fic: She's A Handsome Woman (Part Four)
Part Four
Jensen's belief in fate, or the lack thereof, is based entirely on two contradictory incidents from his childhood. In support of fate: the time Bobby Duchesne pushed him off the pommel horse in gym, breaking his middle finger and causing him to miss the rest of the day. He hadn't done his math homework, and was spared a pop quiz which would have surely dragged his grade down below the shaky D he'd been maintaining. That was fate, plain and simple: a sequence of well-choreographed events that, although not necessarily pleasant, all seemed aligned towards a greater purpose. Jensen had acknowledged its power and gone into his make-up quiz prepared, scored an unbelievable B+. He'd also found a lot of glee over the next few weeks in presenting his splinted middle finger to anyone who pissed him off.
Of course, chaos got its opportunity for rebuttal soon enough. The year he was fourteen, Jensen was hanging out behind the bowling alley, sharing his earbuds with Alicia Dennis when All I Want by Toad the Wet Sprocket came on his walkman. He took it as a clear-cut sign, closed his eyes, and went in for the kiss. He still has a tiny, pointed scar on his lip from where she punched him with her pentagram-shaped ring.
So he's not sure where he falls on the whole signs and portents thing, or meaningful coincidences of any kind. It seems like as soon as you start looking for them, they stop being meaningful, so Jensen tends to just leave the metaphysics alone.
However.
On Friday, just as they're wrapping their last scene before lunch, Tracy from editing bursts onto the soundstage in a panic. She holds a quick, hushed conversation with Dabney, who glares at his watch and immediately breaks into a sweat. He shoos her away and turns to the handful of actors and crew.
“All right, people. The geniuses in post were kind enough to damage scene sixteen of today's broadcast beyond all fucking repair, so there's going to be a slight change in schedule today.” An off-key chorus of groans follows the announcement, and Dabney waves them all off. “Yeah, yeah, tell it to Amanda in fucking editing. In the meantime, we go live in just under two hours. Is anyone gonna get me a goddamn script for this episode, or am I gonna have to shit one out my ass?”
Production usually runs about a week ahead of broadcast, but upon re-reading the script, the scene in question feels like something they shot years ago. It also involves almost every single member of the principal cast, because apparently fate has decided to be especially cruel to them all today.
Fate. As soon as Jensen catches himself thinking the word, he knows he's screwed.
The gist of the scene is that Chuck (previously seen air traffic controlling Brent Bedford's plane right into the side of a building) has just heroically guided a distressed plane to safety on the runway, but that his doing so has somehow proven his responsibility for Brent's crash. It's something in the dialogue of the control tower scene leading into this one that reveals it. Jensen can't quite remember what, though. It all seems so long ago.
The atmosphere on set is rushed and tense. Jensen scarfs down a bagel in his dressing room while reading through the scene, flickers of memory popping into his mind: the quick, purposeful stride to his mark, the sleek feel of Samantha's cell phone in his hand. Keely's off in a corner, doing the same, except with much less clothing.
After a few minutes of prep, Jensen's mind starts to wander back to that dangerous place. Fate. He's going to be playing Jennifer playing Samantha on live TV in a matter of minutes, and he can't help but wonder if God, or the Universe, or at least klutzy Amanda from editing is trying to tell him something. Open a door for him. Show him a way out. The feeling amplifies when he yanks open his makeup bag to perform a few touch-ups and finds Charlie's drawing folded up and tucked into the inside pocket. Goddamn Misha, who drops hints like anvils.
By the time 2:21 rolls around and everyone's on the two-story atrium set, watching a big red clock countdown from 00:90, Jensen feels completely out of control. He knows his lines - he knows what he should be doing and saying, but there's something about going live that feels like driving right off the side of the map. It's ridiculous. He's a theatre actor, he should be used to this.
Jared catches his eye from where he's standing at the bottom of the escalator. He smiles, familiar and reassuring, and that's when Jensen knows for sure. He can't do this anymore.
