Fic: Cupid 97 (This ain't your Hallmark Cupid) (1/5)
Title: Cupid 97 (This ain't your Hallmark Cupid)
Characters: Jensen/Jared, Jensen/JDM, Jared/Sandy, Chris Kane, CW cast and cameos from Grey's Anatomy cast
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: R
Warnings: potty mouths, sarcasm, UST/schmoop, AU
Word Count: ~27,500
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Written for spn_fairytales. My challenge/inspiration was The Saucy Boy by Hans Christian Andersen. Thanks to mooyoo, insomnia_geek and gestaltrose for the betas! You guys kick butt. Feedback = <3, kids.
Summary: Everybody's got a love/hate relationship with their jobs. But for Jensen Ackles, top Cupid in the nation, after a hit goes wrong it's just a long, downhill slide from there. Caution: an ungodly amount of swearing, sarcasm, and schmoop in which Chris Kane is an awesome best friend, Tom Welling's the vacuous son of Zeus, Rosenbaum is Rosenbaum, and Jensen has a penchant for Plans.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
“Your list for the day, Cupid.”
Behind a large mahogany desk, a woman with long blonde hair, face aged but beautiful, jots down a couple notes into her yellow lined notepad, then rips the page out and slides it over to the man opposite her. The man-Jensen Ackles, 97th Cupid of the Bureau of Amorous Affairs (BAA)- plucks the sheet up and proceeds to scan it, frown deepening the more he reads.
“Eighteen targets today? What do you think I am, a machine?”
“That’s ‘Venus’ to you, C-97,” the woman scolds. Her name is Samantha Ferris but she is known as Venus, the proper title of a district manager at the BAA-in this case, the fine district of Los Angeles. She continues, “And no you’re not a machine, but you’re the best Cupid we’ve got on the West Coast, so get to it. Lotta lovin’ to get done before the weekend.”
Jensen sighs and pockets the paper. “Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes before heading back out the large oak doors.
Shit, eighteen of these guys? he grumbles to himself on the ride down the elevator, pulling the crumpled sheet out again to read Samantha’s (correction, Venus’) blue-ink scrawl in more depth.
1. Sandra McCoy (27). Ralph’s Grocery Co, 9:47 AM
This seems like a common enough way to start the day: staking out public grounds for a woman in her mid-twenties, whereupon he’ll shoot her through the heart with one of the Bureau’s specially prepared bullets, which are made and imprinted in pairs. The target’ll see nothing, feel nothing-at least, not until the partner bullet has pierced her future lover’s heart, courtesy of the Cupid behind the smoking gun.
What, you pictured cherubs with bows and arrows? This ain’t your Hallmark Cupid, kid.
Jensen loosens his silver tie as he idly skims the rest of the day’s targets, annoyed that even with the Bureau’s new management, they hadn’t bothered to implement picture IDs for the target briefings. Guess it’s still up to them to find the right targets with just a name, age, and location. That, and a whole lot of creativity. Picture IDs would’ve been fucking awesome but hey, the bigwigs never read the damned suggestion boxes.
“It’s a matter of funding,” somebody pipes up next to him, uncomfortably near in the small space of the elevator (Jesus, Jensen hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t alone). “The Bureau just upgraded the firearms and bullet tip formulae, so they didn’t have room in the budget for much else this year.” Jensen turns around and finds none other than Tom Welling, Zeus’ very own son, smiling at him with vaguely vacant blue eyes.
“Hey, you’re Tom Welling,” Jensen states, his irritation replaced by surprise. “You’re here already?”
“That’s C-148 while we’re on duty,” Tom says smartly, puffing his chest out where his shiny new Cupid pin rests on an immaculate lapel. “Well, I wasn’t supposed to be here until the end of the month, but I just couldn’t wait,” he admits, smiling beatifically. The elevator dings and a couple more bodies shift inside as Jensen blinks in horror.
“Pick of the crop kid, and you choose a crap job like being a Cupid?” Jensen asks incredulously. “What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s an honor to uphold one of the oldest traditions and responsibilities of the immortals…” Tom recites, and Jensen rolls his eyes because dude, everybody had to read that shit in the beginner’s manual but ain’t nobody in the building actually believes in it. “…and… there’s kind of this person,” Tom finishes lamely. Aha.
Tom talks his ear off for the rest of the ride down the building’s twenty-nine floors, and when they reach the lobby with a loud churning of gears, Jensen hops out gratefully.
“Nice meeting you, C-97!” Tom calls out.
“It’s Jensen,” he mutters, automatically looking up at the large wall clock above the receptionist’s desk. “Shit,” he curses as he realizes how late it is.
He’s too busy mentally mapping a route to his first location to notice the clomp of shoes jogging up behind him, only looking up when somebody falls in step next to him. “Hey Jen, was that Zeus’ kid just now? What’s he doing here?”
Jensen perks up when he sees it’s his friend and fellow Cupid, Christian Kane; a tall brunet with sleepy blue eyes. “Yeah, that was Tom Welling,” Jensen says. “It’s his first day here.” When Chris eyes him disbelievingly, he explains, “He wanted to be a Cupid ‘cause he’s in love with a girl working here, or some shit like that.”
“Ironic. I think I just threw up a little,” Chris says, wrinkling his nose as Jensen mirrors the sentiment. You don’t spend your entire career in professional matchmaking (in Los Angeles, of all places) without becoming just a little-or, in their case a lot- sarcastic.
“Tomorrow’s Friday, man. That’s all I got to keep me going,” Jensen says as he holds the front door out for Chris. They step down the innocuous entryway before parting in different directions.
“I’ll see you at Great Lakes after work!” Chris calls as he backpedals towards his car.
“After work,” Jensen confirms, slapping his hand on the hood of his own car before popping the door open and sliding in.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says to himself. No one else is gonna give these kids a Hollywood ending.
C-97 (This ain’t your Hallmark Cupid)
It’s a relatively quick drive to the other side of town, and it doesn’t hurt that immortals don’t have to stay on the ground, strictly speaking. With the shift of a gear, Jensen easily maneuvers his RAV4 into the air and smugly joins the rest of the immortal commuters as they flow above traffic, invisible to the human eye.
With just a little bit of speeding, Jensen gets to Ralph’s at 9:45 AM on the dot. 9:46 sees him hovering around the grocery store registers, peeking at people’s credit cards and eavesdropping on conversations for any sign of a “Sandra McCoy.” By 9:47 Jensen’s getting desperate so he stakes out the exit and determinedly finds out the name of every woman who looks like she could be 27 years old, give or take a decade.
