The Ramblers, Part Three, mijmeraar.
Part Two.
Part Three.
Jensen Ackles is a fully grown, able bodied man with a respectable profession and a postal address of his very own. It’s been seven years, eighty-four days and about thirty-one minutes since he last relied on anyone; and if he can help it, it will be forever before he does again. It’s not high rise apartments in L.A., or fancy cars or supermodels; it’s not the life he pictured, stuck in Texas, it’s not the life his parents think he should have. It’s the life he traded those dreams in for. It’s better.
“Would you just call them, already? I can hear you sweating.”
Matt’s lounged horizontal along Jensen’s couch with his sock clad feet crossed at the ankles; one hand holds a beer, the other a random murder-mystery off Jensen’s bookshelf. Matt’s parents live in Sweden, for God’s sake; he doesn’t get to be an asshole about this. He’s not expected to make frequent phone calls to check in.
“It’s been a month,” Jensen says with a groan. “I can hear Mom now. What happened, Jensen? You didn’t get burgled did you, Jensen? I hear the crime rate is up in San Francisco, Jensen.”
“You’re right. You should leave it another month so then she thinks you’re dead.”
“Fuck you very much.”
“What are you worried about, anyway? You have a home, money, the best friends a Texas boy could ask for.” Matt sits up, abandoning the book and taking a swig of his beer. “You can even tell her all about James Dean.”
Jensen tenses. “Shut up.”
“Oh, Momma,” he mocks. His best John-Boy Walton impression. “I met a boy. He’s dreamy.”
This settles it. Of all the stupid things Jensen has done in life - the semi illegal, near grievous bodily harm kind of stupid - telling Matt that Jared Padalecki ‘isn’t so bad’ would have to be one of the stupidest. A close second, maybe, to that time he ate a gallon jar of mayonnaise in Junior High, solely because Bobby ‘You Know You Want Me’ Tanner dared him to. “You’re fuckin’ hilarious.”
Matt shakes his head, no, getting up off the couch. “I’m fuckin’ bored. Would you just call home so we can go out?”
“Out? Out where?”
“I don’t know. Maxi’s.”
“Aren’t you opening the shop tomorrow?”
“Yeah? So?”
“So.” The beer bottle in Matt’s hand catches Jensen’s eye. It’s his third, and counting, and if the cool, dead air Jillian left in her wake was anything to go by? He’s waiting to count a lot higher than that. “So, don’t you want to settle in for the night?”
Matt laughs. “Listen to you. Settle in. I’m only 28, Granny; I think I can handle it.”
“Whatever.” Jensen waves a tired hand in his general direction. “You can handle it with Wayne. I’m beat.”
Matt’s mouth curls up in something akin to a sneer. “Right. I’m sure that Bah Mitzvah really took it out of you.”
Jensen ignores him, picking up his cell phone and dialling his parents’ number. He doesn’t like his choices tonight; a numb and thoughtless best friend or a disappointed mother who’s some thousand miles away. At least his Mom will love him unconditionally; no matter what stupid shit he says to make up for the long-time-coming phone call. Matt, on the other hand, he might punch in the face. That’d be harder to repair.
As Matt grabs a jacket and heads out the front door, Jensen listens to his parents’ phone ring out and voicemail kick in:
Hi there! You’ve called Donna - and Alan! - and Mac! Leave us a message and we’ll get back to you!
It’s newly recorded [the old one, thanks to Mac, used to say something to the tune of I've fallen down and can't reach my phone] and Jensen can only smile to himself, imagining the three of them crowded around his Dad’s office desk, repeating the same lines thirty times until his Mom considered it Just Right.
“Hey, Hi, guys, it’s Jensen. I, uh, I’m sorry I haven’t called, things have just been crazy here - but I’m good! So, uh, I’ll talk to you soon. I guess.” Jensen pauses, his finger hovering over the End button, and he quickly adds, “Love yas,” before cutting out.
Of course he hadn’t expected them to wait around for his call. Of course.
*
In the end, agreeing to take on the Jungle Gym Project [or as Jensen likes to call it, the Please God, Kill Me Now Project] is probably the best thing for everyone. It had taken him over an hour to convince the guys they didn’t want to dress up like Tarzan and/or Cheetah - “his hetero life-partner monkey” - and an extra half hour to tear the leopard print loin cloth from Kenny’s death grip. I thought your people loved that sort of shit, he had whined, when Jensen finally won.
“Look, I don’t mind the jungle theme you’ve got going on,” Jensen says, flicking at some ivy that hangs down from the ceiling. They’ve converted a corner of the basement into a wannabe Amazon; lots of greens and browns and river blues. “I can work with it. But … don’t you guys have your own image?”
They’re all sitting and fiddling with their instruments, shrugging at him apathetically. They’re prepared to give up because their one and only idea was stopped at the pass. “What, like, punk?” Nick the Drummer says, scratching at his head with a drumstick.
“Oh, so that’s what you are? Punk?”
“Dude,” Kenny says with disdain. “We’re … we transcend genres. We’re The Beatles meets The Sex Pistols meets …”
“Wham?” Jensen offers.
“Not fucking funny, man. Not funny at all.”
Jensen just laughs, with both his hands up in surrender as he slumps onto the arm of a nearby sofa. “Alright, alright. Well, look … the best advice I can give you is just, act like yourselves. I mean, what’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?”
“This?” Troy says in disbelief. He’s wearing too-tight jeans and a tee shirt that says Spank it, lick it and stick it in it; Jensen understands his reluctance. “I’ve been wearing this for a week.”
“Lovely.”
“We want to stand out, man,” Brad the Bassist explains in his quiet, self-effacing voice. Jensen wonders if he’s ever stood out in his life. It would require lifting his head. “We don’t want to be the next Panic at the Disco.”
“The which?”
Kenny sighs, a big dramatic sound, as if he’s just been told his dog is dead. “Dude, don’t you know anything?”
“You’re saying we can wear a tee and jeans?” Nick interrupts, hopefully.
“I don’t see why not.”
Kenny scoffs, looking at Nick as if he’s never met the guy before. “It’s primitive, that’s why not.”
“You wanted to dress like a monkey.”
“I wanted to hire a different drummer.”