“In five! Four! Three!” the AD calls. Dabney makes a frantic, sweeping motion with his arms and then they're on.
INT. AIRPORT, DAY
CHUCK MALONE enters the airport's main terminal from the control tower. He is visibly shaken from the near-catastrophe he just singlehandedly averted. Near the control tower door, SAMANTHA LOWENGARDE waits with two armed guards.
CHUCKWhere's my wife? I want to see my wife.
SAMANTHAMr. Malone, I'd like to have a few words with you about the circumstances of the oil refinery crash.
CHUCKMargot!
MARGOT MALONE hurries up the escalator with BRENT BEDFORD at her heels. Other airport staff (including OLIVIA JACKSON-LARUE and CAPTAIN SEVILLE, suspiciously lipstick-smeared) crowd around the scene as the armed guards cuff Chuck's hands behind his back.
SAMANTHAMr. Malone, you've done a great thing today. I want to assure you that it won't be overlooked.
MARGOT reaches her husband, kissing him tearfully.
MARGOTThey're taking you to jail. They heard everything. I'm so sorry, baby.
CHUCKIt's okay, Margot. It's all right. I deserve it. I did a horrible thing.
SAMANTHAMr. Malone, we need to get going before this creates too much of a disturbance. I'm very sorry, but this will have to wait until later.
CHUCKNo, just let me - just give me a chance to apologize to my wife, she deserves that much. Margot, I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me. It was like there was a stranger living inside me. I found out about you and Brent and the stranger just took over. I let him take over, I let him do what he wanted. I wanted justice, but I confused it with petty revenge. Brent, I'm so sorry.
At this point in the scene, Samantha flips open her cell phone to alert Homeland Security that an arrest has been made in the investigation of Brent's crash. That's what she's supposed to do, anyway. But Jensen just... doesn't. He can actually feel himself break character. He looks around at the actors all perfectly blocked, looks past them at the edges of the set walls, the lights.
The silence is only about three seconds - five at the most, but it's time enough for the rest of the people in the scene to realize something's going on. One at a time, they turn to him, eyes wide, each one at differing degrees of panicked and confused.
“I can sympathise,” he says, finally, Jennifer's voice buzzing high and false in his ears. “I understand more than you know about your quest for justice, Mr. Malone.”
“Wha- what are you talking about?” That's Jared, probably just the first to recover from the shock of Jensen going off-book.
Jensen clears his throat, catches Jared's worried eye, and just starts improvising.
“Long before your time, Captain Bedford, there was an incident at this airport. A... a bombing, in which several people were killed, and a lot of others were injured.” Jensen looks around at these people who've become his friends - Jennifer's friends, over the past few months. They're all going to hate him in a minute. At this point, they'd hate him whether or not he kept speaking. He's already gone too far. “One of the dead was a woman named Samantha Lowengarde, a mother of two just returning from a yearly convention of dental assistants. My sister. My twin sister.”
It's kind of disturbing, how easily he's making this up. He can hardly believe the kind of shit that's spewing forth from his mouth right now.
“The bomber was identified through the use of dental records as a member of an underground militia group. Despite the fact that there was concrete evidence linking many of the surviving members of the group to the bombing, none of them were ever found or prosecuted for their involvement. They used aliases. They disappeared.”
He's been reading these scripts for too long. Far, far too long.
“So I vowed... I vowed to myself that I would set things right. There had to be some shred of evidence the authorities had ignored, some piece of information. At the very least, I could come back here, to the place she died. I ...” He's pulling his wig off before he even knows what the end of the sentence is going to be. His short hair spikes with sweat and static. He has to concentrate on switching to his real voice. “I, Samuel Lowengarde the third, could be a tribute to my poor, dead sister. Discover the identities of those who killed her, and seek revenge on her behalf.”
“Oh my God,” Keely says, and when he looks at her, she's just gaping, completely out of character.
