Fic: Put the Heartbeat Back Inside (Part One)
Suddenly, he’s alert. He blinks awake and takes in his surroundings. He’s lying on his back on what feels like a bare wooden table and he’s rocking as though - he’s on a boat. He looks around further. An old boat . There’s rust everywhere and he’s in part of the cabin that looks like it’s mainly used for storage. There are tools scattered on the work bench next to him and the place is a mess. It’s bright, maybe midday. He’s alone, for the moment. He can hear someone shuffling in the adjacent room and sits up immediately, swinging his legs over and off before ducking behind the makeshift table. He winces painfully and sucks in a breath as he crouches there, sharp flares of pain radiating from two points in his back, and they burn like fire but he fights through it. The arms of his wetsuit where it’s rolled down and hanging off his waist get in his way a little but he steadies himself and waits, listening. A man enters the room through the open doorway; he’s in his early fifties, with dark hair and a beard tinged with silver, thin wire frames perched on his nose. He’s wearing surgical gloves and a blood stained apron and looks completely stunned by the empty table in front of him. The man finally blinks then starts to move again, looking concerned as he tilts away to check down the other hallway.
With the other man clearly distracted, he seizes this moment to spring up from his hiding place. He grabs the closest sharp object off the nearby tool bench and, catching the man by surprise, slams him against the wall and pins him there with his free arm like an iron bar across his chest.
“What are you doing to me? Who are you? Where am I?” he demands, pointing the exacto knife at the man’s face, standing firm despite the pain in his back.
“Calm down, son. I’m not-”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he yells, panic rising like a tsunami in his chest. He doesn’t recognize this boat, or this man, and has no recollection of how he came to be here. Actually, he can’t recall very much at all, and the realization unnerves him; he feels a tremor start throughout his body even as he continues to brandish his makeshift weapon close enough to make the other man’s eyes cross when he looks at it. “What are you doing to me?!”
“Hey! I’m trying to help you. I’m a friend, okay? A friend. You got shot, for chrissakes. I’ve been patching you up. There were two bullets in your back, and a kind of implant under the skin at your hip.” The man has kind eyes and looks at him in earnest as he holds up the small metal cylinder for him to see, a red light glowing at the tip of it.
He squints as he looks at it. It’s foreign to him. It was under his skin? The panic is still threatening and it’s getting harder to breathe. His head is swimming a little and he’s starting to feel dizzy.
“Son, do you know what this is?” The man asks him again, but he can’t keep his eyes focused on the tiny object. His vision is getting blurry and he swallows hard.
As the weakness sets in, the fight starts to slip away from him. His hand - the one holding the knife - is shaking violently now and he can’t maintain the strength necessary to keep the man pressed against the wall. Instead, he starts to sway, the pain in his back screaming at him.
“Take a deep breath, okay? You need rest. Let me help you.” The man reaches for him, tries to help him stay on his feet. “What’s your name, kid?”
The man looks at him expectantly.
He just blinks back at him, struggling to catch his breath.
“My… my name? I don’t… I don’t know? I don’t know my name! I don’t know !”
The last thing he remembers is the man clutching at him, trying to ease him down as everything goes dark.
---
The next time he wakes, he’s in a small bed. He’s dressed in soft, loose pajamas and as he shifts under the covers he can feel the tape and gauze where he’s got two bandages on his back and another smaller one at his left hip. Before he opens his eyes, he listens.
He can hear the sounds of the water moving alongside the boat, the footsteps of someone - two someones - shuffling about the boat, and he wants to be wary but figures if the boat’s crew wanted him dead or gone he already would be. His head is pounding, but he already feels better than he did by the time he finally decides to try sitting up.
He moves slowly, testing the pain of what he knows now to be gunshot wounds in his back as well as the throbbing in his head. Neither are unbearable. His body feels heavy, and belatedly he understands he’s been given something, likely for the pain.
He’s only been sitting up a few minutes, gingerly touching his sock-covered feet to the cool metal floor, when a familiar face pokes in the door. The man from earlier smiles at him.
“Good morning! Or really, afternoon at this point,” he admits. “It’s good to see you awake. We were starting to worry.”
“We?” he inquires, wondering how outnumbered he is. His voice is rough and it croaks from disuse and dehydration. The man looks sympathetic when he sees him rub at his throat.
“Yeah, there’s two of us that run this old girl. She isn’t much to look at but she gets us around, lets us find our catch. The name’s Jeffrey Morgan, but you can call me Jeff. My buddy’s putting together a late lunch for us at the moment; he’s James Beaver but you can call him Jim.” The man’s expression is tentative as he pauses. “Any chance your name’s come back to you, kid?”
