FIC: The Last of the Romantics
Title: The Last of the Romantics
Author: balefully
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Words: 29,300
Summary: Jared is the son of the Ackles family's chauffeur, and has been in love with Sandra, the Ackles's adopted daughter, all his life. He goes to London to find himself, and comes back a changed man. Sandra falls in love with him at long last, threatening her financially advantageous engagement to Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the heir of Morgan Industries. Jensen, her older brother and the CEO of the Ackles Corporation, must devise a plan to keep Sandra and Jared apart so his carefully plotted merger can go through as intended. His own machinations backfire, however, as he learns the meaning of love, selflessness, and what it's like to truly need someone else.
Warnings: Extreme schmoop.
Disclaimer: Only a product of my fevered imagination. All recognizable lines (including the title) are "borrowed" from Sabrina, the 1995 film, starring Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond, or from the 1954 film, starring Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart, both by Paramount. All brands and locations belong to their creators, etc.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity for the extremely generous and patient heidi8. She requested a Jsquared AU based on the film Sabrina, and while I played havoc with some aspects of her request, I hope this is at least a passable offering. <333! It's really more of a remake than just an AU based on a movie, as it very closely resembles the original, and in fact utilizes a fair amount of the more iconic dialogue. All the places (restaurants, London landmarks, etc.) are real, and so is Giles Hattersley. Thanks INFINITELY to backinblack for the World's Fastest Beta! <333! And to those of you who offered when I begged so prettily. ;)! (And to lazy_daze, who swooped in to save me from typo hell at the last second. MWAH.)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The Last of the Romantics
Golden lights stud the balcony rails amidst rich garlands of deep red and green; laughter wraps around the breeze, floating over the party as everyone in attendance drinks sparkling wine and feasts on light pastries, fruits, and expensive hors doeuvres. It is a fairytale of velvet and gilt, decadent and sparkling in the crisp night, punctuated with grandiose statues and fountains of marble. Each of the ladies and gentlemen mingling in the moonlight is more beautiful and refined than the last.
Jared Padalecki, however, is not among them. He is not dressed in custom-tailored finery, not catching the arm of a tuxedoed waiter to request more champagne or foie gras. He is not regaling gorgeous socialites with his witty repartee as they hang on his every word. No, Jared Padalecki is wearing dirty, patched overalls and sporting an uneven bowl-cut, skinny bean-pole frame bent in half as he takes in the surreal fantasy unfolding below him. Jared Padalecki is up a tree, spying.
Beyond the cursory surveillance of this other world he only wishes he could be a part of, he ignores the general merry-making. There is one person, one glorious beacon of everything good and beautiful in the universe, at whom he directs his attentions. Will always direct his attentions, if he puts his faith in the hammering of his heart.
She titters and leans in to the tall blond man she's speaking to. Her eyes are dark and shining, her smile red and playful; her hair cascades in perfect sheets down past her shoulders, glowing velvety dark. Each inch of her flawless skin is golden-smooth, down to the perfect round tops of her breasts nestled in the deep vee of her dress, so green it shames even the forest behind her mansion.
Because it is her mansion, the Ackles Mansion, as much as the youngest child of any multi-million-dollar family may claim ownership of its grounds. Sandra McCoy was adopted by Colonel and Mrs. Ackles at a tender age, following the tragic death of her family, and blossomed in their generous care to become the exquisite woman she is now, tonight, under the silver moon and Jared Padalecki's wistful gaze.
The Colonel has since passed away, leaving his fortune and corporation to Mrs. Ackles. Jensen, Sandra's older brother and the Ackles's only son, helmed the family company after his father's death. He worked at all hours and raked in staggering profits due to his wise and early investments in wireless technology. He leaves all their parties early, including this one, presumably to catch up on his stocks and the status of his mergers and acquisitions. Jensen cares nothing for family and friends beyond their usefulness in his business, and though he's extraordinarily effective, Jared pities him. He's never seen Jensen with a woman by his side, never known him to take vacations or travel for reasons beyond business. Jensen, it's said, is unable to love anything but his company.
Sandra, on the other hand, doesn't concern herself with the family business, content to manage her social engagements, radiating grace, poise, and charm. She even appeared in a Chanel perfume ad that ran in all the glossy magazines. She hopped from expensive private school to expensive private school in her earlier days, from boyfriend to boyfriend, carefree and beautiful and everything an heiress should be.
She is Jared's soulmate, he's sure. Never before have two people been destined for each other as they are. Never before have two hearts been so fated to be entwined. He pines for her each day, each night. Thinks of her always.
That she hardly acknowledges his existence matters not at all. For the course of true love, they say, never shall run smooth. Jared must brave hardship and suffering and the pangs of yearning before they can be together. He must learn to appreciate every molecule of her being, must become worthy of her in every way. When it finally happens, it has to be perfect, everything coming together just right; he can hang on until that fateful day comes.
"Jared! What the hell are you doing up there?" A sharp voice rings out over the gardens from some distance away, startling Jared from his reverie. He jerks, flailing to catch at a branch on the way down before makes an inauspicious dent in the ground. He lands painfully on his feet in a sort of jumbled crouch, and when he looks up, he finds Sandra herself blinking at him, hand tucked in the crook of the blond man's elbow.
"Uh," Jared says. His mind wipes completely blank.
Sandra smiles at him, confusion melting into the brightness of her eyes. "Oh, Jared, it's just you," she says. She's clutching a bottle of champagne in her other hand, and the man holds two empty flutes. Sandra looks to him, then back at Jared. "What do you say we keep this our little secret, okay? You don't tell, I won't tell." She winks and carries on down the path, dragging the man behind her to the deserted boathouse.
Jared's struck dumb. She spoke to him. She said his name. She winked at him. They have a secret. The words hardly make sense to him in his own brain.
He's still trying to figure out if it really happened or if it was just another one of his insanely vivid daydreams when he staggers under the force of a firm hand on his shoulder. "Come on, son. You need to get back to the house," Jared's father says, stern, in the same deep, ringing voice he'd used when he caught Jared in the tree to begin with. "And stop mooning after Miss Sandra. Won't do anyone any good, and you've got to get packing. Suitcases won't pack themselves."
Jared watches Sandra's retreating form, nodding absently at his father. Gerald Padalecki could never understand; wouldn't even attempt to understand the constant, desperate thrum of Jared's heart for the youngest Ackles. He has been the chauffeur of the family, proud and uncomplicated, for many years. The Padalecki family came to work at the mansion when Jared was still a child, and thus Jared grew up living and breathing the Ackles's daily life more than even his own.
Though he knows about and refuses to condone Jared's obsession with Sanda, Jared's father dotes on him in many other ways. He taught Jared everything there is to know about cars and books and travel, having been a rootless youth himself, once upon a time. He imparted to Jared the joys of wanderlust from a young age, and even encouraged him to take an internship in London involving photography, a subject Jared recently grew fascinated with and shared with his father. Jared hasn't told him how many of the rolls of film in canisters in the dark room waiting to be developed are devoted to Sandra.
In fact, Jared's flight to London leaves the next afternoon. Mrs. Ackles had a friend in the magazine business needing to get a job filled, and she spoke to his father about it personally. Jared hardly remembers life without the enormity of the Ackles family keeping him afloat. He'll miss seeing Sandra, the opulent parties he's never invited to, the manicured beauty of the grounds, the pleasant shine of the cars, and of course his own family, loving and constant. He needs to find his own feet, though, and any amount of homesickness will be worth that.
London calls to him, with its history and art and culture, everything infused with romance and refinement. Jared needs to make a place for himself away from the Ackles name, away from his parents, away from the loving but nosey mansion staff.