By 9:51 AM, four minutes past the time listed for this location, Jensen’s swearing up a storm because the girl could be anywhere by now, and he didn’t stick with the BAA for six years only to ruin his spotless record by some run-of-the-mill, oblivious mortal-
“Sandy!”
-Jensen stutters to a halt before swinging around in search of the owner of the voice. Lucky for him, this “Sandy” is doing the same thing about ten meters away, the petite, dark-haired girl (dammit, he’d taken her for 14, maybe 15 tops) locating her friend and waving her over.
Jensen breathes a sigh of relief, reaching into his jacket to pull out the Bureau’s newly issued HK handgun from its leather holster. Here comes the easy part.
He gives the new gun a little inaugural ceremony as he feels out the weight in his palm, tossing it from hand to hand before slowly and smoothly releasing the safety. The audible click serves as more than enough for a warm-up so in consideration for the next seventeen hits on the day’s list, Jensen foregoes the fanfare and gets down on one knee in the middle of the parking lot, aims, and fires.
Sandra starts a little as the bullet pierces her back but the moment passes without so much as a hiccup in the girls’ conversation. Jensen’s not worried; he hasn’t missed a shot since his rookie days and he knows the bullet’s already busy working its magic. In fact, Sandra’s already in love, she just doesn’t know it yet-won’t know until the bullet in her palpitating heart meets its twin; the next bullet lined up in the HK’s magazine clip.
Jensen tucks the gun back into his holster and pulls out his list, runs a finger down… ah, yes. Jared Tristan Padalecki, the lucky suitor, should be entering the parking lot in just a few minutes. Glancing back at Sandra, Jensen verifies that she’s not going anywhere anytime soon, then gets up and begins circling the grounds as he keeps an eye out for a 25-year old male and an ear out for the right name.
It’s easier finding the target this time, seeing as how the guy literally runs into him while talking on his phone (as Jensen’s jostled off to the side, thankful for modern-day magic that protects him from being seen or noticed by mortals). Jensen hears a snatch of a woman’s voice through the phone confirming he’s got the right man as he faintly hears “JT, honey? Jared?” Pleased, Jensen opens his jacket front when just then, the guy stops in his tracks.
Actually stops before turning around to look back at where Jensen’s frozen still, one hand guiltily reaching for his gun. What the…? Jensen panics as Jared’s eyes slit in suspicion, searching the thin air, before he shakes his head a little and keeps walking towards the entrance of the grocery store.
Jensen’s thrown by it. He furrows his brow as he thinks… nope, that’s the first time a human had ever blinked twice at something he did, whether pick-pocketing an ID card or full on shoving a person towards another (which he doesn’t like to do too often; it’s a little uncouth, though it does get the job done). Huh.
Dazedly, Jensen starts trailing off towards his car to move on with his day, when he realizes-shit-he hadn’t even shot the guy yet! He mentally smacks himself before dashing into the store, cursing because damn it, it’s so much harder to get a clear shot when the job’s indoors and in a busy area.
He finds Jared somewhere between the soup and spices near the back of the store, but everything’s in such damned close quarters that he can’t get the distance he needs. For some technical reason that Jensen’s never bothered to ask about, a Cupid’s not supposed to pierce a heart from less than two meters away (probably something to do with the danger of being seen before it became moot point during the 20th century) and this Jared guy’s definitely not making his job any easier for him as he proceeds to crowd the space with his pan-sized mitts and everywhere limbs. Jensen sighs and resigns himself to following the giant around until maybe a clear path will open up. He hopes Sandy and her friend outside have a lot to talk about, since this might take awhile.
Jensen gets increasingly impatient as he watches Jared grab a cart and promptly fill half of it with soda, TV dinners, and Jesus, are those twelve packs of gummy bears crammed in the front seat? Jensen’s half-considering throwing a few vegetables in the cart, knowing full well that the mortal would never think twice about it. Then maybe the kid could oh, who knows, live to see past his next birthday?
Just as Jensen’s wandering off towards the produce, his chance reveals himself in the timely clearing of two couples from the frozen aisle, and seeing as how Jen’s one of the country’s top Cupids, it’s easy as pie for him to pull his gun out, aim, and-
Jared suddenly looks straight at Jensen for the second time that day, locks eyes, and then smiles. Not even just-there’s teeth, and there’s even a little curled tip of a tongue peeking through, and Jensen’s dumbfounded because What the fuck, how can he see me?
Jensen’s grip on his gun slackens uncertainly, his mind whirling as the human walks towards him, his mouth opening to form the words as if in slow motion: Yes-wa-ter-melon-half-off!
Wait, what? Jensen thinks. In the span of half a second he realizes with dismay that no, Jared Tristan Padalecki was most certainly not looking at him, and was instead making eyes at the hefty stack of watermelons behind him. In the latter half of that second Jensen re-aims and pumps a bullet, the twin of Sandra McCoy’s, into the kid’s heart.
Jared just pushes past him and goes to pick out a good watermelon, oohing and aahing to himself over the ripe skins and unbeatable price, and Jensen exhales tightly. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? He’d almost blown that one, and over what? Thinking the human could actually see him?
I need this weekend more than I thought, he thinks, looking forward to the moment he can cross the last name off the day’s list and go join Chris at their favorite bar. Sixteen to go, he sighs.
Now it’s only a matter of following Jared out the grocery store and making sure he and Sandra make some sort of physical contact before he leaves; that’s all the magic needs to activate. When Jared’s elbow brushes Sandra’s on the way to his truck, their eyes meet and that instant interest, the telltale sign that Jensen’s put away another two successes on his already-impressive record, sparks a weird mixture of relief and disappointment inside of him.
Huh, he stops to muse, before shrugging his shoulders.
Jensen shakes the mood off like a champ, pulling his trusty list out of his pocket. It doesn’t take long before blinding smiles and feline eyes are all but forgotten-he’s got more important stuff to deal with, like how the hell he’s going to get to the other side of LA for his next target in less than fifteen minutes.
-----
So, there’s this chart. Top 25 Cupids in the United States, and Jensen’s been cruising the number one spot since his third year at the Bureau of Amorous Affairs-a standing that should make him proud (and it does, sure it does) but in reality only means that he’s got high quotas to meet and difficult districts to work.
Districts like Los Angeles, CA, “City of Angels” (which is a ridiculous title because every god and goddess knows that Angels wouldn’t touch LA with a ten-foot pole, the slackers preferring to work their miracles in simpler towns). God knows how many poor Cupids have been tossed to the wolves here, trying to get a bunch of self-absorbed kids to fall in love, or even harder, stay in love. Doesn’t help that Samantha Ferris, the local Venus, expects Jensen to single-handedly clean up the mess there, as if being the leading Cupid in the nation somehow translates into having the ability to incite miracles (again, there are no Angels in LA).