He thinks for a long moment but it only makes the pounding worse and nothing springs to mind. He gently shakes his head and Jeff huffs out a breath, his lips pursed tightly together and looking concerned.
“Well, I’m just gonna call you ‘Kid’ then,” Jeff decides with a small smile and a chuckle to match. “Just until we get you sorted out, alright? We gotta call you something.”
‘Kid’ doesn’t really know what to say but he figures it’s as good a moniker as any for now. He nods, the hand that was massaging his neck moving to press at his temple. He tries not to wince when he speaks.
“What… what happened?” Kid looks up and Jeff’s face is grim again.
“Well, it was storming something fierce the night we found you, absolutely pissing rain. And you’re the luckier for it, because if it hadn’t been we wouldn’t have been on deck so late trying to keep the ship on course and then we wouldn’t have seen you. Couldn’t believe our eyes. You were just floating in the water. Honestly, when we pulled you out we thought you were dead.” Jeff sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he sits down on the bench opposite Kid’s bed.
“Of course, turned out you were still breathing but you had two slugs buried in your back. We got you inside, laid you down so I could dig ‘em out. I was a medic before - back in Vietnam. I’ve seen a lot worse,” he adds, with a small quirk of his lips. “Anyway, got the bullets out, cleaned and cauterized you before I started checking you over for other injuries. That’s when I found this…” Jeff reaches into his pocket and pulls out the implant he’d shown him before. He points it at the worn, peeling white-painted wall and the red light projects a series of numbers and the words ‘Bank of Mexico.’ He lets Kid squint at it a moment before raising his eyebrows at him.
“This mean anything to you, Kid?”
“Uh… no? I mean, that’s got to be an account number but…” Kid shakes his head and hisses a little with the pain of it.
“Your head bothering you?” Jeff asks and Kid nods. “After we get some food in you we’ll give you another painkiller, okay? I just don’t want to give you anything else on a empty stomach.”
“Sounds fair,” Kid answers quietly.
Jeff spares another glance at the information on the wall before sighing and handing Kid the implant.
“So, no name, no identification on you, nothing but this.” He gestures at it where it rests in Kid’s palm. “I guess that’s your only lead then, until your memory comes back. In the meantime, you’ll be needing to get to Mexico City.”
Kid stares wide-eyed at the tiny object before looking back up at Jeff and hoping the panic isn’t clear on his face. He still doesn’t know where he is - is Mexico anywhere remotely close? - and what if… what if he never remembers?
“Hey, it’ll come back, Kid. It will. It’s just gonna take time,” Jeff says kindly, as if reading his thoughts. He leans forward to rest a reassuring hand on Kid’s shoulder. “We’re fishing the Gulf as we speak. We were closer to Florida when we found you. It’ll be another few days before we make it back to Mexico, and then Mexico City is only four hours west from there. You should use that time to rest. I’m gonna go make sure Jim’s got enough soup on for you, okay? I’ll be back. Bathroom’s through here and on your right, if you need it.”
Jeff smiles kindly before taking his leave and Kid decides he might as well make his way to the bathroom, even if it’s just to splash some water on his face and stretch his legs. He’s a little unsteady as he stands and he’s careful as he makes his way, keeping a hand on the wall at all times while he gets used to the motion of the boat and the way the pain medication weighs him down.
He starts when he looks in the mirror. The man looking back at him is a stranger; he appears confused. Kid is confused. He’s unsettled. It didn’t occur to him until he saw himself that he actually couldn’t picture what he looked liked before that very moment. His breath catches and he fights to keep his breathing even as he examines the unfamiliar face reflected on the glass.
His skin is fair and stubbled. There’s a soft dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and along his cheekbones. His hair is a kind of dark, dirty blonde, short, but long enough to look ruffled where it sticks up every which way. He runs his hand through it just to smooth it a little. His eyes are green - remarkably green, actually, and bright. His lashes are full and so are his lips; he smiles, watches the rise of his cheeks and then the reveal of his teeth, brilliantly white and straight. He lets his face relax and he sighs.
“Who are you?” he whispers to his reflection, eyes pleading.
“¿Quién eres?” he asks again, startling himself. Spanish? Okay, so… apparently, he speaks Spanish. He narrows his eyes at the mirror and tries again.
“Qui es-tu? Wer sind Sie?” He clenches his teeth. So, he speaks French and German, too. Still can’t remember his name, though.
“ Who are you?” he demands, frustrated. He stares himself down a moment, but when nothing comes to mind, he lets out an exasperated sigh and deflates, bracing himself by holding the edges of the small sink. The ache in his head is a bit dizzying and his stomach is rumbling. He leaves off interrogating himself in favour of cleaning up so he can get back to bed, the promise of soup, and sleep.