He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent of gardenias and sweet champagne, and walks back to the comfortable apartment over the garage he shares with his family; he really does need to finish packing.
"Jared," his father says the next morning, clapping a hand to Jared's shoulder. "This'll be so good for you. You really couldn't ask for a better place to find yourself than London. Best experience of your life, I'll bet you that right now."
Jared nods, putting the last of his bags in the back of the car. They're using the Bentley today, polished until it glows. Jared's always preferred the classic American cars in the garage, probably collector's pieces of the Colonel's, but the Bentley is grand and his dad is proud of it.
"What if she forgets me?" Jared asks, eyes searching for Sandra's window. His dad is right, but it doesn't stop the ache.
"How could she forget someone she doesn't even know exists?" Jared's father shakes his head, mouth pressed thin. "Sorry, sorry, son, I just. You're something special. You are. And you have to remember that - that there's more to you than your feelings for her." When Jared says nothing, his dad just sighs.
Jared straightens at the obvious movement of Sandra's curtains being drawn open. She must be awake, and now-now is his last chance to say goodbye. To tell her how he feels. Maybe she would beg him not to go, or maybe she would ask to come with him; it's foolish, but hope bubbles bright in his chest, and Jared has to try.
"I know, Dad," Jared says, and clears his throat. "Listen, I'm gonna check the house, make sure I'm not forgetting anything, okay? I'll be back before we have to leave."
The door to Sandra's room stands open wide, light from her tall windows splashing across the exquisitely decorated space. Jared can hear rustling back in one of the large recesses behind the main room, hidden from sight. He steps in, just barely inside the door, but the room smells of her, warm and close, like he can feel her very presence. Jared coughs lightly and takes a deep breath as the rustling ceases.
"Don't say anything, please," he says, voice trembling. "And don’t come out. I need-I can't be looking at you when I say this." He swallows, willing himself to get it all out. "I'm leaving today. For London. In just a few minutes, actually, and I probably won't be back for a long time. I came-I came to say goodbye." Jared wrings his hands and pushes onwards. "I'm sure you won't miss me, seeing as how you hardly even knew I was here to begin with, but. I just-I needed you to know that I know who you really are. I know you better than anybody, probably. You're beautiful, gorgeous, but anyone can see that. Under that, though, no matter what anyone says or what they think, I know you're an amazing person. With a warm heart and you're so smart and you're-just. You're wonderful. And I'll be thinking of you. I'm sure that's not worth much to you, but I hope maybe one day when you're not feeling your best, you'll remind yourself, someone very far away is thinking of me, and maybe it might make you smile. Even just a little." Jared sighs deeply, biting at his bottom lip. "So if there's anything I could ever do for you, anything at all-" He trails off, looking up when he hears someone coming out from the alcove in back.
It's Jensen Ackles. Jensen. Not Sandra at all. He's holding some hangers, some odds and ends, like he was just tidying up. There's an unreadable look in his eyes as Jared just stands, gaping at him.
"You could bring me back some good tea, maybe," he says after a moment, smiling. Jared's head is spinning, and it sounds like Jensen's speaking from under water. "Or one of those little brass Big Ben paperweights."
Finally Jared forces his muscles to move, spinning around without a word and running out of the room as fast as he can, mortified beyond anything he's ever felt before in his life. Heart pounding, he sprints down the stairs and out the front door.
He makes it to the car without falling over his own feet, a minor miracle, and slams the door shut behind himself. "Let's go," he says, and his father, waiting patiently in the front seat of the Bentley, does him the courtesy of not asking any questions.
Jared arrives in London wickedly jet-lagged and completely confused. He could swear his luggage has gotten heavier, plus the wheels on his biggest suitcase broke so he has to drag everything gracelessly along the sidewalk instead of rolling it like a civil person. The Underground is convoluted and the passageways between platforms are completely without logic; he hefts his bags up and down three flights of stairs before he finds his line, and then realizes after four stops that he's going the wrong way.
Eventually, he stumbles up to his third-floor walk-up in Mayfair, courtesy of Mr. Hattersley, the friend of Mrs. Ackles who works in publishing. Luckily, he appears to be an extremely successful friend, because Jared's apartment is bright and quaint, roomy without being empty and old-fashioned without being out-of-date, not to mention the fact that from what Jared can see, Kensington is the height of up-scale and the home of many of the city's elite.
In his bedroom, a corkboard hangs above a neat oak desk. The first thing he does, before even unpacking, is pull a print of Sandra's famous Calvin Klein ad out of his carry-on and tack it carefully in the very center of the board.
Work the next day follows the same general pattern as his time in London so far. He starts off from his new home at an ungodly hour to give himself plenty of time to navigate the gnarled streets of London and manages to make his way to the Arena Magazine offices on Shaftesbury Avenue twenty minutes early, tired and disoriented but dressed in his best shirt and with his pants only vaguely creased. Jared pulls a notebook out of his bag as he waits and scribbles iron at the top of his shopping list.
Of course, the employees and clientele milling around the front desk as Jared waits are the epitome of crisply-pressed, designer perfection, throwing around terms and names and ideas about photography, fashion, and publishing which he can't even begin to comprehend. A young man emerges into the waiting area with a crafty smile and impeccable suit, offering his hand to Jared. Jared stands, attempting to shrink himself down to a more respectable height, and tries valiantly to straighten his pants.
"You must be Jared," the man says, shaking Jared's hand firmly. His smile is warm if a little amused, and his voice is low and gentle with a pleasant lilt. "I'm Giles Hattersley, the editor-in-chief here at Arena. I believe you know an old friend of mine."
Jared manages to return the handshake and smile weakly through his confusion. Giles seems awfully young to be a friend of Mrs. Padalecki's or the Colonel's; he doesn't even look thirty. "That's right, I'm Jared," he says. "My family works on the Ackles estate in New York. Mrs. Ackles said she put in a word for me here, and I-uh. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity."
Giles raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth crooks up wryly. "Donna hasn't any difficulties pulling a string or two, has she? I think perhaps it runs in the family." Jared isn't entirely sure what that's supposed to mean, but he smiles gamely anyway. "It was actually Jensen who called me about the position, you know," Giles adds. "We were-mates. Back in uni. It was lovely to hear from him again." His smile strikes Jared as kind of wistful.
Jared hopes the confusion isn’t too evident on his face. Mrs. Ackles was definitely the one who told his father about the internship. Perhaps she had her son make the call to be more persuasive; the college buddy angle is an oft-used one among the social elite, or so Jared has come to assume. "Great, great. I'm glad you two got a chance to catch up," Jared says. "As far as I know, Jensen works really hard pretty much all the time, so. You know. I figure he doesn't get much time to reconnect with old friends."
"Of course," Giles says, steering Jared to his corner office in the back, all slick modern furnishings and state-of-the-art gadgets. "So. You've not come here to carry on with me all day - you'll be assisting on our fashion shoots. Cohan, our best photographer, is in desperate need of a good runner. That's you. It's not a particularly glamorous job, and apparently the art director she's working with can get quite particular, but from what I've heard, I'm sure you'll be just fine." Jared only spares a moment wondering what, exactly, Giles had heard.
Cohan, it turns out, is Lauren Cohan, a beautiful young up-and-comer on the London art scene, branching out into international print work and renowned for her ability to catch the essence of her models even through elaborate high-fashion accoutrements.
"Good morning," she says to Jared with a cheeky wink as he hands her a cup of coffee. "Looks like we'll be getting to know each other rather well in the near future, yeah?"
