The Ramblers, Part One, mijmeraar.
Fic title: The Ramblers.
Author name: mijmeraar
Artist name: spn43v3r
Beta name: hkath
Genre: RPS AU
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: Hard R.
Warnings: One illustration is NSFW.
Word count: 36,566
Summary: Jensen Ackles - part time photographer and part time shit kicker - is waist deep in his best friends’ break downs and drug dealings; in dyslexic musicians and disabusing ex-boyfriends. If that’s not enough, he meets Jared Padalecki -a young, breakthrough actor with a bestselling movie to his name - who, awkward but earnest, strives for Jensen’s affections.
The safe and sheltered life behind his camera isn’t enough, now, and Jensen’s set to become the star of his own show - whether he’s ready or not.
Link to art:Here.
The SAFE FOR WORK Version of Part One!
Part One.
It’s Wednesday, and the gooey centre of Jensen Ackles’ crappiest week to date.
There’s no money and no means and if he has to pull out his last packet of Ramen Noodles for dinner tonight he might hang himself with them, instead.
“I’m desperate,” he grudgingly tells his ‘sometimes’ boss, as they stand in the middle of KC’s bar and butt heads. It’s loud here, they’re half way through renovations, but that hasn’t dissuaded the customers. There are small groups on their feet and pushed to the wall, to make room.
“Look around you,” Chris says through his teeth. His hair’s on end, his once-white apron is brown and there’s a definite twitch in his right eye. “Do I look like I need one more asshole standing around pretending to work? No.”
One of the drills stops mid-whirr and a big, beefy bloke with no hair looks over and looks mad. Jensen throws on a smile and lowers his voice.
“I’m not talking about drinking your whiskey, Kane,” he says, poking at Chris’ plaid shoulder. “I want to do something.”
“How about calling your parents, does that qualify?”
“Oh, sure, why didn’t I think of that? Hey, Mom, you know how you said California would chew me up and spit me out? Well …”
Chris throws his hands up, and heads for the bar. Jensen’s always marvelled at the easy, fluid movement of him, even at the worst of times. He pegs an order, tucks the book away, reaches for a towel and throws it over one shoulder as he turns to his customers. A dance, almost.
“Look, ask Matt for some cash,” he says, later, realising Jensen’s still waiting. “What do I care! I’m not your financial advisor.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Right, pull the friend card when you’re not skipping around with your camera.” Jensen scowls. “Jenny, I ain’t got work for you. Just, go be a sandwich artist or something.”
Jensen wants to tell him to go fuck off or something, but his phone buzzes in his pocket and he’s forced to abandon the anger. “Hello, this is Jensen Ackles?”
“Mr. Ackles? It’s Noel Gregson from Jump Magazine”.
*
When he was young, younger, Jensen told the world he wasn’t a sell out. His world, at least. The bus driver with a nickel sized mole on his temple; the resident MILF and her too tight skirts; the kids he used to photograph for Sam Says Cheese! even if they did just stare at him with their mouths open as the flash went off in their faces.
Jensen Ackles wasn’t a sell out.
Except, well, these days? It’s just Jensen and the empty fridge in his one bedroom-cum-dark room apartment. It’s cornflakes for dinner and cheaping out on the beer that tastes strangely like ass [You’d know, Wayne would say]. These days, Jensen can make as much noise as he wants, but money does the talking.
*
The kid’s name is Jared Padalecki. Some new up-and-comer with a Jonathon Taylor Thomas face that the girls are going crazy for. According to his Jumpin’ Profile he’s a Cancer who likes to hang out with his friends, loves his mama’s fried chicken and looks for a girl who’s got a big heart. A real catch. The rate at which he talks, he’d probably be the first to tell you.
“… so my friend, right, he pulls this truck to bits, just clean to bits, he thinks it’s the carburettor or something, I don’t know…”
The studio’s enormous. Jared - in a black, button down shirt with his sleeves rolled up - looks small, settled against the sea of white behind him. It’s a poor attempt at artistic depth but, considering the pay packet, Jensen expected nothing less.
“Uh, Jared,” Jensen interrupts, coming up from behind the camera and scratching his head. “We’re actually looking for broody, y’know? Do you think you could brood?”
Jared laughs with such force that it echoes across the room, a needle stuck in a groove. Jensen fixes him with his I’m Not Kidding stare, so Jared mutters, “Sorry, man,” and quickly rearranges his expression. Hi, I’m Misunderstood, Can One Of You Ladies Save Me? face. It’s been a long time since Jensen’s worked with conventional beauty; since he’s had to think about how it should be presented rather than presenting it purely as it is.
“So, uh, what’s this movie about?” Jensen asks, trying to induce something else, something honest. He’s quick, to and fro, trying to find a new angle, a way around the tall, ridiculous mass that is this kid.
“You haven’t heard of it?” Jared screws up his forehead; the kind of lines Jump would spray clean.
“No?”
“It’s … I thought everyone knew about it, there’s so much hype. It’s like, Brokeback Mountain, without the gay cowboys.”
Jensen smirks, standing back to full height as one of the crew scurries over to fiddle at Jared’s make up and attire. Jensen doesn’t give direction, here. “Not really a movie buff,” he says when they’re alone again. “Except, y’know, the classics.”
“Sure, yeah … like The Terminator.” Jensen’s glad that Jared’s face is etched around sarcasm. Jensen’s quick to capture it, shutterclick. Very few people know how to let themselves go when there’s a camera around. They’re always thinking about later, the result, but that’s not what moments are. Moments are just now, and Jared Padalecki’s good at being just here, just now.
“I was thinking more like Hitchcock … Kazan?”
“Right.” Jared runs a hand through his hair without thinking. Shutterclick. “I played Stanley Kowalski for a play at school.”
“Really?” Jensen’s actually impressed with that titbit. That’s the sort of thing that should go on a person’s profile.
“I do a mean ‘Stella!’ too. Do you want to hear it?”
Jensen chuckles to himself, imagining the kind of picture that would make. He’s sure the girls would love to see this kid with a half ripped shirt and his stupid, sculpted hair an out of control mess. Fucking pretty boys. They’re always giving Jensen ideas. “Some other time, maybe.”
“Have you ever worked in front of the camera?”
Jensen tries his best not to scoff. “No I don’t … no. Why do you ask?”
Jared scratches at his ear, head ducked, shutterclick. “You, uh, you look the type. I guess.”
“Well, I did win Best Looking Baby when I was six months,” Jensen deadpans, watching Jared smile through the lens. “There was too much pressure, I couldn’t hack it.”
Jared laughs. “A classic case of child stardom.”
“Right. I got out before I developed a dependency to stewed apples.” Jensen readjusts is camera, waits until the Jump representative has finished barking orders at Jared and moves back in. “Almost done, Jared,” he says, taking pity.
“’s alright,” Jared tells him, sensing his concern. “I’ve had fun.”
*
It’ll be ten years, next year. Ten years since he left Richardson for The Golden State. Ten years since he met Matt on the corner of Sutter and Jones with twenty bucks and an old Zenit. The same way he loves Chris for his No Bull Shit attitude, he loves Matt for keeping him sheltered when he needed it most. Sheltered from the elements, sheltered from the doubt. How could Jensen Ackles be someone out there?
“I would have loaned you some cash,” Matt berates as they stand over the basin in Jensen’s make shift dark room, the deep red light casting garish shadows across the wall. They’re sorting through photos from Jensen’s morning shoot: a 6 year-old’s pirate themed birthday party.