Tony, who plays Chuck, still has his hands cuffed behind his back. He's not looking at Jensen, or at anyone else, but his lips are moving silently, like he's running through the scene in his mind, trying to find the spot where this new dialogue came from. Somewhere off to the right, someone clears his throat. It's Jared. Jensen can't even look.
“I... Chuck, you've made me realize I can't go on like this. I have to get over the horrible death of my sister.”
Jensen takes a breath, steels himself before finally looking Jared's way. Jared looks stricken, perturbed, his mouth slightly open. There's a furious light in his eyes and a tense, angry crease to his forehead the likes of which Jensen's never seen before, and for a second Jensen forgets how to speak at all, considers just walking away. He can't do it, though, can't leave without words of some kind, so he does his best to cloak them into the scene, holds desperately onto Jared's gaze, and keeps talking.
“I can't keep lying to you. I just... we've gotten so close... uh, all of us... and I need you to know that I didn't mean to hurt you. Whatever I did, that wasn't the intention. And it kills me... it just...” He lets out a shaky breath, watches Jared blink slowly, his expression impenetrable. “I won't blame you if you never want to see me again. I know this is really messed up. I just... it was something I had to do. Felt like I had no choice. No control. And now...”
His voice is cracking, right on live TV. He takes a few seconds, presses the cool heel of his hand to his forehead and ruffles his hair a bit. When he looks up, Jared turns away, jaw set.
“Yeah. I should go,” Jensen says.
He turns, almost walks right off the set along the path of least resistance, without regard for fictional airport geography. He reconsiders, though, stumbling a bit at the direction change as he navigates his way between Keely and one of the security guards. He exits in the direction of Samantha's office, walks right offstage and keeps walking - across the ninth floor, into the elevator, through the lobby, dodging all kinds of weird looks at his appearance. He's still in full makeup and wardrobe, short hair spiking every which way, breath hitching weirdly in his chest.
He doesn't stop until he's back at his apartment. Misha looks up at him from the couch, startled, a pint of Cherry Garcia in one hand and a spoon in the other. The end credits for Turbulent Skies are rolling up the TV screen - Jensen must have been walking at triple-speed to make it here so fast. The last half hour's kind of a half-erased blur in his mind, but his calves are aching, so it's possible.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, Misha drops the spoon into the near-empty ice cream container and sets it slowly onto the steamer trunk they use as a coffee table. Then he leans back on the couch and starts applauding, slowly at first. He gets really into it, eventually standing and making it an ovation, clapping relentlessly until Jensen shoves past him, ready to collapse on his bed for a week.
To say Danneel is angry would be along the same lines as saying the internet is a great research tool, or Amsterdam has lots of culture. True, but nowhere near conveying the full extent of the concept.
The fact that she shows up at Jensen's apartment a few hours after the broadcast wielding a huge golf umbrella frightens him more than he wants to admit to himself. It's not even raining. At least, he doesn't think it's raining. Is he wet?
Anyway, Danneel bursts in, nearly knocking over Misha, who was just reaching for the door handle, about to head out to pick up some milk and cash in an empty case of beer.
“Jensen Fuckross Ackles!” she screams, crashing through the kitchen, knocking all kinds of loud shit off the table. Jensen winces and pulls his pillow over his face, his head throbbing.
“Easy,” Misha calls. “He's in mourning or something.”
For a second, Jensen thinks his roommate's going to speak up for him, maybe even apologize on his behalf, and Jensen won't have to move. Or at least Misha could stick around to offer a little bit of perspective. But then Jensen hears him leave, the lock clicking shut. He's alone with Danneel, who stomps into the room and whips one of his own men's size 11 pumps at his head. It hits Jensen in the shoulder - a bit of a mixed blessing, since he's still conscious. Also, it hurts like hell. He could swear he heard something crack, and he's pretty sure it wasn't the shoe.
“I knew there was something wrong with you!” she practically growls.
