Third bit of string quartet.
Whatever, I may be too tired to write tomorrow. Say it with me: Unbetaed, no-promises WIP, so hot off the word processor it's still smoking. Gotta keep going. For the music geeks: not my favorite Brahms, but the juxtaposition was handy. Also, no offense meant to any Midlanders out there. I've done my share of concerts in Midland, and it was always a good experience. I have no idea who the conductor is there; this character is entirely my own creation. Onward.
Part Three
"I hate to remind you of this, Jared. But I've already recommended at least six violinists, and you've shot every single one of them down."
Jared drew a long breath through his nose, and let it out. "Dawn, I realize that, it's just --"
"Just what?" Dawn had never been what Jared would call a warm sort of person. Now she sounded pretty much glacial. "Too young. Too old. Too experienced, he's set in his ways. Too INexperienced, she doesn't know a pizzicato from a raspberry. Oh, and wait, my favorite -- 'He's just not...right for us.' That about sums it up, doesn't it?"
Anger prickled up his spine. "What can I say? Did you think it would be easy replacing a violinist of Tom Welling's caliber? Just lean out the door and whistle, and a dozen'll come running?"
He was almost yelling, and it took the perfect silence on the other end of the phone to make him realize it.
"No," Dawn said quietly, after that resounding moment. "No, Jared, don't be ridiculous. Tom was extraordinary, and you know I know that, or I'd never have signed you."
"Then --"
"And it really isn't about the players not being a good fit. Really. What this is about, babe, is that you want TOM back. And unless it's him, you won't even listen to anyone."
Sullenly, he waited, and said, "No, I hear what you're saying."
"Do you? Really? Does Mike?"
"It isn't just Mike. We're -- It's all of us. It's hard."
"Jesus, I know it is. But it's been a month, Jared, and I don't -- I don't know what to tell people anymore. What to say, to put them off. 'They're auditioning players?' But you're not. 'They're almost ready?' You aren't even close, Jared."
"I know," he whispered.
"Tell me what to do."
He closed his eyes. "Bear with us. Just a little longer."
~~~~~~~~~~~
When they finally did audition some players -- it was that or find another agent/manager, Dawn told them, and Jared believed her -- it was as bad as he'd feared. A couple could even play, play damn well.
But Jared had never even considered himself the most insightful of people, and he already knew the mesh wasn't there, the promise of a good fit. One guy -- the best of them so far, Jared thought -- had grandchildren, and cast a baleful eye on the idea of touring. When Jared told him they spent more than half the year traveling all over the place, the guy just shook his head.
Mike hated him, anyway. And that was the heart of the problem, wasn't it? Mike hated everyone. If he couldn't fault their playing -- and oh, could he ever, most of the time -- he jabbed at personality quirks, whatever he could find. One kid barely out of college endured a full ten minutes of Mike's criticism before fleeing the hall, eyes brimming with tears.
That was better than the one who spat in Mike's face and then nearly had a viola smashed over his head in retaliation. Jared had stepped in, but Chris was even quicker. Good thing, because a lawsuit was about the last thing they needed. Not to mention none of them had the money to replace Mike's fiddle. Damn fine instrument, would have been a criminal waste.
By the end of another month, Jared wasn't sure if the Castiel was going out with a bang or a whimper, but he was bitterly sure they were going out. Dawn had managed to drag things along as best she could, but they were no better off than the moment Tom died in that car accident, and they all knew it.
So he wasn't really expecting a call from Eric Kripke. And the first thing he thought was, He found us a first fiddle.
"No," Kripke said doubtfully. "Listen, are you available in April?"
"What, like all of April?"
"The third week."
Jared snorted. "If there's money in it, I'm anything you want me to be."
"Hmm, yes, I -- Well. It's short notice, I know, but a friend of a friend, you know, and they're short a cellist to play the Brahms Double. You studied it, right?"
Jared sat up, frowning. "Wait, you mean a solo gig? The double concerto?"
"You played it at Grace, though. Right?"