“It didn’t matter.” Jensen shrugs, plucking out a favourite and shaking it gently. Long John Silver huddled on a banana lounge with his arm around Jack Sparrow, the pair sharing a raspberry popsicle. As he pegs it up, Matt catches a glimpse over Jensen’s shoulder and chuckles under his breath. “I heard that.”
“What?” Matt snaps defensively.
“When are you and Jilly having kids?”
“You mean bringing life into a world that’s doomed to extinction?”
Jensen rolls his eyes and groans. Here we go again. “Oh, God.”
“Life that’ll only siphon whatever goodness is left of the environment with, no doubt, less regard than the generation before it?”
“Does Jilly want them?”
Matt sighs, leaning down, hands wrapped around the side of the basin. He mutters, “Jillian wants a lot of fucking things,” in a voice so heavy it could break the room in two. Jensen feels it in his gut. Matt and Jillian are Frisco’s answer to Fred and Ginger. They’re sacred.
“Dude … what …?”
“It’s just … can we not talk about Jilly, please?” Matt pulls one of the pictures to the surface, Jared Padalecki surplus. He’s smiling too big, no want, no come hither in his eyes, so the magazine had stopped it at the pass. It was one of Jensen’s favourites, and he’d talked them into letting him keep it for his portfolio. “Who’s this?”
“Promo shoot I told you about,” Jensen answers over his shoulder, last photo to the wire and no more space. “For Jump.” He gathers what’s left of the pictures and bundles them up in a pile. It’s a stupid-small room but Jensen’s got the routine down pat now; knows which way to twist without knocking himself out.
As he heads for the door Matt asks, “Did you fuck him?” and Jensen laughs.
“Do I look like I want to go to jail?”
He moves back down the hall, through the living room - mattress on the floor and unmade - across the kitchen linoleum and over to the open window. He pegs them on the washing line that’s never used for clothes; for photos mostly, or for holding onto when he climbs up where he shouldn’t climb. To get the better shot.
Inside, Matt’s on the couch with the TV on and the sound down. “We need to get you laid,” he says matter-of-fact.
Jensen slumps down beside him, wiping his hands on his thighs. “As entertaining as my short ‘coming’s are, we’re not dropping the real issue here. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Matt’s fiddling with the TV remote, and giving himself away. He could never look Jensen in the eye and lie. “We’re just going through what all couples go through.”
“What’s that?”
Matt’s head falls back and he breathes, deep, like he’s unwell and trying to will it away. “I don’t know. Transition.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, Jensen,” he cries, throwing his arms in the air. “We’re always fighting over nothing. She tells me I’m useless, she won’t let me do anything around the house, she’s a fucking time bomb.”
“Well, maybe she just -“
“What? She just what? Is fucking someone else? Doesn’t love me any more? Is leaving me? I’ve gone through the scenarios, it doesn’t help.”
Jensen’s sure he can’t handle this. “Maybe she’s pregnant.”
Matt’s head jolts around, his face twisted in a less than happy expression. “Are you fucking kidding me with this right now?”
“I’m just saying. She’s moody, angry … pregnancy does that to a woman.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“What!? I-”
“I’m talking about breaking up with the girl I’ve loved since sophomore year and you’re cracking jokes?”
“It’s not a joke, I - ”
Matt pushes himself up onto his feet - the cushions have a tendency to sink inward - and shoves through the space between the mattress and the sofa. “Thanks, Jensen, you’re a goddamn Prince.”
Jensen groans. He’s always putting his foot in it. “Matt …”
“I’ve got to get home,” he says, waving off Jensen’s contrition. “Next she’ll be trying to convince me I’m having an affair.”
*
Jensen lives in a cereal box. It’s easily the tallest building on the street. The upper crust resting on the higher floors [the Paks with their schnauzer and its incessant yapping]. The booby prize buried down below [Kenny and his band, Jungle Gym, playing something unlike music in the basement]. It’s not Jensen’s sanctuary but a house never has been; it’s the city sidewalks with his Canon and no-one to answer to.
Cali is everything he’d dreamt it to be, and Jensen’s spent a lot of time dreaming.
It’s nothing like Texas, here. Texas is flat and sparse and as far as the eye can see. It’s horizons and distance and going and getting away. California - San Francisco - it’s the destination. It’s busy colours and endless faces and take the next turn to anywhere. Everything’s just around the corner. Jensen loves Texas, and he knows he’ll go back there, to settle. Right now, though, he’s just getting started.
*
If Matt is Jensen’s best friend then Wayne is his best miscreant. Later that week, Wayne takes Jensen to The Rooster Barn, out of guilt. He’d gotten drunk one night and managed to make cocktails with the last few rolls of Jensen’s film. The reasoning - as usual, with Wayne - was still a total mystery, but Jensen was told to be comforted with the knowledge that the film gave the drinks an interesting kick.
“You get it, Jen?” Wayne’s screaming at him across the table. Over Kylie Minogue’s Spinning Around. “Rooster. Cock. Get it?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
Wayne laughs like a hyena. Literally. He won $500 in an impressionist contest, laughing at his own jokes. “Fuckin’ hilarious.”
There are feathers everywhere. They remind Jensen of the farm, of home, of his mother. On its own it’s enough to ensure he’ll be having nightmares for a week. The men dressed up in Thanksgiving costumes and wielding turkey bastes? That’s just icing on the cake.
“Dude, we could have gone to Maxi’s and played pool. What the fuck are we doing here?”
Wayne finishes a mouthful of his beer and smacks his lips together. “We’re scouting talent.”
“Jesus Christ.” Jensen should have known. He should have seen this coming a mile off. His friends are always trying to reinstate the fact that they’re ‘fine’ with Jensen being gay by playing an active role in his sex life. Using the Xerox at Matt’s shop to make fliers - JENSEN ACKLES: GAY, GORGEOUS, AND GOOD FOR IT - was one of their finer moments.
“Hey, I got laid last Friday. What about you?”
“I worked.”
Wayne waves a hand, like he’s trying to shoo a fly. “Okay, okay. Touché, brother. Still, money won’t get you laid. Unless that’s what you’re into? I could set you up with someone.”
Jensen’s about to take a drink, his glass freezing in mid air. “You’re joking.”
“You know I don’t joke about sex.”
“No I don’t, I’ve never slept with you.”
“Jensen.” Wayne pretends to blush, his eyebrows up and down. “You know if I played in your sandbox you’d be my favourite digger.”
“I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
Wayne’s already distracted, craning his neck to look over Jensen’s shoulder. “What about him?”
Jensen follows Wayne’s line of sight. It comes as no surprise that he has bad taste in men. His taste in women leaves a lot to be desired. “Have you seen that movie where the chicks dress up like guys dressed as chicks?”
“No?”
“Yeah, well.”
Wayne’s not so subtle. He twists in his chair like a rubber band, looking over toward the bar. “What about him?”
“First, don’t point,” Jensen growls. “And second, he’s wearing a wedding ring.”
“Him?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a Shirley Temple he’s drinking.”
“That one. In the far corner. With the green shirt.”
This time, when Jensen looks over it’s not disgust. It’s surprise. It’s ‘ha-ha, how’s this for irony’ and Jensen spills his bourbon all over his lap. The guy with the green shirt’s fine, sure, but he also looks like someone Jensen was forced to say goodbye to. Someone he thought he’d let go. Something he’d survived. “No,” Jensen grates, whacking at his jeans with a nearby napkin.
