Jared and the Undead Bartender 2/5
J2 RPS AU
NC-17
Part 2 of 5
Master post
Art
Jared tries and fails to gets out of work early the Friday before Memorial Day. It's still light when he finally makes his escape, but he goes over to Abigail's anyway. After the second movie night Jensen suggested Jared just buzz the apartment from the sidewalk, rather than go through the bar, so Jared tries that. No answer. He knocks on the door of the bar. No answer to that either. He calls Jensen's cell.
“Hey,” Jensen says, answering after the third ring. “What's up?”
“I'm outside,” Jared says. “Are you home?”
“I'm baking. Give me a sec.” He hangs up. Jared stands on the sidewalk, staring at his phone, until he hears a click and a creak as the door to Abigail's opens a crack. He pushes it farther open and goes in.
The bar is dark but he can just see Jensen walking past the tables in back towards the kitchen. Jared shuts the door behind him, tries to lock it, and follows.
The kitchen is brightly lit but small, and there's a mound of dough sitting on a flour-dusted stainless-steel table.
“It has to rise a second time,” Jensen explains, “and then I can bake it. There's already one in the oven. Memorial Day weekend isn't big business but I figured I'd make sandwich bread anyway. You can take some to Misha and Vicky's party. Stand over there.” He gestures with his elbow and Jared moves out of the way. Jensen puts the pile of dough in a bowl, covers it with a towel, and sets a timer. He peeks in one of the ovens.
“Is this what you've been doing all day?” Jared asks. “Baking bread?”
“Not all day. I don't have to sit here and watch it rise, if that's what you're asking. I took inventory, did some ordering, cleaned my apartment. Watered the pepper. Oh, that reminds me, I have something to test on you. Come upstairs for a minute.”
They leave the bread, get a shot glass from behind the bar, and head up to Jensen's apartment, where he retrieves a bottle of Stoli with a bunch of pieces of hot peppers sitting in the bottom. There are little seeds floating in the liquor. Jensen pours Jared a shot, careful not to get any seeds in it, and hands him the glass. “Carolina reaper infused vodka. I need a guinea pig.”
“Um,” Jared says. He's been curious about the peppers ever since Jensen told him what they were called, but he also can't forget the detail that eating one might send him to the hospital.
“I just want to know if it's steeped enough.”
Jared sniffs the glass, then figures What the hell and tosses it back.
At first all he can taste is vodka. It's not his drink so he doesn't know much about it, but he's pretty sure Stoli isn't the best quality stuff Jensen could have used. Then the hot pepper hits him. The burn is almost oily. It feels as if his lips and tongue and throat are blistering with heat.
“Milk,” he gasps. Jensen looks delighted. “It's not funny, I'm dying.”
“That means it's good. We have to go back downstairs.” He takes the bottle as Jared hustles them both down the stairs to the bar's kitchen, where Jensen obligingly pours a glass of milk. He's almost insufferably pleased with himself. He writes “Carolina reaper vodka” on the back of the bottle with a Sharpie and sticks it under the counter behind the bar.
“My bread should be almost ready, too,” he says. He grabs an oven mitt, opens the oven door, and pulls out a loaf pan. He puts his ear to the bread and knocks on the top of it. “Come smell,” he says to Jared, holding out the pan. Jared sniffs gingerly. After the vodka he's not sure he trusts Jensen with food. But the bread just smells like bread.
Jensen turns off the oven and puts the pan on the stovetop. He runs a knife around the inside and then turns the bread out onto the table. “This is how you know it's done,” he tells Jared, picking it up upside-down and knocking on the bottom. “Listen.” He holds out the loaf so Jared can listen to bread, and when he knocks on it again, it sounds vaguely hollow.
“Huh.”
“After a while you just know when it's ready, but I still had to listen to it from time to time. I learned to bake in a wood-fired oven, and the temperature wasn't always easy to control, so I had to keep checking the loaves.”
“Is that all you made? Just bread?”
“Bread, rolls, sometimes pies. But yeah, mostly bread. I was pretty good at it.”
“I can't believe you used to be a baker.”
Jensen shrugs. He finds a cooling rack for his new loaf and puts the now-empty pan on the counter next to the sink.
“We still have a couple of hours until the next loaf is ready to go in. I convinced Danny to work Memorial Day - you'll be surprised but I thought Misha's barbecue might be later, and maybe I'd go - wipe that smirk off your face, I said maybe.”
Jared can feel his lips pulling into a grin of their own accord. He knows he's the reason Jensen finally hired someone to help out at the bar so he can take some nights off, and Jared isn't at all surprised that Jensen is now admitting to thinking about maybe leaving the building to attend one of Misha and Vicky's parties. Misha said Jared was a good influence, and Misha's pretty observant.
“He said it would break up by seven, but I'd already asked Danny to cover,” Jensen is saying. “I have the whole weekend behind the bar, but come over after his thing on Monday and we'll hang out. I found some obscure European vampire movies, if you're feeling pretentious.”
“With subtitles?”
“With subtitles. You want something to eat? I may as well make you something, since we're in the kitchen already.”
Jared isn't that hungry, although he wants to try the bread. Jensen cuts him a couple of slices and spreads honey on them, before turning on some of the lights in the bar so they can sit at one of the tables in the back until either the rising bread is ready to go in the oven or it's time to open the bar, whichever comes first. Jared talks about his job and his family (his sister is working on her PhD, his brother and sister-in-law are working on a fixer-upper), Jensen talks about the bar and his experiments with mouth-melting pepper vodka. They talk about dogs and the weather and food and movies, and Jensen tells Jared the history of the swan boats in the Public Garden, and about the wooden cod hanging in the State House.
“It's the Sacred Cod,” he explains. “Because so much of the area's early economy was built around cod. I even have a book about it.”
“A book about cod?” Jared asks, dubious. How is a history of fish exciting? But that might explain the fish print in Jensen's living room.
“It's more interesting than it sounds. You can borrow it if you want.”
Jared feels like he and Jensen have known each other their entire lives. It's pretty much everything he could have wanted from a friendship, if he'd ever bothered to think out what exactly that was.
Eventually it's time to open the bar. Jared stays for dinner and a beer and helps Jensen with the crossword puzzle. They continue their conversations. Patrons dribble in. Jensen manages to sell a guy on the Carolina reaper vodka, and at Jared's suggestion brings over a glass of milk to go with the shot. The guy chokes, his eyes water, his friend pounds him on the back, and he eventually pronounces the vodka “Killer”.
“Literally,” Jared adds.
Jensen writes “Today's special: Wicked Awesome Carolina Reaper Vodka” on the blackboard behind the bar, where he usually writes the day's tap offerings. He adds “$5 until it's gone”, and the price and customer curiosity combine to empty the bottle before Jared goes home.
To be fair, Jared doesn't go home for a couple of hours, and Jensen is a good salesman.
Jared has been told - twice - not to bring anything to Misha and Vicky's Memorial Day party except maybe a nice bottle of wine, so he shows up at their apartment with what his roommate reassured him is a good bottle of white. Jared doesn't know much about wine, but his roommate is a connoisseur of American wines and can be counted on to give good advice. Vicky thanks Jared with a kiss on the cheek and takes the bottle away to stick in the fridge until they're ready to serve it.
Misha and Vicky live on the garden floor of a brownstone, which gives them access to the tiny back yard, which means the food is all outside with as many guests as will fit. Misha schmoozes from the grill. Vicky wanders around making sure everyone's plates and glasses are full. Misha leaves the grill in the care of one of his non-profit friends and follows suit. He practically corners Jared to talk about his plans, which now include several grants, a bare-bones web site, and an actual timetable.