Jensen sighs and tips back his bottled Corona, longing for the early days of Dallas, TX. Every once in awhile the laidback Venus there used to slip Jensen the fun gigs, like shooting a couple of diehard homophobes and watching them go nuts trying to deny it, or getting his targets in the middle of a wedding and observing the mayhem after the bride took off with the busboy.
“What’re you snickering at, Jenny?” Chris asks, squirting his lime into his beer-Corona, like Jensen’s.
“Nothin’ man, just thinking about Texas,” he replies fondly. Yeah, Chris has been his buddy since the early days. The guy’s no slacker himself in the business, so when Jensen had requested (begged) the Bureau to transfer Chris to LA as well, they’d agreed.
Nostalgic smile playing on his lips, Chris knocks the neck of his bottle against Jensen’s with a small clink and they both take long, appreciative swigs, silent toast to the Lone Star State.
Eyes closed, Jensen finishes off the last of his beer and relaxes, trying not to think about work tomorrow. But when he opens his eyes and peers over the glass bottle, he catches a glimpse of something that throws that wishful thinking out the window.
“Holy fu-“ he cries, dropping his bottle down on the table in surprise.
“What, man?”
Jensen blinks and narrows his gaze, searching through the darkness of the bar to locate-yeah, right there. “What the hell are they doing here?”
“Dude, what?” Chris asks, craning his neck to find what Jensen’s goggling at.
There’s a disproportionately tall guy and short girl some distance away and Jensen’s eyes are comically squinty as he studies their backs.
“I think that’s… yeah, I hit those two this morning. Looks like they didn’t waste any time,” Jensen says, re-seating himself and sinking low in the chair as if trying to seem invisible, which is kind of retarded because um, they are invisible.
“The hell’s wrong with you?”
Jensen warily looks at his friend as helps himself to another beer off a waitresses’ tray, then leans in conspiratorially and says, “Okay, so something really weird happened today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Now… don’t call me crazy or nothin’ but…” Jensen winces. “I think that guy saw me today.”
Chris eyes Jensen skeptically as he digs for peanuts in the small bowl on the table. “Um, Jensen, hate to tell you this but…”
“Don’t be a wiseass, I know they can’t see us. But I’m telling you man, when I bumped into him the guy turned around and looked. And when I was aiming at him, he was smiling at me.”
Chris turns around to look at the human again, sizing up his floppy hair and loud laugh that’s reverberating through the bar. “First of all, I’m pretty sure a guy wouldn’t be smiling at somebody pointing a gun at his chest. And second…” he trails off, sensing Jensen’s frustration. “Okay, never mind. Let’s just settle this.”
Chris gets out of his chair as Jensen looks up in panic and hisses, “What are you doing, sit back down!” All he gets is an eye-roll as Chris makes his way over to the couple, casually grabbing a beer from behind the bar before he gets right up to them (Sandra and what was his name again, Jerry? Jared.).
Chris taps Jared on the shoulder and Jensen covers his face with his palms, adamantly not watching the scene they’ll no doubt make when Jared notices there’s an invisible man hounding him. God, Jared’ll look crazy and then the girl might ditch him, and then what? It’ll be up to Jensen to do damage control-and dammit, he’s not even working right now!- ‘cause if they fall out of love it’ll fuck up his January numbers, and everybody knows the Bureau has the memory of a goldfish when it comes to handing out Valentine’s Day bonuses-
“You’re such a loser,” Chris drawls, back already and plunking himself down in the chair across from Jensen who lifts his head from his hands.
“He didn’t notice you?”
“Dude, I stuck my hand under the girl’s shirt and he didn’t bat an eyelash,” Chris laughs, popping few more peanuts in his mouth. “I repeat: Loser.”
-----
The next morning, Jensen wakes up to the infernal ringing of his alarm clock and promptly chucks the thing across the room. Unfortunately, it lands softly and cheerfully as it bounces on the carpet, now shrilly yelling at him from an inaccessible twenty feet away.
Cursing his own stupidity (at not having thrown the thing against the wall instead), Jensen groggily rolls out of bed, crawls to the clock under his desk, then turns it off.
Jesus Christ, his back’s sore. His neck and shoulders too. It hadn’t been a very good night for Jensen, who’d stayed wide awake until the sun just about peeked through his window. He gets insomnia every once in awhile, and he’ll usually make himself some hot chocolate or tea to warm him into sleepiness, but it hadn’t worked last night.
It was those damned cat eyes, Jensen swears. Whether or not Jared had actually seen or noticed him yesterday, it didn’t stop the guy from disrupting Jensen’s usual mental loop of work, beer, food, friends by adding little incessant bleeps of gummy bears and bright teeth in between everything.
Jensen quickly checks the time from the clock still in his hands, then picks himself up off the ground. After a quick shower he puts on a grey suit and a charcoal-colored shirt, foregoing the usual tie in honor of Casual Fridays (a phrase he’d picked up in an office building once, and a tradition he wholeheartedly approves of). A cup of black coffee and a bagel later, he’s out the door.
The first thing Samantha says when she sees him is: “God damn it 97, there is no such thing as ‘Casual Fridays’ here.” Nonetheless, she slides him his list, and then as an afterthought smiles brightly. It kind of looks like a grimace.
Jensen warily looks down and scans-what the fuck, 32 targets?
“What the fuck Ferris, 32 targets? Are you out of your mind? ”
Samantha clearly has a reply prepared as she rattles off, “Now Jensen, you know the Bureau always procrastinates on this stuff and Valentine’s Day is just a few weeks away, so we’ve got to get these kids in love by Monday. Now I purposely picked the ones out that are nearby each other-“
Not in the mood to waste time, Jensen interrupts, “Bonuses, Ferris. I’m thinking a nice big one this year.” He checks his watch, shoots her one last Look, and then hurries out of the room.
During the ride down the building Jensen memorizes his list and mentally maps the best routes to take for the day, while next to him Tom dreamily recounts his first day on the job and how proud he was when he managed to hit one of the targets from across an entire plaza-
Whatever, Jensen’s tuning him out. When they hit the lobby he thumps Tom on the back and then makes a run for the parking lot. It’s going to be a busy a day.
-----
At least one thing can be said for days like this: they pass by really fucking fast. In between obsessively checking his watch, driving like a madman, and riddling unsuspecting mortals with magical bullets, Jensen’s barely got time to breathe, much less complain about how overworked he is. No, the complaints are reserved for after work.
At the local bar in the neighborhood of Silver Lake, LA, six immortals crowd around a sticky wooden table.
“Honey, I think that’s your hand on my crotch,” Mike says.