“Okay guys, stop.” Jensen gets to his feet, stretching his arms out between them. He can just see them rolling around on the floor, pulling at each other’s hair. “You’re stressed about your first real gig, I get it.” They grumble under their breaths, toeing the floor. “That’s the thing, though. You’re stressed about enough shit, why do you need to stress about this? Make it easy on yourselves.”
They all seem sold on the idea, except Kenny, pouting like a two year old whose Mommy wouldn’t buy him any candy. The problem is, he thinks he’s in control of three teenagers who only have sex, and money and sex on the brain. The problem is, that’s all Kenny worries about, himself.
Troy, who’s trying not to laugh, reaches out to his friend and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Kenneth, if it means that much to you, we’ll let you wear a tail.”
Kenny looks up at him, a grin slowly stretching out; bright, white teeth stark against the dark shade of his skin. “Aw. I love you guys.”
There’s much - too much - deliberation. A lengthy exploration of the room and its arrangement; a juvenile discussion on which angle makes them look prettier. They may appear unwashed, but Jensen knows how this whole hair gel, eye liner, sweater vest phenomena goes. He’s seen enough of his sister’s ‘magazines’ to know. It probably took them half the morning to look dirty.
After they’ve organised a date for the shoot Jensen escapes, declining an invitation to get drunk and/or high, as exciting as it sounded. There’s a couple getting married in a hot air balloon tomorrow morning and he has to be over there at the ass crack of dawn for the take off. He ignores the cracks about his age and leaves.
The building’s always dead at this time of night. With the exception of Jungle Gym, the tenants are always up at dawn and in bed by dusk. No parties, no riff raff, no midnight calls from the police because someone reported a disturbance. The only disturbance he’s ever heard is the one he caused himself - drunk and completely incapable of putting his key in the lock, he’d scared the shit out of his neighbours.
When he gets onto the first floor a voice echoes down from upstairs. Wayne.
“What do you care, man?” he’s saying to someone on his cell, Jensen with an ear tipped up as he slowly ascends. “No … seriously, no … it’s just, I just need it. Can you get it for me? … Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
As Jensen steps up onto the landing, Wayne’s hanging up on the call and hurriedly thrusting his cell phone back into his pocket. Jensen sees something icy run down Wayne’s spine. When he turns the flash of fear is there and gone before Jensen can catch it, or keep it, and Wayne’s grinning at him, shaking it off.
“Oh hey, man, I was coming up to see you.”
Jensen folds his arms. Wayne’s always been a loose canon; dead end jobs, money making schemes, friends who are more work than they’re worth. He’s capable of stupid shit, but not this stupid shit. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I just thought I’d come see ya. Matt was telling me you-”
“No, what’s going on?” Jensen presses, stepping closer. “I heard you, on the phone. What are you into?”
Wayne tries to look confused, and fails. “Into?”
“Are you using?”
Wayne chuckles, shaking his head and clapping Jensen on the shoulder. It’s that smooth, easy demeanour he uses on people he’s scamming. “Chill out, Jensen. It’s nothing like that. Just … business, alright? What’s say we order a pizza and watch that Travelling Pants movie Matt’s Missus left behind?”
Before Jensen can refuse him, Wayne’s taking the stairs two at a time and leaving the squabble behind. They’re big boys; they don’t want someone else to bandage up their boo-boos. Need, though. That’s a different matter altogether.
*
If Jensen lives to see 60, he hopes he celebrates with half the style that Henry Baker - people call me Dough Boy - has shown tonight. It’s a Studio 54 themed rave, flashing pink and blue and purple lights, frocks and feathers and fairies as far as the eye can see. Half naked men - half Henry’s age - serving drinks, and The Best of The 80’s blaring. People are crowded so close together they look like rainbow paper chains. Jensen can barely lift his arm to take a shot.
“Let’s not bore ourselves with work, sweetheart.” Henry forces Jensen’s camera down to hang at his side, grabs Jensen’s hands and pulls him toward the dance floor. If Henry wasn’t 60, and wasn’t in charge of Jensen’s income [survival] this week, Jensen might consider pushing him away and insisting, No, I dance like an octopus on dry land. As it is.
“My very own Ryan Phillipe!” Henry calls over the Eurythmics and Jensen grimaces.
“A little credit, Henry, please.”
Henry laughs, dancing circles around Jensen, literally, who just flounders about on the spot. “Sorry, Brad.”
“This is why you hired me? Because you think I’m pretty?”
“Well, of course!” Henry cries, grabbing Jensen hands and forcing him to move. There’s something just not right about seeing a 60 year old man gyrate; even if he does look good for his age. “And I don’t think, I know.”
“If I was 30 years older,” Jensen says, smirking, and Henry flicks his hair back.
“On the contrary. If I was 30 years younger.”
It’s half way through Nut Bush City Limits, Henry trying to force a kick and spin from Jensen and Jensen trying to get the hell away; that his phone vibrates in his pocket. Henry, who’s standing too close, giggles - giggles - and says, “Jensen, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Jensen grabs a drunken, wobbly, nearby male guest to thrust at Henry, who’s only too happy to accommodate, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to answer.
“Sorry, I’ll be with you in a minute,” he says loudly, politely, into the receiver, because ‘ID Unknown’ is often ‘Potential Client’. He had to learn that lesson the hard way. The closest refuge from the noise is the toilets, and - despite the things Queer as Folk would have him believe - Jensen decides it’s his best bet. His camera will forgive him; it’s been in worse spots.
“Sorry about that,” he says, pushing through the swinging door. “This is Jensen Ackles.”
There’s that familiar, wide open laugh and, “This is Jared Padalecki.” A teasing, faux-sober voice that has Jensen slumping uselessly against the nearest wall. Fuck.
“Hey,” Jensen says, wobbly voice, a nervous hand up to steady both. Here it is. Two weeks worth of should I, will I, could I and do I fucking want to? Of knowing what Jared is - Jared’s interstate, Jared’s five years late, Jared’s a good guy with good values and the kind of skin you sink your teeth into - and not knowing Jared at all. So why does this feel like he’s being … courted?
“Hey, man. Am I interrupting something?”
“Uh … I’m at a 60 year old’s birthday party?”
Jared cackles. He doesn’t care if said 60 year old is the most important person in Jensen’s life. That shit’s funny. “Awesome.”
“Being fondled by the guest of honour himself,” Jensen feels the need to add.
“At least now you don’t have to buy him anything,” Jared deadpans, and Jensen knocks his head against the wall in surprise.