"Well, yeah, but it was a student performance. I'm not a concert --"
"Screw that. You're a fine talent, and besides, they can't get anyone else on such short notice. Interested?"
Damned by faint praise, Jared thought, and then remembered the rent. "Where?"
"Midland, Texas."
"Midland?" Jared sputtered. "They pay actual money in MIDLAND?"
"More than you'd expect. Listen, they'll fly you down -- you're from Texas, right? -- pay your expenses, put you up, and a fee on top of that. Your agent will love it."
"She's not my agent, she's OUR agent, and I'm not so sure --"
"Then don't tell her. Look, I'll call them and tell them we're on. Someone'll let you know the schedule. April, remember!"
"Professor, I --"
He was talking to a dead line.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somebody sent him tickets and a schedule that looked like it had come off a home printer, possibly dot-matrix. But the gig was solid; Chris knew the conductor, and hell, it was Texas. Like going home.
Driving to the hotel, Jared decided Midland was nothing like home. Dry, dusty, a bitter kind of cold that had teeth in it, and man, it was small.
He smiled at the chattering lady who'd picked him up from the airport -- Abby, she'd called herself, Junior League or something like that -- and wished for a beer.
"Midland," he told his mom that night on the phone. "Yeah, Midland, Texas. No, it's a gig. Solo. Well, sort of solo." He rescued his tux from the hanging bag, phone crooked between chin and shoulder. "Last minute thing, their person cancelled. Yes, it pays. Yeah, no, I have no idea who the violinist is. Never met him. Ackles, Crackles, something." He laughed and smoothed out wrinkles with his free hand. "No, you do not need to come up here. I mean that. No, I mean, I barely remember the damn concerto!"
The door buzzer sounded, and he rolled his eyes and said, "Look, the pizza's here. I'll call you later. Do not come up here. Don't!"
He ate his pizza and studied the schedule. Pretty tight, and he thought anxiously about what he'd just said to his mother before cramming half a slice of pizza in his mouth and going to get out his cello.
The next morning was the first rehearsal, 10:00am, with the conductor and the Smackles guy. The hall was resoundingly empty, and he felt about twelve, hands cold on his fiddle case, before the guy sitting in the front row turned to look at him.
"Hey."
Jared tried on a smile. "This the place?"
The other guy looked like he was trying to smile, and couldn't. Smile constipation. "You tell me."
A slender, sharply pretty woman came down from the stage, a crisp click of heels on the wood. "Are you Jared Padalecki?" she asked, giving him a narrow look.
"That'd be me, yep." Jared gave her a version of the smile. No go there, either.
"Thank God. I was starting to think they'd have to change the program entirely." Her look was brief and assessing. "Jared, this is Jensen. Ackles."
The guy stood, reluctantly Jared thought, and nodded at him. "Hey."
A sort of "hhhh" went airily out between Jared's lips, but he didn't even have it in him to care. Jensen Ackles was ridiculously gorgeous, in spite of the easily mangled name. Tom-level gorgeous, no, higher than that. He swallowed some air, and coughed a little.
"Oh, there you both are." A tall, painfully thin man hurried down the aisle. "John Engel, and you must be Jared, am I right? Thank you for stepping in." His outreached hand felt bony and cold in Jared's, a brief tight squeeze before Engel was reaching out to shake Jensen's hand, too. "Jensen. I've heard so much about you. What a pleasure, truly."
Jensen's face was scarlet. He mumbled, "Pleasure," and Jared wondered briefly if the guy could actually talk.
Great. He was playing with the most beautiful man he'd ever met, who evidently didn't speak English, with an orchestra no one had ever heard of, and a concerto he'd last seriously looked at four years ago.
Yeah. This was gonna be great.
And it was his luck that the Brahms began with the long solo cello solo. He'd warmed up, but now he was all too aware of how long it had been since he'd played without the company of three old friends, in an ensemble. No spotlights.
Just Midland, he thought blindly, and shut his eyes to find the music.
