfaction as he strides across the crowded restaurant, weaving his way between tables of happy, chattering people, thinking only of Jared and sharing the news with him that Gull Cottage is finally safe.