“Dude!”
“What? You started it.”
That morning, at the coffee shop, the two of them wedged in a corner and veiled with disinterested people; there were these silences. These It’s Not Just Coffee silences that Jensen’s long since grown apart from. After the last guy, and before Jared, it was Hi, How are you, Yes I would like to come up for coffee and then. No coffee. No time for silences.
Jensen may or may not have considered fucking Jared, right there in Fusion’s bathroom stall, just to realign the planets. “So, you called me,” Jensen manages to say, long after the ripple of their laughter has stilled.
“It looks that way, yeah.” Jared’s voice and words and meaning are heavy. Jensen coughs.
“Any particular reason, or are you just checking in, making sure I meet my groping quota?”
“Well, with that out of the way …” Jensen can hear the too big grin. “I’m in town, soon. I thought we could catch up.”
Jensen feels something cool tighten around his gut. When he speaks his voice defies him, and comes out in a tremble, “Oh, right.”
“We don’t have to,” Jared amends, quickly. Apparently Jensen isn’t fooling him. “I just thought …”
“No,” Jensen hears himself saying. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Jared doesn’t whoop, like Jensen expects. He doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that Jensen just agreed to … this. Whatever this is. A date? Instead Jared says, “Can I ask you something?” in a quiet, prudent voice.
“Uh …” Jensen’s reluctant to say yes, although he wants to. The last person to start with can I ask you was his High School girlfriend and she finished on, do you like boys? Surely Jared knew the answer to that one, already. “What?”
“That guy at that club, that night, are you … you know … is he?”
Jared’s rambling like Jensen’s ex-girlfriend, like he wants the truth but he’s too afraid to seek it. There’s a lot of that night Jensen can’t remember. Or that he’s tried to block out. “I don’t …” he says slowly, filtering out the bad, bodily fluid type memories and fighting to remember. The only guy he met was, “Finn?”
“Finn?” Jared says with a scoff. “That’s his name? Like a fin on a fish.”
Jensen smirks. “I guess so, yeah.”
“His parents named him that? Finn? Dude, I own fish.”
Jensen laughs through his nose. “You own fish?”
“Yeah. Sticks, fillets and chips.” There’s an oddly proud tone to Jared’s voice, as if his hand sits on his heart, eyes on the flag. It confuses Jensen, the way Jared seems to debunk the celebrity stereotypes; how down to earth and, well, lame he is despite the new found celebrity. Of course, if they had gone to school together Jensen would have hated him.
“That’s …” Jensen’s struggles for an adjective and fails. “I don’t know what that is.”
“I have dogs, too,” Jared tells him quickly, as if to reinstate his manliness. His drawl is thicker. “Back in Texas. Fish are just easier to keep.”
“They’re goldfish, aren’t they?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“It’s not hard.”
“Asshole.” Their talk slows down, like the drip of the tap and the slip of Jensen’s cell in his palm. Sweaty. Jared huffs out a breath. “So … Finn.”
“Oh, God,” Jensen says in a laugh, something popping inside of him. “No. No.”
“Okay, cool.” There’s a sigh of relief. It swirls, hot, in Jensen’s stomach. “Is there someone?”
“Only if my camera counts.”
“Dude.” It sounds like Jared’s caught between laughing and leaving. “I don’t want to know what you do with your camera.”
“If this is your attempt to seduce me you’re doing a really shitty job.” The moment he says it, Jensen’s covering his face with a hand. It’s as if he’s surrendered, accepted, welcomed; here I am Love Connection, do with me what you will. Where the hell did his pride go?
“Well,” Jared sounds both shocked and irreparably pleased with himself. “It was just going to be dinner, but I guess I could seduce you.”
“Dinner? You think you’re taking me to dinner?”
“It looks that way, yeah.”
*
Maxi’s is their answer to Cheers. It’s 1980’s wannabe, or mostly just wannabe; battered jukebox and football flags and fat guys in the corner, playing poker and drinking ale. It’s been immortalised in many of Jensen’s photos; developed and blown up and hung on his wall. It’s not as eye-catching as Matt hanging upside down and naked from Jensen’s fire escape; but people can appreciate the loyalty. It’s the place they love to go to because they can get wasted, pass out, and trust their wallet will be there when they wake up.
Tonight, Jensen’s getting wasted.
“So, Alegra.” Jensen throws an arm around the small, demure shoulders of Chris’ new woman, scooting in close. She’s all hips and boobs and huge, brown eyes. She’s so perfect for Chris that she might has well have come through the mail. “You and Kane, that’s really serious?”
Alegra gabs at him for a moment, as if this is some kind of joke and she’s worried she’s the punch line. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you stay at his place? Do you keep a toothbrush next to his? Does he call you his little lady?”
“Dude, would you lay off the Jaeger bombs?” Matt snaps, casting gentle eyes at Alegra who looks a little like Bambi. Lost. “It’s okay, he likes cock.”
“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
“You’re the asshole breathing on her, maybe she feels a little intimidated.” Matt loves the Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. Needless to say he loves it a lot more when he’s the Good Cop. It doesn’t happen very often.
“I’m curious. I wanna know how she tamed him.”
Wayne, who is slouched low in the booth and inspecting the lines on his palm, snorts with his nose and mouth and throat. Jensen feels Alegra jolt, from surprise or disgust or both. “Why? Did you fail?”
“Oh, funny. Next it’ll be ‘did you get the whips and chains out, queer?’”
Wayne looks at them with wide, amused eyes and cries, “Poetry! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Preoccupied, they don’t notice the others - Chris, Steve, and Steve’s partner Rebecca - returning, until three pots of beer are plopped onto the table, slopping over the sides. It’s a Big Night Out, the sort of night Rebecca would steer clear of if it hadn’t been for Alegra and her obvious ‘initiation’.
“What’s going on?” Chris says gruffly, gaze fixed firmly on Alegra. Jensen couldn’t add two and two right now, but even he knows that Chris isn’t looking. He’s talking to her, silently. It’s … intimate. It’s bizarre.
“Jensen’s macking on your girlfriend,” Wayne says plainly.
“I was being friendly,” Jensen begs to differ, twirling his hand as if to reinforce the point. It’s not every day he gets to meet Chris Kane’s girlfriend. Hell, he doesn’t even get to meet the girls Chris beds. Who wouldn’t want to know what’s going on?