“Yes.”
“Wayne.”
“Dude, he’s hot.”
Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t deal with this shit, and his “Shut the fuck up!” is terse. Ticked off.
“The lady doth protest too much,” Wayne coos, turning, unfazed by Jensen’s tone. His shit eating grin is just begging to be punched off. “He’s fair, got those baby blues. Just your t-” Jensen watches realisation dawn on Wayne’s face.
The thing is, Wayne … Wayne’s practically a genius. If you ask him about quantum physics he’ll talk your ear off for a week and you won’t understand a word of it. It’s just that no-one knows because he acts so fucking dumb half of the time. Wayne screws up his nose, as if he ate something bad. “Oh.”
Jensen sighs, his eyes fixed on the table so they can’t roam back. “Yeah, oh.”
“Okay, one more try. I’ll pick a winner this time, trust me.”
“The last time I heard you say that you had a hand down your pants.”
Wayne chuckles to himself, eyes busily scanning the masses, rifling through the faces. It’s like a needle in a haystack, only the needles have gone off in search of a sharper crowd. “Alright, last one. The guy near the door, wearing the blue tee.”
Jensen looks over, expecting a pre-teen greasier than Wayne’s pick up lines. Instead he sees a guy with blonde hair buzzed short, nice arms and a wardrobe that wouldn’t cause a stir amongst the pilgrims. He smiles, and Jensen approves. “Yeah, he’s alright.”
“Score! I’ll go buy him a drink on your behalf.”
*
Moment: they’re grooved together with pre-come and sweat, Jensen stitched from behind, balls deep. His eyes are closed and he bites his lip with the strain, fingernails dug in to the other man’s flesh. Raw.
Truth: fucking’s easy, 1,2,3. It’s intimacy Jensen gave up.
*
KC’s looks like the zoo at feeding time. The crowds, unfazed by the noise, the mess, are bunched up by the front door with all the tables pushed together. Strangers sharing elbow room, tableware, their humble opinions on the state of the world. It’s primitive, like cavemen nestled around a campfire and sharing the day’s take; it’s society at it’s best and Jensen privately mourns the absence of his camera.
“What do you think about Judas?” Steve - the other co-owner and twice as untidy as his counterpart - has a slow, unaffected drawl. Too much sun.
Jensen grabs a plate and rounds the bar where Steve’s sitting, pushed to the corner. “I think he was a traitor.”
“I mean for our band. Judas.”
Steve and Chris - there’s a story there. Jensen’s not a resident expert but he’s managed to put a few snapshots together. They met at some dive of a music store, both bribing the manager to play a guitar, both kids at the crossroads trying to find their way. Opposites meeting in the middle - the cowboy and the beach bum - and it just … fit. Two pieces slotting together, two men as one voice and Jensen’s got to admit: they make good music. He thinks it’s oddly romantic. Chris thinks he’s a fairy.
“Aren’t you a Christian?”
Steve looks at Jensen as if he just asked him to swing dance. “Yeah?”
“Uh, what else you got?”
Steve runs a finger down the list, some ten names already crossed off. The Monkey’s Cymbals, Prairie Dogs, Devil’s Advocate. “The Blow-Up Dolls.”
“Chris’ idea?”
“You got it.”
“I thought you guys had a name. Kane.”
“Chris reckons that I’m one half of this.” He twirls his finger in the air; he’s referring to the restaurant. “So I’m one half of the band. He’s probably worried about getting sued if it all falls to pieces.”
“Well, keep working on it,” Jensen says, patting him on the back and setting off towards the tables.
“Right.”
KC’s is the stage they had to build to make a living. With all this time passed, now, they can afford to demolish the place in lieu of a new one; one that will play host to The Untitled Band and any other struggling musicians who are just like Chris and Steve were. No assholes giving them a chance. Chris’ eyes well up when he talks about it, like he’s a fucking crusader or something.
“Jensen?”
With three dirty plates balanced on one arm and an order slip still in his mouth, Jensen swerves around to answer the call. It’s Jared Padalecki, Actor, standing hunched in the middle of KC’s with a small smile and a wave. He’s taller than Jensen remembers, and he looks better too; untouched by make up and sporting his own fashion. Jeans, a dark tee, a baseball cap to hide his mop of hair. “I thought that was you, I was just walking past and …” his voice trails off.
Jensen tries to say What are you doing here? but it’s garbled with the paper between his lips. Jared laughs, and reaches forward to pull it free. “What are you doing here?”
“I was walking past, and - ”
“I mean, here. California.”
“Oh, right, well. You know … actor stuff. It keeps me busy.”
“Sure.” Jensen looks at him, expectantly. Jared’s the talkative one; surely he has more to contribute than a stupid grin and awkward nod of his head. “So, what can I do for you? Drink?”
“Oh, no, thanks. I just …” Jared digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I saw the spread in Jump. I liked it. I thought I’d look like a jackass, you know, but you did a good job. They were lucky to have you.”
“They were lucky I was broke.”
“Dude. I’m not that repulsive, am I?”
Jensen shrugs his shoulders, non-committal, and tells him, “There’s no accounting for taste,” a smirk around the edges
Jared says, “I’m hurt,” but he’s laughing.
“Hey, I just take the photo. I don’t paint the faces.”
Jared’s pulling up the sleeves of his shirt and folding his arms, saying “Yeah, yeah,” and not meaning any of it. He’s an actor after all, and from what Jensen gathers, a pretty good one. “So …” he looks KC’s over, just once. He appraises. “You’re a waiter?”
Jensen’s heard that question plenty of times. It’s usually framed with self righteous, or disbelief; Jared, though, he might only be observing. “It pays the bills.”
“Photography doesn’t?”
“Fickle business.” Jensen chuckles. “I guess I’m preaching to the choir.”
“I got some lucky breaks.”
The plates are getting heavy, and Jensen motions to them with a dip of his head. “Sorry, could you hang on, I’ve gotta …”
“Sure, yeah.”
Jensen turns, and makes for the kitchen. Passed Kitty, the waitress, who doesn’t believe that he’s really, honestly gay [she winks at him suggestively]; by Steve, who’s toiling over his notes and muttering mutinously to himself; and behind the bar, through the swinging doors, dumping the plates and quickly retreating. Carl, Head Chef and pansexual, is known for his ass grabbing and ‘the other white meat’ jokes.
When Jensen resurfaces, there’s a kerfuffle in the middle of the restaurant; a group of women have recognised Jared.
“Isn’t that that kid,” Steve says, wide eyed, up on his feet to peer over the huddle. “That kid, from that movie.”
Jensen lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. With those people, and that music. Great film.”
“What the hell’s he doing here?”
Jensen watches Steve, amused. He’s not the kind of guy to make a fuss. About anything. “We met once. I did a shoot, for Jump.”
Steve looks at Jensen. Jealousy? Awe? Possibly both. “They’re saying it’ll be a cult classic, Jen. The next … Donnie Darko.”
“Who?”
“Jensen?” Jared sidles up, looking flushed, his smile strained now. He’s small, demure, the youngest Jensen’s ever seen him. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Right. Actor Stuff.”
“Yeah, um,” he digs a hand into the pocket of his jacket and rustles around, pulling out a small card and presenting it to Jensen. “It’s my number. If you need some work, maybe I could organise something.”