"As long as I don't crash and burn right out of the starting gate, anyway," Jared says, shifting his shoulders nervously. Lauren is wearing an extremely expensive-looking black dress, and the male models she's positioning look like they've been cast out of bronze. Jared sighs, feeling gangly and ridiculous.
The rest of the day follows suit. Jared can't seem to keep up, at least three steps behind Lauren whenever she asks for something. The art director picks on him when he can't tell the difference between the Gautier and Gucci belts and isn't sure how to work the fog machine. He has to work through his lunch break and when he finally gets a chance to bolt down a sandwich, he comes back to find a French photographer who is decidedly not Lauren, and speaks no English at all whatsoever; Jared doesn't understand a word of French, and of course a communication breakdown follows on a scale that regularly accompanies international incidents.
Things only go downhill from there. By the time Jared finally stumbles up to his apartment, it's past nine o'clock and he can't feel his feet. As he sits in the overstuffed armchair in the front room nursing a bottle of Fuller's London Porter, he thinks of home, and of Sandra, and wonders how much longer he'll have to stay here before he can go back without dying of shame.
Just before he slides under the duvet, he picks up the phone from his bedside table and calls the kitchen extension of the Ackles house. His mother answers on the second ring, and he can just picture her, long hair coiled in a bun, uniform pristine, wiping her hands on her white apron as she holds the phone tucked between her chin and shoulder. "Ackles residence; how may I help you?" she says, cheery and breathless.
"Hey Mom," Jared says, and can't take his eyes off the picture of Sandra on his bulletin board.
"Jared!" she says, laughing. "So good to hear from you, sweetheart. How're things going? How was your first day? I have to get supper finished for Mrs. Ackles in just a moment but tell me what you can. I want to know everything!"
Jared hears the pride in her voice, and he feels bad that there's such a heavy weight clenched around his chest. He should be enjoying himself. "Oh, Momma," he says. Getting it out will probably feel better. "Everyone thinks I'm a total moron, I look like a doofus, I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't speak French, I don't know where anything is or how anything works. I feel like-I don't know. I feel stupid and clumsy all the time-"
"Sweetie," his mother says, concern thick in her voice, "slow down. I doubt everyone thinks you're a moron. There must be someone in the entirety of London who-"
"That's only because I haven't met everyone in the entirety of London yet," Jared groans.
"Well, it's only your second day there," she adds, still unfailingly chipper. "I'm sure everyone will come to love you as much as we do. The important thing is that you're out there on your own, doing your best, making new friends, growing up-"
Jared waits as she pauses uncomfortably.
"-not thinking about. You know. Her."
Jared blinks at Sandra's picture and presses his lips together tightly. "Momma. Life without her is a hopeless abyss of misery and despair. I'll never not think about her."
His mother sighs and clucks her tongue. "That's not true, darling. You'll see. Now you need to get some sleep so you can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work tomorrow. And don't forget to eat! I don't want you coming home even more skin and bones than you already are. I've heard horrible things about the food over there, and I worry about you, sweetheart."
"I know, Momma. I'll eat. And sleep. Give my love to everyone." He sends her a kiss down the line and hangs up with a heavy hand. He falls asleep staring at Sandra's picture, her beautiful eyes fixed on him.
In the days that follow, Jared slowly but surely begins to find his place. It's his third week in London, and he's studied the Tube map every night until he's memorized as much of it as he needs on a daily basis. He's scouted around Mayfair for all the best cafes, making a note of the ones he won't have to sell a kidney to eat at regularly. Sera, the art director, has actually begun to trust him with tasks more involved than fetching coffee, and Lauren's even agreed to start teaching him French on her breaks - but only after he agrees to get himself an upscale haircut.
"You should come to dinner with me," she says one day, warm summer sun bright on the pavement of Trafalgar Square. The models are wearing intricate, plumed headgear and dresses of floaty, opal grey linen damask; Jared's fairly certain they're supposed to be haute couture pigeons, and the effect is actually rather striking as they perch and preen on the bronze lions.
Lauren isn't looking at Jared as she says it; he assumes she's speaking to Sera. They do often go out to eat for planning meetings. When only silence greets Lauren's words, she turns from her camera to lift a wry eyebrow at Jared. "Have we suddenly gone deaf? Or mute, perhaps?" Her smile is kind and she looks particularly lovely today, the sun bringing out the gold in her dark hair, the cool green of her eyes. Jared feels the flutter of a memory and he can't help but say yes.
"No we haven't," he says. "Just staving off a heart attack. You've seen me during lunch - I'm shocked and horrified that you'd want to subject yourself to that for an extended period of time."
"Well, since I did the asking, I get to pick the place," Lauren says. "And as long as I don't take us to an all-you-can-eat buffet, we'll probably be all right. Think you could restrain yourself?"
Jared laughs as she turns back to her camera. "I think so," he says, and the vise-grip around his chest loosens a little.
He meets Lauren at Incognico, a brasserie just down the street from the main Arena offices. Everything is rich red leather and mahogany wood, starched white tablecloths and excellent service. Jared feels underdressed yet again, surrounded by businessmen and women, their finely-turned out companions. Lauren doesn't seem to mind, though, and she fits in flawlessly with her smart navy suit, tailored pencil skirt showcasing her miles of leg.
Jared whips his notepad out of his back pocket and scrawls clothes. lots of clothes at the top of his current shopping list.
Lauren orders them the Salt Cod with Aioli to start, then the Rump of Lamb with Borlotti Beans and Tarragon for their main. After a long, detailed conversation about photography and Lauren's time in New York during her gap year, Jared finds his voice at last and gets them both coffee and Warm Chocolate Mousse for dessert.
They end up at Maya on Dean Street in Soho after a pleasant walk on the busy sidewalk - "Pavement, you mean," says Lauren - passing clubbers and party-goers and businesspeople, bicycle rickshaws, and at least three dozen Black Cabs.
Jared hasn't even been to a club before, much less one quite like this. "It's rather pretentious," Lauren says, shrugging, "but it's gorgeous inside and the music is absolutely the best you can find. Plus, we might run into someone staggeringly famous. I'm always on the lookout to make connections." She rifles her hands through Jared's hair and tweaks his shirt a bit. "They hand-pick the guests from the line," she explains. "They know me, so it should be all right, but just in case-"
Jared laughs instead of letting himself be too self-conscious. When he ascends the steep staircase and passes through the floor-to-ceiling projection that functions as the door to the club, he just drinks it all in instead of feeling out of place. The walls are streaked with burnished gold, the illuminated glass platforms that encourage - practically demand - dancing; the transparent screens around the room are etched in a mosaic effect, alternating through a spectrum of neon colors as Jared watches. Black woven leather chairs sit mostly unoccupied, the entire room full of dancing people, beautiful and eclectic.
He orders cocktails from a waitress in a canary yellow hotpants-length jumpsuit, and Lauren snaps some pictures of the opulent interior with her ever-present camera. They down their drinks and Jared feels a sudden rush, like maybe his real life is finally beginning. He pulls Lauren onto the dance floor, and it's not until the wee small hours of the morning that they can tear themselves away.
When he finally gets home at four AM - after a disastrous and expensive lesson in when the Tube stops running - Jared tacks up the cardstock flier for Maya over the bottom half of Sandra's Calvin Klein ad, quickly running out of room on his corkboard amidst all the photographs, programs, notes, and postcards.
*
Jensen Ackles heads to work at nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, as per usual. His Armani suit is perfectly pressed and his hat is perfectly placed, bowtie neat and straight and Blackberry practically glued to his hand. Mr. Padalecki readies the Rolls Royce to chauffer him to the Ackles Corporation offices in in the city.