---
Four days later, Kid is standing at the bow of the humble ship watching the Mexican coastline come closer as the sun rises behind him. The water is bright and blue, the sky clear and the breeze easy on his face as he takes in the sight. He still remembers nothing from before he woke up; the Tylenol with Codeine Jim has been giving him for his back do little for his throbbing, near-constant headache, and he is only more mystified by the continuous stream of new questions regarding his identity. Lending a hand around the boat, he discovers he can tie over fifty different kinds of knots. He speaks at least five languages that he’s figured out so far, his reflexes are impeccably sharp, and his intuition is uncanny.
For example, right now he can hear someone coming up the stairs out of the cabin and knows it’s Jim without needing to turn around, just by the sound of his particular footfall. Jim stops just behind him and they stand in silence a moment before Kid feels him nudge his shoulder.
“What’s this?” he asks, looking at the folded bundle of American cash being held out to him.
“It’s not much,” Jim confesses. “But hopefully it’ll be enough to get you to some answers, maybe find someone who knows you and who can help you more.”
Kid takes the money with a quiet nod. He feels badly. Jim and Jeff don’t seem to have a lot, leading a simple life, but they’ve clothed him with some things of Jeff’s - a worn out black t-shirt from a Hard Rock Cafe in Miami that might even be older than he is, a pair of khaki shorts and some scuffed up old sneakers - and fed him this whole time while taking care of his wounds and giving him drugs left over from a knee surgery Jim had a few years back.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Kid admits as he tucks the money away in his pocket. “You guys saved my life. I really owe you.”
Jim just quirks up the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t even think about it, Kid. Maybe when you figure out who you are, drop us a line or come say hi. I’m sure we’d all like to really meet you. The wives would certainly like to fuss over you,” he laughs. “It’d be worth your while.”
Kid laughs with him. He can only imagine.
He knows even from his short time with them that Jim and Jeff have been friends since forever. They signed up and fought in the war together, stuck it out with the military after that, traveling all over the country before deciding to retire someplace quiet and warm with their wives - both of whom are named Samantha, by the way - and apparently they’ve been enjoying the Mexican sun and sand ever since.
They pull up to a small, private dock not too long after. Jim and Jeff don’t make any mention of him joining them inside - though the two nearby homes that Kid imagines belong to them do look inviting - as if they understand his need not to waste another second when he could be getting closer to answers. They’re still standing on the dock when Jeff gives him a small card with their numbers on it and tells him not to hesitate if he’s in need or just wants to visit. Kid fights the impulse a moment but then gives in and hugs them both, thanking them again before he sets off down the dirt laneway to the main road where Jeff told him he should be able to find someone and hitch a ride.
When he leaves, he can feel the weight of their concerned stares as they watch him go. Kid might not know anything about himself but even after his brief time with them, receiving their generous hospitality, he knows Jeff and Jim are good people. As he walks away, he sincerely hopes that they’ll meet again.
---
Jared carefully sets down his fresh mug of coffee on his desk and drops into his office chair with an audible huff . He flips through the pile of notes in his hand and sighs at the near-illegibility of his own hurried hand. He hasn’t changed from the old t-shirt and pajama pants he slept in last night and as he wearily rests his handwritten pages in his lap, he takes in the familiar disarray before him. Papers lay strewn about the broad, wooden surface, covering any space not already occupied by stacks of old books, half-eaten bags of candy, his laptop - which is resting precariously close to the far corner - or his coffee. His hair is still mussed from sleep and he imagines he slightly resembles the messy scene. He spies the official documents reminding him he needs to renew his visa if he wants to stay in the country peaking out from under more pages of notes. They’ve been sitting there half-buried among the other papers for the better part of two weeks and he really can’t put off dealing with them any longer. He has to go into the Embassy later today and see if he can buy himself a little more time.
The thought of all the work he still has left to do on his thesis and the money he definitely doesn’t have makes him groan. Instead of pulling at his hair or letting his face fall to the desk like he’s inclined to do, he sighs and reaches for his creamy, sugar-rich coffee.
The door to the apartment opens just as he lifts it to his mouth and he startles, spilling scalding hot coffee down his front and all over his lap.
“Jared, hey! Are you-” Genevieve starts as she walks in but Jared cuts her off when he cries out, cursing, and stands abruptly, a dripping coffee cup in one hand and the other trying to pull his soaked shirt away from his skin to keep it from burning him.