“Sorry, I'm pestering you,” he finally says. “I'm very excited about it but I promised Vicky I wouldn't be a pest today.” He takes Jared's bottle, which is empty, and leads him over to the food and the big tin bucket of beer and soda on ice. Misha drops the bottle in the recycling bin under the table, offers Jared some cookies, and changes the subject. “I read about a chile farmer in New Mexico who's trying to breed the hottest peppers in existence, hotter even than Jensen's beloved reapers. I might suggest you mention it to him. Get him out of the city. If anyone can make that man take a vacation, it's you.”
Jared isn't so sure. He bites into one of the cookies, which crumbles into nothing all over his shirt. Misha stifles a laugh. Jared brushes himself clean and tries a second cookie, eating it carefully to make sure it feeds him and not his clothes.
“What makes you think I'll be able to get him to leave the bar for more than five hours?” he asks.
“He never even considered hiring some help until he met you. Trust me. I know these things.” Misha winks.
“Where in New Mexico?”
“South of Albuquerque. Her place is called Aurora Glory Farm. I'll send you the article. You can even tell him it was my idea.” He looks proud of himself for suggesting it, and talks as if Jared has already brought it up and Jensen has already said yes.
“Misha!” someone cries, walking over. She has a full glass of white wine in her hand and a silk daisy pinned in her blonde hair. “Are you matchmaking again?”
“Pestering. Have you met Jared? Jared, this is Brianna. We used to work together, until she gave up the life for the private sector.” He gives her a mock glare. She just laughs.
“My husband's a fundraiser for children's charities,” she explains. “Someone had to get a job that pays a living wage. It's not an evil place, Misha. I work for a placement agency,” she tells Jared. “I do outreach and deal with all the job fairs. We works mainly with women who have been out of the workforce for a while - some of them are newly divorced, or their partners have been out of work for a long time, or finances just took a dive - they need help finding decent employment. We run training programs and we have a division specifically to help low-income women. We're for-profit but we're not the Evil Empire.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I like it. I'm still helping people who need it, I just get paid better. I like being the breadwinner of the household.” Another sip. She looks Jared up and down. “What do you do? How do you know Misha?”
“He walked into a bar,” Misha says, grinning.
“I wanted a beer,” Jared tells Brianna. “He was there helping the bartender with the crossword puzzle.” He takes another cookie. “I'm the IT department for the local office of a big accounting firm. We're also not the Evil Empire.”
“He doesn't love it,” Misha adds.
“I don't hate it either. It's pretty good money. Sometimes it's frustrating, but what job isn't?” Misha is looking at him consideringly. “What?”
“Have you considered self-employment? I know, I know, you want to stay in your job for a year, but there's something to be said for being your own boss.”
Jared hasn't in fact considered that. Sometimes he wonders if he's disciplined enough to go freelance, or to set up his own business for himself. He's always had an impulsive streak - he applied for the job in Boston on impulse, he took it on impulse, he stopped at Abigail's on impulse, he even went out with his now-ex and planned to move in with the guy without really thinking through either thing. If he'd really thought through moving to Boston, if he'd put more time into weighing all the pros and cons as he knew them at the time, he might never have done it. He might still be in Durham, or he could have gone back to San Antonio, and he might have a job he can honestly say he enjoys, with friends and maybe even a new boyfriend.
But if he stayed in Durham he might still be running into his ex, because they shared a lot of friends and neither of them would have dropped all those friends after the breakup. Jared could have been invited to a fun Memorial Day barbecue that could have been ruined by the appearance of his ex and the boy his ex left him for.
And if he hadn't moved up here he wouldn't have met Jensen, or Misha.
There's no way to know which path would be right for him. He is where he is, and he thinks he's made the best of it. But maybe he can make it better.
“What's the pepper farm called again?” he asks Misha.
“Aurora Glory Farm. The peppers are called Socorro devils. Sounds ominous, doesn't it? The article claims that right now they're almost as hot as the reapers.”
An idea forms in Jared's head. He has some research to do. “I'll ask him if he's heard of them,” he tells Misha. “Send me the article.”
Misha looks pleased. Brianna tells Jared that it was nice to meet him, and wanders off towards a clump of people having what looks like a very spirited discussion.
The conversation changes to other things - current politics, social events, Jensen and the bar and other guests at the barbecue - and when the party starts to wind down, Jared thanks Misha and Vicky, tentatively accepts a very premature invitation to their July Fourth barbecue, complete with morning trek to the old State House to listen to the Declaration of Independence being read, and walks over to Abigail's. He's had a few beers and wants to walk off the buzz.
The sun hasn't even started to think about setting, but Jensen told him to come over whenever Misha and Vicky's party ended, and to ring the bell for his apartment, rather than trying to get into the bar. So Jared buzzes the apartment, waits for the click of the building door unlocking, and goes upstairs.
“How was it?” Jensen asks, as he opens the door. “Wait, don't step on that.” He points down, to where Jared has almost stepped on an envelope that someone must have pushed under the door. He bends over to rescue it from Jared's shoe.
“Who delivers mail that way?” Jared asks. Jensen ushers him in, shuts the door, and rips the envelope open. He pulls out a piece of notepaper and a check.
“It's rent.”
“Rent?”
“One of my tenants.” Jensen waves vaguely. “I own the building.”
“You own the building? How do you own the building?”
“How do most people own buildings? I bought it.” He stuffs the note and the check back into the envelope and puts that in a folder on his tiny desk. “Come in. Sit down. You want something? I got popcorn for the movies and found a cider I think you'll like. You didn't tell me how the party was.”
“Misha and Vicky both asked where you were and why you didn't come with me. When did you buy the building? How did you buy the building?” Jared doesn't know anything about Boston real estate, but he can guess that an apartment building in Beacon Hill, with a shop or a bar or a restaurant on the first floor, would cost more money than a single person could conceivably have, unless that person was stupendously wealthy. Jensen has never given off any kind of affluent vibe.
“Good investments. You really want to talk about my financial situation?” Jared remembers his manners and that it's none of his business. He shakes his head. “Me either. The cider is Far from the Tree. It's in Salem. This one is pineapple and jalapeno.”
“Sounds good. I ate a lot at the party.”
“Which means you're not hungry now, but you will be in about two hours.” Jensen grins and vanishes into the kitchen to get the cider. Jared takes his shoes off, wiggles his toes, and puts his shoes back on. It's nice and cool in Jensen's apartment. It's always cool in Jensen's apartment, but today was kind of hot and Jared spent it all outside, so the temperature feels good. The shades are drawn, which he finds a little weird, but Jensen always has the shades pulled unless it's dark out, and Jared has never cared enough to ask why.
Jensen returns with a thermos and the cider, which is cold and sweet with a hint of jalapeno, and Jared tells him about the party and the people he met and the pepper farmer Misha mentioned.
“I read about a guy in Wales,” Jensen says, “but I didn't know there was anyone in the States trying to breed superhots.”
“Misha said she's south of Albuquerque. He was going to send me the article.”
“I'll bug him. If someone's growing something hotter than a reaper, I want to try it.”
This is encouraging, because the idea Jared had at the party is to visit New Mexico. Jensen will meet the pepper farmer, Jared will get out of town. They'll eat Mexican food hopefully made by actual Mexicans, they'll drive around the desert, they'll take a side trip to Tucson to see Chad. Jared just needs to plan it out before he mentions it, so he's prepared with responses in case Jensen says no.
“What do you think about a movie?” Jensen says, interrupting Jared's thoughts. “Iranian vampires this time. I thought it was better than a pretentious European film.”
“Sounds good. I'll make the popcorn.”
Jensen laughs. “You said you weren't hungry.”
“You don't have to be hungry to eat popcorn. What's in the thermos?”
“Carolina reaper vodka. I think this batch is stronger than the first one. Would you like to try it?” He holds out the thermos, grinning.
“Hell no.”
Jensen laughs.