“Too friendly,” Matt corrects, sliding along the seat to make room for Steve and Bec. Chris just stands there, his arms folded across his chest. It’s easier for him to loom over someone if the other person’s sitting down.
“Ackles, get your drunken ass away from her,” he orders.
“We were getting to know each other.” Jensen turns and looks at the girl in question, offering a too-big smile that’s weakly returned. “Weren’t we Alegra?”
“Sure.”
The unimpressed look on Chris’ face compels Jensen to stand up and address his friend. Apparently no-one understands what’s happening here. “This is an important day, Chrissy,” he explains, palms flat on Chris’ chequered-clad chest and a gentle pat. “You’re a big boy now.”
Jensen hears someone tell Alegra, “He’s usually normal,” and turns to protest,
“Fuck off! I’m normal.” He’s pointing a finger like there’s guilt to be had. Uncle Jensen Wants You to believe him. “I mean, I fuck men, sure. I mean, I don’t want to settle on one man, but, it’s the 21st century, what hot blooded man does, really? I put my shoes on, one at a time.”
“Okay,” Rebecca says, falsetto, eyes stretched wide. “Someone want to call the lightweight a cab?”
“Or a therapist?”
“Fuck you all,” Jensen drawls and with a lazy flip of the bird he heads over to the bar. Insulted. As if he’s the odd number in this equation. As if he hasn’t entertained their drunken behaviour before. Wayne’s stolen car, Matt’s DUI, Chris’ fist fight with a bouncer who made a joke about his hair. Compared to them, Jensen’s Heidi.
“It is you.” A tall, dark man sits down on a stool, his back to the bar and his elbows propped up. He’s too flashy for Maxi’s, dressed in a suit with no tie; he looks like he stepped out of fucking Esquire. One side of his mouth’s tugged up and his gaze freefalls down Jensen, slowly, back up. It’s as if he’s struck a match to Jensen, brought it close to inspect. Jensen’s blood simmers.
“Oh, hey.” The memories trickle in like water through cupped hands. There was a wedding. That’s right. A wedding and Jillian and Matt. “Hunter, isn’t it?”
“Call me Rob,” he says, a tongue grazing his lips and his knees inching apart. It’s beyond suggestive. Jensen should ask for change in one dollar bills.
“Okay, Rob. Hows it goin’?”
“It’s going.”
Jensen laughs. “Right, right. You want a drink? I think I owe you.”
“Well, sure, I’ll take a drink.” He turns and dips his head and adds, low voice, “I was kind of hoping for something else.”
“Peanuts?” Jensen jokes, grabbing the nearby basket.
“I think you have a low opinion of yourself,” Rob Hunter says, quick flick of his eyebrow, up. He sinks lower on the seat, and when he says, “Are you free tonight?” he’s looking out at the room, and the people, as if the answer doesn’t make much difference to him. Oh, yeah, Jensen knows this guy. He’s slept with this guy before. Another face maybe, another name, another time, but Jensen’s been here.
Jensen jokingly looks around. “I think I’m out, Rob”
“I mean are you with anyone - in particular.”
With? In what sense? Jensen’s carrying … things, wearing things, but. “No.”
“Good. That’s good.”
*
Jensen wasn’t raised on the Bible; they didn’t hold hands and bow their heads and thank God for the food they were about to receive. It wasn’t like that. God, He was just there. Inherent. Like blue eyes and freckles and photos and gay. He just was, and Jensen never really stopped to think about it. Not when he started jacking off, not when he coveted his neighbour’s wife [Mrs. Morris was fucking hot], not when he decided that girls just wouldn’t do. Jensen’s God, Jensen’s idea of God, didn’t begrudge Jensen of these things. He wasn’t hurting anyone.
The night before, Jensen’s knees by his ears as some near stranger fucked him into next Tuesday? That wasn’t an issue. The tall, dark figure behind Jensen’s eyelids? The crooked smile and rogue freckles and stupid hair? The name wrapped tight in the cloud of his breathing, threatening to come out? That was the issue. Jensen’s God didn’t favour dishonesty. He would not forgive Jensen’s decision to go whoring himself out in hopes his thoughts could be distracted from the fact that some nice, gentle boy - guy - man just wanted to spend time with Jensen. Who the hell didn’t want that?
It’s all too much to wake up to. As if being hung over wasn’t bad enough; Jensen had to go and chase it with a nice big gulp of shame. A shame that worsens, two fold, when he wakes to find Rob Hunter in his bed. Still. At least all the other one night stands had had the sense to leave. Though Jensen manages to wriggle some underwear on without waking the other man, getting up proves too difficult. He digs a heel into Rob’s thigh and Rob snuffles, sitting up straight; some eccentric Lestat waking in his coffin.
“Sorry, sorry, I - ”
“Where are you going?” Rob mutters sleepily, grabbing Jensen by the ankle and forcing Jensen to fall back, hard, onto his already aching ass. Rob Hunter’s surprisingly spry for a man who fucked five ways from Sunday not so long ago. He somehow manages to out-manoeuvre Jensen, getting him on his back, crowding him with long, brawny limbs and grazing his teeth along the sensitive skin of Jensen’s neck.
“Look, this was fun,” Jensen splutters, squirming away from that mouth, from the lure of indulgence. “I think we should just, leave it on a high note. You know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Rob groans, bucking into Jensen like he’s one of those toy ponies at the grocery store you stick quarters into.
“I don’t mean that high note, I mean - ” Before Jensen can use the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine, there’s a gentle rap of knuckles on his front door. When Rob falls, defeated, and rolls off of him, Jensen lets out a sigh of relief and quickly makes a beeline for it. If that’s Matt, Jensen’s going to take him out for dinner. He’s going to take him to a game. With sports. He’s going to -
With a sharp tug of the door and a madman’s grin, Jensen soon learns it isn’t Matt.
“Jensen!”
It’s his parents.
“Mom? Dad?” Is all he can manage, the pair stepping forward to wrap their arms around him. As they talk too fast at Jensen, too fast for it all to register, he slowly realises what he’s seeing. His parents, unlike he’s ever seen them before. They’re wearing floral print and khaki and big, extravagant hats with I LOVE CALIFORNIA printed across them. They’re here. In San Francisco. In Jensen’s apartment.
“Hey, can I use your shower?”
They’re here, in Jensen’s apartment, with Rob Hunter and his tighty whities.