Jensen sits up just in time to catch her taking aim with the other shoe, manages to mostly deflect the blow, back of his hand stinging from the impact.
“Danneel! Jesus, stop!”
“I can't even... there aren't even any words for this, Jensen, that's how much you've fucked me over.”
She throws her dripping umbrella into the wall and pauses to catch her breath, hands on her hips. Then she spots the small wooden box on his dresser, where he keeps loose change and guitar picks, and she decides to hurl that at him. This time, he manages to evade the projectile completely. It hits the wall behind him and explodes in a glittering shower of coins.
“See, this is how come I couldn't tell you!” he says, getting to his feet but making sure to keep a safe distance between them. He's still in his wardrobe from the show, which doesn't seem to be doing him any favours where Danneel's temper is concerned. “I wanted to, Danneel! If you hadn't been personally involved...”
“Personally involved?” she says, her lip curling. “You mean because I blew the audition or because I was sleeping with you?” She walks in a wobbly circle, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with a weird little shudder. “Ugh, I was sleeping with you.”
“I made a mistake,” Jensen tries, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I made a lot of mistakes.”
“I knew your skin was too soft.”
“Do you think you'll ever forgive me?” he tries meekly.
She shrugs, sets her jaw.
“I really just came here to punch the living shit out of you.”
“Wha-”
The girl's got a fist on her. And a couple of rings on that fist. Pain bursts into full colour behind Jensen's left eye, and he feels the hot liquid sting of split skin.
“Ow! Fuck!” Both hands come up to cover his face as he doubles over in shock and pain.
“Oof,” Danneel says, and when Jensen blinks away the tears he can see her shaking out her hand. “That does feel better.”
Jensen dabs gingerly at his cheek. His fingers come back sticky with already-drying blood.
“You called me a fat cow,” he says.
“You are a fat cow,” Danneel says, and leaves, forgetting her umbrella.
It's while he's sitting in the kitchen holding a bag of frozen peas to his face that he realizes how much he just fucked over the show. Forget the feelings of everyone he cares about, forget the dignity of women everywhere - there was actual lawsuit-worthy sabotage going on.
“Did I make up a dead twin?” he groans.
“Fraid so,” Misha says, cracking open a beer. He opens one for Jensen, too, and sets it in his blind spot before reconsidering and nudging it to the right. Jensen hooks his fingers around the cool neck of the bottle and then just lets his hand hang there.
“I'm sick,” he says. “I mean, I am actually not right in the head.”
“You're a little weird,” Misha says.
A horrible thought occurs to Jensen then. “Oh, God. The rest of the episode?”
Misha laughs, but not unkindly. He takes a seat at the table.
“Yeah, didn't make much sense. It's a little hard to understand why your character owns up to impersonating his dead sister, stomps off in a huff, only to return two scenes later to lock lips with Captain Beefcake.”
“Quit calling him that,” Jensen mutters.
“It was a bold choice,” Misha says. “A little surreal, maybe. I definitely see his character in a different light now.”
“Huh.”
“Different, slightly gay light.”
Jensen sags in his chair, knees parting inelegantly, stretching taut the blue wool skirt he still hasn't changed out of. He'd sprawl forward and bang his head on the tabletop if his face wasn't throbbing so much.
“They're gonna sue me,” he whimpers. “They're gonna find out who I am, and then they're gonna sue the pants off me.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Misha says. He's not even joking. He means it.
They don't, though. Weeks go by, and Jensen doesn't hear from anyone related to the show. He should feel grateful about that, he thinks.
Probably part of the reason they don't sue is that Jensen's little stunt and the resulting viral YouTube video caused the show's ratings to spike into unheard-of levels. Turbulent Skies is currently the #2 daytime Tivo'd show (after Ellen), and the #3 daytime iTunes download (after Ellen and Oprah). It's kind of ridiculous.