The movie is a mashup of western, horror, and noir, with a skateboarding Iranian vampire and more style than substance. Jared likes that the vampire is a woman seeking revenge on men who've treated other women badly, but in general he prefers his movies with more of a plot. But this is the price he pays for letting Jensen teach him about vampire films - some he's going to like more than others.
He has another cider while they talk about it - Jensen likes the atmosphere and agrees that a female vamp with a skateboard and a chador is a good twist - and realizes he might actually be hungry again.
“There's something I want to tell you,” Jensen says, before Jared can bring up food. He sounds nervous.
“What? Is something wrong?”
“No.” He takes Jared's hand and slaps it against the side of his neck under his jawline. His skin is cool. Jared can't feel a pulse.
“I don't get it,” Jared says. “You have a very faint pulse?”
“I don't have a pulse.”
Jared is either very stupid or drunk again, because he can't figure out what Jensen is trying to tell him.
“This is harder than I thought,” Jensen mutters. “Maybe I'm not buzzed enough.” He lets Jared's hand fall. “I'm a vampire.”
Jared snorts a laugh, surprised. “You are not.”
“Yes. I am.”
“Prove it.”
“I'm not going to bite you.”
Jared shrugs, hands out and palms up. “Then how am I supposed to believe you?”
Jensen smiles at him, slowly, and Jared watches in disbelief as Jensen's canines elongate and sharpen. Jensen's expression takes on an inhuman, feral cast. It would be a subtly creepy effect in any of the movies he's made Jared watch, but this is real, not CGI, and Jared has to believe it.
“Shit,” he says. He realizes he's sliding away from Jensen, as far as the couch will let him, and tries to make himself relax. “You're not going to bite me now, are you?”
Jensen closes his mouth and shakes his head briefly, and the effect is gone. He looks like himself again. He looks human. “I just said I wouldn't. If I wanted to bite you, I would have done it by now.”
Jared takes a deep breath and lets himself be reassured. “Who else knows? Does Misha?”
“I haven't decided whether or not to tell him. If he knows, he'll tell Vicky, and I don't think I trust either of them to keep their mouths shut.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“It's a lonely secret to keep and I was tired of keeping it. You're my friend. I trust you.”
“So that painting of you and Abigail in your apartment, the one where you look like an extra in a movie about Queen Victoria, that's not you playing dress-up?”
“Nope. That's me a hundred and thirty years ago.”
“Shit.”
Jensen looks concerned. “Are you going to freak out? I shouldn't have told you.”
“No, I'm glad you did.” Jared answers without thinking, but he is glad. Now that he isn't so taken by surprise and can think about it, he's not afraid of Jensen - he's known the guy long enough to know that he's harmless, and besides, as Jensen said, he's had several opportunities to bite Jared, and hasn't taken any of them.
A lot of things make sense now - Jensen's love of vampire movies, all the vampire books on his shelves, his absolute refusal to go anywhere or do anything outside of the bar during daylight hours, the way he never eats.
“What's all the hot sauce for?”
“What?” Jensen asks.
“Do you put it on your - wait, how often do you have to, uh, feed? Where do you get blood from?”
“I can't really taste anything anymore. I can eat real food, but it doesn't do anything for me and it tastes like nothing. It's like eating dust. But the really hot peppers, I can taste those. Likewise the kind of kimchi that will burn a hole in the container. So sometimes I'll put that on my - on my dinner.”
Jared chuckles at how circumspect Jensen is about what he needs to eat. “But where do you get it from? Your 'dinner'.”
“Blood banks.”
“Blood banks?” He knows he looks appalled. He is appalled. “People need that!”
“I know. I try to take really common blood types, or anything they have a lot of. I have a contact. Sometimes I'll get it from a butcher. Cow's blood isn't as good, but it does the trick.” He tilts his head. “You're not grossed out?”
Jared shrugs. “I don't know. I mean, I am grossed out, but I'm also really curious. I've never met one of the undead. Are there more of you?”
“I don't know. I don't think so. I've never met another one.”
“Huh. Can you go into churches? Does holy water really repel you? What about garlic? Or silver?” The picture frame on the nightstand in Jensen's bedroom looks like silver.
“I haven't tried to walk inside a church in centuries, so I don't know what holy water does. Garlic powder's okay - it itches if I spill it on myself - garlic cloves aren't. You already know I never go outside when the sun's up. Silver hurts like a burn, but it won't kill me. Crosses are a little bit like vampire repellant, but I haven't tried to touch one so I don't know if they'll hurt me too.”
“How old are you? Is that a rude question?”
“Well, I just told you I'm undead, so no. I'm old. I was born - do you really want to know?”
“Yeah. I really want to know.”
“1752.”
Jared blinks. Jensen is older than the country.
“Shit.”
“You said you weren't going to freak out.”
“I'm not. That means you were around for the Revolutionary War. Did you know Paul Revere? What about the real Sam Adams? Or John Adams? Ben Franklin? Alexander Hamilton? Did you know the real Alexander Hamilton?”
Jensen laughs at the sudden eagerness in Jared's voice. “I knew of Paul Revere. Samuel Adams was a rabble-rouser. His beer was pretty good, though. I got in a fight once, in a bar - everyone had been drinking, politics were tense, tensions were high - and I punched this guy in the face. It was an accident, sort of. I was aiming for someone else. Come to find out, literally centuries later, that was Alexander Hamilton.”
“You hit Hamilton in the face?” Jared repeats, incredulous. “Holy shit. That's so cool!”
Jensen laughs again, startled by Jared's reaction, and says “That's not the response I was expecting.”
“You were there! You were part of history! You have to talk to my mom. I told you she teaches high school, right? She teaches American history!” He can't believe this. He has an actual witness to actual historical events sitting right next to him. This is by far the most exciting thing that has ever happened to him, up to and including the time he ran into Emmitt Smith in a grocery store.
“I can't talk to your mom! You can't tell anyone.”
“You said it was a lonely secret and you were tired of keeping it. So don't keep it!”
“Jared, you're the only person I've told in over two hundred years, and that's because I want to think I know you well enough to trust you. What makes you think I want total strangers to know?”
“She's not a total stranger, she's my mom. Think of all the history you could set straight.”
“I wasn't a witness to most of it. I carried a musket in defense of the colonies, just like a lot of people, but I didn't know anyone famous, I didn't dump tea in the harbor, most of the time I baked my bread and kept to myself.”
“You got in a bar fight and punched Alexander Hamilton in the face.” That's too good of a story to not tell. It almost doesn't even matter that it was Hamilton and not someone else. Jensen punched one of the Sons of Liberty in a bar brawl. The Sons of Liberty got involved in bar brawls. They were real people with normal human emotions, and they did the kinds of stupid things excited people do. They weren't just figureheads for a revolution. They weren't just names in a history book, or even characters in a musical. They were real.
“That was one time,” Jensen says. “Don't tell anyone. Please. I don't want people showing up at my bar wanting to ask me a million questions about shit I didn't see or do.”
“But - “
“No buts. It's a secret. I don't want people throwing holy water on me either, or hounding me out of the city for being a bloodsucker. I want to run my bar and serve people drinks and live a quiet life like anyone else.”
Jared sighs. His mother would be so excited to talk history with someone who knew it as well as Jensen must. But he gets it, he does. It's a big deal, admitting to someone that you're a vampire, that you're two hundred and sixty years old, that you survive by drinking blood. It's not the kind of thing you tell everyone, not if it's really true. Besides, even if Jared did tell his mom that his best friend was born in Boston in 1752 and was around for the Declaration of Independence and the Revolutionary War - that he got in a fight with Alexander Hamilton - there's no guarantee she'd believe him.
“Don't tell your mom,” Jensen repeats. “Or Chad. Don't tell Chad either.”
“I won't.”
“Get another drink and I'll tell you how it happened.”