“Oh shit, gross. I thought that was Kristin’s leg,” Chad says, looking slightly nauseous when Mike leans in suggestively, his grin small and evil.
Michael Rosenbaum and fucking Chad Michael Murray-the former being Mercury of the BAA (as in, the poor sap who gets stuck counting beans and wringing every last drop from the Bureau’s underfed budget) and the latter being the illustrious Chad, Cupid 73, in charge of the district of Orange County (though he’s kind of ass at his job). Jensen maintains that the stupid goat fuzz on the guy’s face will speak volumes more than he ever could hope to say about Chad. After all, just look at it.
“God, Chad,” Kristin says, wrinkling her little nose. “Why don’t you turn your energies away from trying to grope me and towards doing your job? Everybody’s talking about your sad numbers last month.” She scoots her chair away from him for emphasis, though with the weekend crush packed into every breathable inch of the bar, this just about puts her into Tom Welling’s lap. Tom turns such a deep shade of red that it’s visible even under the dim lighting. Jensen leans back in his chair and lets out a loud belly laugh; the kid’s so fucking transparent.
“Hey, it’s not my fault!” Chad protests. “It’s all that silicone shit the girls got in their boobs. Fucks with the bullets, I tell ya.”
Jensen leans forward, replying, “Oh c’mon, that’s no excuse. You just gotta angle it up-“ he demonstrates with his hands- “Get them under their ribs, and then you’re home free.”
Mike’s face is plastered with a shit-eating grin as he repeats “boobs,” chuckling to himself. But Chris is there too, smirking right alongside as he drinks his beer. That’s pretty much their whole group; four Cupids, a Mercury, and a couple of Muses-Kristin Bell absent for the night-all of them hailing from the nondescript, 29-story building smack dab in the middle of LA, and united in their distaste for working in government services. Well, other than Tom, who’d been fed the rhetoric of the gods alongside his baby formula (his Dad is Zeus, after all).
Tom’s still flushed when he loudly clears his throat. “Um,” he says, jimmying his leg to shake Kristin off of it. “I don’t mean to-it’s just-“
“Oh yeah, sorry,” she slides off embarrassedly, but then yelps when Mike pulls her onto his own lap.
“Is that better, Tommy?” he asks, winking at Tom who swallows visibly.
“Dude, did you just wink? Who does that?” Jensen hollers, prompting the table to join in as Mike basks in the abuse.
It doesn’t take long for the teasing to stop (it’s useless anyway, Mike’s immune) and the conversation once again breaks down to work-related anecdotes. Chris regales the group about how he’d tried to shoot a police officer wearing a bulletproof vest when the heavy doors of the bar swing open with a loud thud against the wall. Glancing over reveals nothing special, just a couple of guys strolling through, but as Jensen’s turning his attention back to Chris’ story a third member trails in.
“Oh… Jesus. What the fuck, man?” Jensen groans in disbelief.
“What do you mean?” Chris asks, confused. “I had to get the vest off, it was the only way-“
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. Look,” he gestures towards the entrance.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy from yesterday?”
“I thought maybe I was hallucinating or something,” Jensen says, letting his head drop to the wooden table.
“What are you guys talking about?” Kristin asks as everybody (except Jensen, who’s still face-down) collectively turn their heads to look. “Ooh, he’s cute,” she adds.
Jensen just mumbles incoherently into the wood grain so Chris steps in, explaining how Jensen’s convinced that the tallest of the three mortals had actually seen him the other day, and that Jensen’s an idiot.
“Seriously Jen, they can’t see us,” Mike laughs raucously, as Tom nods fervently.
“Yeah, everybody in the Bureau gets cloaked their first day, and there’s never been any incidents since they developed it back in the 40’s.”
“Okay, Encyclopedia Brown, I get it,” Jensen grunts, raising his eyes to glare at Tom. “Still, he freaks me out. Seems like the guy pops up everywhere I go…” Jensen trails off, unsettled by the sudden silence and bewildered expressions on everyone’s faces. “What?” he prompts, turning around in his seat.
He immediately pulls back because otherwise, Jensen’s face would’ve been buried in the crotch of some guy’s dark denims. Roving upwards, his eyes snag on a big Texas belt buckle before crossing a long span of beige cloth…
“Hey,” Jared says, smiling down at him.
Jensen would almost feel smug if he wasn’t so busy losing his shit. He jerks his head back to stare at the rest of the immortals with an incredulous look that says, Are you getting this? Are you fucking getting this?
In response, they only back away slowly as if Jensen’s visibility might be catching. “Dude-“ he starts indignantly, but then a hand lands heavily on his shoulder and Jensen drags his gaze back up (and up, Jesus the guy’s tall).
Jared bends down and asks, voice just loud enough in Jensen’s ear to be heard over the thumping music, “Are you using these chairs?”
“Uh…” Jensen looks around the table and notices that Tom and Kristin have gotten up anyway, standing as far back as possible as they watch the scene in horror. “Those two chairs are free, I guess,” he says uncertainly.
“Thanks!” Jared maneuvers around the table and grasps the back of Mike’s chair as Mike leans forward in alarm.
Jensen jumps up. “No! Not uh, not that one,” he protests weakly as Jared gives him a curious look. “The two around it are free. I’m, ah, saving that chair,” he finishes lamely.
“Okay,” Jared says agreeably. “Thanks!” he repeats as he drags off the two empty chairs, his friends helping him as all the immortals stare openly.
Jensen eventually pulls his eyes away from Jared and turns back around, exchanging dumbfounded looks with the other immortals.
“Dude,” Mike says eloquently, “What the fuck was that?”
Jensen shrugs, absently touching the condensation on his pint glass as the other immortals break out into uneasy conversation and debate over whether or not it’s safe to stay there. They keep shooting anxious looks in Jensen’s direction.
Whatever. Jensen could care less if they stay or go; he’s the one who’s been spotted already-is maybe still visible-and he is getting the fuck out of this increasingly claustrophobic bar. He stands up and shrugs his jacket back on, muttering something about how he’ll see everybody on Monday.
As Jensen’s leaving the bar, people (mortals) complain loudly when he jostles them in his haste to get out. By the time he’s standing outside of the bar to catch his breath, he can feel his cheeks burning.
It’s… it’s not that big a deal, Jensen tries to convince himself. Plenty of gods are visible, mingling and interacting with humans on a day-to-day basis. It’s just… he’s had the luxury of anonymity since his first day at the BAA six years ago so it’s freaking him out a little to lose it now.
Jensen squares his shoulders and strides over to his car, resolving to ask the tech guys about his malfunctioning cloak on Monday. That’s where the problem is, he’s sure of it.