Found it, sat back when Engel played the orchestra bit. Thought, Still got it, little rusty, work it out, and then Jensen began to play and Jared forgot about Midland and Tom and their broken quartet, and just listened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
TBC. But probably not tonight. EB.
Part Three
"I hate to remind you of this, Jared. But I've already recommended at least six violinists, and you've shot every single one of them down."
Jared drew a long breath through his nose, and let it out. "Dawn, I realize that, it's just --"
"Just what?" Dawn had never been what Jared would call a warm sort of person. Now she sounded pretty much glacial. "Too young. Too old. Too experienced, he's set in his ways. Too INexperienced, she doesn't know a pizzicato from a raspberry. Oh, and wait, my favorite -- 'He's just not...right for us.' That about sums it up, doesn't it?"
Anger prickled up his spine. "What can I say? Did you think it would be easy replacing a violinist of Tom Welling's caliber? Just lean out the door and whistle, and a dozen'll come running?"
He was almost yelling, and it took the perfect silence on the other end of the phone to make him realize it.
"No," Dawn said quietly, after that resounding moment. "No, Jared, don't be ridiculous. Tom was extraordinary, and you know I know that, or I'd never have signed you."
"Then --"
"And it really isn't about the players not being a good fit. Really. What this is about, babe, is that you want TOM back. And unless it's him, you won't even listen to anyone."
Sullenly, he waited, and said, "No, I hear what you're saying."
"Do you? Really? Does Mike?"
"It isn't just Mike. We're -- It's all of us. It's hard."
"Jesus, I know it is. But it's been a month, Jared, and I don't -- I don't know what to tell people anymore. What to say, to put them off. 'They're auditioning players?' But you're not. 'They're almost ready?' You aren't even close, Jared."
"I know," he whispered.
"Tell me what to do."
He closed his eyes. "Bear with us. Just a little longer."
~~~~~~~~~~~
When they finally did audition some players -- it was that or find another agent/manager, Dawn told them, and Jared believed her -- it was as bad as he'd feared. A couple could even play, play damn well.
But Jared had never even considered himself the most insightful of people, and he already knew the mesh wasn't there, the promise of a good fit. One guy -- the best of them so far, Jared thought -- had grandchildren, and cast a baleful eye on the idea of touring. When Jared told him they spent more than half the year traveling all over the place, the guy just shook his head.
Mike hated him, anyway. And that was the heart of the problem, wasn't it? Mike hated everyone. If he couldn't fault their playing -- and oh, could he ever, most of the time -- he jabbed at personality quirks, whatever he could find. One kid barely out of college endured a full ten minutes of Mike's criticism before fleeing the hall, eyes brimming with tears.
That was better than the one who spat in Mike's face and then nearly had a viola smashed over his head in retaliation. Jared had stepped in, but Chris was even quicker. Good thing, because a lawsuit was about the last thing they needed. Not to mention none of them had the money to replace Mike's fiddle. Damn fine instrument, would have been a criminal waste.
By the end of another month, Jared wasn't sure if the Castiel was going out with a bang or a whimper, but he was bitterly sure they were going out. Dawn had managed to drag things along as best she could, but they were no better off than the moment Tom died in that car accident, and they all knew it.
So he wasn't really expecting a call from Eric Kripke. And the first thing he thought was, He found us a first fiddle.
"No," Kripke said doubtfully. "Listen, are you available in April?"
"What, like all of April?"
"The third week."
Jared snorted. "If there's money in it, I'm anything you want me to be."
"Hmm, yes, I -- Well. It's short notice, I know, but a friend of a friend, you know, and they're short a cellist to play the Brahms Double. You studied it, right?"
Jared sat up, frowning. "Wait, you mean a solo gig? The double concerto?"
"You played it at Grace, though. Right?"
"Well, yeah, but it was a student performance. I'm not a concert --"
"Screw that. You're a fine talent, and besides, they can't get anyone else on such short notice. Interested?"
Damned by faint praise, Jared thought, and then remembered the rent. "Where?"