It’s a fist around his gut, but Jensen takes it anyway, a tight smile and jerky nod. Jared’s just trying to be nice. He doesn’t know that this reach out - this charity, Jensen thinks - is salt in the wounds. Jensen’s wounds. “Thanks.”
“Anyway, I’ve got someone waiting so I’ll have to move.” Jared smiles and offers Jensen his hand, and Jensen shakes it. Weak, clammy, unimposing. “I’ll see you round.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
Steve, standing wordlessly by the pair, only now builds up the courage to offer his own hand. Too little, too late. Jared is turned, his head down to ward off any more onslaughts. It’s like a mission, Jensen muses, he’s slicing through the crowds jagged edged. When Jensen turns back he watches as Steve, crestfallen, slumps down onto his chair. It’s the funniest fucking thing Jensen’s seen all week, and he laughs, flicking Jared’s card to Steve.
“Why don’t you call him for dinner?”
“I heard he has a girlfriend,” Steve says in all seriousness, ignoring the fact he doesn’t like boys. Ignoring the fact he has a girlfriend himself. Pouting, he turns his attention back to his notepad. “What do you think about Yours Sincerely?”
“I think you’ve got a better chance with him,’ Jensen replies, a thumb pointed at the door Jared just disappeared through.
*
They say never to work with kids, or animals, but for Jensen it’s drunk people, and weddings. There’s a best man, in his best suit making the best speech he can whilst trying not to throw up, fall over, or soil himself. It’s not going so well, so far, and Jensen’s struggling to find any memories the Newlyweds might want to keep. Instead, he focuses on the crowds. On the bored, lazy lines of the children to the sloping, buzzing curves of the tipsy adults.
Jensen slowly zig-zags to the back of the room, trying to block out the noise and failing. “I love you guys, I really love you guys,” rolls around, misquoted love songs and sloppy toasts. When the speeches are done, and the best photos have been taken, Jensen puts his lens cap back on his camera and says a little prayer of thanks. Thank you, God, for the miracle of time and thank you, God, that’s over.
As he sits at an abandoned table, fiddling with a gaudy, pink centrepiece, there’s a low, quiet request from behind him, “Can I interest you in a drink?”
Jensen looks up, and up, and balks. There’s a man standing there, real to life, but he looks more like a cut out they put up in store windows. His hair is buzzed short, with the early signs of a beard, and his skin is a ridiculous tan, like he’s been standing out in the sun half of his life.
Jensen, licking his lips, manages to say, “Hi,” and the man smirks, proffering beer.
“I’m Rob,” he tells Jensen, sitting in a chair beside him. “Rob Hunter. The brother of the bride.”
“Uh, Jensen. The photographer.”
“Right. I’ve seen you moving around.” The look on Rob’s face suggests he’d like Jensen to move around him. “How’s it going?”
“It’s, good, thanks,” Jensen lies, because ‘this is the lamest wedding I’ve been to and trust me, that’s saying something’ will probably cost him a few thousand dollars. “Really good.”
“I guess technology has come a long way, you can make anything look respectable.”
Rob’s eyes twinkle with amusement, but Jensen’s not biting. It’s okay for the family to talk shit, but the hired help is another matter. “I … don’t think I’m going to comment on that.”
“You’re a better man than me,” Rob says, saluting Jensen with his glass before throwing back the rest of his beer. He watches a groomsman walk by before turning his attention back to Jensen. “So, what other events do you usually cater for?”
The tone of his voice is familiar. He’s pretty sure it’s the same one he hears when he tries to explain the finer points of photography to Wayne. Wayne just doesn’t give a shit, and neither does Rob Hunter.
“Oh, well. Anything, really,” Jensen answers politely. “If there’s money, I’m there.”
“I suppose the more places you go the more work you find.”
“Yeah, like anything.” There’s a pregnant pause, a pregnant elephant pause and all Jensen can think to ask is, “What do you do?” even if it doesn’t matter.
“I’m in Real Estate. It’s as boring as it sounds.” Rob Hunter is a pretty face, and he knows it. He’s not even trying. He probably never has.
“No, man, everything has its - ”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to be diplomatic to me, I’m not handling your fee.”
“I wasn’t - ”
“In fact, you and I aren’t professionally linked at all so, if, say, I wanted to take you out for a drink after this I’m pretty sure there’d be no objections. Unless you have one?”
Jensen’s a big boy, with his own roof, and food, and obligations. If he wants to go home with a guy - even though that guy is a douche bag who has made no attempt to even pretend he wants anything from Jensen other than his body - then he should do it. He’s just not sure who he’s trying to convince.
“I think I - ” is as far as he gets before his phone starts to titter and hum against the table.“ - have to get that, sorry.” Jensen glances at the caller ID, and panics. “Jillian?”
“This is your fault.” Her voice is soft, loose, she’s drawling. Drunk. Jensen motions to Rob, over his shoulder, he has to get away from the noise.
“Jill, what--”
“I know he’s your, I don’t know, soulmate, whatever,” she says, just a long string of words that she can’t hold back now. Not with the booze playing tug-of-war and winning. “But, but I’ve known you, too. I’ve known you, and we’re friends, and I deserve to know, Jensen.”
“To know?” Jensen escapes to the lobby where a small group of people are huddled together, probably making bets on how long this marriage will last. “To know what?”
Jillian makes a wet, scoffing noise. “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, dumb ass. What’s he hiding from me?”
Jensen’s at a total loss. Jillian’s The Girl Next Door. The sickening optimist who tells you what you want to hear before you even know you want it. Jillian’s stitched up Jensen’s holes in the past; it’s only fair that he does the same for her. He just … doesn’t know how. “Matt?”
“No, Wayne. Of course Matt.”
“Matt’s not hiding anything from you, Jilly, what--”
“Don’t call me Jilly,” she retorts, mocking Jensen’s lazy drawl. “Don’t try to butter me up with that southern twang and good, old boy down-homeness, Jensen. I’m angry at you.”
“What did I do?”
“You lied to me. You know what he’s up to, that, that bastard. You know and you never said.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Jillian gasps, and for a fleeting moment Jensen’s worried she’s hurt herself. He can see her now: red, splotchy face, pacing the floors of their house, tripping over that ugly Siamese cat that Matt never wanted [and suggested, unhelpfully, they call it Conjoined Cat - CC for short - because it was politically correct]. When she says, “Oh God, Jensen. It’s you. He’s fucking you!” he realises he was sorely mistaken. “Oh god, why didn’t I see it? I’m so stupid. You’re … oh my God I’m in love with a homo.”
Jensen can only close his eyes in disbelief. Jillian’s been drunk plenty of times, but it usually involves Karaoke and a few tasteless dance moves. “Jilly, settle down. Matt’s not cheating on you. Especially not with me.”
“Oh, sure. Sure. You just … you’re both liars, bastards, I hope you’re happy. Forever.”
That night, when Jensen gets home - alone - Matt’s asleep on his couch, butt naked and snoring.
*
It’s not that Jensen’s anti-love. You don’t grow up with parents like his, watching them at Sunday breakfast, watching the easy way they are together, how each action and reaction is complimentary, sensed; you don’t grow up with that and not believe in it. In real, honest to God love. It’s just, that. Well. People who find that are lucky, and people who don’t, just don’t. It’s not about taking chances, or working at it. It’s just fate.