Doesn’t keep him from feeling like Jared’s somehow the culprit, though.
Next
Characters: Jensen/Jared, Jensen/JDM, Jared/Sandy, Chris Kane, CW cast and cameos from Grey's Anatomy cast
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: R
Warnings: potty mouths, sarcasm, UST/schmoop, AU
Word Count: ~27,500
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Written for spn_fairytales. My challenge/inspiration was The Saucy Boy by Hans Christian Andersen. Thanks to mooyoo, insomnia_geek and gestaltrose for the betas! You guys kick butt. Feedback = <3, kids.
Summary: Everybody's got a love/hate relationship with their jobs. But for Jensen Ackles, top Cupid in the nation, after a hit goes wrong it's just a long, downhill slide from there. Caution: an ungodly amount of swearing, sarcasm, and schmoop in which Chris Kane is an awesome best friend, Tom Welling's the vacuous son of Zeus, Rosenbaum is Rosenbaum, and Jensen has a penchant for Plans.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
“Your list for the day, Cupid.”
Behind a large mahogany desk, a woman with long blonde hair, face aged but beautiful, jots down a couple notes into her yellow lined notepad, then rips the page out and slides it over to the man opposite her. The man-Jensen Ackles, 97th Cupid of the Bureau of Amorous Affairs (BAA)- plucks the sheet up and proceeds to scan it, frown deepening the more he reads.
“Eighteen targets today? What do you think I am, a machine?”
“That’s ‘Venus’ to you, C-97,” the woman scolds. Her name is Samantha Ferris but she is known as Venus, the proper title of a district manager at the BAA-in this case, the fine district of Los Angeles. She continues, “And no you’re not a machine, but you’re the best Cupid we’ve got on the West Coast, so get to it. Lotta lovin’ to get done before the weekend.”
Jensen sighs and pockets the paper. “Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes before heading back out the large oak doors.
Shit, eighteen of these guys? he grumbles to himself on the ride down the elevator, pulling the crumpled sheet out again to read Samantha’s (correction, Venus’) blue-ink scrawl in more depth.
1. Sandra McCoy (27). Ralph’s Grocery Co, 9:47 AM
This seems like a common enough way to start the day: staking out public grounds for a woman in her mid-twenties, whereupon he’ll shoot her through the heart with one of the Bureau’s specially prepared bullets, which are made and imprinted in pairs. The target’ll see nothing, feel nothing-at least, not until the partner bullet has pierced her future lover’s heart, courtesy of the Cupid behind the smoking gun.
What, you pictured cherubs with bows and arrows? This ain’t your Hallmark Cupid, kid.
Jensen loosens his silver tie as he idly skims the rest of the day’s targets, annoyed that even with the Bureau’s new management, they hadn’t bothered to implement picture IDs for the target briefings. Guess it’s still up to them to find the right targets with just a name, age, and location. That, and a whole lot of creativity. Picture IDs would’ve been fucking awesome but hey, the bigwigs never read the damned suggestion boxes.
“It’s a matter of funding,” somebody pipes up next to him, uncomfortably near in the small space of the elevator (Jesus, Jensen hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t alone). “The Bureau just upgraded the firearms and bullet tip formulae, so they didn’t have room in the budget for much else this year.” Jensen turns around and finds none other than Tom Welling, Zeus’ very own son, smiling at him with vaguely vacant blue eyes.
“Hey, you’re Tom Welling,” Jensen states, his irritation replaced by surprise. “You’re here already?”
“That’s C-148 while we’re on duty,” Tom says smartly, puffing his chest out where his shiny new Cupid pin rests on an immaculate lapel. “Well, I wasn’t supposed to be here until the end of the month, but I just couldn’t wait,” he admits, smiling beatifically. The elevator dings and a couple more bodies shift inside as Jensen blinks in horror.
“Pick of the crop kid, and you choose a crap job like being a Cupid?” Jensen asks incredulously. “What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s an honor to uphold one of the oldest traditions and responsibilities of the immortals…” Tom recites, and Jensen rolls his eyes because dude, everybody had to read that shit in the beginner’s manual but ain’t nobody in the building actually believes in it. “…and… there’s kind of this person,” Tom finishes lamely. Aha.
Tom talks his ear off for the rest of the ride down the building’s twenty-nine floors, and when they reach the lobby with a loud churning of gears, Jensen hops out gratefully.
“Nice meeting you, C-97!” Tom calls out.
“It’s Jensen,” he mutters, automatically looking up at the large wall clock above the receptionist’s desk. “Shit,” he curses as he realizes how late it is.
He’s too busy mentally mapping a route to his first location to notice the clomp of shoes jogging up behind him, only looking up when somebody falls in step next to him. “Hey Jen, was that Zeus’ kid just now? What’s he doing here?”
Jensen perks up when he sees it’s his friend and fellow Cupid, Christian Kane; a tall brunet with sleepy blue eyes. “Yeah, that was Tom Welling,” Jensen says. “It’s his first day here.” When Chris eyes him disbelievingly, he explains, “He wanted to be a Cupid ‘cause he’s in love with a girl working here, or some shit like that.”
“Ironic. I think I just threw up a little,” Chris says, wrinkling his nose as Jensen mirrors the sentiment. You don’t spend your entire career in professional matchmaking (in Los Angeles, of all places) without becoming just a little-or, in their case a lot- sarcastic.
“Tomorrow’s Friday, man. That’s all I got to keep me going,” Jensen says as he holds the front door out for Chris. They step down the innocuous entryway before parting in different directions.
“I’ll see you at Great Lakes after work!” Chris calls as he backpedals towards his car.
“After work,” Jensen confirms, slapping his hand on the hood of his own car before popping the door open and sliding in.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says to himself. No one else is gonna give these kids a Hollywood ending.
C-97 (This ain’t your Hallmark Cupid)
It’s a relatively quick drive to the other side of town, and it doesn’t hurt that immortals don’t have to stay on the ground, strictly speaking. With the shift of a gear, Jensen easily maneuvers his RAV4 into the air and smugly joins the rest of the immortal commuters as they flow above traffic, invisible to the human eye.
With just a little bit of speeding, Jensen gets to Ralph’s at 9:45 AM on the dot. 9:46 sees him hovering around the grocery store registers, peeking at people’s credit cards and eavesdropping on conversations for any sign of a “Sandra McCoy.” By 9:47 Jensen’s getting desperate so he stakes out the exit and determinedly finds out the name of every woman who looks like she could be 27 years old, give or take a decade.
By 9:51 AM, four minutes past the time listed for this location, Jensen’s swearing up a storm because the girl could be anywhere by now, and he didn’t stick with the BAA for six years only to ruin his spotless record by some run-of-the-mill, oblivious mortal-
“Sandy!”