"Midland, Texas."
"Midland?" Jared sputtered. "They pay actual money in MIDLAND?"
"More than you'd expect. Listen, they'll fly you down -- you're from Texas, right? -- pay your expenses, put you up, and a fee on top of that. Your agent will love it."
"She's not my agent, she's OUR agent, and I'm not so sure --"
"Then don't tell her. Look, I'll call them and tell them we're on. Someone'll let you know the schedule. April, remember!"
"Professor, I --"
He was talking to a dead line.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somebody sent him tickets and a schedule that looked like it had come off a home printer, possibly dot-matrix. But the gig was solid; Chris knew the conductor, and hell, it was Texas. Like going home.
Driving to the hotel, Jared decided Midland was nothing like home. Dry, dusty, a bitter kind of cold that had teeth in it, and man, it was small.
He smiled at the chattering lady who'd picked him up from the airport -- Abby, she'd called herself, Junior League or something like that -- and wished for a beer.
"Midland," he told his mom that night on the phone. "Yeah, Midland, Texas. No, it's a gig. Solo. Well, sort of solo." He rescued his tux from the hanging bag, phone crooked between chin and shoulder. "Last minute thing, their person cancelled. Yes, it pays. Yeah, no, I have no idea who the violinist is. Never met him. Ackles, Crackles, something." He laughed and smoothed out wrinkles with his free hand. "No, you do not need to come up here. I mean that. No, I mean, I barely remember the damn concerto!"
The door buzzer sounded, and he rolled his eyes and said, "Look, the pizza's here. I'll call you later. Do not come up here. Don't!"
He ate his pizza and studied the schedule. Pretty tight, and he thought anxiously about what he'd just said to his mother before cramming half a slice of pizza in his mouth and going to get out his cello.
The next morning was the first rehearsal, 10:00am, with the conductor and the Smackles guy. The hall was resoundingly empty, and he felt about twelve, hands cold on his fiddle case, before the guy sitting in the front row turned to look at him.
"Hey."
Jared tried on a smile. "This the place?"
The other guy looked like he was trying to smile, and couldn't. Smile constipation. "You tell me."
A slender, sharply pretty woman came down from the stage, a crisp click of heels on the wood. "Are you Jared Padalecki?" she asked, giving him a narrow look.
"That'd be me, yep." Jared gave her a version of the smile. No go there, either.
"Thank God. I was starting to think they'd have to change the program entirely." Her look was brief and assessing. "Jared, this is Jensen. Ackles."
The guy stood, reluctantly Jared thought, and nodded at him. "Hey."
A sort of "hhhh" went airily out between Jared's lips, but he didn't even have it in him to care. Jensen Ackles was ridiculously gorgeous, in spite of the easily mangled name. Tom-level gorgeous, no, higher than that. He swallowed some air, and coughed a little.
"Oh, there you both are." A tall, painfully thin man hurried down the aisle. "John Engel, and you must be Jared, am I right? Thank you for stepping in." His outreached hand felt bony and cold in Jared's, a brief tight squeeze before Engel was reaching out to shake Jensen's hand, too. "Jensen. I've heard so much about you. What a pleasure, truly."
Jensen's face was scarlet. He mumbled, "Pleasure," and Jared wondered briefly if the guy could actually talk.
Great. He was playing with the most beautiful man he'd ever met, who evidently didn't speak English, with an orchestra no one had ever heard of, and a concerto he'd last seriously looked at four years ago.
Yeah. This was gonna be great.
And it was his luck that the Brahms began with the long solo cello solo. He'd warmed up, but now he was all too aware of how long it had been since he'd played without the company of three old friends, in an ensemble. No spotlights.
Just Midland, he thought blindly, and shut his eyes to find the music.
Found it, sat back when Engel played the orchestra bit. Thought, Still got it, little rusty, work it out, and then Jensen began to play and Jared forgot about Midland and Tom and their broken quartet, and just listened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
TBC. But probably not tonight. EB.