“Shit,” she mutters as she comes running over, grabbing a tea towel from the kitchen on her way. She trades the towel for what’s left of the coffee, putting her other hand under the mug so she can stop it from dripping onto the floor, doing her best to keep it away from all the paperwork on Jared’s desk. She scurries back to the kitchen to wipe off and refill his cup and by the time she returns, Jared’s sitting down again with the tea towel in hand, legs sprawled, chest and lap wet, looking completely defeated.
“Typical!” he says, exasperated, as Gen comes over with his new coffee and a small smile.
“Sorry I startled you,” she apologizes. “But I can’t be held accountable if you happen to be clumsy as a freakin’ moose.”
Gen puts the coffee mug down in the only tiny free space she can find on his desk and leans forward to kiss his forehead.
“Dude. Did you just get up?” She looks at him then like she’s looking at him for the first time since coming home, really taking in the telltale rumpled state of his hair and clothing. He frowns at her, equally accusing. She knows he was up til an ungodly hour working on his proposal - the one that needs to get approved so he can afford to renew his visa - and she tosses her hands up in defence.
“Okay, okay! Yeesh. It’s only lunchtime , sorry for asking. I wanted to know if you’re going into the University this afternoon?”
Jared sighs again and sips gratefully - and carefully - at his coffee while Gen flops down on the couch nearest him.
“No, I’m not. At least, I doubt it. I can only assume going to the Embassy to talk about my visa and try and explain about my proposal will involve a lot of waiting in lines and getting nowhere fast.”
Gen winces sympathetically.
“Well, you probably want to shower first considering you look like you just rolled out of bed and into a pool of coffee. I’m just saying!” She defends herself against Jared’s dramatic eye roll. “You want to look somewhat credible, right? Of course you do. Get going, Padalecki. You’re losing daylight here. Take that coffee with you! I’m not sure you’ll make it out alive otherwise.”
Jared groans, resigned, as he gets back up and starts toward the bathroom with his mug in hand.
“Just don’t try to balance it on the edge of bathtub again!” Gen calls after him, laughing, just as he closes the door and shuts out her giggles.
He sighs when he catches his reflection in the mirror. He does look a bit wild - hair everywhere - and he hasn’t shaved in a few days, which coupled with that does make him look maybe a little bit homeless. Not to mention the bags under his eyes - heaven forbid he have the sleeping habits of a normal, healthy person - which definitely don’t help him look any more alive than he feels, though the coffee will help once it kicks in.
He turns on the water to as hot as he can stand it and peels out of his coffee-soaked clothes. He sets his razor inside the shower, inspired by Gen’s words still fresh in his mind, something about looking credible. The small room starts to fill with steam and he sighs again as he slips behind the shower curtain. He’s really not looking forward to going into the Embassy.
---
Kid hitches a ride into the city on the back of a truck otherwise filled with fresh produce. He hadn’t needed to wait too long as he walked away from Jeff’s little village - not because there were plenty of cars (there weren’t) but because the first driver that came by was happy to let him hop in the back. His ‘chauffeur’ is friendly enough and the drive is easy if not a little bumpy, and by the time they reach Mexico City, Kid is tired of the quiet and wants to get out of his own head. The ever-present headache is pounding again as he waves and walks away from his ride, and no matter how hard he tries not to think about who he is, his mind remains fixated on the questions, only to always come up blank. The exercise is emotionally exhausting and makes the pain worse, so walking the streets proves to be a welcome distraction.
Kid notices everything . He’s not sure how he knows it’s not normal but he just… does. He can tell that the people he passes on the street, for one thing, certainly do not see everything he sees. They’re all walking or chatting, focused on their conversation or the next step but there’s so much more that Kid sees. He sees all of them - all the people - each face in his field of view, and he finds himself surmising things about each of them. This woman is in her fifties, she’s worried about her daughters and hasn’t been eating right; this man is 230 pounds and ex-military or an off-duty cop, confident, capable of handling himself; that guy, he’s seen better days, looks a little desperate, maybe a little dangerous, but also frail and absolutely not a threat to Kid, even if he might be a little strung out. Kid could take him easily, even if he doesn’t know why he knows that. It’s unsettling but he can’t seem to turn it off, the way he sees a person and then just knows things.
He’s aware of where he’s come from and the direction he’s going in. He gets directions from a vendor for the Bank of Mexico’s main branch, but as he walks along he notices himself keeping track of alleys and side streets. Exit strategy , his brain supplies. He’s not sure what for. It unnerves him, how perceptive he is, how ready he feels to bolt at any moment, even though he isn’t sure why he should.
It takes him another hour to get to the bank. The back of his t-shirt is sticking to him and the air conditioning is so much cooler so quickly that his skin pebbles up the moment he steps inside. He’s surveying the place before he can give it another thought, noting the exit signs, number of tellers, searching out any threats from the people waiting in line or at the ATMs, and sizing up the quality of the security guards on either side of the inside door.