Oh, God.
Part Four.
Part Three.
Jensen Ackles is a fully grown, able bodied man with a respectable profession and a postal address of his very own. It’s been seven years, eighty-four days and about thirty-one minutes since he last relied on anyone; and if he can help it, it will be forever before he does again. It’s not high rise apartments in L.A., or fancy cars or supermodels; it’s not the life he pictured, stuck in Texas, it’s not the life his parents think he should have. It’s the life he traded those dreams in for. It’s better.
“Would you just call them, already? I can hear you sweating.”
Matt’s lounged horizontal along Jensen’s couch with his sock clad feet crossed at the ankles; one hand holds a beer, the other a random murder-mystery off Jensen’s bookshelf. Matt’s parents live in Sweden, for God’s sake; he doesn’t get to be an asshole about this. He’s not expected to make frequent phone calls to check in.
“It’s been a month,” Jensen says with a groan. “I can hear Mom now. What happened, Jensen? You didn’t get burgled did you, Jensen? I hear the crime rate is up in San Francisco, Jensen.”
“You’re right. You should leave it another month so then she thinks you’re dead.”
“Fuck you very much.”
“What are you worried about, anyway? You have a home, money, the best friends a Texas boy could ask for.” Matt sits up, abandoning the book and taking a swig of his beer. “You can even tell her all about James Dean.”
Jensen tenses. “Shut up.”
“Oh, Momma,” he mocks. His best John-Boy Walton impression. “I met a boy. He’s dreamy.”
This settles it. Of all the stupid things Jensen has done in life - the semi illegal, near grievous bodily harm kind of stupid - telling Matt that Jared Padalecki ‘isn’t so bad’ would have to be one of the stupidest. A close second, maybe, to that time he ate a gallon jar of mayonnaise in Junior High, solely because Bobby ‘You Know You Want Me’ Tanner dared him to. “You’re fuckin’ hilarious.”
Matt shakes his head, no, getting up off the couch. “I’m fuckin’ bored. Would you just call home so we can go out?”
“Out? Out where?”
“I don’t know. Maxi’s.”
“Aren’t you opening the shop tomorrow?”
“Yeah? So?”
“So.” The beer bottle in Matt’s hand catches Jensen’s eye. It’s his third, and counting, and if the cool, dead air Jillian left in her wake was anything to go by? He’s waiting to count a lot higher than that. “So, don’t you want to settle in for the night?”
Matt laughs. “Listen to you. Settle in. I’m only 28, Granny; I think I can handle it.”
“Whatever.” Jensen waves a tired hand in his general direction. “You can handle it with Wayne. I’m beat.”
Matt’s mouth curls up in something akin to a sneer. “Right. I’m sure that Bah Mitzvah really took it out of you.”
Jensen ignores him, picking up his cell phone and dialling his parents’ number. He doesn’t like his choices tonight; a numb and thoughtless best friend or a disappointed mother who’s some thousand miles away. At least his Mom will love him unconditionally; no matter what stupid shit he says to make up for the long-time-coming phone call. Matt, on the other hand, he might punch in the face. That’d be harder to repair.
As Matt grabs a jacket and heads out the front door, Jensen listens to his parents’ phone ring out and voicemail kick in:
Hi there! You’ve called Donna - and Alan! - and Mac! Leave us a message and we’ll get back to you!
It’s newly recorded [the old one, thanks to Mac, used to say something to the tune of I've fallen down and can't reach my phone] and Jensen can only smile to himself, imagining the three of them crowded around his Dad’s office desk, repeating the same lines thirty times until his Mom considered it Just Right.
“Hey, Hi, guys, it’s Jensen. I, uh, I’m sorry I haven’t called, things have just been crazy here - but I’m good! So, uh, I’ll talk to you soon. I guess.” Jensen pauses, his finger hovering over the End button, and he quickly adds, “Love yas,” before cutting out.
Of course he hadn’t expected them to wait around for his call. Of course.
*
In the end, agreeing to take on the Jungle Gym Project [or as Jensen likes to call it, the Please God, Kill Me Now Project] is probably the best thing for everyone. It had taken him over an hour to convince the guys they didn’t want to dress up like Tarzan and/or Cheetah - “his hetero life-partner monkey” - and an extra half hour to tear the leopard print loin cloth from Kenny’s death grip. I thought your people loved that sort of shit, he had whined, when Jensen finally won.
“Look, I don’t mind the jungle theme you’ve got going on,” Jensen says, flicking at some ivy that hangs down from the ceiling. They’ve converted a corner of the basement into a wannabe Amazon; lots of greens and browns and river blues. “I can work with it. But … don’t you guys have your own image?”
They’re all sitting and fiddling with their instruments, shrugging at him apathetically. They’re prepared to give up because their one and only idea was stopped at the pass. “What, like, punk?” Nick the Drummer says, scratching at his head with a drumstick.
“Oh, so that’s what you are? Punk?”
“Dude,” Kenny says with disdain. “We’re … we transcend genres. We’re The Beatles meets The Sex Pistols meets …”
“Wham?” Jensen offers.
“Not fucking funny, man. Not funny at all.”
Jensen just laughs, with both his hands up in surrender as he slumps onto the arm of a nearby sofa. “Alright, alright. Well, look … the best advice I can give you is just, act like yourselves. I mean, what’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?”
“This?” Troy says in disbelief. He’s wearing too-tight jeans and a tee shirt that says Spank it, lick it and stick it in it; Jensen understands his reluctance. “I’ve been wearing this for a week.”
“Lovely.”
“We want to stand out, man,” Brad the Bassist explains in his quiet, self-effacing voice. Jensen wonders if he’s ever stood out in his life. It would require lifting his head. “We don’t want to be the next Panic at the Disco.”
“The which?”
Kenny sighs, a big dramatic sound, as if he’s just been told his dog is dead. “Dude, don’t you know anything?”
“You’re saying we can wear a tee and jeans?” Nick interrupts, hopefully.
“I don’t see why not.”
Kenny scoffs, looking at Nick as if he’s never met the guy before. “It’s primitive, that’s why not.”
“You wanted to dress like a monkey.”
“I wanted to hire a different drummer.”
“Okay guys, stop.” Jensen gets to his feet, stretching his arms out between them. He can just see them rolling around on the floor, pulling at each other’s hair. “You’re stressed about your first real gig, I get it.” They grumble under their breaths, toeing the floor. “That’s the thing, though. You’re stressed about enough shit, why do you need to stress about this? Make it easy on yourselves.”