Sandra comes running out of the side door of the house wearing a tiny tennis outfit, skirt flaring around her thighs and top plunging drastically. Jensen isn't exactly certain that it's entirely practical, but then nothing about Sandy is; who knows whether she actually intends to play any real tennis. She'll probably just be flirting around someone else who does. "Jensen, just a moment," she says, jogging over.
"Sandy, you do realize that you technically have a job, correct? At the Ackles Corporation? 389 Park Avenue?"
"Jensen-"
"You even have a corner office. On the forty-eighth floor. And a secretary. Whom we pay." He doesn't take his eyes off his stock quotes as he speaks, low and unconcerned about whatever it is Sandy's going to end up forcing him to do with those damned eyes of hers.
"Jensen, please. I've met somebody. Really this time! The most wonderful man," she says, clutching at Jensen's sleeve.
"And?" he says, sliding his Blackberry into his pocket. He shakes her off and clasps his hands in front of himself. "This is a problem because-?"
"Well, um." She pouts and tosses her hair, and Jensen is obviously sunk. "I invited him for dinner. This coming Friday. And, I-well I was hoping you and Mother would. You know. It's just that he's smart, absolutely genius, and so refined and mature. He's a real man not a-"
"Transvestite?" Jensen says.
"Not a stunted little boy," Sandy continues. "I just want you to maybe, sort of. Commend me a little. Play up how generous and intelligent and-okay." She tosses her hands in the air and slings her racket over her shoulder. "Okay, I want you to lie, basically," Sandra says, dropping the pretense. "I am madly in love with him and he is actually perfect in every possible way, and I need you to make me look good." She laughs and pulls at her little skirt. "Well, I can handle the looking good part. I mean-make me sound good. He's a doctor, a pediatrician even, so you know he must really be compassionate-"
"How on earth did you end up meeting a pediatrician?"
"I was at this party," Sandy says absently, "and there was a little girl there who got sick, and I had my car, the Maserati, I mean, so I drove her to the hospital. He was the attending, and we got to talking. Actually, his family supposedly knows you through business stuff or something."
"What's their name?" Jensen asks, genuinely curious.
"Morgan," Sandy says, eyebrows raised hopefully.
"As in. Morgan Industries?" Jensen blinks, nonplussed.
Sandy shrugs exaggeratedly just as their mother comes down the steps.
"Ah, children," she says with a smile, tight but real. "Morning, brown-eyes," she murmurs to Sandra and presses a kiss to her cheek. Turning to Jensen, "Shall we be off?"
"Yes, mother," Jensen says as Mr. Padalecki opens the door for her. He looks across the roof to Sandy. "And we'll do what we can on Friday. Lying or no."
She beams and hops on her toes, clapping excitedly. "Thank you thank you thank you, Jensen." She waves as her mother closes the door. "You two work on Sundays now?"
"It's Wednesday, Sandy," Jensen intones, and shuts his door firmly. Mr. Padalecki pulls down the driveway, and Jensen watches Sandra wave in the rearview mirror until they reach the end of the long path. He pulls out his laptop and switches on the wireless connection, doing some fast research.
"Mother," he says without looking up, "Sandy's dating the Morgans' son. He's coming over for dinner on Friday." She coughs and raises an eyebrow as Jensen whips out his phone. "Steve, I need you to start buying up Morgan stock. As much as you can without drawing any attention to us."
"Indeed," she mutters, and slides on a pair of oversized Dior sunglasses.
Friday comes upon them quickly, and Jensen is ready when Sandy enters the drawing room with Jeffrey Dean Morgan on her arm, both of them dressed impeccably. Jensen's fairly certain he and Sandy's beau actually go to the same tailor, if the fine cut of his suit is anything to go by.
"Mother, Jensen, this is Jeff. Jeff, my family." Sandy beams brightly and Jeff shakes everyone's hands.
"My pleasure," he says, voice deep and pleasantly gruff. He smiles and his eyes light up.
Jensen rubs his hands together and swallows audibly. Sandy wasn't kidding about this one. "So, a doctor?" Jensen manages.
"No, no, Sandy was just lying to get you to let me see her," Jeff says, practically twinkling.
Jensen can't help but snort, and even his mother laughs lightly.
"I borrowed your checkbook and donated a million or so to the children's wing of the hospital," Sandy says, smiling proudly.
"Sandra!"
"What a warm, generous heart you have, Sandy," Jensen stutters out, throwing his arm around her. "Doesn't she just?"
Jeff looks fondly on her, and Jensen pats her hair gingerly with a big smile.
*
Jared is walking home from Hyde Park on his day off, his camera slung about his neck, thinking over everything Lauren has taught him in the past few weeks. He can still feel her hand warm on his arm, and smell her flowery shampoo.
He almost misses Giles Hattersley stepping out of an office in Mayfair just across the street from Jared's flat. He waves, and Giles gestures to the taxi pulled up to the curb for him, sending it away.
"Good afternoon, my young man," Giles says, shaking Jared's hand with a bright grin. "Up for some lunch?"
"Actually," Jared says, at ease already, "I was just going to try out some new recipes I found the other day. I've been teaching myself to cook, and it's working out pretty well. Care to join?"
Giles checks his watch and nods. "Absolutely. Can't wait to hear how it's all going for you."
Giles settles in the front room with a cup of Irish coffee as Jared puts the finishing touches on his attempt at an endive, apple, hazelnut and gorgonzola salad, including homemade dressing. "Let me know if it's horrific," Jared says with a laugh, setting the small table by the picture window.
After he takes a ginger bite, Giles nods, pleased. "Actually, it's really quite tasty," he says around a mouthful.
"Awesome," Jared says, and pulls at the hem of his new shirt. Lauren had no qualms about telling him exactly where he should shop, but Jared made her let him pick out what he wanted for himself.
"So, how's tricks?" Giles says after a long moment of chewing. "I hear you and Cohan are getting quite chummy."
Jared laughs a little, looking out the window. "She's great. Really great. Perfect boss, even better photography teacher. Kind of a crappy French teacher, though. But fun to go out with."
"You like her a lot, don't you?"
"I guess so, yeah." Jared picks at his salad.
"But there's something stopping you from really being with her," Giles says. Jared should be shocked or insulted, maybe, that his boss's boss's boss is taking such an intimate interest in his life. But Giles just has a worldly, approachable way about him, and Jared feels nothing but relief. "Someone back home. I may have heard you mention-"
"Yeah," Jared says, only a little embarrassed. "I just. She keeps me company." They both know he's not talking about Lauren.
"Does she?" Giles puts down his fork with a delicate clink. "You know, I moved to London without knowing a soul here, just a clueless lad sitting around pubs writing stupid fuck-all in my journal. Day in and day out, it was life in London and drinks and scribbling nonsense. Until one day it wasn't nonsense anymore. It was something real." He meets Jared's eyes, unblinking, voice soft and grave. "The pavements of London are as historic as they are dirty and crowded, Jared, and there are stories trod into the cement deeper and stronger than the old gum and cigarette butts that are all you can see on the surface. I found myself in London; I knew myself in London."
"Oh," Jared breathes. His gaze is drawn back; he takes in the sweep of Giles's lips, his thick waves of hair and soft eyes. Jared gets that simple sort of clench down low in his stomach, like he gets when Lauren draws her fingers across the nape of his neck.
Maybe he really will find himself in London.
*
Jensen is deeply ensconced at the desk in his office at the mansion. It sits on the ground floor, with huge paned windows looking out over the stone patio where many a grand Ackles party has taken place.