Jared pushes himself off the couch and goes into the kitchen to do just that. Jensen has started buying soda for him, so Jared takes out a Coke out of the fridge and contemplates the containers of kimchi and the bottle of hot sauce labeled “Lucifer's Tears” with a new appreciation.
He can also appreciate that Jensen doesn't keep his bloodbags in the fridge.
“You don't have to tell me how it happened,” he says, walking back into the living room and sitting on the couch.
“I want to. I've already told you the big secret, I may as well tell you the small ones.”
“Wait. The little portrait in your bedroom, that you said was your wife, was she your wife back then? Is she also undead?”
“No, she's... dead-dead. She had a cousin who lived in the Commons Settlement, which you might know as Dogtown - it's protected land now, no one lives there, but it used to have farms and cottages and regular inhabitants. It's part of Gloucester. Joanna's cousin had just had a baby, it was a difficult birth, and Joanna wanted to go see her and bring her and her husband some food and a baby blanket. They were tenant farmers. They didn't have much. It was dark when we left their house, which was dumb of us, but I needed to get back to the bakery and I don't think the cousin's husband really wanted us there, and we were attacked on the road.”
He pauses, about at the point where another person would take a drink of something to wet their throat. Jared swallows some Coke in sympathy.
“Someone found us and brought us to the closest farmhouse,” Jensen goes on. His eyes are steady on Jared's face. It's a little unnerving. “They wrapped her in a sheet. I never got to see her. They told me I was completely unconscious for about three days, and then I was sick with some kind of fever for another week and a half. I don't remember anything for two weeks, but when I finally came out of it I was ravenous. Something kept me from eating the family, so I drained one of their cows, but it felt so wrong and I felt so guilty I just took off.” Jared puts a hand on his arm. “I knew something was wrong with me but I didn't know what. By then someone had identified Joanna's body and gotten her brother - he lived in Rhode Island, where his wife's family had a farm - both their parents were dead - they buried her in the family plot and told my family I'd died of a fever. I'd disappeared, remember, and I was so freaked out about what was happening to me that I hid. My mom and my brother refused to believe I was dead, but when all their searches failed to find me, they eventually gave up.”
“Where did you go? What happened to the bakery?”
“My sister and her husband took it over. I hid in the woods for a while, trying to figure out what was wrong with me and how I could live. There was a lot of trial and error until I learned what could and couldn't hurt me, and what I could and couldn't do. I tried not to eat people, but deer just weren't cutting it. I, uh, I ate a tracker, a woodsman. I'm not proud of that.” His arm twitches a little under Jared's hand. “I felt simultaneously so much better and so much worse, but the blood took over and it was a few years until I came back to myself enough to seek out civilization again. I spent a lot of time hiding, until everyone I knew was either dead or had moved on, and I could come out and not have to worry about being seen.”
“I'm sorry. It sounds really shitty.”
“It was. But I learned how to live among people without being found out. I did odd jobs, saved some money, bought some land way outside the city, built a little cabin. It's a hard life. I don't recommend it.”
“When did you go to Texas? Why did you go to Texas?”
“Change of scene.” Jensen manages a smile. His expression is a little less intense. “It was the new frontier and I thought I could make a new life there, away from all the things that reminded me of everything I'd lost. I wouldn't know anyone. Besides, I'd been alive about a hundred years and because I never aged, people around here were suspicious. I was nervous about having to set myself up all over again in a place I didn't know, and I was concerned about how I'd survive the trip, but I lucked out and met someone on the way. His name was Christian and he was traveling with his older sister to what would become Dallas. He was my Renfield.” Jensen grins. “I didn't call him that, obviously, and I didn't tell him the real reason I needed him, but he agreed to basically be my agent for anything I couldn't do myself. I bought land and built a commercial building and a small hotel, then sold those to buy more land and build on that. I still own a couple of commercial buildings in Dallas. You asked how I could afford to buy this one.” He waves around the room, indicating the building where Abigail's is located, where he lives and collects rent from tenants. “It used to be cheap to buy around here, and I've owned this building a long time.”
“Wow,” Jared says, meaning the entire story, not just Jensen's real estate holdings. “So you were in Texas before it was a state.”
“Not quite. It had joined the US by the time I arrived, but everything was still a little in flux. Those were fun times.” His voice is dry. “I didn't really like all the political upheaval, which is funny considering what was going on when I was growing up.”
“No, it makes sense. Just because you grow up in one kind of situation doesn't mean that's what you want for the rest of your life.”
“But I liked it, even with the occasional Comanche raid, and when the cravings got unbearable I'd go out at night and... hunt.” His arm twitches again. Jared can guess what he means, and doesn't ask for clarification. “Again, I'm not proud. Things are so much easier now. It's not as easy to hide - there are fewer empty spaces to lose yourself in - or to fake identification, but I can still leave my estate to myself every sixty years, and it's easier to find things and learn things, and so much easier to make a living without ever leaving the house. People live longer and stay younger longer and aren't as suspicious when you've looked the same for three decades. I've been a bartender in some fashion for about a hundred years. I survived Prohibition, one civil war, two world wars, the Spanish flu, AIDS, Comanche raids, and so many societal upheavals I've lost count. I met Christian in the middle of the nineteenth century and I'm finally making friends again. It's a lonely life, I won't lie, and I never would've chosen it, if whatever attacked me and Joanna on the road gave me a choice, but sometimes it's not terrible. I've learned to make the best of it.”
“You just need to get out more.”
“Says the man whose best friend is an undead bartender.” Jensen grins brightly and they both laugh. “I'll take you to a night game at Fenway, if the Sox play any. I can go out for fireworks on the Fourth of July. Misha made me watch them on New Year's Eve. I had to close the bar for an hour - I wasn't excited about that, because New Year's is good money - but he can be very persistent.”
“We'll go out on the Fourth,” Jared says. “I'll come get you after the sun sets and we'll go out and see them. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Jared holds out his hand. Jensen shakes it and they both laugh again.
“So that's the story,” Jensen says. “It has a tragic beginning but right now it has a happy ending. I meant it when I said you can't tell anyone. Christian worked with me for thirty years and I never told him the truth. You really are the first.”
“I swear I won't tell.” Jared crosses his heart. He likes Jensen too much to betray his trust, even if this is the kind of story that he'll spend the rest of his life bursting to share. It has everything - love, violence, tragedy, history, trust, friendship, poverty, and money. “Why did you leave Dallas? What happened to Christian?”
“He got old and I didn't, and after all those years in Texas I realized I missed home. By then I could take the railroad, so I sold everything but my real estate, found a young lawyer to take care of it, left Christian some money, and came back. They'd filled in the river to make the Back Bay, and my bakery was long gone, and I found I didn't want to live in the city after all. I did the same thing I did in Texas - bought some land, built some buildings, tried to set myself up in some kind of career. I opened a bakery, because I missed it, and made bread and rolls for hotels. I opened a bar. I sold everything and moved into the city. I bought this place. I opened Abigail's. I figured out where to get blood, and I realized I didn't need as much as I used to. I didn't really make friends, but I had some acquaintances. I kept in touch with Christian until he passed, and when I decided it was time to pretend to die myself and leave my estate, such as it was, to my 'nephew', I willed his family one of my buildings in Dallas.” He looks around. “Shit, it's late. Come downstairs and I'll feed you and pour you a drink. No, Danny will feed you and pour you a drink, and I'll sit with you and you can help me do the crossword like normal people.”
“Jensen, we are not normal people.”
“I've been pretending for over two hundred and thirty years. Pretending for one night is nothing.” His words are serious, but he's smiling, and Jared can't help but smile back.
“It's a lot to take in, though.”
“I know.” Jensen stands and holds out his hand. “If I didn't think you could handle it, I wouldn't have told you.”
Jared lets himself be pulled to his feet. “I'm glad you did. I'm sure I'll think of something else to ask you. Is there anything you don't want to talk about?”
“I won't know until you ask. Come on. Let's go.”