They all seem sold on the idea, except Kenny, pouting like a two year old whose Mommy wouldn’t buy him any candy. The problem is, he thinks he’s in control of three teenagers who only have sex, and money and sex on the brain. The problem is, that’s all Kenny worries about, himself.
Troy, who’s trying not to laugh, reaches out to his friend and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Kenneth, if it means that much to you, we’ll let you wear a tail.”
Kenny looks up at him, a grin slowly stretching out; bright, white teeth stark against the dark shade of his skin. “Aw. I love you guys.”
There’s much - too much - deliberation. A lengthy exploration of the room and its arrangement; a juvenile discussion on which angle makes them look prettier. They may appear unwashed, but Jensen knows how this whole hair gel, eye liner, sweater vest phenomena goes. He’s seen enough of his sister’s ‘magazines’ to know. It probably took them half the morning to look dirty.
After they’ve organised a date for the shoot Jensen escapes, declining an invitation to get drunk and/or high, as exciting as it sounded. There’s a couple getting married in a hot air balloon tomorrow morning and he has to be over there at the ass crack of dawn for the take off. He ignores the cracks about his age and leaves.
The building’s always dead at this time of night. With the exception of Jungle Gym, the tenants are always up at dawn and in bed by dusk. No parties, no riff raff, no midnight calls from the police because someone reported a disturbance. The only disturbance he’s ever heard is the one he caused himself - drunk and completely incapable of putting his key in the lock, he’d scared the shit out of his neighbours.
When he gets onto the first floor a voice echoes down from upstairs. Wayne.
“What do you care, man?” he’s saying to someone on his cell, Jensen with an ear tipped up as he slowly ascends. “No … seriously, no … it’s just, I just need it. Can you get it for me? … Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
As Jensen steps up onto the landing, Wayne’s hanging up on the call and hurriedly thrusting his cell phone back into his pocket. Jensen sees something icy run down Wayne’s spine. When he turns the flash of fear is there and gone before Jensen can catch it, or keep it, and Wayne’s grinning at him, shaking it off.
“Oh hey, man, I was coming up to see you.”
Jensen folds his arms. Wayne’s always been a loose canon; dead end jobs, money making schemes, friends who are more work than they’re worth. He’s capable of stupid shit, but not this stupid shit. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I just thought I’d come see ya. Matt was telling me you-”
“No, what’s going on?” Jensen presses, stepping closer. “I heard you, on the phone. What are you into?”
Wayne tries to look confused, and fails. “Into?”
“Are you using?”
Wayne chuckles, shaking his head and clapping Jensen on the shoulder. It’s that smooth, easy demeanour he uses on people he’s scamming. “Chill out, Jensen. It’s nothing like that. Just … business, alright? What’s say we order a pizza and watch that Travelling Pants movie Matt’s Missus left behind?”
Before Jensen can refuse him, Wayne’s taking the stairs two at a time and leaving the squabble behind. They’re big boys; they don’t want someone else to bandage up their boo-boos. Need, though. That’s a different matter altogether.
*
If Jensen lives to see 60, he hopes he celebrates with half the style that Henry Baker - people call me Dough Boy - has shown tonight. It’s a Studio 54 themed rave, flashing pink and blue and purple lights, frocks and feathers and fairies as far as the eye can see. Half naked men - half Henry’s age - serving drinks, and The Best of The 80’s blaring. People are crowded so close together they look like rainbow paper chains. Jensen can barely lift his arm to take a shot.
“Let’s not bore ourselves with work, sweetheart.” Henry forces Jensen’s camera down to hang at his side, grabs Jensen’s hands and pulls him toward the dance floor. If Henry wasn’t 60, and wasn’t in charge of Jensen’s income [survival] this week, Jensen might consider pushing him away and insisting, No, I dance like an octopus on dry land. As it is.
“My very own Ryan Phillipe!” Henry calls over the Eurythmics and Jensen grimaces.
“A little credit, Henry, please.”
Henry laughs, dancing circles around Jensen, literally, who just flounders about on the spot. “Sorry, Brad.”
“This is why you hired me? Because you think I’m pretty?”
“Well, of course!” Henry cries, grabbing Jensen hands and forcing him to move. There’s something just not right about seeing a 60 year old man gyrate; even if he does look good for his age. “And I don’t think, I know.”
“If I was 30 years older,” Jensen says, smirking, and Henry flicks his hair back.
“On the contrary. If I was 30 years younger.”
It’s half way through Nut Bush City Limits, Henry trying to force a kick and spin from Jensen and Jensen trying to get the hell away; that his phone vibrates in his pocket. Henry, who’s standing too close, giggles - giggles - and says, “Jensen, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Jensen grabs a drunken, wobbly, nearby male guest to thrust at Henry, who’s only too happy to accommodate, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to answer.
“Sorry, I’ll be with you in a minute,” he says loudly, politely, into the receiver, because ‘ID Unknown’ is often ‘Potential Client’. He had to learn that lesson the hard way. The closest refuge from the noise is the toilets, and - despite the things Queer as Folk would have him believe - Jensen decides it’s his best bet. His camera will forgive him; it’s been in worse spots.
“Sorry about that,” he says, pushing through the swinging door. “This is Jensen Ackles.”
There’s that familiar, wide open laugh and, “This is Jared Padalecki.” A teasing, faux-sober voice that has Jensen slumping uselessly against the nearest wall. Fuck.
“Hey,” Jensen says, wobbly voice, a nervous hand up to steady both. Here it is. Two weeks worth of should I, will I, could I and do I fucking want to? Of knowing what Jared is - Jared’s interstate, Jared’s five years late, Jared’s a good guy with good values and the kind of skin you sink your teeth into - and not knowing Jared at all. So why does this feel like he’s being … courted?
“Hey, man. Am I interrupting something?”
“Uh … I’m at a 60 year old’s birthday party?”
Jared cackles. He doesn’t care if said 60 year old is the most important person in Jensen’s life. That shit’s funny. “Awesome.”
“Being fondled by the guest of honour himself,” Jensen feels the need to add.
“At least now you don’t have to buy him anything,” Jared deadpans, and Jensen knocks his head against the wall in surprise.
“Dude!”
“What? You started it.”