Jensen’s not fated for that.
Part Two.
Author name: mijmeraar
Artist name: spn43v3r
Beta name: hkath
Genre: RPS AU
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: Hard R.
Warnings: One illustration is NSFW.
Word count: 36,566
Summary: Jensen Ackles - part time photographer and part time shit kicker - is waist deep in his best friends’ break downs and drug dealings; in dyslexic musicians and disabusing ex-boyfriends. If that’s not enough, he meets Jared Padalecki -a young, breakthrough actor with a bestselling movie to his name - who, awkward but earnest, strives for Jensen’s affections.
The safe and sheltered life behind his camera isn’t enough, now, and Jensen’s set to become the star of his own show - whether he’s ready or not.
Link to art:Here.
The SAFE FOR WORK Version of Part One!
Part One.
It’s Wednesday, and the gooey centre of Jensen Ackles’ crappiest week to date.
There’s no money and no means and if he has to pull out his last packet of Ramen Noodles for dinner tonight he might hang himself with them, instead.
“I’m desperate,” he grudgingly tells his ‘sometimes’ boss, as they stand in the middle of KC’s bar and butt heads. It’s loud here, they’re half way through renovations, but that hasn’t dissuaded the customers. There are small groups on their feet and pushed to the wall, to make room.
“Look around you,” Chris says through his teeth. His hair’s on end, his once-white apron is brown and there’s a definite twitch in his right eye. “Do I look like I need one more asshole standing around pretending to work? No.”
One of the drills stops mid-whirr and a big, beefy bloke with no hair looks over and looks mad. Jensen throws on a smile and lowers his voice.
“I’m not talking about drinking your whiskey, Kane,” he says, poking at Chris’ plaid shoulder. “I want to do something.”
“How about calling your parents, does that qualify?”
“Oh, sure, why didn’t I think of that? Hey, Mom, you know how you said California would chew me up and spit me out? Well …”
Chris throws his hands up, and heads for the bar. Jensen’s always marvelled at the easy, fluid movement of him, even at the worst of times. He pegs an order, tucks the book away, reaches for a towel and throws it over one shoulder as he turns to his customers. A dance, almost.
“Look, ask Matt for some cash,” he says, later, realising Jensen’s still waiting. “What do I care! I’m not your financial advisor.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Right, pull the friend card when you’re not skipping around with your camera.” Jensen scowls. “Jenny, I ain’t got work for you. Just, go be a sandwich artist or something.”
Jensen wants to tell him to go fuck off or something, but his phone buzzes in his pocket and he’s forced to abandon the anger. “Hello, this is Jensen Ackles?”
“Mr. Ackles? It’s Noel Gregson from Jump Magazine”.
*
When he was young, younger, Jensen told the world he wasn’t a sell out. His world, at least. The bus driver with a nickel sized mole on his temple; the resident MILF and her too tight skirts; the kids he used to photograph for Sam Says Cheese! even if they did just stare at him with their mouths open as the flash went off in their faces.
Jensen Ackles wasn’t a sell out.
Except, well, these days? It’s just Jensen and the empty fridge in his one bedroom-cum-dark room apartment. It’s cornflakes for dinner and cheaping out on the beer that tastes strangely like ass [You’d know, Wayne would say]. These days, Jensen can make as much noise as he wants, but money does the talking.
*
The kid’s name is Jared Padalecki. Some new up-and-comer with a Jonathon Taylor Thomas face that the girls are going crazy for. According to his Jumpin’ Profile he’s a Cancer who likes to hang out with his friends, loves his mama’s fried chicken and looks for a girl who’s got a big heart. A real catch. The rate at which he talks, he’d probably be the first to tell you.
“… so my friend, right, he pulls this truck to bits, just clean to bits, he thinks it’s the carburettor or something, I don’t know…”
The studio’s enormous. Jared - in a black, button down shirt with his sleeves rolled up - looks small, settled against the sea of white behind him. It’s a poor attempt at artistic depth but, considering the pay packet, Jensen expected nothing less.
“Uh, Jared,” Jensen interrupts, coming up from behind the camera and scratching his head. “We’re actually looking for broody, y’know? Do you think you could brood?”
Jared laughs with such force that it echoes across the room, a needle stuck in a groove. Jensen fixes him with his I’m Not Kidding stare, so Jared mutters, “Sorry, man,” and quickly rearranges his expression. Hi, I’m Misunderstood, Can One Of You Ladies Save Me? face. It’s been a long time since Jensen’s worked with conventional beauty; since he’s had to think about how it should be presented rather than presenting it purely as it is.
“So, uh, what’s this movie about?” Jensen asks, trying to induce something else, something honest. He’s quick, to and fro, trying to find a new angle, a way around the tall, ridiculous mass that is this kid.
“You haven’t heard of it?” Jared screws up his forehead; the kind of lines Jump would spray clean.
“No?”
“It’s … I thought everyone knew about it, there’s so much hype. It’s like, Brokeback Mountain, without the gay cowboys.”
Jensen smirks, standing back to full height as one of the crew scurries over to fiddle at Jared’s make up and attire. Jensen doesn’t give direction, here. “Not really a movie buff,” he says when they’re alone again. “Except, y’know, the classics.”
“Sure, yeah … like The Terminator.” Jensen’s glad that Jared’s face is etched around sarcasm. Jensen’s quick to capture it, shutterclick. Very few people know how to let themselves go when there’s a camera around. They’re always thinking about later, the result, but that’s not what moments are. Moments are just now, and Jared Padalecki’s good at being just here, just now.
“I was thinking more like Hitchcock … Kazan?”
“Right.” Jared runs a hand through his hair without thinking. Shutterclick. “I played Stanley Kowalski for a play at school.”
“Really?” Jensen’s actually impressed with that titbit. That’s the sort of thing that should go on a person’s profile.
“I do a mean ‘Stella!’ too. Do you want to hear it?”
Jensen chuckles to himself, imagining the kind of picture that would make. He’s sure the girls would love to see this kid with a half ripped shirt and his stupid, sculpted hair an out of control mess. Fucking pretty boys. They’re always giving Jensen ideas. “Some other time, maybe.”
“Have you ever worked in front of the camera?”
Jensen tries his best not to scoff. “No I don’t … no. Why do you ask?”
Jared scratches at his ear, head ducked, shutterclick. “You, uh, you look the type. I guess.”
“Well, I did win Best Looking Baby when I was six months,” Jensen deadpans, watching Jared smile through the lens. “There was too much pressure, I couldn’t hack it.”
Jared laughs. “A classic case of child stardom.”
“Right. I got out before I developed a dependency to stewed apples.” Jensen readjusts is camera, waits until the Jump representative has finished barking orders at Jared and moves back in. “Almost done, Jared,” he says, taking pity.
“’s alright,” Jared tells him, sensing his concern. “I’ve had fun.”
*
It’ll be ten years, next year. Ten years since he left Richardson for The Golden State. Ten years since he met Matt on the corner of Sutter and Jones with twenty bucks and an old Zenit. The same way he loves Chris for his No Bull Shit attitude, he loves Matt for keeping him sheltered when he needed it most. Sheltered from the elements, sheltered from the doubt. How could Jensen Ackles be someone out there?
“I would have loaned you some cash,” Matt berates as they stand over the basin in Jensen’s make shift dark room, the deep red light casting garish shadows across the wall. They’re sorting through photos from Jensen’s morning shoot: a 6 year-old’s pirate themed birthday party.