Next!
NC-17
Part 2 of 5
Master post
Art
Jared tries and fails to gets out of work early the Friday before Memorial Day. It's still light when he finally makes his escape, but he goes over to Abigail's anyway. After the second movie night Jensen suggested Jared just buzz the apartment from the sidewalk, rather than go through the bar, so Jared tries that. No answer. He knocks on the door of the bar. No answer to that either. He calls Jensen's cell.
“Hey,” Jensen says, answering after the third ring. “What's up?”
“I'm outside,” Jared says. “Are you home?”
“I'm baking. Give me a sec.” He hangs up. Jared stands on the sidewalk, staring at his phone, until he hears a click and a creak as the door to Abigail's opens a crack. He pushes it farther open and goes in.
The bar is dark but he can just see Jensen walking past the tables in back towards the kitchen. Jared shuts the door behind him, tries to lock it, and follows.
The kitchen is brightly lit but small, and there's a mound of dough sitting on a flour-dusted stainless-steel table.
“It has to rise a second time,” Jensen explains, “and then I can bake it. There's already one in the oven. Memorial Day weekend isn't big business but I figured I'd make sandwich bread anyway. You can take some to Misha and Vicky's party. Stand over there.” He gestures with his elbow and Jared moves out of the way. Jensen puts the pile of dough in a bowl, covers it with a towel, and sets a timer. He peeks in one of the ovens.
“Is this what you've been doing all day?” Jared asks. “Baking bread?”
“Not all day. I don't have to sit here and watch it rise, if that's what you're asking. I took inventory, did some ordering, cleaned my apartment. Watered the pepper. Oh, that reminds me, I have something to test on you. Come upstairs for a minute.”
They leave the bread, get a shot glass from behind the bar, and head up to Jensen's apartment, where he retrieves a bottle of Stoli with a bunch of pieces of hot peppers sitting in the bottom. There are little seeds floating in the liquor. Jensen pours Jared a shot, careful not to get any seeds in it, and hands him the glass. “Carolina reaper infused vodka. I need a guinea pig.”
“Um,” Jared says. He's been curious about the peppers ever since Jensen told him what they were called, but he also can't forget the detail that eating one might send him to the hospital.
“I just want to know if it's steeped enough.”
Jared sniffs the glass, then figures What the hell and tosses it back.
At first all he can taste is vodka. It's not his drink so he doesn't know much about it, but he's pretty sure Stoli isn't the best quality stuff Jensen could have used. Then the hot pepper hits him. The burn is almost oily. It feels as if his lips and tongue and throat are blistering with heat.
“Milk,” he gasps. Jensen looks delighted. “It's not funny, I'm dying.”
“That means it's good. We have to go back downstairs.” He takes the bottle as Jared hustles them both down the stairs to the bar's kitchen, where Jensen obligingly pours a glass of milk. He's almost insufferably pleased with himself. He writes “Carolina reaper vodka” on the back of the bottle with a Sharpie and sticks it under the counter behind the bar.
“My bread should be almost ready, too,” he says. He grabs an oven mitt, opens the oven door, and pulls out a loaf pan. He puts his ear to the bread and knocks on the top of it. “Come smell,” he says to Jared, holding out the pan. Jared sniffs gingerly. After the vodka he's not sure he trusts Jensen with food. But the bread just smells like bread.
Jensen turns off the oven and puts the pan on the stovetop. He runs a knife around the inside and then turns the bread out onto the table. “This is how you know it's done,” he tells Jared, picking it up upside-down and knocking on the bottom. “Listen.” He holds out the loaf so Jared can listen to bread, and when he knocks on it again, it sounds vaguely hollow.
“Huh.”
“After a while you just know when it's ready, but I still had to listen to it from time to time. I learned to bake in a wood-fired oven, and the temperature wasn't always easy to control, so I had to keep checking the loaves.”
“Is that all you made? Just bread?”
“Bread, rolls, sometimes pies. But yeah, mostly bread. I was pretty good at it.”
“I can't believe you used to be a baker.”
Jensen shrugs. He finds a cooling rack for his new loaf and puts the now-empty pan on the counter next to the sink.
“We still have a couple of hours until the next loaf is ready to go in. I convinced Danny to work Memorial Day - you'll be surprised but I thought Misha's barbecue might be later, and maybe I'd go - wipe that smirk off your face, I said maybe.”
Jared can feel his lips pulling into a grin of their own accord. He knows he's the reason Jensen finally hired someone to help out at the bar so he can take some nights off, and Jared isn't at all surprised that Jensen is now admitting to thinking about maybe leaving the building to attend one of Misha and Vicky's parties. Misha said Jared was a good influence, and Misha's pretty observant.
“He said it would break up by seven, but I'd already asked Danny to cover,” Jensen is saying. “I have the whole weekend behind the bar, but come over after his thing on Monday and we'll hang out. I found some obscure European vampire movies, if you're feeling pretentious.”
“With subtitles?”
“With subtitles. You want something to eat? I may as well make you something, since we're in the kitchen already.”
Jared isn't that hungry, although he wants to try the bread. Jensen cuts him a couple of slices and spreads honey on them, before turning on some of the lights in the bar so they can sit at one of the tables in the back until either the rising bread is ready to go in the oven or it's time to open the bar, whichever comes first. Jared talks about his job and his family (his sister is working on her PhD, his brother and sister-in-law are working on a fixer-upper), Jensen talks about the bar and his experiments with mouth-melting pepper vodka. They talk about dogs and the weather and food and movies, and Jensen tells Jared the history of the swan boats in the Public Garden, and about the wooden cod hanging in the State House.
“It's the Sacred Cod,” he explains. “Because so much of the area's early economy was built around cod. I even have a book about it.”
“A book about cod?” Jared asks, dubious. How is a history of fish exciting? But that might explain the fish print in Jensen's living room.
“It's more interesting than it sounds. You can borrow it if you want.”
Jared feels like he and Jensen have known each other their entire lives. It's pretty much everything he could have wanted from a friendship, if he'd ever bothered to think out what exactly that was.
Eventually it's time to open the bar. Jared stays for dinner and a beer and helps Jensen with the crossword puzzle. They continue their conversations. Patrons dribble in. Jensen manages to sell a guy on the Carolina reaper vodka, and at Jared's suggestion brings over a glass of milk to go with the shot. The guy chokes, his eyes water, his friend pounds him on the back, and he eventually pronounces the vodka “Killer”.
“Literally,” Jared adds.
Jensen writes “Today's special: Wicked Awesome Carolina Reaper Vodka” on the blackboard behind the bar, where he usually writes the day's tap offerings. He adds “$5 until it's gone”, and the price and customer curiosity combine to empty the bottle before Jared goes home.
To be fair, Jared doesn't go home for a couple of hours, and Jensen is a good salesman.
Jared has been told - twice - not to bring anything to Misha and Vicky's Memorial Day party except maybe a nice bottle of wine, so he shows up at their apartment with what his roommate reassured him is a good bottle of white. Jared doesn't know much about wine, but his roommate is a connoisseur of American wines and can be counted on to give good advice. Vicky thanks Jared with a kiss on the cheek and takes the bottle away to stick in the fridge until they're ready to serve it.
Misha and Vicky live on the garden floor of a brownstone, which gives them access to the tiny back yard, which means the food is all outside with as many guests as will fit. Misha schmoozes from the grill. Vicky wanders around making sure everyone's plates and glasses are full. Misha leaves the grill in the care of one of his non-profit friends and follows suit. He practically corners Jared to talk about his plans, which now include several grants, a bare-bones web site, and an actual timetable.