That morning, at the coffee shop, the two of them wedged in a corner and veiled with disinterested people; there were these silences. These It’s Not Just Coffee silences that Jensen’s long since grown apart from. After the last guy, and before Jared, it was Hi, How are you, Yes I would like to come up for coffee and then. No coffee. No time for silences.
Jensen may or may not have considered fucking Jared, right there in Fusion’s bathroom stall, just to realign the planets. “So, you called me,” Jensen manages to say, long after the ripple of their laughter has stilled.
“It looks that way, yeah.” Jared’s voice and words and meaning are heavy. Jensen coughs.
“Any particular reason, or are you just checking in, making sure I meet my groping quota?”
“Well, with that out of the way …” Jensen can hear the too big grin. “I’m in town, soon. I thought we could catch up.”
Jensen feels something cool tighten around his gut. When he speaks his voice defies him, and comes out in a tremble, “Oh, right.”
“We don’t have to,” Jared amends, quickly. Apparently Jensen isn’t fooling him. “I just thought …”
“No,” Jensen hears himself saying. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Jared doesn’t whoop, like Jensen expects. He doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that Jensen just agreed to … this. Whatever this is. A date? Instead Jared says, “Can I ask you something?” in a quiet, prudent voice.
“Uh …” Jensen’s reluctant to say yes, although he wants to. The last person to start with can I ask you was his High School girlfriend and she finished on, do you like boys? Surely Jared knew the answer to that one, already. “What?”
“That guy at that club, that night, are you … you know … is he?”
Jared’s rambling like Jensen’s ex-girlfriend, like he wants the truth but he’s too afraid to seek it. There’s a lot of that night Jensen can’t remember. Or that he’s tried to block out. “I don’t …” he says slowly, filtering out the bad, bodily fluid type memories and fighting to remember. The only guy he met was, “Finn?”
“Finn?” Jared says with a scoff. “That’s his name? Like a fin on a fish.”
Jensen smirks. “I guess so, yeah.”
“His parents named him that? Finn? Dude, I own fish.”
Jensen laughs through his nose. “You own fish?”
“Yeah. Sticks, fillets and chips.” There’s an oddly proud tone to Jared’s voice, as if his hand sits on his heart, eyes on the flag. It confuses Jensen, the way Jared seems to debunk the celebrity stereotypes; how down to earth and, well, lame he is despite the new found celebrity. Of course, if they had gone to school together Jensen would have hated him.
“That’s …” Jensen’s struggles for an adjective and fails. “I don’t know what that is.”
“I have dogs, too,” Jared tells him quickly, as if to reinstate his manliness. His drawl is thicker. “Back in Texas. Fish are just easier to keep.”
“They’re goldfish, aren’t they?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“It’s not hard.”
“Asshole.” Their talk slows down, like the drip of the tap and the slip of Jensen’s cell in his palm. Sweaty. Jared huffs out a breath. “So … Finn.”
“Oh, God,” Jensen says in a laugh, something popping inside of him. “No. No.”
“Okay, cool.” There’s a sigh of relief. It swirls, hot, in Jensen’s stomach. “Is there someone?”
“Only if my camera counts.”
“Dude.” It sounds like Jared’s caught between laughing and leaving. “I don’t want to know what you do with your camera.”
“If this is your attempt to seduce me you’re doing a really shitty job.” The moment he says it, Jensen’s covering his face with a hand. It’s as if he’s surrendered, accepted, welcomed; here I am Love Connection, do with me what you will. Where the hell did his pride go?
“Well,” Jared sounds both shocked and irreparably pleased with himself. “It was just going to be dinner, but I guess I could seduce you.”
“Dinner? You think you’re taking me to dinner?”
“It looks that way, yeah.”
*
Maxi’s is their answer to Cheers. It’s 1980’s wannabe, or mostly just wannabe; battered jukebox and football flags and fat guys in the corner, playing poker and drinking ale. It’s been immortalised in many of Jensen’s photos; developed and blown up and hung on his wall. It’s not as eye-catching as Matt hanging upside down and naked from Jensen’s fire escape; but people can appreciate the loyalty. It’s the place they love to go to because they can get wasted, pass out, and trust their wallet will be there when they wake up.
Tonight, Jensen’s getting wasted.
“So, Alegra.” Jensen throws an arm around the small, demure shoulders of Chris’ new woman, scooting in close. She’s all hips and boobs and huge, brown eyes. She’s so perfect for Chris that she might has well have come through the mail. “You and Kane, that’s really serious?”
Alegra gabs at him for a moment, as if this is some kind of joke and she’s worried she’s the punch line. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you stay at his place? Do you keep a toothbrush next to his? Does he call you his little lady?”
“Dude, would you lay off the Jaeger bombs?” Matt snaps, casting gentle eyes at Alegra who looks a little like Bambi. Lost. “It’s okay, he likes cock.”
“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
“You’re the asshole breathing on her, maybe she feels a little intimidated.” Matt loves the Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. Needless to say he loves it a lot more when he’s the Good Cop. It doesn’t happen very often.
“I’m curious. I wanna know how she tamed him.”
Wayne, who is slouched low in the booth and inspecting the lines on his palm, snorts with his nose and mouth and throat. Jensen feels Alegra jolt, from surprise or disgust or both. “Why? Did you fail?”
“Oh, funny. Next it’ll be ‘did you get the whips and chains out, queer?’”
Wayne looks at them with wide, amused eyes and cries, “Poetry! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Preoccupied, they don’t notice the others - Chris, Steve, and Steve’s partner Rebecca - returning, until three pots of beer are plopped onto the table, slopping over the sides. It’s a Big Night Out, the sort of night Rebecca would steer clear of if it hadn’t been for Alegra and her obvious ‘initiation’.
“What’s going on?” Chris says gruffly, gaze fixed firmly on Alegra. Jensen couldn’t add two and two right now, but even he knows that Chris isn’t looking. He’s talking to her, silently. It’s … intimate. It’s bizarre.
“Jensen’s macking on your girlfriend,” Wayne says plainly.
“I was being friendly,” Jensen begs to differ, twirling his hand as if to reinforce the point. It’s not every day he gets to meet Chris Kane’s girlfriend. Hell, he doesn’t even get to meet the girls Chris beds. Who wouldn’t want to know what’s going on?