Sandra bursts in without knocking, as usual, clearly happy in a confused sort of way. She paces in front of Jensen's desk, twirling a lock of hair around one perfectly manicured finger. "Jeff proposed to me," she finally spits out. "Well, sort of. I don’t know, it was a convoluted sort of mutual-proposal. I just. I don't know, it was very. Odd. I'm not entirely sure what was decided but. I think I might be getting married."
Jensen claps once and stands, hardly able to believe his luck. "Sandy! That's fantastic! It's really the best thing you could've asked for. You two will be disgustingly happy together, I'm sure."
"I just. I don't know! I've never-it's never been so easy before, but there he was in his sexy white coat, tending to a sick child, and I was in my knockout new Valentino cocktail dress and Mother's tiara and it was like. It was like a storybook. I just had to say yes!" Her eyes are shining even as she cracks her knuckles nervously. Jensen clears his throat to try and get her to stop - that always grates on his nerves - but she doesn't seem to notice.
"You did. I absolutely think it was the right decision. You're perfect for each other, and you're both very lucky. With the right man, anything is easy, Sandy. Even commitment." Jensen lays it on thick while keeping one eye on the blinking numbers pertaining to Morgan Industries' stock profile.
Sandy slides herself across Jensen's desk to press a sloppy kiss to his forehead. "Thanks. You're a lifesaver."
The next time Sandy comes to Jensen's office, it's his office on Park Avenue, and Jensen almost has a heart attack. "Jensen," she shouts, banging his door open in the middle of his meeting with Manns and Smith, his and Morgan's attorneys.
"Sandra, I'm in a meeting," he soothes.
"Yes, you are, and I need to speak with you, so you'll just have to continue it later."
"But-"
"When was the last time I set foot inside this office? This is not something that can wait."
"Gentlemen, please help yourselves to the lunch spread in the conference room. We'll pick up where we left off in just a moment," Jensen says. The attorneys leave without incident.
"What is this bullshit supposed to be?" Sandy snarls, thunking down a newspaper in front of Jensen once the door has closed behind them. It's the Business section of the New York Times, and the article at the top of the page outlines his anticipated merger with Morgan Industries.
"It's my job. And yours too, if you'd stop fucking everything that moves long enough to-"
"Well I have, now, haven't I? Because you pretty much forced me into this relationship, into this engagement. Do you think I'm completely braindead? I know you were just manipulating me so you could get your hands on Morgan Industries."
"There is a great deal of competition for this merger, and I need all the help I can get. Morgan has the newest digital technology developers on exclusive contract, plus the best and cheapest mobile computing technology for healthcare systems. It's the new frontier, and I can't afford to miss riding that wave. We're talking billions of dollars here, Sandy." Jensen scrubs his hands over his mouth, then through his hair.
"I'm not ready for this sort of commitment. You're completely ruining my life! How am I supposed to handle this? Being tied down, forced to-"
"Be a better person? I didn't plan this, you know. It was you who begged me to lie for you, to pretend you were such an amazing person so he couldn't help but fall for you. It was you who came to me and said you'd proposed to him. You were stupidly happy, and now what? You're bored and just want to throw him away? You don't deserve Jeff Morgan, but for some reason he appears to love you and genuinely wants to be with you," Jensen says, exasperated.
Sandy shifts uneasily. "Doesn't that-doesn't that worry you? Just-aren't you a little concerned about his mental health?" Jensen slaps his hands down on his desk in exasperation. After an uncomfortable silence, Sandy just looks steadily at him.
"So the merger. That's just a coincidence?"
"Clearly. I was just seizing an opportunity. That's what I do. What I've always done. I had to snap this one up quick, and you just happened actually to be of service for once."
"Of service?" Sandy huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. "This is my heart we're talking about here. My life."
"Yes, your life. And my life, too. My life, which pays for your life, Sandra. Your life where you never finish anything you start. You went to business school and then never got a job. Went to law school and never took the bar. Took tennis lessons, riding lessons, dancing lessons, violin lessons, piano lessons. And not once did you actually learn anything. We got you French tutors, Latin tutors, Spanish tutors. But can you speak any language at all but English? Of course not. And when was the last time you went out with a man more than twice?"
"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," Sandy says, hands clenched by her sides. "You're lecturing me about relationships when you're so warped and loveless I've never even seen you with anyone you weren't trying to get to sign something." She paces in front of the desk, stiletto heels sinking in the plush carpet. "You just lose yourself in work so you don't have to deal with the complexity of dating women you can't fall in love with or men you can't be seen with."
Jensen can hardly breathe, trying not flinch as she smashes the nail directly on the head. He grinds his teeth and eventually grits out, "Finish something, Sandra. Jeffrey Dean Morgan is the best thing to ever happen to you, and you'll regret it forever if you don't go through with this."
Sandra spins on her heel and storms out, slamming the heavy mahogany doors behind her.
*
Lauren is sprawled on Jared's couch reading Vogue while Jared is puttering around in his kitchen, attempting to teach himself how to properly sear sea bass. He hears the familiar thunk of the post through the slot just as he pulls the last filet out of the pan. "Can you check that for me?" he calls over to her.
"Bills. Catalog. And something from Long Island," she says after a moment.
Jared flicks off the heat and rushes over to grab the letter out of Lauren's hand. "Letter from home," he says, and flops onto the couch to read. Lauren insinuates herself alongside him, but doesn't try to read over his shoulder.
The first part is all business is usual, talking about Momma and Dad and the rest of the staff, all the parties and things the Ackles family is up to. But then Jared's breath goes still in his throat.
…I know what I'm about to say is going to be difficult for you to read, and your mother and I debated telling you at all. I didn't think I could get it out over the phone, so I decided I'd better write you with the news. Maybe it will be easier to take this way. You've cared for Sandra Ackles for a very long time now, and it will perhaps upset you to know that she has just become engaged to Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the eldest son of the Manhattan Morgans, who own Morgan Industries…
The rest turns into a blur as Jared reads on, not even processing the words. He lets his hand fall limply to his lap, the letter fluttering to the floor. Lauren pulls herself up to lie across Jared's chest, picking idly at his buttons as she speaks, voice soothing and quiet.
"Jared," she begins, but trails off. She inches further up his body, warm and soft against him. She seeks out his lips, pressing a kiss to them, slow and tentative. Jared breathes her in, free to let his mind go blank as he tastes her lip balm, feels the brush of her hair against his neck, her breasts against his chest. Their kiss turns stronger, and Jared sits up, pulling her with him into his lap. She opens her mouth, slicks her tongue against his as they kiss deeper, closer.
Lauren hitches her hips up, once, twice, then stops completely, pulling away, leaving Jared out of breath. She licks at her lips, cradling Jared's face in her graceful hands. She rubs her thumbs across his cheekbones, sighing. "Jared. I haven't the slightest idea what that letter said. And I don't want to know." She places her hand lightly over Jared's, then drags it up to his temple, sweeping her fingers across the fine hair above his ears. "It's for you to settle with, in your own way."
Jared nods, eyes falling shut. He thinks of Sandra, and of how her rich brown eyes peer out from the sea of photographs, letters and fliers tacked to his corkboard, all that's left visible of her perfect image.
Jared walks the pavements of Soho, of Tower Bridge, of the North and South Bank. He trudges through Camden, bright colors hardly dulled by the grey cast of rain, through the City, past cathedrals and train stations and St. Pancras Church, where he stops to hear the lunchtime choir rehearsals in the rectory. He learns stone edifices as well as the plywood fronts of twenty-four-hour kebab shops, off-licenses and post offices and universities.