“Sorry, I'm pestering you,” he finally says. “I'm very excited about it but I promised Vicky I wouldn't be a pest today.” He takes Jared's bottle, which is empty, and leads him over to the food and the big tin bucket of beer and soda on ice. Misha drops the bottle in the recycling bin under the table, offers Jared some cookies, and changes the subject. “I read about a chile farmer in New Mexico who's trying to breed the hottest peppers in existence, hotter even than Jensen's beloved reapers. I might suggest you mention it to him. Get him out of the city. If anyone can make that man take a vacation, it's you.”
Jared isn't so sure. He bites into one of the cookies, which crumbles into nothing all over his shirt. Misha stifles a laugh. Jared brushes himself clean and tries a second cookie, eating it carefully to make sure it feeds him and not his clothes.
“What makes you think I'll be able to get him to leave the bar for more than five hours?” he asks.
“He never even considered hiring some help until he met you. Trust me. I know these things.” Misha winks.
“Where in New Mexico?”
“South of Albuquerque. Her place is called Aurora Glory Farm. I'll send you the article. You can even tell him it was my idea.” He looks proud of himself for suggesting it, and talks as if Jared has already brought it up and Jensen has already said yes.
“Misha!” someone cries, walking over. She has a full glass of white wine in her hand and a silk daisy pinned in her blonde hair. “Are you matchmaking again?”
“Pestering. Have you met Jared? Jared, this is Brianna. We used to work together, until she gave up the life for the private sector.” He gives her a mock glare. She just laughs.
“My husband's a fundraiser for children's charities,” she explains. “Someone had to get a job that pays a living wage. It's not an evil place, Misha. I work for a placement agency,” she tells Jared. “I do outreach and deal with all the job fairs. We works mainly with women who have been out of the workforce for a while - some of them are newly divorced, or their partners have been out of work for a long time, or finances just took a dive - they need help finding decent employment. We run training programs and we have a division specifically to help low-income women. We're for-profit but we're not the Evil Empire.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I like it. I'm still helping people who need it, I just get paid better. I like being the breadwinner of the household.” Another sip. She looks Jared up and down. “What do you do? How do you know Misha?”
“He walked into a bar,” Misha says, grinning.
“I wanted a beer,” Jared tells Brianna. “He was there helping the bartender with the crossword puzzle.” He takes another cookie. “I'm the IT department for the local office of a big accounting firm. We're also not the Evil Empire.”
“He doesn't love it,” Misha adds.
“I don't hate it either. It's pretty good money. Sometimes it's frustrating, but what job isn't?” Misha is looking at him consideringly. “What?”
“Have you considered self-employment? I know, I know, you want to stay in your job for a year, but there's something to be said for being your own boss.”
Jared hasn't in fact considered that. Sometimes he wonders if he's disciplined enough to go freelance, or to set up his own business for himself. He's always had an impulsive streak - he applied for the job in Boston on impulse, he took it on impulse, he stopped at Abigail's on impulse, he even went out with his now-ex and planned to move in with the guy without really thinking through either thing. If he'd really thought through moving to Boston, if he'd put more time into weighing all the pros and cons as he knew them at the time, he might never have done it. He might still be in Durham, or he could have gone back to San Antonio, and he might have a job he can honestly say he enjoys, with friends and maybe even a new boyfriend.
But if he stayed in Durham he might still be running into his ex, because they shared a lot of friends and neither of them would have dropped all those friends after the breakup. Jared could have been invited to a fun Memorial Day barbecue that could have been ruined by the appearance of his ex and the boy his ex left him for.
And if he hadn't moved up here he wouldn't have met Jensen, or Misha.
There's no way to know which path would be right for him. He is where he is, and he thinks he's made the best of it. But maybe he can make it better.
“What's the pepper farm called again?” he asks Misha.
“Aurora Glory Farm. The peppers are called Socorro devils. Sounds ominous, doesn't it? The article claims that right now they're almost as hot as the reapers.”
An idea forms in Jared's head. He has some research to do. “I'll ask him if he's heard of them,” he tells Misha. “Send me the article.”
Misha looks pleased. Brianna tells Jared that it was nice to meet him, and wanders off towards a clump of people having what looks like a very spirited discussion.
The conversation changes to other things - current politics, social events, Jensen and the bar and other guests at the barbecue - and when the party starts to wind down, Jared thanks Misha and Vicky, tentatively accepts a very premature invitation to their July Fourth barbecue, complete with morning trek to the old State House to listen to the Declaration of Independence being read, and walks over to Abigail's. He's had a few beers and wants to walk off the buzz.
The sun hasn't even started to think about setting, but Jensen told him to come over whenever Misha and Vicky's party ended, and to ring the bell for his apartment, rather than trying to get into the bar. So Jared buzzes the apartment, waits for the click of the building door unlocking, and goes upstairs.
“How was it?” Jensen asks, as he opens the door. “Wait, don't step on that.” He points down, to where Jared has almost stepped on an envelope that someone must have pushed under the door. He bends over to rescue it from Jared's shoe.
“Who delivers mail that way?” Jared asks. Jensen ushers him in, shuts the door, and rips the envelope open. He pulls out a piece of notepaper and a check.
“It's rent.”
“Rent?”
“One of my tenants.” Jensen waves vaguely. “I own the building.”
“You own the building? How do you own the building?”
“How do most people own buildings? I bought it.” He stuffs the note and the check back into the envelope and puts that in a folder on his tiny desk. “Come in. Sit down. You want something? I got popcorn for the movies and found a cider I think you'll like. You didn't tell me how the party was.”
“Misha and Vicky both asked where you were and why you didn't come with me. When did you buy the building? How did you buy the building?” Jared doesn't know anything about Boston real estate, but he can guess that an apartment building in Beacon Hill, with a shop or a bar or a restaurant on the first floor, would cost more money than a single person could conceivably have, unless that person was stupendously wealthy. Jensen has never given off any kind of affluent vibe.
“Good investments. You really want to talk about my financial situation?” Jared remembers his manners and that it's none of his business. He shakes his head. “Me either. The cider is Far from the Tree. It's in Salem. This one is pineapple and jalapeno.”
“Sounds good. I ate a lot at the party.”
“Which means you're not hungry now, but you will be in about two hours.” Jensen grins and vanishes into the kitchen to get the cider. Jared takes his shoes off, wiggles his toes, and puts his shoes back on. It's nice and cool in Jensen's apartment. It's always cool in Jensen's apartment, but today was kind of hot and Jared spent it all outside, so the temperature feels good. The shades are drawn, which he finds a little weird, but Jensen always has the shades pulled unless it's dark out, and Jared has never cared enough to ask why.
Jensen returns with a thermos and the cider, which is cold and sweet with a hint of jalapeno, and Jared tells him about the party and the people he met and the pepper farmer Misha mentioned.
“I read about a guy in Wales,” Jensen says, “but I didn't know there was anyone in the States trying to breed superhots.”
“Misha said she's south of Albuquerque. He was going to send me the article.”
“I'll bug him. If someone's growing something hotter than a reaper, I want to try it.”
This is encouraging, because the idea Jared had at the party is to visit New Mexico. Jensen will meet the pepper farmer, Jared will get out of town. They'll eat Mexican food hopefully made by actual Mexicans, they'll drive around the desert, they'll take a side trip to Tucson to see Chad. Jared just needs to plan it out before he mentions it, so he's prepared with responses in case Jensen says no.
“What do you think about a movie?” Jensen says, interrupting Jared's thoughts. “Iranian vampires this time. I thought it was better than a pretentious European film.”
“Sounds good. I'll make the popcorn.”
Jensen laughs. “You said you weren't hungry.”
“You don't have to be hungry to eat popcorn. What's in the thermos?”
“Carolina reaper vodka. I think this batch is stronger than the first one. Would you like to try it?” He holds out the thermos, grinning.
“Hell no.”
Jensen laughs.