The storyline also recovered pretty well. They pulled a Dallas, had Jared's character dream the last two months of plotlines while lying comatose in his hospital bed. Even hired an actress who looks uncannily like Jensen to play the nurse who changes his IV bags and gives him sponge baths.
Not that Jensen's been watching, or anything.
Actually, he's been pretty busy. Somehow, he finally convinced Misha that his play was done, or at least convinced him to give up on his rewrites. Or maybe it was an act of charity on Misha's part, something Jensen could focus on that wasn't how badly he'd fucked up his own life.
In any case, they've moved forward, cast the thing and booked themselves into a small theatre up in Albany for a conditional summer run. Nothing fancy, but it's gotten them both out of town. Misha's directing, which he says he hates but secretly loves, and Jensen's working on the stage again, which is all he's ever really wanted (even though the director is kind of a dick). It's a decent arrangement.
They're in previews for a week before the official opening, and the reviews are good-to-great across the board. On opening night, Jensen gets drunk at the afterparty and comes onto a dude in pressed-front khakis, and Misha physically drags him back to the hotel and puts him to bed. He can kind of see it - him and Misha growing old together, good old boys. Sharing an apartment into their eighties. Walkers parked on the balcony where they used to keep their bikes. Pooling the prune juice money. It's both the most depressing and most comforting thought he's ever had.
It's mid-July, the play about halfway through its run, when it happens. He spots the messy blond hair, the characteristic tilt of the head that says “you're too far away to make out my expression, but I am squinting, in case you were wondering” just as they're about to come back from intermission. It's a wonder he makes it through the second half of the play -somehow he turns his brain off, and he's not really aware of anything until he steps offstage after the curtain call, reaches up to scratch at his sweaty hairline and notices his hand shaking like a leaf.
He takes his time getting changed and gathering his stuff together, spends an extra half hour lurking backstage, setting custom ringtones to the contacts on his cell phone just to pass the time. Chad's still outside the stage door when Jensen opens it, though. Leaning against a parking meter, looking... well, oddly bored. Jensen's anything but bored.
“Nice play,” Chad says.
“Yeah?” Jensen says.
Chad shrugs. “Yeah. Well, kinda emo, but. It was okay.”
“Thanks.”
“You wanna... I don't know, grab a beer?”
Jensen knows all of one bar in Albany, and it's probably crawling with his castmates and crew right about now, so he leads Chad in the opposite direction until they come to a small, dark pub where they grab a booth. It's mostly empty inside, and the TVs are showing old X-Games blooper reels.
“So,” Chad says.
“So,” Jensen echoes.
They order a couple of beers, and neither seems willing to speak another word until he's got a bottle in front of him. There's a full five minutes of blank silence until the waiter delivers the goods, and then Jensen says, almost directly to the waiter's retreating ass, “I'm a guy.”
“I kinda noticed.”
“I owe you a huge apology.”
“An apology and a ring would be nice.”
Jensen pulls the little black box from his jacket pocket and sets it on the table.
“I was thinking of mailing it,” he says. It's a stupid explanation for why he keeps it so close at hand, but Chad doesn't seem to care. He tucks the box away and stares long and hard at Jensen, takes a huge swallow of beer somehow without breaking eye contact.
“We never mention this again.”
“Understood,” Jensen says. He clears his throat, rubs at his eyes, places his hands flat on the table and stares at the places where tips of his fingers meet their own reflections in the sleek, dark surface. “Is he... doing okay?”
“He doesn't talk about you, if that's what you're asking.”
“Oh. No, I meant -”
“You wanted to know if you broke his heart, right?”
“Uh.”
“We've been friends since fourth grade, you know? You were around for a couple of months. You're nothing. No sweat.”
Jensen can't figure out if Chad thinks he's doing him a favour, letting him off some hook, or if he means for his words to hurt the way they do. Jensen's not even sure, really, what he wants to hear. The flood of relief takes him mostly by surprise.
“Good. That's good. And Charlie?”