Jared photographs it all, buildings and people and life as it thrums about him in London, swallowing him up at the same time it welcomes him and makes him a part of it. Sometimes he emulates Giles, picking pubs with outdoor seating and good beer where he can drink and write in his journal, soaking in the sounds around him. Languages he can't identify, all subjects and dialects, cars and mounted policemen and radios; it's cacophonous and peaceful all at once.
He joins a gym just off Oxford Street, working out his stress after work on the way home. He has gym buddies and drinking buddies and coworkers he's actually friends with. Lauren is by his side most of the time as she runs around London with him; they're an inseparable couple but completely platonic - except maybe some mostly harmless making out when they're out at Maya or Fabric or some other pumping nightspot. Jared inevitably goes overboard on Jack Daniels, Lauren falling prey to her vodka and cranberry.
Samuel Johnson famously said, "…when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life," and so Jared will always believe. When his internship at Arena is over and the time for him to return home approaches, he says goodbye to his friends, to Lauren, to Giles, and leaves his heart on the pavements of London.
He calls his family to let them know he'll be home soon, but not to send anyone to pick him up; he'll surprise them.
*
The canopies go up on the green expanse of lawn outside Jensen's office window right around ten AM on his mother's birthday. He makes his way out to the patio to watch the caterers and the decorators, the gardeners, everyone milling around the lawns. Sandra greets him from her perch on the wide granite railing of the patio steps. She's wearing a bright sundress today, orange and pink, and delicate ballet slippers. It will probably all be strewn around her room at the mansion later tonight, and either Jensen or the maid is going to be left tidying up after her when she inevitably ends up back at her penthouse in the city.
"So I hear there's a new bidder for Morgan Industries," she says, drawing her knees up. "Who is it? Viacom?"
"Among others," Jensen says, eyeing her suspiciously. The fact that she's showing any interest at all is staggering, much less informed interest.
"What are they bringing to the table? Cash or stock options?"
Jensen blinks in disbelief and breaks into a bark of laughter. "I love it when you talk dirty, baby," he says, and tugs at a lock of Sandy's hair. She looks like there's something else she wants to say.
"I really do love Jeff," she whispers. "This is the right thing to do."
"Damn straight it's the right thing to do," Jensen says. "He's a genius, plus he's hilarious and down-to-earth, loaded, kind, hot as all hell-"
Sandy elbows him, but she can't keep the smile off her face. "Why don't you marry him, then?"
Jensen laughs, pulling her down onto the steps. "Shh, someone might hear." He waves her off, still grinning. "Don't you have a gift for our mother you're supposed to be picking up?"
Sandy walks backwards up the steps to stick her tongue out petulantly at Jensen, but he gets his own back when she almost falls on her face once she gets to the top.
*
Jared stands at the bus stop in his Galliano suit, patient and ready, surrounded by his luggage. It's all brand-new: some chic Mulberry pieces courtesy of the Arena staff. They also donated way more than Jared's fair share of the fashion and gadgetry freebies they so often get saddled with. He's wearing a pair of Dior aviators, and though he was going to wear one of his new hats, he'd rather wow his family with his stupidly expensive Toni & Guy haircut.
There's a gleaming red Maserati illegally parked on the yellow curb only a few yards from where Jared stands. His heart skips a beat: that's Sandra's car.
Sandra comes out of the framing shop carrying a package which she gingerly places in the trunk. Jared feels his breath come faster, seeing her after so long, even more beautiful than he remembered. It's bittersweet, but he enjoys it. She looks up, freezing when she sees him. "Hello there," he says, unable to help his wide, easy grin. "How're things?"
Sandra turns around awkwardly, clearly unsure if Jared's speaking to her. "Uh, hel-hello." She blinks, coming closer, ignoring the ticket tucked under the Maserati's windshield wipers. Her gaze travels up and down Jared's body so heavily he can practically feel it. "I'm fantastic."
"It's a pleasant surprise to see you here," Jared says, stifling his laughter. Sandra is clearly confused and intrigued; she must not recognize him at all. The hair, the sunglasses, the clothes. The fact that he's grown at least three inches and packed on more than forty pounds of muscle. He hardly blames her.
"Oh, well. You know me," she says airily. "Uh-would you. Would you like a ride?" Her smile is coquettish and beyond charming.
"If you're on your way home anyway, sure," Jared says.
"I am, yes. Ah-I don't exactly. Remember your street. Is it on the way?"
Jared shakes his head as he loads his bags into the back. His cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling. "Dosoris Lane."
Sandra's mouth falls open; she even looks charming when she's mouth-breathing. "That's my street."
"It is indeed," Jared says. "Small world." He opens the driver's side door for her, then slides into the passenger seat himself.
They're just about to the Ackles Mansion when Jared points to the driveway. "There's yours," he says, and gives Sandra a meaningful look.
"Would you like to come in for a drink or something?" she asks, getting the picture.
"Brilliant," Jared says, and leans back against the headrest. "You really don't remember me, do you?"
"Don't be silly, of course I do," Sandra says. "You're-uh. My. Neighbor. Apparently." Jared shakes his head, reveling in her scramble. "I could've sworn I know every single hot guy on the North Shore."
"What, not the entire eastern seaboard?" Jared says, snickering.
Sandra rolls her eyes. "Very funny."
"Well, you are engaged now, or so I hear. That would probably curtail your explorations."
"Yes." She trails off for a moment, then, "Well, it's been really hectic for us lately, and in fact he's at some sort of medical conference in California at the moment, so. We haven't been able to set a date." She pulls up to the house with the familiar crunch of gravel, and Jared takes in all the catering trucks, florists, and other party staff milling around in the driveway.
"I see you're having a party. You all always did have the greatest parties."
"Oh, is that where I know you from? Did I meet you at a party once?" Sandy asks, hopeful.
"No, no." Jared shakes his head. "I haven't ever been to one. Just-seen them. Heard them." He wants to start unloading his things from Sandra's car, but something inside him wants to hang onto the ruse for just a little longer. "It must be your mother's birthday today, right?"
"Yeah," Sandra says absently. They get out and she walks around to lean against the car next to Jared, her sundress blowing around her legs. "It starts at nine tonight. Would you come? Please?" Her smile is small and enticing, hair curling against her shoulders. There's no way Jared could refuse her. "As long as you tell me who you-"
"Good morning, Jared," Jensen says, preoccupied as he strides past them towards the truck full of rented tables. He looks exactly the same as when Jared left, cool green eyes and touch of gold in his hair where the sun strikes it.
Jared gives a little wave and flushes across his cheeks; the jig is up. Sandra squints at him adorably. "Jared?" She tries the name out in her mouth.
"Did you have a good time in London?" Jensen asks, signing something on a clipboard offered to him by a man in coveralls.
"Better than good," Jared says, eyes flicking between Jensen and Sandra, not sure where to look.
"Jared?" Sandra says again, a little surer, like maybe it's coming back to her.
"You've certainly grown up," Jensen says, droll. He raises his eyebrows in Jared's general direction, and Jared twitches his shoulders, hyper-conscious of the attention but pleased nonetheless.
"Well. Thank you," he manages.
Sandra's mouth falls open, and her eyes widen comically. "Jared?"
"Why does she keep saying that?" Jensen says, making a note of something in his Blackberry. "Give her a good kick and see if you can't get her dialog track to stop skipping."
Sandra doesn't even hear him, she's so involved in gaping at Jared. He simply smiles at her, standing tall and sure of himself. "Well. I should probably go," he says, and starts unloading his suitcases. "My mom and dad will be wanting to see me. Thanks so much for the ride, Sandra."