The movie is a mashup of western, horror, and noir, with a skateboarding Iranian vampire and more style than substance. Jared likes that the vampire is a woman seeking revenge on men who've treated other women badly, but in general he prefers his movies with more of a plot. But this is the price he pays for letting Jensen teach him about vampire films - some he's going to like more than others.
He has another cider while they talk about it - Jensen likes the atmosphere and agrees that a female vamp with a skateboard and a chador is a good twist - and realizes he might actually be hungry again.
“There's something I want to tell you,” Jensen says, before Jared can bring up food. He sounds nervous.
“What? Is something wrong?”
“No.” He takes Jared's hand and slaps it against the side of his neck under his jawline. His skin is cool. Jared can't feel a pulse.
“I don't get it,” Jared says. “You have a very faint pulse?”
“I don't have a pulse.”
Jared is either very stupid or drunk again, because he can't figure out what Jensen is trying to tell him.
“This is harder than I thought,” Jensen mutters. “Maybe I'm not buzzed enough.” He lets Jared's hand fall. “I'm a vampire.”
Jared snorts a laugh, surprised. “You are not.”
“Yes. I am.”
“Prove it.”
“I'm not going to bite you.”
Jared shrugs, hands out and palms up. “Then how am I supposed to believe you?”
Jensen smiles at him, slowly, and Jared watches in disbelief as Jensen's canines elongate and sharpen. Jensen's expression takes on an inhuman, feral cast. It would be a subtly creepy effect in any of the movies he's made Jared watch, but this is real, not CGI, and Jared has to believe it.
“Shit,” he says. He realizes he's sliding away from Jensen, as far as the couch will let him, and tries to make himself relax. “You're not going to bite me now, are you?”
Jensen closes his mouth and shakes his head briefly, and the effect is gone. He looks like himself again. He looks human. “I just said I wouldn't. If I wanted to bite you, I would have done it by now.”
Jared takes a deep breath and lets himself be reassured. “Who else knows? Does Misha?”
“I haven't decided whether or not to tell him. If he knows, he'll tell Vicky, and I don't think I trust either of them to keep their mouths shut.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“It's a lonely secret to keep and I was tired of keeping it. You're my friend. I trust you.”
“So that painting of you and Abigail in your apartment, the one where you look like an extra in a movie about Queen Victoria, that's not you playing dress-up?”
“Nope. That's me a hundred and thirty years ago.”
“Shit.”
Jensen looks concerned. “Are you going to freak out? I shouldn't have told you.”
“No, I'm glad you did.” Jared answers without thinking, but he is glad. Now that he isn't so taken by surprise and can think about it, he's not afraid of Jensen - he's known the guy long enough to know that he's harmless, and besides, as Jensen said, he's had several opportunities to bite Jared, and hasn't taken any of them.
A lot of things make sense now - Jensen's love of vampire movies, all the vampire books on his shelves, his absolute refusal to go anywhere or do anything outside of the bar during daylight hours, the way he never eats.
“What's all the hot sauce for?”
“What?” Jensen asks.
“Do you put it on your - wait, how often do you have to, uh, feed? Where do you get blood from?”
“I can't really taste anything anymore. I can eat real food, but it doesn't do anything for me and it tastes like nothing. It's like eating dust. But the really hot peppers, I can taste those. Likewise the kind of kimchi that will burn a hole in the container. So sometimes I'll put that on my - on my dinner.”
Jared chuckles at how circumspect Jensen is about what he needs to eat. “But where do you get it from? Your 'dinner'.”
“Blood banks.”
“Blood banks?” He knows he looks appalled. He is appalled. “People need that!”
“I know. I try to take really common blood types, or anything they have a lot of. I have a contact. Sometimes I'll get it from a butcher. Cow's blood isn't as good, but it does the trick.” He tilts his head. “You're not grossed out?”
Jared shrugs. “I don't know. I mean, I am grossed out, but I'm also really curious. I've never met one of the undead. Are there more of you?”
“I don't know. I don't think so. I've never met another one.”
“Huh. Can you go into churches? Does holy water really repel you? What about garlic? Or silver?” The picture frame on the nightstand in Jensen's bedroom looks like silver.
“I haven't tried to walk inside a church in centuries, so I don't know what holy water does. Garlic powder's okay - it itches if I spill it on myself - garlic cloves aren't. You already know I never go outside when the sun's up. Silver hurts like a burn, but it won't kill me. Crosses are a little bit like vampire repellant, but I haven't tried to touch one so I don't know if they'll hurt me too.”
“How old are you? Is that a rude question?”
“Well, I just told you I'm undead, so no. I'm old. I was born - do you really want to know?”
“Yeah. I really want to know.”
“1752.”
Jared blinks. Jensen is older than the country.
“Shit.”
“You said you weren't going to freak out.”
“I'm not. That means you were around for the Revolutionary War. Did you know Paul Revere? What about the real Sam Adams? Or John Adams? Ben Franklin? Alexander Hamilton? Did you know the real Alexander Hamilton?”
Jensen laughs at the sudden eagerness in Jared's voice. “I knew of Paul Revere. Samuel Adams was a rabble-rouser. His beer was pretty good, though. I got in a fight once, in a bar - everyone had been drinking, politics were tense, tensions were high - and I punched this guy in the face. It was an accident, sort of. I was aiming for someone else. Come to find out, literally centuries later, that was Alexander Hamilton.”
“You hit Hamilton in the face?” Jared repeats, incredulous. “Holy shit. That's so cool!”
Jensen laughs again, startled by Jared's reaction, and says “That's not the response I was expecting.”
“You were there! You were part of history! You have to talk to my mom. I told you she teaches high school, right? She teaches American history!” He can't believe this. He has an actual witness to actual historical events sitting right next to him. This is by far the most exciting thing that has ever happened to him, up to and including the time he ran into Emmitt Smith in a grocery store.
“I can't talk to your mom! You can't tell anyone.”
“You said it was a lonely secret and you were tired of keeping it. So don't keep it!”
“Jared, you're the only person I've told in over two hundred years, and that's because I want to think I know you well enough to trust you. What makes you think I want total strangers to know?”
“She's not a total stranger, she's my mom. Think of all the history you could set straight.”
“I wasn't a witness to most of it. I carried a musket in defense of the colonies, just like a lot of people, but I didn't know anyone famous, I didn't dump tea in the harbor, most of the time I baked my bread and kept to myself.”
“You got in a bar fight and punched Alexander Hamilton in the face.” That's too good of a story to not tell. It almost doesn't even matter that it was Hamilton and not someone else. Jensen punched one of the Sons of Liberty in a bar brawl. The Sons of Liberty got involved in bar brawls. They were real people with normal human emotions, and they did the kinds of stupid things excited people do. They weren't just figureheads for a revolution. They weren't just names in a history book, or even characters in a musical. They were real.
“That was one time,” Jensen says. “Don't tell anyone. Please. I don't want people showing up at my bar wanting to ask me a million questions about shit I didn't see or do.”
“But - “
“No buts. It's a secret. I don't want people throwing holy water on me either, or hounding me out of the city for being a bloodsucker. I want to run my bar and serve people drinks and live a quiet life like anyone else.”
Jared sighs. His mother would be so excited to talk history with someone who knew it as well as Jensen must. But he gets it, he does. It's a big deal, admitting to someone that you're a vampire, that you're two hundred and sixty years old, that you survive by drinking blood. It's not the kind of thing you tell everyone, not if it's really true. Besides, even if Jared did tell his mom that his best friend was born in Boston in 1752 and was around for the Declaration of Independence and the Revolutionary War - that he got in a fight with Alexander Hamilton - there's no guarantee she'd believe him.
“Don't tell your mom,” Jensen repeats. “Or Chad. Don't tell Chad either.”
“I won't.”
“Get another drink and I'll tell you how it happened.”
Jared pushes himself off the couch and goes into the kitchen to do just that. Jensen has started buying soda for him, so Jared takes out a Coke out of the fridge and contemplates the containers of kimchi and the bottle of hot sauce labeled “Lucifer's Tears” with a new appreciation.