“It didn’t matter.” Jensen shrugs, plucking out a favourite and shaking it gently. Long John Silver huddled on a banana lounge with his arm around Jack Sparrow, the pair sharing a raspberry popsicle. As he pegs it up, Matt catches a glimpse over Jensen’s shoulder and chuckles under his breath. “I heard that.”
“What?” Matt snaps defensively.
“When are you and Jilly having kids?”
“You mean bringing life into a world that’s doomed to extinction?”
Jensen rolls his eyes and groans. Here we go again. “Oh, God.”
“Life that’ll only siphon whatever goodness is left of the environment with, no doubt, less regard than the generation before it?”
“Does Jilly want them?”
Matt sighs, leaning down, hands wrapped around the side of the basin. He mutters, “Jillian wants a lot of fucking things,” in a voice so heavy it could break the room in two. Jensen feels it in his gut. Matt and Jillian are Frisco’s answer to Fred and Ginger. They’re sacred.
“Dude … what …?”
“It’s just … can we not talk about Jilly, please?” Matt pulls one of the pictures to the surface, Jared Padalecki surplus. He’s smiling too big, no want, no come hither in his eyes, so the magazine had stopped it at the pass. It was one of Jensen’s favourites, and he’d talked them into letting him keep it for his portfolio. “Who’s this?”
“Promo shoot I told you about,” Jensen answers over his shoulder, last photo to the wire and no more space. “For Jump.” He gathers what’s left of the pictures and bundles them up in a pile. It’s a stupid-small room but Jensen’s got the routine down pat now; knows which way to twist without knocking himself out.
As he heads for the door Matt asks, “Did you fuck him?” and Jensen laughs.
“Do I look like I want to go to jail?”
He moves back down the hall, through the living room - mattress on the floor and unmade - across the kitchen linoleum and over to the open window. He pegs them on the washing line that’s never used for clothes; for photos mostly, or for holding onto when he climbs up where he shouldn’t climb. To get the better shot.
Inside, Matt’s on the couch with the TV on and the sound down. “We need to get you laid,” he says matter-of-fact.
Jensen slumps down beside him, wiping his hands on his thighs. “As entertaining as my short ‘coming’s are, we’re not dropping the real issue here. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Matt’s fiddling with the TV remote, and giving himself away. He could never look Jensen in the eye and lie. “We’re just going through what all couples go through.”
“What’s that?”
Matt’s head falls back and he breathes, deep, like he’s unwell and trying to will it away. “I don’t know. Transition.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, Jensen,” he cries, throwing his arms in the air. “We’re always fighting over nothing. She tells me I’m useless, she won’t let me do anything around the house, she’s a fucking time bomb.”
“Well, maybe she just -“
“What? She just what? Is fucking someone else? Doesn’t love me any more? Is leaving me? I’ve gone through the scenarios, it doesn’t help.”
Jensen’s sure he can’t handle this. “Maybe she’s pregnant.”
Matt’s head jolts around, his face twisted in a less than happy expression. “Are you fucking kidding me with this right now?”
“I’m just saying. She’s moody, angry … pregnancy does that to a woman.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“What!? I-”
“I’m talking about breaking up with the girl I’ve loved since sophomore year and you’re cracking jokes?”
“It’s not a joke, I - ”
Matt pushes himself up onto his feet - the cushions have a tendency to sink inward - and shoves through the space between the mattress and the sofa. “Thanks, Jensen, you’re a goddamn Prince.”
Jensen groans. He’s always putting his foot in it. “Matt …”
“I’ve got to get home,” he says, waving off Jensen’s contrition. “Next she’ll be trying to convince me I’m having an affair.”
*
Jensen lives in a cereal box. It’s easily the tallest building on the street. The upper crust resting on the higher floors [the Paks with their schnauzer and its incessant yapping]. The booby prize buried down below [Kenny and his band, Jungle Gym, playing something unlike music in the basement]. It’s not Jensen’s sanctuary but a house never has been; it’s the city sidewalks with his Canon and no-one to answer to.
Cali is everything he’d dreamt it to be, and Jensen’s spent a lot of time dreaming.
It’s nothing like Texas, here. Texas is flat and sparse and as far as the eye can see. It’s horizons and distance and going and getting away. California - San Francisco - it’s the destination. It’s busy colours and endless faces and take the next turn to anywhere. Everything’s just around the corner. Jensen loves Texas, and he knows he’ll go back there, to settle. Right now, though, he’s just getting started.
*
If Matt is Jensen’s best friend then Wayne is his best miscreant. Later that week, Wayne takes Jensen to The Rooster Barn, out of guilt. He’d gotten drunk one night and managed to make cocktails with the last few rolls of Jensen’s film. The reasoning - as usual, with Wayne - was still a total mystery, but Jensen was told to be comforted with the knowledge that the film gave the drinks an interesting kick.
“You get it, Jen?” Wayne’s screaming at him across the table. Over Kylie Minogue’s Spinning Around. “Rooster. Cock. Get it?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
Wayne laughs like a hyena. Literally. He won $500 in an impressionist contest, laughing at his own jokes. “Fuckin’ hilarious.”
There are feathers everywhere. They remind Jensen of the farm, of home, of his mother. On its own it’s enough to ensure he’ll be having nightmares for a week. The men dressed up in Thanksgiving costumes and wielding turkey bastes? That’s just icing on the cake.
“Dude, we could have gone to Maxi’s and played pool. What the fuck are we doing here?”
Wayne finishes a mouthful of his beer and smacks his lips together. “We’re scouting talent.”
“Jesus Christ.” Jensen should have known. He should have seen this coming a mile off. His friends are always trying to reinstate the fact that they’re ‘fine’ with Jensen being gay by playing an active role in his sex life. Using the Xerox at Matt’s shop to make fliers - JENSEN ACKLES: GAY, GORGEOUS, AND GOOD FOR IT - was one of their finer moments.
“Hey, I got laid last Friday. What about you?”
“I worked.”
Wayne waves a hand, like he’s trying to shoo a fly. “Okay, okay. Touché, brother. Still, money won’t get you laid. Unless that’s what you’re into? I could set you up with someone.”
Jensen’s about to take a drink, his glass freezing in mid air. “You’re joking.”
“You know I don’t joke about sex.”
“No I don’t, I’ve never slept with you.”
“Jensen.” Wayne pretends to blush, his eyebrows up and down. “You know if I played in your sandbox you’d be my favourite digger.”
“I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
Wayne’s already distracted, craning his neck to look over Jensen’s shoulder. “What about him?”
Jensen follows Wayne’s line of sight. It comes as no surprise that he has bad taste in men. His taste in women leaves a lot to be desired. “Have you seen that movie where the chicks dress up like guys dressed as chicks?”
“No?”
“Yeah, well.”
Wayne’s not so subtle. He twists in his chair like a rubber band, looking over toward the bar. “What about him?”
“First, don’t point,” Jensen growls. “And second, he’s wearing a wedding ring.”
“Him?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a Shirley Temple he’s drinking.”
“That one. In the far corner. With the green shirt.”
This time, when Jensen looks over it’s not disgust. It’s surprise. It’s ‘ha-ha, how’s this for irony’ and Jensen spills his bourbon all over his lap. The guy with the green shirt’s fine, sure, but he also looks like someone Jensen was forced to say goodbye to. Someone he thought he’d let go. Something he’d survived. “No,” Jensen grates, whacking at his jeans with a nearby napkin.