“Charlie barely remembers. It was a long time ago, in kid time.”
“Yeah, I guess it was.”
Jensen busies himself with shredding the label on his half-empty bottle, tearing it into long, deliberate strips.
“Can I ask you something?” Chad says. His voice is choked, small, and Jensen can see the uncomfortable blush blooming up from his collar. “Do you think I'm... gay?”
“Dude, I dunno. Can I ask you something?”
“That wasn't a no.”
Chad looks as near to suicidal as he can get while still keeping an eye on the montage of BMX wipeouts currently on the TV above the bar.
“Why did you say that thing about breaking his heart?”
Chad is suddenly very interested in BMX biking.
“Did he say something? Was he-”
“That looked like it hurt,” Chad says, too loud. “Didn't it look like it hurt? Right in the nuts!” He snorts. “This guy oughta be sponsored by Vagisil.”
“Chad,” Jensen says, elongating the single syllable for emphasis.
Chad hesitates before meeting his eyes. Then he sighs, resigned.
“We're gonna need another round.”
Except for the obvious change of seasons from spring to fall, the studio looks exactly the same. Same old postings on the glass door, same loose stone in the pathway outside, same lamppost with WRECK ME, ROCK ME carved into the paint. Jensen's used to the words being eye-level, though. Everything seems off now that he's here wearing sneakers.
Jared's one of the last people to come out of the building. It's awkward, locking eyes with Sal from catering, Maria from props. All these people he knew, who didn't know him at all.
He spots Keely - she quickens her step when she sees him, walks off in a huff. Jensen thinks about going after her, tries to figure out what he could say to make things better between them, but he can't think of anything. Don't worry, your hanging around naked all the time didn't turn me on at all seems sort of unflattering.
Then Jared's there, stunned, almost causing a bottleneck in the revolving door.
“Jen,” he says before someone whips him across the shoulders with a backpack.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing here?” Jared says, stepping aside, like he's trying to lead Jensen into some sort of hidden corner. “You know, you're not the most popular, uh, person around here right now.”
“I know it,” Jensen says. “If these glares were any colder, I'd have pneumonia.”
“You'd deserve it.”
“Maybe,” Jensen says, then catches the incredulous look on Jared's face. “Probably.”
Jared sighs. “What do you want, Jensen?”
It's hard to hear Jared finally say his real name with such put-upon exhaustion.
“To walk you home?” Jensen says. “Can I do that?”
“Shouldn't I be walking you home?” Jared says flatly.
Jensen frowns. “Isn't that kinda sexist?”
“Whatever,” Jared says. “I'm not doing this.”
He takes off towards the subway, long legs moving swiftly, and Jensen has to break into a run to catch up with him, which is slightly humiliating.
“Jared, stop!”
Jared looks back just long enough to roll his eyes Jensen's way, which Jensen chooses to interpret as a sign in his favour. He catches up.
“I'm sorry,” he continues. “I never should have lied to you.”
“And?” Jared says, but at least he's slowed down enough that Jensen can keep step with him.
“And Charlie. Especially Charlie. God, I'm so sorry about Charlie.”
“And?”
“And Chad. Although what kind of a douchebag proposes after, like, a day?”
Jared laughs a bit at that, and the quick chuckle is so unexpected that Jensen maybe actually gasps.
“I'm never gonna let him live that down,” Jared says, shaking his head.
Jensen keeps pace with him, watching him closely to see if the small smile on his face sticks.
“Are you done being mad at me already?” he says, incredulous. “Because, uh, that was fast.”
“I'm thinking about it,” Jared says.
“Do you think, eventually -”
“I miss her,” Jared says. He looks at Jensen, and flaps his arms a little, helpless, eyes bright and vulnerable. “I miss her so much, Jensen, and she's... she's right fucking here, but she's gone.”
“She's not gone,” Jensen says. “She's just... different.”
Jared snorts. “Yeah, she's different, all right.”