He can also appreciate that Jensen doesn't keep his bloodbags in the fridge.
“You don't have to tell me how it happened,” he says, walking back into the living room and sitting on the couch.
“I want to. I've already told you the big secret, I may as well tell you the small ones.”
“Wait. The little portrait in your bedroom, that you said was your wife, was she your wife back then? Is she also undead?”
“No, she's... dead-dead. She had a cousin who lived in the Commons Settlement, which you might know as Dogtown - it's protected land now, no one lives there, but it used to have farms and cottages and regular inhabitants. It's part of Gloucester. Joanna's cousin had just had a baby, it was a difficult birth, and Joanna wanted to go see her and bring her and her husband some food and a baby blanket. They were tenant farmers. They didn't have much. It was dark when we left their house, which was dumb of us, but I needed to get back to the bakery and I don't think the cousin's husband really wanted us there, and we were attacked on the road.”
He pauses, about at the point where another person would take a drink of something to wet their throat. Jared swallows some Coke in sympathy.
“Someone found us and brought us to the closest farmhouse,” Jensen goes on. His eyes are steady on Jared's face. It's a little unnerving. “They wrapped her in a sheet. I never got to see her. They told me I was completely unconscious for about three days, and then I was sick with some kind of fever for another week and a half. I don't remember anything for two weeks, but when I finally came out of it I was ravenous. Something kept me from eating the family, so I drained one of their cows, but it felt so wrong and I felt so guilty I just took off.” Jared puts a hand on his arm. “I knew something was wrong with me but I didn't know what. By then someone had identified Joanna's body and gotten her brother - he lived in Rhode Island, where his wife's family had a farm - both their parents were dead - they buried her in the family plot and told my family I'd died of a fever. I'd disappeared, remember, and I was so freaked out about what was happening to me that I hid. My mom and my brother refused to believe I was dead, but when all their searches failed to find me, they eventually gave up.”
“Where did you go? What happened to the bakery?”
“My sister and her husband took it over. I hid in the woods for a while, trying to figure out what was wrong with me and how I could live. There was a lot of trial and error until I learned what could and couldn't hurt me, and what I could and couldn't do. I tried not to eat people, but deer just weren't cutting it. I, uh, I ate a tracker, a woodsman. I'm not proud of that.” His arm twitches a little under Jared's hand. “I felt simultaneously so much better and so much worse, but the blood took over and it was a few years until I came back to myself enough to seek out civilization again. I spent a lot of time hiding, until everyone I knew was either dead or had moved on, and I could come out and not have to worry about being seen.”
“I'm sorry. It sounds really shitty.”
“It was. But I learned how to live among people without being found out. I did odd jobs, saved some money, bought some land way outside the city, built a little cabin. It's a hard life. I don't recommend it.”
“When did you go to Texas? Why did you go to Texas?”
“Change of scene.” Jensen manages a smile. His expression is a little less intense. “It was the new frontier and I thought I could make a new life there, away from all the things that reminded me of everything I'd lost. I wouldn't know anyone. Besides, I'd been alive about a hundred years and because I never aged, people around here were suspicious. I was nervous about having to set myself up all over again in a place I didn't know, and I was concerned about how I'd survive the trip, but I lucked out and met someone on the way. His name was Christian and he was traveling with his older sister to what would become Dallas. He was my Renfield.” Jensen grins. “I didn't call him that, obviously, and I didn't tell him the real reason I needed him, but he agreed to basically be my agent for anything I couldn't do myself. I bought land and built a commercial building and a small hotel, then sold those to buy more land and build on that. I still own a couple of commercial buildings in Dallas. You asked how I could afford to buy this one.” He waves around the room, indicating the building where Abigail's is located, where he lives and collects rent from tenants. “It used to be cheap to buy around here, and I've owned this building a long time.”
“Wow,” Jared says, meaning the entire story, not just Jensen's real estate holdings. “So you were in Texas before it was a state.”
“Not quite. It had joined the US by the time I arrived, but everything was still a little in flux. Those were fun times.” His voice is dry. “I didn't really like all the political upheaval, which is funny considering what was going on when I was growing up.”
“No, it makes sense. Just because you grow up in one kind of situation doesn't mean that's what you want for the rest of your life.”
“But I liked it, even with the occasional Comanche raid, and when the cravings got unbearable I'd go out at night and... hunt.” His arm twitches again. Jared can guess what he means, and doesn't ask for clarification. “Again, I'm not proud. Things are so much easier now. It's not as easy to hide - there are fewer empty spaces to lose yourself in - or to fake identification, but I can still leave my estate to myself every sixty years, and it's easier to find things and learn things, and so much easier to make a living without ever leaving the house. People live longer and stay younger longer and aren't as suspicious when you've looked the same for three decades. I've been a bartender in some fashion for about a hundred years. I survived Prohibition, one civil war, two world wars, the Spanish flu, AIDS, Comanche raids, and so many societal upheavals I've lost count. I met Christian in the middle of the nineteenth century and I'm finally making friends again. It's a lonely life, I won't lie, and I never would've chosen it, if whatever attacked me and Joanna on the road gave me a choice, but sometimes it's not terrible. I've learned to make the best of it.”
“You just need to get out more.”
“Says the man whose best friend is an undead bartender.” Jensen grins brightly and they both laugh. “I'll take you to a night game at Fenway, if the Sox play any. I can go out for fireworks on the Fourth of July. Misha made me watch them on New Year's Eve. I had to close the bar for an hour - I wasn't excited about that, because New Year's is good money - but he can be very persistent.”
“We'll go out on the Fourth,” Jared says. “I'll come get you after the sun sets and we'll go out and see them. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Jared holds out his hand. Jensen shakes it and they both laugh again.
“So that's the story,” Jensen says. “It has a tragic beginning but right now it has a happy ending. I meant it when I said you can't tell anyone. Christian worked with me for thirty years and I never told him the truth. You really are the first.”
“I swear I won't tell.” Jared crosses his heart. He likes Jensen too much to betray his trust, even if this is the kind of story that he'll spend the rest of his life bursting to share. It has everything - love, violence, tragedy, history, trust, friendship, poverty, and money. “Why did you leave Dallas? What happened to Christian?”
“He got old and I didn't, and after all those years in Texas I realized I missed home. By then I could take the railroad, so I sold everything but my real estate, found a young lawyer to take care of it, left Christian some money, and came back. They'd filled in the river to make the Back Bay, and my bakery was long gone, and I found I didn't want to live in the city after all. I did the same thing I did in Texas - bought some land, built some buildings, tried to set myself up in some kind of career. I opened a bakery, because I missed it, and made bread and rolls for hotels. I opened a bar. I sold everything and moved into the city. I bought this place. I opened Abigail's. I figured out where to get blood, and I realized I didn't need as much as I used to. I didn't really make friends, but I had some acquaintances. I kept in touch with Christian until he passed, and when I decided it was time to pretend to die myself and leave my estate, such as it was, to my 'nephew', I willed his family one of my buildings in Dallas.” He looks around. “Shit, it's late. Come downstairs and I'll feed you and pour you a drink. No, Danny will feed you and pour you a drink, and I'll sit with you and you can help me do the crossword like normal people.”
“Jensen, we are not normal people.”
“I've been pretending for over two hundred and thirty years. Pretending for one night is nothing.” His words are serious, but he's smiling, and Jared can't help but smile back.
“It's a lot to take in, though.”
“I know.” Jensen stands and holds out his hand. “If I didn't think you could handle it, I wouldn't have told you.”
Jared lets himself be pulled to his feet. “I'm glad you did. I'm sure I'll think of something else to ask you. Is there anything you don't want to talk about?”
“I won't know until you ask. Come on. Let's go.”
Next!