The woman at the welcome desk smiles at him and he walks over, wiping his sweaty forehead on the back of his left hand.
“¿Podría ver mi caja de seguridad? ¿Por favor?” he asks after his safe deposit box and she continues smiling at him, nodding.
“Claro que s í . ¿ Y el número?” She asks him for the number and he recites it from memory. Upon hearing it, her eyes go wide and she surveys him from head to toe as if she’s a little surprised. She looks apologetic and a little nervous when she speaks again.
“Por supuesto, señor. Por favor, sígueme por aquí.” She gestures for Kid to follow her, so he does. They’re quiet as she leads him past the line of tellers and into the back. They go through a glass door and up a flight of stairs that let out into a large room with a dedicated security desk.
“Por favor, señor, espere un momento aquí.” She leaves him briefly to speak with the security guard who has been eyeing him since the moment they arrived. Eventually the man nods and she waves Kid over.
“Coloque la mano aquí, señor.” The guard directs Kid to place his hand on what looks like a kind of scanner built into his desk. Kid does, and the smooth, dark glass lights up bright blue as it scans his hand. Kid anxiously awaits the moment everything buzzes red and alarms go off; he’s on the edge and ready to put the heel of his other hand into the nose of the guard and run for the stairs but the blue light disappears, a green light blinks next to his hand, and the man nods as he reaches for the keyring locked onto his utility belt.
“Por aquí, señor.”
Kid follows the guard past the security desk and the man leads him to a small curtained room with a table and chair, gesturing for him to sit.
“Me vuelvo en un momento con su caja.”
“Gracias,” he thanks the guard as he leaves to retrieve the safe deposit box. Kid takes his seat. He’s anxious - hopeful - for some answers but there’s a persistent sense of everything being a little off. He can’t remember ever having been here before, like everything else, and it continues to unnerve him.
He doesn’t have to wait long for the man to return and he quickly puts the deposit box on the table, unlocked but unopened.
“Señor,” he nods as he leaves, ensuring the curtain is closed behind him.
Kid holds his breath and his hand trembles almost imperceptibly as he opens the box.
He breathes a shaky sigh of relief as his eyes pour over the contents. The first thing he grabs is an American passport, quickly throwing it open.
“Jensen Ross Ackles.” He tries the name in his mouth, saying the words slowly and quietly. They don’t ring any bells but they still feel good. He has a name. His name is Jensen. His passport says he was born in Dallas, Texas, on the first of March, and he’s thirty-two years old, which is what he’d guessed. He wonders if that’s because he remembers, somewhere deep down, or just because of his intuition.
There’s a pair of glasses as well, though as he tries them on he’s not sure what they’re for because his vision seems to be just fine. There’s some paperwork, too, airplane tickets, travel insurance, credit cards - all under his name - a watch that he immediately slides onto his left wrist, and a Swiss army knife that he tucks into his back pocket. When he leafs through some of the papers, he finds a lease for a Jeep with an address for him in Austin.
“So I live in Texas still,” he muses, trying to imagine it past the flaring ache behind his eyes. He sighs and wonders what brought him to the Gulf just as he notices that the items he’s looking at are seated in a tray. There could be more underneath. He instinctively knows how to unlatch the tray but almost drops it when he sees what it was hiding.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath and steadies the box on the table, placing the tray next to it. The bottom compartment is filled with stacks of American cash, half a dozen passports, and a handgun. A gun . Jensen is shaking all over now. He throws a glance over his shoulder even though he knows the curtain is closed, and listens a moment for movement or footsteps on the other side. He hears nothing and turns his attention back to the newly revealed contents, reaching out an unsteady hand for the passports.
Canada, Germany, Mexico, Italy, Spain, Russia - all with his picture but with different names. Jensen’s heart is thudding hard in his chest as he tries to understand what this means. He can’t - he can’t possibly be all these people. How- why- is he… He swallows thickly. He’s not sure there can be a good reason for this and he’s suddenly not sure he wants to know. He makes himself take a deep breath and scans the tiny room. There’s a cloth bag lining the waste basket. He takes it out and stuffs the money and his American passport inside. He replaces the tray, fighting his shaky hands, hiding the gun and extra passports underneath like before. He closes the box and turns, pausing at the curtain, trying to listen over the sound of his own blood pumping furiously in his ears, then takes another deep breath and slips out, putting on a calm, easy expression. He walks with purpose towards the exit, and somehow he knows it’s just the right speed, the right set to his shoulders and hips to look casual and inconspicuous.