-Jensen stutters to a halt before swinging around in search of the owner of the voice. Lucky for him, this “Sandy” is doing the same thing about ten meters away, the petite, dark-haired girl (dammit, he’d taken her for 14, maybe 15 tops) locating her friend and waving her over.
Jensen breathes a sigh of relief, reaching into his jacket to pull out the Bureau’s newly issued HK handgun from its leather holster. Here comes the easy part.
He gives the new gun a little inaugural ceremony as he feels out the weight in his palm, tossing it from hand to hand before slowly and smoothly releasing the safety. The audible click serves as more than enough for a warm-up so in consideration for the next seventeen hits on the day’s list, Jensen foregoes the fanfare and gets down on one knee in the middle of the parking lot, aims, and fires.
Sandra starts a little as the bullet pierces her back but the moment passes without so much as a hiccup in the girls’ conversation. Jensen’s not worried; he hasn’t missed a shot since his rookie days and he knows the bullet’s already busy working its magic. In fact, Sandra’s already in love, she just doesn’t know it yet-won’t know until the bullet in her palpitating heart meets its twin; the next bullet lined up in the HK’s magazine clip.
Jensen tucks the gun back into his holster and pulls out his list, runs a finger down… ah, yes. Jared Tristan Padalecki, the lucky suitor, should be entering the parking lot in just a few minutes. Glancing back at Sandra, Jensen verifies that she’s not going anywhere anytime soon, then gets up and begins circling the grounds as he keeps an eye out for a 25-year old male and an ear out for the right name.
It’s easier finding the target this time, seeing as how the guy literally runs into him while talking on his phone (as Jensen’s jostled off to the side, thankful for modern-day magic that protects him from being seen or noticed by mortals). Jensen hears a snatch of a woman’s voice through the phone confirming he’s got the right man as he faintly hears “JT, honey? Jared?” Pleased, Jensen opens his jacket front when just then, the guy stops in his tracks.
Actually stops before turning around to look back at where Jensen’s frozen still, one hand guiltily reaching for his gun. What the…? Jensen panics as Jared’s eyes slit in suspicion, searching the thin air, before he shakes his head a little and keeps walking towards the entrance of the grocery store.
Jensen’s thrown by it. He furrows his brow as he thinks… nope, that’s the first time a human had ever blinked twice at something he did, whether pick-pocketing an ID card or full on shoving a person towards another (which he doesn’t like to do too often; it’s a little uncouth, though it does get the job done). Huh.
Dazedly, Jensen starts trailing off towards his car to move on with his day, when he realizes-shit-he hadn’t even shot the guy yet! He mentally smacks himself before dashing into the store, cursing because damn it, it’s so much harder to get a clear shot when the job’s indoors and in a busy area.
He finds Jared somewhere between the soup and spices near the back of the store, but everything’s in such damned close quarters that he can’t get the distance he needs. For some technical reason that Jensen’s never bothered to ask about, a Cupid’s not supposed to pierce a heart from less than two meters away (probably something to do with the danger of being seen before it became moot point during the 20th century) and this Jared guy’s definitely not making his job any easier for him as he proceeds to crowd the space with his pan-sized mitts and everywhere limbs. Jensen sighs and resigns himself to following the giant around until maybe a clear path will open up. He hopes Sandy and her friend outside have a lot to talk about, since this might take awhile.
Jensen gets increasingly impatient as he watches Jared grab a cart and promptly fill half of it with soda, TV dinners, and Jesus, are those twelve packs of gummy bears crammed in the front seat? Jensen’s half-considering throwing a few vegetables in the cart, knowing full well that the mortal would never think twice about it. Then maybe the kid could oh, who knows, live to see past his next birthday?
Just as Jensen’s wandering off towards the produce, his chance reveals himself in the timely clearing of two couples from the frozen aisle, and seeing as how Jen’s one of the country’s top Cupids, it’s easy as pie for him to pull his gun out, aim, and-
Jared suddenly looks straight at Jensen for the second time that day, locks eyes, and then smiles. Not even just-there’s teeth, and there’s even a little curled tip of a tongue peeking through, and Jensen’s dumbfounded because What the fuck, how can he see me?
Jensen’s grip on his gun slackens uncertainly, his mind whirling as the human walks towards him, his mouth opening to form the words as if in slow motion: Yes-wa-ter-melon-half-off!
Wait, what? Jensen thinks. In the span of half a second he realizes with dismay that no, Jared Tristan Padalecki was most certainly not looking at him, and was instead making eyes at the hefty stack of watermelons behind him. In the latter half of that second Jensen re-aims and pumps a bullet, the twin of Sandra McCoy’s, into the kid’s heart.
Jared just pushes past him and goes to pick out a good watermelon, oohing and aahing to himself over the ripe skins and unbeatable price, and Jensen exhales tightly. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? He’d almost blown that one, and over what? Thinking the human could actually see him?
I need this weekend more than I thought, he thinks, looking forward to the moment he can cross the last name off the day’s list and go join Chris at their favorite bar. Sixteen to go, he sighs.
Now it’s only a matter of following Jared out the grocery store and making sure he and Sandra make some sort of physical contact before he leaves; that’s all the magic needs to activate. When Jared’s elbow brushes Sandra’s on the way to his truck, their eyes meet and that instant interest, the telltale sign that Jensen’s put away another two successes on his already-impressive record, sparks a weird mixture of relief and disappointment inside of him.
Huh, he stops to muse, before shrugging his shoulders.
Jensen shakes the mood off like a champ, pulling his trusty list out of his pocket. It doesn’t take long before blinding smiles and feline eyes are all but forgotten-he’s got more important stuff to deal with, like how the hell he’s going to get to the other side of LA for his next target in less than fifteen minutes.
-----
So, there’s this chart. Top 25 Cupids in the United States, and Jensen’s been cruising the number one spot since his third year at the Bureau of Amorous Affairs-a standing that should make him proud (and it does, sure it does) but in reality only means that he’s got high quotas to meet and difficult districts to work.
Districts like Los Angeles, CA, “City of Angels” (which is a ridiculous title because every god and goddess knows that Angels wouldn’t touch LA with a ten-foot pole, the slackers preferring to work their miracles in simpler towns). God knows how many poor Cupids have been tossed to the wolves here, trying to get a bunch of self-absorbed kids to fall in love, or even harder, stay in love. Doesn’t help that Samantha Ferris, the local Venus, expects Jensen to single-handedly clean up the mess there, as if being the leading Cupid in the nation somehow translates into having the ability to incite miracles (again, there are no Angels in LA).