“I miss you, too,” Jensen says, “If that means anything.”
Jared attempts an indifferent shrug, but in the middle of it he seems to change his mind, and turns, grabbing Jensen's elbow. He tugs Jensen over so they're standing in the middle of the sidewalk. It's too close to be entirely comfortable, and Jared's taller than Jensen remembers. When he leans in to kiss Jensen, Jensen feels his whole face go hot with anticipation. It's nothing like a TV kiss. Jensen feels the warm pressure of lips and then the insistent press of Jared's tongue, and he opens up to it, opens himself up to anything Jared will give him. Lets Jared slip inside, feels the slick slide of tongues touching, and it's tender for about a second before it turns violent, Jared eating at his mouth, making his lips feel bruised and raw. Jensen tastes blood. He doesn't care.
Jared pulls back with a nasty scrape of his teeth along Jensen's lower lip, and leans his forehead hard against Jensen's. Jensen's lips are tingling and burning, and he can tell the sensation's going to last for a long time, can picture his lips bruising, going puffy and tender. He'll have a mark to remind him, in case this whole thing doesn't work out... in case Jared can't stand the sight of him.
“I'm still really mad at you,” Jared says, breathless, right up against Jensen's cheek.
“I know,” Jensen mutters. “It's okay.”
“Like,” Jared says, and moves to kiss him again, softer this time, more like the way he kisses on camera. “Like really, really mad at you.”
“Okay.”
“And I don't trust you.”
“I don't blame you,” Jensen says.
He presses his lips to Jared's cheek, stays close, tries to steady his breathing. He's too scared of ruining this to do anything bolder, although he wants to.
“But I'm a little bit fascinated.”
“Really?” Jensen says, pulling back to look Jared in the face.
“Well...” Jared says, the corner of his mouth pulling up a bit. “Yeah. Little bit.”
Jared's arms are linked tight around Jensen's back. It occurs to Jensen that just a few seconds ago he was afraid of being pushed away. Now he thinks he probably couldn't get away if he wanted to. Not that he wants to.
“I wanted to tell you,” he hears himself saying. “I had so much trouble keeping track of who I was supposed to be around you. It was all such a huge goddamn mindfuck.”
Jared's attention seems to snag on Jensen's words, and he starts to laugh.
“I'm not used to you cussing,” he says. “That is so weird.”
“You're not?”
“No, Jenny never cussed.”
“She didn't?”
He honestly doesn't remember, but he believes Jared when he shakes his head no. It wouldn't be the first time Jensen's made an unconscious character choice. He wonders what kinds of other things his subconscious might have decided about Jennifer, without even giving him a say in the matter. Remembers wondering stupidly if she had a crush on Jared. The way he felt, just being around the guy, and how he'd somehow convinced himself those were Jennifer's feelings, her thoughts. Her desires.
“So, um, the thing is,” Jared's saying, the apologetic tone quickly pulling Jensen out of his reverie.
“Yeah?” Jensen says, his voice suddenly on the rough side.
“I have this daughter. I don't want her to get hurt.”
Jensen nods. He understands that, more than Jared probably realizes.
“I'll call you, maybe,” Jared says. He lets his arms fall from around Jensen's waist, and the sudden chill up Jensen's spine is only partly because of the loss of body heat.
“You better,” he says. “I mean, I... I really hope you do.”
Jensen's not holding his breath.
He doesn't hold his breath during the whole drive back to Albany or through an entire week of performances. He goes to work and he smiles through the afterparties and the 3am diner outings, and he grunts different kinds of grunts at Misha, and he crashes on his motel bed for hours and hours. And when his phone doesn't ring for almost a week, he doesn't take it into a Sprint store and have it checked for defects or anything.
Then one day while he's at the laundromat sorting through his socks, Jared calls, just like that.
“Uh. Hey,” Jared says.
“Hey,” Jensen says.
It's awkward as hell, but it's a start.
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