“Too friendly,” Matt corrects, sliding along the seat to make room for Steve and Bec. Chris just stands there, his arms folded across his chest. It’s easier for him to loom over someone if the other person’s sitting down.
“Ackles, get your drunken ass away from her,” he orders.
“We were getting to know each other.” Jensen turns and looks at the girl in question, offering a too-big smile that’s weakly returned. “Weren’t we Alegra?”
“Sure.”
The unimpressed look on Chris’ face compels Jensen to stand up and address his friend. Apparently no-one understands what’s happening here. “This is an important day, Chrissy,” he explains, palms flat on Chris’ chequered-clad chest and a gentle pat. “You’re a big boy now.”
Jensen hears someone tell Alegra, “He’s usually normal,” and turns to protest,
“Fuck off! I’m normal.” He’s pointing a finger like there’s guilt to be had. Uncle Jensen Wants You to believe him. “I mean, I fuck men, sure. I mean, I don’t want to settle on one man, but, it’s the 21st century, what hot blooded man does, really? I put my shoes on, one at a time.”
“Okay,” Rebecca says, falsetto, eyes stretched wide. “Someone want to call the lightweight a cab?”
“Or a therapist?”
“Fuck you all,” Jensen drawls and with a lazy flip of the bird he heads over to the bar. Insulted. As if he’s the odd number in this equation. As if he hasn’t entertained their drunken behaviour before. Wayne’s stolen car, Matt’s DUI, Chris’ fist fight with a bouncer who made a joke about his hair. Compared to them, Jensen’s Heidi.
“It is you.” A tall, dark man sits down on a stool, his back to the bar and his elbows propped up. He’s too flashy for Maxi’s, dressed in a suit with no tie; he looks like he stepped out of fucking Esquire. One side of his mouth’s tugged up and his gaze freefalls down Jensen, slowly, back up. It’s as if he’s struck a match to Jensen, brought it close to inspect. Jensen’s blood simmers.
“Oh, hey.” The memories trickle in like water through cupped hands. There was a wedding. That’s right. A wedding and Jillian and Matt. “Hunter, isn’t it?”
“Call me Rob,” he says, a tongue grazing his lips and his knees inching apart. It’s beyond suggestive. Jensen should ask for change in one dollar bills.
“Okay, Rob. Hows it goin’?”
“It’s going.”
Jensen laughs. “Right, right. You want a drink? I think I owe you.”
“Well, sure, I’ll take a drink.” He turns and dips his head and adds, low voice, “I was kind of hoping for something else.”
“Peanuts?” Jensen jokes, grabbing the nearby basket.
“I think you have a low opinion of yourself,” Rob Hunter says, quick flick of his eyebrow, up. He sinks lower on the seat, and when he says, “Are you free tonight?” he’s looking out at the room, and the people, as if the answer doesn’t make much difference to him. Oh, yeah, Jensen knows this guy. He’s slept with this guy before. Another face maybe, another name, another time, but Jensen’s been here.
Jensen jokingly looks around. “I think I’m out, Rob”
“I mean are you with anyone - in particular.”
With? In what sense? Jensen’s carrying … things, wearing things, but. “No.”
“Good. That’s good.”
*
Jensen wasn’t raised on the Bible; they didn’t hold hands and bow their heads and thank God for the food they were about to receive. It wasn’t like that. God, He was just there. Inherent. Like blue eyes and freckles and photos and gay. He just was, and Jensen never really stopped to think about it. Not when he started jacking off, not when he coveted his neighbour’s wife [Mrs. Morris was fucking hot], not when he decided that girls just wouldn’t do. Jensen’s God, Jensen’s idea of God, didn’t begrudge Jensen of these things. He wasn’t hurting anyone.
The night before, Jensen’s knees by his ears as some near stranger fucked him into next Tuesday? That wasn’t an issue. The tall, dark figure behind Jensen’s eyelids? The crooked smile and rogue freckles and stupid hair? The name wrapped tight in the cloud of his breathing, threatening to come out? That was the issue. Jensen’s God didn’t favour dishonesty. He would not forgive Jensen’s decision to go whoring himself out in hopes his thoughts could be distracted from the fact that some nice, gentle boy - guy - man just wanted to spend time with Jensen. Who the hell didn’t want that?
It’s all too much to wake up to. As if being hung over wasn’t bad enough; Jensen had to go and chase it with a nice big gulp of shame. A shame that worsens, two fold, when he wakes to find Rob Hunter in his bed. Still. At least all the other one night stands had had the sense to leave. Though Jensen manages to wriggle some underwear on without waking the other man, getting up proves too difficult. He digs a heel into Rob’s thigh and Rob snuffles, sitting up straight; some eccentric Lestat waking in his coffin.
“Sorry, sorry, I - ”
“Where are you going?” Rob mutters sleepily, grabbing Jensen by the ankle and forcing Jensen to fall back, hard, onto his already aching ass. Rob Hunter’s surprisingly spry for a man who fucked five ways from Sunday not so long ago. He somehow manages to out-manoeuvre Jensen, getting him on his back, crowding him with long, brawny limbs and grazing his teeth along the sensitive skin of Jensen’s neck.
“Look, this was fun,” Jensen splutters, squirming away from that mouth, from the lure of indulgence. “I think we should just, leave it on a high note. You know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Rob groans, bucking into Jensen like he’s one of those toy ponies at the grocery store you stick quarters into.
“I don’t mean that high note, I mean - ” Before Jensen can use the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine, there’s a gentle rap of knuckles on his front door. When Rob falls, defeated, and rolls off of him, Jensen lets out a sigh of relief and quickly makes a beeline for it. If that’s Matt, Jensen’s going to take him out for dinner. He’s going to take him to a game. With sports. He’s going to -
With a sharp tug of the door and a madman’s grin, Jensen soon learns it isn’t Matt.
“Jensen!”
It’s his parents.
“Mom? Dad?” Is all he can manage, the pair stepping forward to wrap their arms around him. As they talk too fast at Jensen, too fast for it all to register, he slowly realises what he’s seeing. His parents, unlike he’s ever seen them before. They’re wearing floral print and khaki and big, extravagant hats with I LOVE CALIFORNIA printed across them. They’re here. In San Francisco. In Jensen’s apartment.
“Hey, can I use your shower?”
They’re here, in Jensen’s apartment, with Rob Hunter and his tighty whities.
Oh, God.
Part Four.