As he passes the security desk, the bag of his belongings held firmly in his hand, Jensen shares a smile and nod with the guard, and he thinks he’s made it past the worst of it as he heads back down the stairs.
He doesn’t see the guard reach for his personal cell phone after he’s out of sight.
---
Jensen is relieved the moment he steps out of the bank, but his body remains tense. He feels like he’s on high alert. If he thought he was paying attention before, it hardly compares to the way his eyes keep scanning the crowd now.
He continues to walk as if he has a purpose though he hasn’t figured out exactly what his plan is. His lead is Austin, so that’s where he’s got to go, but that’s a two-day drive, so he’s got to get a car, or… he still doesn’t know the why of it but he has a strong inclination not to draw attention to himself if he can avoid it. The gun and passports in his safe deposit box have his mind going a million miles a minute with possibilities and most of them are, frankly, frightening. He’s only just started to try to push those thoughts aside in favour of finding a place to lay low a minute, maybe eat something and hash out specifics, when he sees them.
There are two cops standing on different street corners peering at him over the crowd. He turns his head to look at the stall of a street vendor for a moment, pretending to pour over a map, while keeping his focus on the cops. They’re speaking to each other without words, tilting their heads in his direction and nodding. Jensen can see a third approaching from another street. He’s not sure what he’s done to warrant the attention, but it’s just another thing he’s not entirely keen to learn at this point. All he knows is that the way they’re trying to sneak up on him - though poorly executed - does not bode well.
He takes off in the direction leading away from the policemen, looking forward over the heads of the crowd to side streets and all his options for escape. He hasn’t moved more than maybe twenty feet when in the distance on his right he sees the American flag proudly swaying in the light breeze over the door of an impressive stone building; it’s the consulate. It wasn’t his first thought when he imagined a place to lay low, but it’ll definitely do the trick, at least right now.
Keeping an eye on the cops that are trying to catch up with him through the crowd without making a scene, Jensen makes his way to the Embassy, digging his passport out of his bag as he goes. Getting there is difficult due to the sheer volume of people and the traffic on the streets; the cops are closing in because their uniforms make people give way much more readily than his indistinct t-shirt and shorts. As he reaches the door, his passport held up, the Marine nods and ushers him in, and not a moment too soon. Standing inside the air conditioned lobby of the Embassy, Jensen turns to look through the glass door as the three cops nearly collide on the other side of it. Jensen notices the way the Marine’s eyebrows go up when he looks between them but Jensen just shrugs and looks confused as he moves further into the Embassy.
He can take his time now that there’s no one on his tail, so he does. He stands off in the corner, his bag still clasped fiercely in hand, and surveys the room while making a show of fiddling with his watch. There doesn’t seem to be much out of the ordinary - people in lineups waiting, people talking to tellers, Marines at doorways and flags here and there. He figures he’s got some time to kill, out-waiting the cops outside, so he might as well get in line, too. Hell, maybe he can even ask the teller about his passport, check when he came into the country last.
He gets in line and passes the time watching people, making assessments, until his eyes drift to a guy talking animatedly with a teller off to Jensen’s right. He’s young, maybe 28, tall - taller than Jensen by at least a few inches - and his longish hair is smooth and looks soft; he keeps tucking it back - a nervous tick - without seeming to notice how often he’s pushing one of his hands through it. Jensen’s eyes land on his mouth and his lips are a wet, bitten pink like he’s been worrying them between his teeth, and just as he thinks it might be odd that he notices that, Jensen feels something stir low in his gut, hot and- oh. Well. He clears his throat and shifts a little, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to get a grip. He forces his body under control even as he lets his eyes fall down the long line of the guy’s body, which is- well, he’s fit, anyway. Jensen can tell the guy is strong by the curves of the muscles in his arms and calves. He’s sockless in his worn leather boat shoes, wearing khaki shorts and a pressed, short sleeve, plaid button-down. There’s paperwork in the hand that isn’t near-constantly in his own hair and his expression tells Jensen that his patience has run out and maybe so has his luck. He looks tired, a little desperate, maybe dejected. He’s far enough away that Jensen can only hear the occasional word over the din of the people in the room; there’s talk of money and visas and a proposal, but not enough for Jensen to put together a detailed story. He tunes out the voices then and shamelessly lets his eyes linger on the curve of the guy’s ass and- if there was any doubt... he chuckles to himself under his breath and shifts again on the spot. He finally tears his eyes away from Pretty Boy so his body will behave better and not two seconds later he’s cursing himself for entertaining the distraction.