“Yes.”
“Wayne.”
“Dude, he’s hot.”
Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t deal with this shit, and his “Shut the fuck up!” is terse. Ticked off.
“The lady doth protest too much,” Wayne coos, turning, unfazed by Jensen’s tone. His shit eating grin is just begging to be punched off. “He’s fair, got those baby blues. Just your t-” Jensen watches realisation dawn on Wayne’s face.
The thing is, Wayne … Wayne’s practically a genius. If you ask him about quantum physics he’ll talk your ear off for a week and you won’t understand a word of it. It’s just that no-one knows because he acts so fucking dumb half of the time. Wayne screws up his nose, as if he ate something bad. “Oh.”
Jensen sighs, his eyes fixed on the table so they can’t roam back. “Yeah, oh.”
“Okay, one more try. I’ll pick a winner this time, trust me.”
“The last time I heard you say that you had a hand down your pants.”
Wayne chuckles to himself, eyes busily scanning the masses, rifling through the faces. It’s like a needle in a haystack, only the needles have gone off in search of a sharper crowd. “Alright, last one. The guy near the door, wearing the blue tee.”
Jensen looks over, expecting a pre-teen greasier than Wayne’s pick up lines. Instead he sees a guy with blonde hair buzzed short, nice arms and a wardrobe that wouldn’t cause a stir amongst the pilgrims. He smiles, and Jensen approves. “Yeah, he’s alright.”
“Score! I’ll go buy him a drink on your behalf.”
*
Moment: they’re grooved together with pre-come and sweat, Jensen stitched from behind, balls deep. His eyes are closed and he bites his lip with the strain, fingernails dug in to the other man’s flesh. Raw.
Truth: fucking’s easy, 1,2,3. It’s intimacy Jensen gave up.
*
KC’s looks like the zoo at feeding time. The crowds, unfazed by the noise, the mess, are bunched up by the front door with all the tables pushed together. Strangers sharing elbow room, tableware, their humble opinions on the state of the world. It’s primitive, like cavemen nestled around a campfire and sharing the day’s take; it’s society at it’s best and Jensen privately mourns the absence of his camera.
“What do you think about Judas?” Steve - the other co-owner and twice as untidy as his counterpart - has a slow, unaffected drawl. Too much sun.
Jensen grabs a plate and rounds the bar where Steve’s sitting, pushed to the corner. “I think he was a traitor.”
“I mean for our band. Judas.”
Steve and Chris - there’s a story there. Jensen’s not a resident expert but he’s managed to put a few snapshots together. They met at some dive of a music store, both bribing the manager to play a guitar, both kids at the crossroads trying to find their way. Opposites meeting in the middle - the cowboy and the beach bum - and it just … fit. Two pieces slotting together, two men as one voice and Jensen’s got to admit: they make good music. He thinks it’s oddly romantic. Chris thinks he’s a fairy.
“Aren’t you a Christian?”
Steve looks at Jensen as if he just asked him to swing dance. “Yeah?”
“Uh, what else you got?”
Steve runs a finger down the list, some ten names already crossed off. The Monkey’s Cymbals, Prairie Dogs, Devil’s Advocate. “The Blow-Up Dolls.”
“Chris’ idea?”
“You got it.”
“I thought you guys had a name. Kane.”
“Chris reckons that I’m one half of this.” He twirls his finger in the air; he’s referring to the restaurant. “So I’m one half of the band. He’s probably worried about getting sued if it all falls to pieces.”
“Well, keep working on it,” Jensen says, patting him on the back and setting off towards the tables.
“Right.”
KC’s is the stage they had to build to make a living. With all this time passed, now, they can afford to demolish the place in lieu of a new one; one that will play host to The Untitled Band and any other struggling musicians who are just like Chris and Steve were. No assholes giving them a chance. Chris’ eyes well up when he talks about it, like he’s a fucking crusader or something.
“Jensen?”
With three dirty plates balanced on one arm and an order slip still in his mouth, Jensen swerves around to answer the call. It’s Jared Padalecki, Actor, standing hunched in the middle of KC’s with a small smile and a wave. He’s taller than Jensen remembers, and he looks better too; untouched by make up and sporting his own fashion. Jeans, a dark tee, a baseball cap to hide his mop of hair. “I thought that was you, I was just walking past and …” his voice trails off.
Jensen tries to say What are you doing here? but it’s garbled with the paper between his lips. Jared laughs, and reaches forward to pull it free. “What are you doing here?”
“I was walking past, and - ”
“I mean, here. California.”
“Oh, right, well. You know … actor stuff. It keeps me busy.”
“Sure.” Jensen looks at him, expectantly. Jared’s the talkative one; surely he has more to contribute than a stupid grin and awkward nod of his head. “So, what can I do for you? Drink?”
“Oh, no, thanks. I just …” Jared digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I saw the spread in Jump. I liked it. I thought I’d look like a jackass, you know, but you did a good job. They were lucky to have you.”
“They were lucky I was broke.”
“Dude. I’m not that repulsive, am I?”
Jensen shrugs his shoulders, non-committal, and tells him, “There’s no accounting for taste,” a smirk around the edges
Jared says, “I’m hurt,” but he’s laughing.
“Hey, I just take the photo. I don’t paint the faces.”
Jared’s pulling up the sleeves of his shirt and folding his arms, saying “Yeah, yeah,” and not meaning any of it. He’s an actor after all, and from what Jensen gathers, a pretty good one. “So …” he looks KC’s over, just once. He appraises. “You’re a waiter?”
Jensen’s heard that question plenty of times. It’s usually framed with self righteous, or disbelief; Jared, though, he might only be observing. “It pays the bills.”
“Photography doesn’t?”
“Fickle business.” Jensen chuckles. “I guess I’m preaching to the choir.”
“I got some lucky breaks.”
The plates are getting heavy, and Jensen motions to them with a dip of his head. “Sorry, could you hang on, I’ve gotta …”
“Sure, yeah.”
Jensen turns, and makes for the kitchen. Passed Kitty, the waitress, who doesn’t believe that he’s really, honestly gay [she winks at him suggestively]; by Steve, who’s toiling over his notes and muttering mutinously to himself; and behind the bar, through the swinging doors, dumping the plates and quickly retreating. Carl, Head Chef and pansexual, is known for his ass grabbing and ‘the other white meat’ jokes.
When Jensen resurfaces, there’s a kerfuffle in the middle of the restaurant; a group of women have recognised Jared.
“Isn’t that that kid,” Steve says, wide eyed, up on his feet to peer over the huddle. “That kid, from that movie.”
Jensen lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. With those people, and that music. Great film.”
“What the hell’s he doing here?”
Jensen watches Steve, amused. He’s not the kind of guy to make a fuss. About anything. “We met once. I did a shoot, for Jump.”
Steve looks at Jensen. Jealousy? Awe? Possibly both. “They’re saying it’ll be a cult classic, Jen. The next … Donnie Darko.”
“Who?”
“Jensen?” Jared sidles up, looking flushed, his smile strained now. He’s small, demure, the youngest Jensen’s ever seen him. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Right. Actor Stuff.”
“Yeah, um,” he digs a hand into the pocket of his jacket and rustles around, pulling out a small card and presenting it to Jensen. “It’s my number. If you need some work, maybe I could organise something.”