Jensen sighs and tips back his bottled Corona, longing for the early days of Dallas, TX. Every once in awhile the laidback Venus there used to slip Jensen the fun gigs, like shooting a couple of diehard homophobes and watching them go nuts trying to deny it, or getting his targets in the middle of a wedding and observing the mayhem after the bride took off with the busboy.
“What’re you snickering at, Jenny?” Chris asks, squirting his lime into his beer-Corona, like Jensen’s.
“Nothin’ man, just thinking about Texas,” he replies fondly. Yeah, Chris has been his buddy since the early days. The guy’s no slacker himself in the business, so when Jensen had requested (begged) the Bureau to transfer Chris to LA as well, they’d agreed.
Nostalgic smile playing on his lips, Chris knocks the neck of his bottle against Jensen’s with a small clink and they both take long, appreciative swigs, silent toast to the Lone Star State.
Eyes closed, Jensen finishes off the last of his beer and relaxes, trying not to think about work tomorrow. But when he opens his eyes and peers over the glass bottle, he catches a glimpse of something that throws that wishful thinking out the window.
“Holy fu-“ he cries, dropping his bottle down on the table in surprise.
“What, man?”
Jensen blinks and narrows his gaze, searching through the darkness of the bar to locate-yeah, right there. “What the hell are they doing here?”
“Dude, what?” Chris asks, craning his neck to find what Jensen’s goggling at.
There’s a disproportionately tall guy and short girl some distance away and Jensen’s eyes are comically squinty as he studies their backs.
“I think that’s… yeah, I hit those two this morning. Looks like they didn’t waste any time,” Jensen says, re-seating himself and sinking low in the chair as if trying to seem invisible, which is kind of retarded because um, they are invisible.
“The hell’s wrong with you?”
Jensen warily looks at his friend as helps himself to another beer off a waitresses’ tray, then leans in conspiratorially and says, “Okay, so something really weird happened today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Now… don’t call me crazy or nothin’ but…” Jensen winces. “I think that guy saw me today.”
Chris eyes Jensen skeptically as he digs for peanuts in the small bowl on the table. “Um, Jensen, hate to tell you this but…”
“Don’t be a wiseass, I know they can’t see us. But I’m telling you man, when I bumped into him the guy turned around and looked. And when I was aiming at him, he was smiling at me.”
Chris turns around to look at the human again, sizing up his floppy hair and loud laugh that’s reverberating through the bar. “First of all, I’m pretty sure a guy wouldn’t be smiling at somebody pointing a gun at his chest. And second…” he trails off, sensing Jensen’s frustration. “Okay, never mind. Let’s just settle this.”
Chris gets out of his chair as Jensen looks up in panic and hisses, “What are you doing, sit back down!” All he gets is an eye-roll as Chris makes his way over to the couple, casually grabbing a beer from behind the bar before he gets right up to them (Sandra and what was his name again, Jerry? Jared.).
Chris taps Jared on the shoulder and Jensen covers his face with his palms, adamantly not watching the scene they’ll no doubt make when Jared notices there’s an invisible man hounding him. God, Jared’ll look crazy and then the girl might ditch him, and then what? It’ll be up to Jensen to do damage control-and dammit, he’s not even working right now!- ‘cause if they fall out of love it’ll fuck up his January numbers, and everybody knows the Bureau has the memory of a goldfish when it comes to handing out Valentine’s Day bonuses-
“You’re such a loser,” Chris drawls, back already and plunking himself down in the chair across from Jensen who lifts his head from his hands.
“He didn’t notice you?”
“Dude, I stuck my hand under the girl’s shirt and he didn’t bat an eyelash,” Chris laughs, popping few more peanuts in his mouth. “I repeat: Loser.”
-----
The next morning, Jensen wakes up to the infernal ringing of his alarm clock and promptly chucks the thing across the room. Unfortunately, it lands softly and cheerfully as it bounces on the carpet, now shrilly yelling at him from an inaccessible twenty feet away.
Cursing his own stupidity (at not having thrown the thing against the wall instead), Jensen groggily rolls out of bed, crawls to the clock under his desk, then turns it off.
Jesus Christ, his back’s sore. His neck and shoulders too. It hadn’t been a very good night for Jensen, who’d stayed wide awake until the sun just about peeked through his window. He gets insomnia every once in awhile, and he’ll usually make himself some hot chocolate or tea to warm him into sleepiness, but it hadn’t worked last night.
It was those damned cat eyes, Jensen swears. Whether or not Jared had actually seen or noticed him yesterday, it didn’t stop the guy from disrupting Jensen’s usual mental loop of work, beer, food, friends by adding little incessant bleeps of gummy bears and bright teeth in between everything.
Jensen quickly checks the time from the clock still in his hands, then picks himself up off the ground. After a quick shower he puts on a grey suit and a charcoal-colored shirt, foregoing the usual tie in honor of Casual Fridays (a phrase he’d picked up in an office building once, and a tradition he wholeheartedly approves of). A cup of black coffee and a bagel later, he’s out the door.
The first thing Samantha says when she sees him is: “God damn it 97, there is no such thing as ‘Casual Fridays’ here.” Nonetheless, she slides him his list, and then as an afterthought smiles brightly. It kind of looks like a grimace.
Jensen warily looks down and scans-what the fuck, 32 targets?
“What the fuck Ferris, 32 targets? Are you out of your mind? ”
Samantha clearly has a reply prepared as she rattles off, “Now Jensen, you know the Bureau always procrastinates on this stuff and Valentine’s Day is just a few weeks away, so we’ve got to get these kids in love by Monday. Now I purposely picked the ones out that are nearby each other-“
Not in the mood to waste time, Jensen interrupts, “Bonuses, Ferris. I’m thinking a nice big one this year.” He checks his watch, shoots her one last Look, and then hurries out of the room.
During the ride down the building Jensen memorizes his list and mentally maps the best routes to take for the day, while next to him Tom dreamily recounts his first day on the job and how proud he was when he managed to hit one of the targets from across an entire plaza-
Whatever, Jensen’s tuning him out. When they hit the lobby he thumps Tom on the back and then makes a run for the parking lot. It’s going to be a busy a day.
-----
At least one thing can be said for days like this: they pass by really fucking fast. In between obsessively checking his watch, driving like a madman, and riddling unsuspecting mortals with magical bullets, Jensen’s barely got time to breathe, much less complain about how overworked he is. No, the complaints are reserved for after work.
At the local bar in the neighborhood of Silver Lake, LA, six immortals crowd around a sticky wooden table.
“Honey, I think that’s your hand on my crotch,” Mike says.