There’s a mirror on the far wall and out of the corner of his eye Jensen can see a Mexican cop talking to one of the Marines, some papers in his hand as he nods in Jensen’s direction.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Jensen takes a deep breath and casually steps out of line, moving away from the doors and toward a hallway leading further into the Embassy. He knows he hasn’t got much time before they catch up.
The crowd thins as he gets further away from the public area and approaches some metal detectors and another guard. The guard watches him as he steps through the security arch and nods when the machine beeps favourably. Jensen is just about to step away when two Marines push through the crowd and into the hallway, gesturing to the guard next to him and pointing.
The nearest guard shares a wide-eyed look with him for half a beat and then his hand falls to the gun at his hip and Jensen is moving before he has even a chance to second-guess. He reaches for the gun with one hand and throws the elbow of his other arm up and into the guard’s face. The guard recoils and Jensen - he has the gun now - flicks off the safety like he knows what he’s doing, and then drops the butt of it down swiftly into the guard’s temple. The man crumples to the floor and Jensen fires two warning shots at the feet of the Marines coming after him before taking off. He can hear people scream as the shots echo and all Hell is officially breaking loose as he turns the next closest corner.
He doesn’t even feel like he’s thinking right now, more like he’s moving on autopilot. He rips a fire route escape plan off the wall as he passes it and moves calmly while people run past him, exiting offices and clearly starting an evacuation. He’s studying the map as he walks and looks up just as a guard steps in front of him; they almost collide. The guys blinks and Jensen is grabbing his head and bringing his knee up before the guy even has a chance. Jensen lets him drop to the floor and squats next to him, stealing his radio and its earpiece. He juggles the map, gun, and his bag as he puts the earbud in and clips the radio onto the back of his pants. He ducks into the stairwell just ahead of him and pauses behind the closed door, listening through it and to the voices giving directions over the radio.
He finds their positions on his makeshift map and darts up the stairs looking for the first unguarded door. They’re moving fast and he’s got to stay one step ahead of them at least. His only option at this point is the roof.
He manages to get there without being seen but it’s only a matter of time before they’ll hit the roof, too. He tosses the map and the gun down into the alley behind the building so they land in the dumpster below and scans the nearby buildings. They’re too far for him to jump to. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he’s willing to trust his gut and not give it a go. He looks down; it must be five stories up. If he gave himself time to think about it that might make his stomach flutter, but instead he notices how the stones that make up the building’s facade are large and cut deep. There’s more than enough room for his hands and feet.
He puts the bag with his money and passport in his teeth and sits on the edge of the roof, wasting no time supporting himself with both hands, turning around and easing himself down until his feet find the first ledge. He settles into the position before moving to the right and down to the next ledge, when he hears the door on the roof open. He stills and listens to the shuffle of bodies.
There’s hushed voices as the guards must take in the sight of the empty roof. Jensen looks up and sees the toe of a boot just peeking over the edge and he knows they’re checking the other roofs that they can see. He doesn’t have to wait them out long. They’re only up there maybe thirty seconds before someone gives the order to go back inside and they disappear.
Jensen breathes a sigh of relief around the canvas bag stuck in his mouth and returns his focus to getting back on the ground. The wall he’s scaling is at the back of building and he’s fortunate - no foot traffic in the alley means he gets all the way down without being seen.
Once he’s got both feet on the ground again, he flexes his hands and dusts them off on his shorts, then takes his bag and starts for the main road. He’s got to get to Austin and he’s got to do it quietly. Public transit is going to be near impossible. He huffs out a breath in frustration as he realizes it. His options are few and far between; he might have to steal a car or -
Jensen stops. He’s rounded the corner and, standing not ten feet in front of him is Pretty Boy. He’s got one hand on the roof of what Jensen assumes is his red Ford Fiesta - how he fits in that thing Jensen is not entirely sure - and he’s talking on his cell phone looking exasperated.
“I know, Gen, but they can’t get blood from a stone, you know? I just need a few more months. I’m so close and - ” he pauses as whoever he’s talking to must be giving him an earful. He looks positively defeated. Jensen is fighting the distraction of the guy’s sad looking eyes when those same eyes suddenly flash up and meet his. Jensen lets himself look as sheepish as he feels getting caught staring and, giving Pretty Boy a tentative, shy smile, he waves his fingers like an idiot.
He notices how Pretty Boy’s eyes go wide and then sweep over him, down and up again lightning quick. His cheeks turn a little pink and then he’s stuttering into his phone again.
“Gen - I g-gotta go. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up the call and blinks at Jensen a few times, his phone in one hand and both of them helping brace him against his car now.