It’s a fist around his gut, but Jensen takes it anyway, a tight smile and jerky nod. Jared’s just trying to be nice. He doesn’t know that this reach out - this charity, Jensen thinks - is salt in the wounds. Jensen’s wounds. “Thanks.”
“Anyway, I’ve got someone waiting so I’ll have to move.” Jared smiles and offers Jensen his hand, and Jensen shakes it. Weak, clammy, unimposing. “I’ll see you round.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
Steve, standing wordlessly by the pair, only now builds up the courage to offer his own hand. Too little, too late. Jared is turned, his head down to ward off any more onslaughts. It’s like a mission, Jensen muses, he’s slicing through the crowds jagged edged. When Jensen turns back he watches as Steve, crestfallen, slumps down onto his chair. It’s the funniest fucking thing Jensen’s seen all week, and he laughs, flicking Jared’s card to Steve.
“Why don’t you call him for dinner?”
“I heard he has a girlfriend,” Steve says in all seriousness, ignoring the fact he doesn’t like boys. Ignoring the fact he has a girlfriend himself. Pouting, he turns his attention back to his notepad. “What do you think about Yours Sincerely?”
“I think you’ve got a better chance with him,’ Jensen replies, a thumb pointed at the door Jared just disappeared through.
*
They say never to work with kids, or animals, but for Jensen it’s drunk people, and weddings. There’s a best man, in his best suit making the best speech he can whilst trying not to throw up, fall over, or soil himself. It’s not going so well, so far, and Jensen’s struggling to find any memories the Newlyweds might want to keep. Instead, he focuses on the crowds. On the bored, lazy lines of the children to the sloping, buzzing curves of the tipsy adults.
Jensen slowly zig-zags to the back of the room, trying to block out the noise and failing. “I love you guys, I really love you guys,” rolls around, misquoted love songs and sloppy toasts. When the speeches are done, and the best photos have been taken, Jensen puts his lens cap back on his camera and says a little prayer of thanks. Thank you, God, for the miracle of time and thank you, God, that’s over.
As he sits at an abandoned table, fiddling with a gaudy, pink centrepiece, there’s a low, quiet request from behind him, “Can I interest you in a drink?”
Jensen looks up, and up, and balks. There’s a man standing there, real to life, but he looks more like a cut out they put up in store windows. His hair is buzzed short, with the early signs of a beard, and his skin is a ridiculous tan, like he’s been standing out in the sun half of his life.
Jensen, licking his lips, manages to say, “Hi,” and the man smirks, proffering beer.
“I’m Rob,” he tells Jensen, sitting in a chair beside him. “Rob Hunter. The brother of the bride.”
“Uh, Jensen. The photographer.”
“Right. I’ve seen you moving around.” The look on Rob’s face suggests he’d like Jensen to move around him. “How’s it going?”
“It’s, good, thanks,” Jensen lies, because ‘this is the lamest wedding I’ve been to and trust me, that’s saying something’ will probably cost him a few thousand dollars. “Really good.”
“I guess technology has come a long way, you can make anything look respectable.”
Rob’s eyes twinkle with amusement, but Jensen’s not biting. It’s okay for the family to talk shit, but the hired help is another matter. “I … don’t think I’m going to comment on that.”
“You’re a better man than me,” Rob says, saluting Jensen with his glass before throwing back the rest of his beer. He watches a groomsman walk by before turning his attention back to Jensen. “So, what other events do you usually cater for?”
The tone of his voice is familiar. He’s pretty sure it’s the same one he hears when he tries to explain the finer points of photography to Wayne. Wayne just doesn’t give a shit, and neither does Rob Hunter.
“Oh, well. Anything, really,” Jensen answers politely. “If there’s money, I’m there.”
“I suppose the more places you go the more work you find.”
“Yeah, like anything.” There’s a pregnant pause, a pregnant elephant pause and all Jensen can think to ask is, “What do you do?” even if it doesn’t matter.
“I’m in Real Estate. It’s as boring as it sounds.” Rob Hunter is a pretty face, and he knows it. He’s not even trying. He probably never has.
“No, man, everything has its - ”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to be diplomatic to me, I’m not handling your fee.”
“I wasn’t - ”
“In fact, you and I aren’t professionally linked at all so, if, say, I wanted to take you out for a drink after this I’m pretty sure there’d be no objections. Unless you have one?”
Jensen’s a big boy, with his own roof, and food, and obligations. If he wants to go home with a guy - even though that guy is a douche bag who has made no attempt to even pretend he wants anything from Jensen other than his body - then he should do it. He’s just not sure who he’s trying to convince.
“I think I - ” is as far as he gets before his phone starts to titter and hum against the table.“ - have to get that, sorry.” Jensen glances at the caller ID, and panics. “Jillian?”
“This is your fault.” Her voice is soft, loose, she’s drawling. Drunk. Jensen motions to Rob, over his shoulder, he has to get away from the noise.
“Jill, what--”
“I know he’s your, I don’t know, soulmate, whatever,” she says, just a long string of words that she can’t hold back now. Not with the booze playing tug-of-war and winning. “But, but I’ve known you, too. I’ve known you, and we’re friends, and I deserve to know, Jensen.”
“To know?” Jensen escapes to the lobby where a small group of people are huddled together, probably making bets on how long this marriage will last. “To know what?”
Jillian makes a wet, scoffing noise. “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, dumb ass. What’s he hiding from me?”
Jensen’s at a total loss. Jillian’s The Girl Next Door. The sickening optimist who tells you what you want to hear before you even know you want it. Jillian’s stitched up Jensen’s holes in the past; it’s only fair that he does the same for her. He just … doesn’t know how. “Matt?”
“No, Wayne. Of course Matt.”
“Matt’s not hiding anything from you, Jilly, what--”
“Don’t call me Jilly,” she retorts, mocking Jensen’s lazy drawl. “Don’t try to butter me up with that southern twang and good, old boy down-homeness, Jensen. I’m angry at you.”
“What did I do?”
“You lied to me. You know what he’s up to, that, that bastard. You know and you never said.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Jillian gasps, and for a fleeting moment Jensen’s worried she’s hurt herself. He can see her now: red, splotchy face, pacing the floors of their house, tripping over that ugly Siamese cat that Matt never wanted [and suggested, unhelpfully, they call it Conjoined Cat - CC for short - because it was politically correct]. When she says, “Oh God, Jensen. It’s you. He’s fucking you!” he realises he was sorely mistaken. “Oh god, why didn’t I see it? I’m so stupid. You’re … oh my God I’m in love with a homo.”
Jensen can only close his eyes in disbelief. Jillian’s been drunk plenty of times, but it usually involves Karaoke and a few tasteless dance moves. “Jilly, settle down. Matt’s not cheating on you. Especially not with me.”
“Oh, sure. Sure. You just … you’re both liars, bastards, I hope you’re happy. Forever.”
That night, when Jensen gets home - alone - Matt’s asleep on his couch, butt naked and snoring.
*
It’s not that Jensen’s anti-love. You don’t grow up with parents like his, watching them at Sunday breakfast, watching the easy way they are together, how each action and reaction is complimentary, sensed; you don’t grow up with that and not believe in it. In real, honest to God love. It’s just, that. Well. People who find that are lucky, and people who don’t, just don’t. It’s not about taking chances, or working at it. It’s just fate.
Jensen’s not fated for that.
Part Two.