“Oh shit, gross. I thought that was Kristin’s leg,” Chad says, looking slightly nauseous when Mike leans in suggestively, his grin small and evil.
Michael Rosenbaum and fucking Chad Michael Murray-the former being Mercury of the BAA (as in, the poor sap who gets stuck counting beans and wringing every last drop from the Bureau’s underfed budget) and the latter being the illustrious Chad, Cupid 73, in charge of the district of Orange County (though he’s kind of ass at his job). Jensen maintains that the stupid goat fuzz on the guy’s face will speak volumes more than he ever could hope to say about Chad. After all, just look at it.
“God, Chad,” Kristin says, wrinkling her little nose. “Why don’t you turn your energies away from trying to grope me and towards doing your job? Everybody’s talking about your sad numbers last month.” She scoots her chair away from him for emphasis, though with the weekend crush packed into every breathable inch of the bar, this just about puts her into Tom Welling’s lap. Tom turns such a deep shade of red that it’s visible even under the dim lighting. Jensen leans back in his chair and lets out a loud belly laugh; the kid’s so fucking transparent.
“Hey, it’s not my fault!” Chad protests. “It’s all that silicone shit the girls got in their boobs. Fucks with the bullets, I tell ya.”
Jensen leans forward, replying, “Oh c’mon, that’s no excuse. You just gotta angle it up-“ he demonstrates with his hands- “Get them under their ribs, and then you’re home free.”
Mike’s face is plastered with a shit-eating grin as he repeats “boobs,” chuckling to himself. But Chris is there too, smirking right alongside as he drinks his beer. That’s pretty much their whole group; four Cupids, a Mercury, and a couple of Muses-Kristin Bell absent for the night-all of them hailing from the nondescript, 29-story building smack dab in the middle of LA, and united in their distaste for working in government services. Well, other than Tom, who’d been fed the rhetoric of the gods alongside his baby formula (his Dad is Zeus, after all).
Tom’s still flushed when he loudly clears his throat. “Um,” he says, jimmying his leg to shake Kristin off of it. “I don’t mean to-it’s just-“
“Oh yeah, sorry,” she slides off embarrassedly, but then yelps when Mike pulls her onto his own lap.
“Is that better, Tommy?” he asks, winking at Tom who swallows visibly.
“Dude, did you just wink? Who does that?” Jensen hollers, prompting the table to join in as Mike basks in the abuse.
It doesn’t take long for the teasing to stop (it’s useless anyway, Mike’s immune) and the conversation once again breaks down to work-related anecdotes. Chris regales the group about how he’d tried to shoot a police officer wearing a bulletproof vest when the heavy doors of the bar swing open with a loud thud against the wall. Glancing over reveals nothing special, just a couple of guys strolling through, but as Jensen’s turning his attention back to Chris’ story a third member trails in.
“Oh… Jesus. What the fuck, man?” Jensen groans in disbelief.
“What do you mean?” Chris asks, confused. “I had to get the vest off, it was the only way-“
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. Look,” he gestures towards the entrance.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy from yesterday?”
“I thought maybe I was hallucinating or something,” Jensen says, letting his head drop to the wooden table.
“What are you guys talking about?” Kristin asks as everybody (except Jensen, who’s still face-down) collectively turn their heads to look. “Ooh, he’s cute,” she adds.
Jensen just mumbles incoherently into the wood grain so Chris steps in, explaining how Jensen’s convinced that the tallest of the three mortals had actually seen him the other day, and that Jensen’s an idiot.
“Seriously Jen, they can’t see us,” Mike laughs raucously, as Tom nods fervently.
“Yeah, everybody in the Bureau gets cloaked their first day, and there’s never been any incidents since they developed it back in the 40’s.”
“Okay, Encyclopedia Brown, I get it,” Jensen grunts, raising his eyes to glare at Tom. “Still, he freaks me out. Seems like the guy pops up everywhere I go…” Jensen trails off, unsettled by the sudden silence and bewildered expressions on everyone’s faces. “What?” he prompts, turning around in his seat.
He immediately pulls back because otherwise, Jensen’s face would’ve been buried in the crotch of some guy’s dark denims. Roving upwards, his eyes snag on a big Texas belt buckle before crossing a long span of beige cloth…
“Hey,” Jared says, smiling down at him.
Jensen would almost feel smug if he wasn’t so busy losing his shit. He jerks his head back to stare at the rest of the immortals with an incredulous look that says, Are you getting this? Are you fucking getting this?
In response, they only back away slowly as if Jensen’s visibility might be catching. “Dude-“ he starts indignantly, but then a hand lands heavily on his shoulder and Jensen drags his gaze back up (and up, Jesus the guy’s tall).
Jared bends down and asks, voice just loud enough in Jensen’s ear to be heard over the thumping music, “Are you using these chairs?”
“Uh…” Jensen looks around the table and notices that Tom and Kristin have gotten up anyway, standing as far back as possible as they watch the scene in horror. “Those two chairs are free, I guess,” he says uncertainly.
“Thanks!” Jared maneuvers around the table and grasps the back of Mike’s chair as Mike leans forward in alarm.
Jensen jumps up. “No! Not uh, not that one,” he protests weakly as Jared gives him a curious look. “The two around it are free. I’m, ah, saving that chair,” he finishes lamely.
“Okay,” Jared says agreeably. “Thanks!” he repeats as he drags off the two empty chairs, his friends helping him as all the immortals stare openly.
Jensen eventually pulls his eyes away from Jared and turns back around, exchanging dumbfounded looks with the other immortals.
“Dude,” Mike says eloquently, “What the fuck was that?”
Jensen shrugs, absently touching the condensation on his pint glass as the other immortals break out into uneasy conversation and debate over whether or not it’s safe to stay there. They keep shooting anxious looks in Jensen’s direction.
Whatever. Jensen could care less if they stay or go; he’s the one who’s been spotted already-is maybe still visible-and he is getting the fuck out of this increasingly claustrophobic bar. He stands up and shrugs his jacket back on, muttering something about how he’ll see everybody on Monday.
As Jensen’s leaving the bar, people (mortals) complain loudly when he jostles them in his haste to get out. By the time he’s standing outside of the bar to catch his breath, he can feel his cheeks burning.
It’s… it’s not that big a deal, Jensen tries to convince himself. Plenty of gods are visible, mingling and interacting with humans on a day-to-day basis. It’s just… he’s had the luxury of anonymity since his first day at the BAA six years ago so it’s freaking him out a little to lose it now.
Jensen squares his shoulders and strides over to his car, resolving to ask the tech guys about his malfunctioning cloak on Monday. That’s where the problem is, he’s sure of it.
Doesn’t keep him from feeling like Jared’s somehow the culprit, though.
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