“Hi?” Pretty Boy manages to get out but it’s rough so he has to clear his throat. Suddenly, Jensen realizes this is a near-sure shot. Of all the people in all the world to bump into when he needs to beg for a ride, he finds this guy, who not only could use some of the money Jensen’s got in his bag, but also very clearly swings Jensen’s way. This will be his ticket out of Mexico and it’s going to be so much easier than he thought it would be.
“Hi,” Jensen smiles genuinely, taking a step towards Pretty Boy as he does. “Look, I don’t mean to be some kind of eavesdropping creep but - I heard you, back in the Embassy? And I think… I think we could help each other.”
Pretty Boy keeps blinking at him, that pink in his cheeks deepening a little more, and Jensen feels that echo in his gut again. For a split second it occurs to him that maybe this is a bad idea, but he doesn’t exactly have a lot of choices, and then Pretty Boy is finally talking.
“Help each other? How do you mean?” He looks wary but also intrigued.
“You could use some money, right?” Jensen ventures, and while Pretty Boy narrows his eyes, Jensen can tell that he’s hit the nail right on the head. “I’ve - well, I’ve got money. What I need is a ride.”
“A ride?” Pretty Boy echos, still looking skeptical.
“Yeah. To Austin.” Jensen offers and Pretty Boy starts, then lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“As in Texas ? That’s a two-day drive from here!” he exclaims.
“I know. I know it is,” Jensen says, and when he continues he makes a little of his own desperation evident in his voice, sincere. “I know it’s far. Seriously though. I will pay you.”
He tosses a stack of bills from his bag before Pretty Boy can say anything else and he barely catches it, fumbling it in his hands before he can look it over, and when he looks back at Jensen his eyes are giant.
“This - this is - ”
“Ten-thousand. Yeah. And I’ll give you another ten when we get to Austin. I’m good for it, I swear. Please.”
Pretty Boy stares at him like he’s out of his mind but can’t keep dropping his eyes to the money in his hands and Jensen can tell he’s considering it.
The sound of a police siren getting closer reaches Jensen’s ears and he turns away from the end of the road that meets the main street, bringing his arm up to run through his hair as he hides his face. There’s a long moment of silence and when he looks back at Pretty Boy from under his arm he knows he saw.
Pretty Boy is looking at him and then back in the direction of the siren, and then back to the money in his hands. He takes a final long look at Jensen like he’s trying to decide how likely it is that Jensen is armed, if he looks too dangerous for him to handle. Pretty Boy may be big and built but Jensen knows he’s no threat to him. He tries to appear small and non-threatening as Pretty Boy keeps looking him over, biting at his lip.
“I won’t give you any trouble, I swear. I just - I really… I need to get home,” Jensen’s voice is almost a whisper at the end and as he says it he’s almost surprised at how desperately he really means it. He’s completely lost and it’s the only place he has to go.
Finally, Pretty Boy sighs.
“I’m Jared,” he says, resigned, and offers his hand. Jensen takes it and doesn’t even try to school the grin that spreads across his face in relief.
“Jensen,” he says as he enthusiastically shakes Jared’s hand. He wishes he wasn’t paying so much attention, given the subtle heat Jensen feels ripple through him at the touch, but it’s not surprising the way he notices the details, just like with everything else. It’s big - Jared’s hand - bigger than his, and softer than his, too, for the most part. Jensen’s hands are rough - he has some scary notions as to why, after the last few hours - but he can feel the calluses where Jared presses too hard against his pen and can tell that for all the muscle he’s sporting the man whose hand is in his is more of an academic than anything. He refuses to let himself think about Jared’s hands after this moment.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Jensen offers instead as they let go and he moves toward the passenger side of the little hatchback.
Jared huffs out a small laugh as he opens his door and pauses with one foot in the car to look over it at Jensen.
“I’m pretty sure I’m going to regret this but I really need this money so thank you , I guess. Let’s just - let’s get going, okay?”
Jared seems to mean it when he says thanks, but Jensen’s stomach twists at how unsure he sounds by the time he’s done talking. It’s definitely a bit wild, picking up a complete stranger like this, but Jensen doesn’t want people to look at him like Jared did just then, with that echo of fear in their eyes.
Jensen just nods and quietly gets into the car. The whole frame dips loudly under the weight of both of them and Jensen notes that there’s barely an inch of room between the top of Jared’s head and the car’s roof and he can’t help but smirk a little to himself at how absurd it is that this giant drives this thing; he practically makes it look like a clown car.
Jensen watches as Jared pauses with his hand on the key in the ignition. He can almost hear Jared thinking, giving himself the this is it, last chance talk before he finally sighs again and turns on the vehicle. Jensen doesn’t say a word as they drive away.
| Masterpost | Part Two |