"It's Sandy, please," she says finally, and jogs after him for a few steps.
"Sandy, no," Jared hears Jensen mutter.
She stops and looks back. "But, I wasn't-"
"No. A thousand times no."
Jared laughs to himself and climbs the stairs to the apartment above the garage.
*
Part Two
Author: balefully
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Words: 29,300
Summary: Jared is the son of the Ackles family's chauffeur, and has been in love with Sandra, the Ackles's adopted daughter, all his life. He goes to London to find himself, and comes back a changed man. Sandra falls in love with him at long last, threatening her financially advantageous engagement to Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the heir of Morgan Industries. Jensen, her older brother and the CEO of the Ackles Corporation, must devise a plan to keep Sandra and Jared apart so his carefully plotted merger can go through as intended. His own machinations backfire, however, as he learns the meaning of love, selflessness, and what it's like to truly need someone else.
Warnings: Extreme schmoop.
Disclaimer: Only a product of my fevered imagination. All recognizable lines (including the title) are "borrowed" from Sabrina, the 1995 film, starring Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond, or from the 1954 film, starring Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart, both by Paramount. All brands and locations belong to their creators, etc.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity for the extremely generous and patient heidi8. She requested a Jsquared AU based on the film Sabrina, and while I played havoc with some aspects of her request, I hope this is at least a passable offering. <333! It's really more of a remake than just an AU based on a movie, as it very closely resembles the original, and in fact utilizes a fair amount of the more iconic dialogue. All the places (restaurants, London landmarks, etc.) are real, and so is Giles Hattersley. Thanks INFINITELY to backinblack for the World's Fastest Beta! <333! And to those of you who offered when I begged so prettily. ;)! (And to lazy_daze, who swooped in to save me from typo hell at the last second. MWAH.)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The Last of the Romantics
Golden lights stud the balcony rails amidst rich garlands of deep red and green; laughter wraps around the breeze, floating over the party as everyone in attendance drinks sparkling wine and feasts on light pastries, fruits, and expensive hors doeuvres. It is a fairytale of velvet and gilt, decadent and sparkling in the crisp night, punctuated with grandiose statues and fountains of marble. Each of the ladies and gentlemen mingling in the moonlight is more beautiful and refined than the last.
Jared Padalecki, however, is not among them. He is not dressed in custom-tailored finery, not catching the arm of a tuxedoed waiter to request more champagne or foie gras. He is not regaling gorgeous socialites with his witty repartee as they hang on his every word. No, Jared Padalecki is wearing dirty, patched overalls and sporting an uneven bowl-cut, skinny bean-pole frame bent in half as he takes in the surreal fantasy unfolding below him. Jared Padalecki is up a tree, spying.
Beyond the cursory surveillance of this other world he only wishes he could be a part of, he ignores the general merry-making. There is one person, one glorious beacon of everything good and beautiful in the universe, at whom he directs his attentions. Will always direct his attentions, if he puts his faith in the hammering of his heart.
She titters and leans in to the tall blond man she's speaking to. Her eyes are dark and shining, her smile red and playful; her hair cascades in perfect sheets down past her shoulders, glowing velvety dark. Each inch of her flawless skin is golden-smooth, down to the perfect round tops of her breasts nestled in the deep vee of her dress, so green it shames even the forest behind her mansion.
Because it is her mansion, the Ackles Mansion, as much as the youngest child of any multi-million-dollar family may claim ownership of its grounds. Sandra McCoy was adopted by Colonel and Mrs. Ackles at a tender age, following the tragic death of her family, and blossomed in their generous care to become the exquisite woman she is now, tonight, under the silver moon and Jared Padalecki's wistful gaze.
The Colonel has since passed away, leaving his fortune and corporation to Mrs. Ackles. Jensen, Sandra's older brother and the Ackles's only son, helmed the family company after his father's death. He worked at all hours and raked in staggering profits due to his wise and early investments in wireless technology. He leaves all their parties early, including this one, presumably to catch up on his stocks and the status of his mergers and acquisitions. Jensen cares nothing for family and friends beyond their usefulness in his business, and though he's extraordinarily effective, Jared pities him. He's never seen Jensen with a woman by his side, never known him to take vacations or travel for reasons beyond business. Jensen, it's said, is unable to love anything but his company.
Sandra, on the other hand, doesn't concern herself with the family business, content to manage her social engagements, radiating grace, poise, and charm. She even appeared in a Chanel perfume ad that ran in all the glossy magazines. She hopped from expensive private school to expensive private school in her earlier days, from boyfriend to boyfriend, carefree and beautiful and everything an heiress should be.
She is Jared's soulmate, he's sure. Never before have two people been destined for each other as they are. Never before have two hearts been so fated to be entwined. He pines for her each day, each night. Thinks of her always.
That she hardly acknowledges his existence matters not at all. For the course of true love, they say, never shall run smooth. Jared must brave hardship and suffering and the pangs of yearning before they can be together. He must learn to appreciate every molecule of her being, must become worthy of her in every way. When it finally happens, it has to be perfect, everything coming together just right; he can hang on until that fateful day comes.
"Jared! What the hell are you doing up there?" A sharp voice rings out over the gardens from some distance away, startling Jared from his reverie. He jerks, flailing to catch at a branch on the way down before makes an inauspicious dent in the ground. He lands painfully on his feet in a sort of jumbled crouch, and when he looks up, he finds Sandra herself blinking at him, hand tucked in the crook of the blond man's elbow.
"Uh," Jared says. His mind wipes completely blank.
Sandra smiles at him, confusion melting into the brightness of her eyes. "Oh, Jared, it's just you," she says. She's clutching a bottle of champagne in her other hand, and the man holds two empty flutes. Sandra looks to him, then back at Jared. "What do you say we keep this our little secret, okay? You don't tell, I won't tell." She winks and carries on down the path, dragging the man behind her to the deserted boathouse.
Jared's struck dumb. She spoke to him. She said his name. She winked at him. They have a secret. The words hardly make sense to him in his own brain.
He's still trying to figure out if it really happened or if it was just another one of his insanely vivid daydreams when he staggers under the force of a firm hand on his shoulder. "Come on, son. You need to get back to the house," Jared's father says, stern, in the same deep, ringing voice he'd used when he caught Jared in the tree to begin with. "And stop mooning after Miss Sandra. Won't do anyone any good, and you've got to get packing. Suitcases won't pack themselves."
Jared watches Sandra's retreating form, nodding absently at his father. Gerald Padalecki could never understand; wouldn't even attempt to understand the constant, desperate thrum of Jared's heart for the youngest Ackles. He has been the chauffeur of the family, proud and uncomplicated, for many years. The Padalecki family came to work at the mansion when Jared was still a child, and thus Jared grew up living and breathing the Ackles's daily life more than even his own.
Though he knows about and refuses to condone Jared's obsession with Sanda, Jared's father dotes on him in many other ways. He taught Jared everything there is to know about cars and books and travel, having been a rootless youth himself, once upon a time. He imparted to Jared the joys of wanderlust from a young age, and even encouraged him to take an internship in London involving photography, a subject Jared recently grew fascinated with and shared with his father. Jared hasn't told him how many of the rolls of film in canisters in the dark room waiting to be developed are devoted to Sandra.
In fact, Jared's flight to London leaves the next afternoon. Mrs. Ackles had a friend in the magazine business needing to get a job filled, and she spoke to his father about it personally. Jared hardly remembers life without the enormity of the Ackles family keeping him afloat. He'll miss seeing Sandra, the opulent parties he's never invited to, the manicured beauty of the grounds, the pleasant shine of the cars, and of course his own family, loving and constant. He needs to find his own feet, though, and any amount of homesickness will be worth that.
London calls to him, with its history and art and culture, everything infused with romance and refinement. Jared needs to make a place for himself away from the Ackles name, away from his parents, away from the loving but nosey mansion staff.
He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent of gardenias and sweet champagne, and walks back to the comfortable apartment over the garage he shares with his family; he really does need to finish packing.
"Jared," his father says the next morning, clapping a hand to Jared's shoulder. "This'll be so good for you. You really couldn't ask for a better place to find yourself than London. Best experience of your life, I'll bet you that right now."
Jared nods, putting the last of his bags in the back of the car. They're using the Bentley today, polished until it glows. Jared's always preferred the classic American cars in the garage, probably collector's pieces of the Colonel's, but the Bentley is grand and his dad is proud of it.
"What if she forgets me?" Jared asks, eyes searching for Sandra's window. His dad is right, but it doesn't stop the ache.
"How could she forget someone she doesn't even know exists?" Jared's father shakes his head, mouth pressed thin. "Sorry, sorry, son, I just. You're something special. You are. And you have to remember that - that there's more to you than your feelings for her." When Jared says nothing, his dad just sighs.
Jared straightens at the obvious movement of Sandra's curtains being drawn open. She must be awake, and now-now is his last chance to say goodbye. To tell her how he feels. Maybe she would beg him not to go, or maybe she would ask to come with him; it's foolish, but hope bubbles bright in his chest, and Jared has to try.
"I know, Dad," Jared says, and clears his throat. "Listen, I'm gonna check the house, make sure I'm not forgetting anything, okay? I'll be back before we have to leave."
The door to Sandra's room stands open wide, light from her tall windows splashing across the exquisitely decorated space. Jared can hear rustling back in one of the large recesses behind the main room, hidden from sight. He steps in, just barely inside the door, but the room smells of her, warm and close, like he can feel her very presence. Jared coughs lightly and takes a deep breath as the rustling ceases.
"Don't say anything, please," he says, voice trembling. "And don’t come out. I need-I can't be looking at you when I say this." He swallows, willing himself to get it all out. "I'm leaving today. For London. In just a few minutes, actually, and I probably won't be back for a long time. I came-I came to say goodbye." Jared wrings his hands and pushes onwards. "I'm sure you won't miss me, seeing as how you hardly even knew I was here to begin with, but. I just-I needed you to know that I know who you really are. I know you better than anybody, probably. You're beautiful, gorgeous, but anyone can see that. Under that, though, no matter what anyone says or what they think, I know you're an amazing person. With a warm heart and you're so smart and you're-just. You're wonderful. And I'll be thinking of you. I'm sure that's not worth much to you, but I hope maybe one day when you're not feeling your best, you'll remind yourself, someone very far away is thinking of me, and maybe it might make you smile. Even just a little." Jared sighs deeply, biting at his bottom lip. "So if there's anything I could ever do for you, anything at all-" He trails off, looking up when he hears someone coming out from the alcove in back.
It's Jensen Ackles. Jensen. Not Sandra at all. He's holding some hangers, some odds and ends, like he was just tidying up. There's an unreadable look in his eyes as Jared just stands, gaping at him.
"You could bring me back some good tea, maybe," he says after a moment, smiling. Jared's head is spinning, and it sounds like Jensen's speaking from under water. "Or one of those little brass Big Ben paperweights."
Finally Jared forces his muscles to move, spinning around without a word and running out of the room as fast as he can, mortified beyond anything he's ever felt before in his life. Heart pounding, he sprints down the stairs and out the front door.
He makes it to the car without falling over his own feet, a minor miracle, and slams the door shut behind himself. "Let's go," he says, and his father, waiting patiently in the front seat of the Bentley, does him the courtesy of not asking any questions.
Jared arrives in London wickedly jet-lagged and completely confused. He could swear his luggage has gotten heavier, plus the wheels on his biggest suitcase broke so he has to drag everything gracelessly along the sidewalk instead of rolling it like a civil person. The Underground is convoluted and the passageways between platforms are completely without logic; he hefts his bags up and down three flights of stairs before he finds his line, and then realizes after four stops that he's going the wrong way.
Eventually, he stumbles up to his third-floor walk-up in Mayfair, courtesy of Mr. Hattersley, the friend of Mrs. Ackles who works in publishing. Luckily, he appears to be an extremely successful friend, because Jared's apartment is bright and quaint, roomy without being empty and old-fashioned without being out-of-date, not to mention the fact that from what Jared can see, Kensington is the height of up-scale and the home of many of the city's elite.
In his bedroom, a corkboard hangs above a neat oak desk. The first thing he does, before even unpacking, is pull a print of Sandra's famous Calvin Klein ad out of his carry-on and tack it carefully in the very center of the board.
Work the next day follows the same general pattern as his time in London so far. He starts off from his new home at an ungodly hour to give himself plenty of time to navigate the gnarled streets of London and manages to make his way to the Arena Magazine offices on Shaftesbury Avenue twenty minutes early, tired and disoriented but dressed in his best shirt and with his pants only vaguely creased. Jared pulls a notebook out of his bag as he waits and scribbles iron at the top of his shopping list.
Of course, the employees and clientele milling around the front desk as Jared waits are the epitome of crisply-pressed, designer perfection, throwing around terms and names and ideas about photography, fashion, and publishing which he can't even begin to comprehend. A young man emerges into the waiting area with a crafty smile and impeccable suit, offering his hand to Jared. Jared stands, attempting to shrink himself down to a more respectable height, and tries valiantly to straighten his pants.
"You must be Jared," the man says, shaking Jared's hand firmly. His smile is warm if a little amused, and his voice is low and gentle with a pleasant lilt. "I'm Giles Hattersley, the editor-in-chief here at Arena. I believe you know an old friend of mine."
Jared manages to return the handshake and smile weakly through his confusion. Giles seems awfully young to be a friend of Mrs. Padalecki's or the Colonel's; he doesn't even look thirty. "That's right, I'm Jared," he says. "My family works on the Ackles estate in New York. Mrs. Ackles said she put in a word for me here, and I-uh. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity."
Giles raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth crooks up wryly. "Donna hasn't any difficulties pulling a string or two, has she? I think perhaps it runs in the family." Jared isn't entirely sure what that's supposed to mean, but he smiles gamely anyway. "It was actually Jensen who called me about the position, you know," Giles adds. "We were-mates. Back in uni. It was lovely to hear from him again." His smile strikes Jared as kind of wistful.
Jared hopes the confusion isn’t too evident on his face. Mrs. Ackles was definitely the one who told his father about the internship. Perhaps she had her son make the call to be more persuasive; the college buddy angle is an oft-used one among the social elite, or so Jared has come to assume. "Great, great. I'm glad you two got a chance to catch up," Jared says. "As far as I know, Jensen works really hard pretty much all the time, so. You know. I figure he doesn't get much time to reconnect with old friends."
"Of course," Giles says, steering Jared to his corner office in the back, all slick modern furnishings and state-of-the-art gadgets. "So. You've not come here to carry on with me all day - you'll be assisting on our fashion shoots. Cohan, our best photographer, is in desperate need of a good runner. That's you. It's not a particularly glamorous job, and apparently the art director she's working with can get quite particular, but from what I've heard, I'm sure you'll be just fine." Jared only spares a moment wondering what, exactly, Giles had heard.
Cohan, it turns out, is Lauren Cohan, a beautiful young up-and-comer on the London art scene, branching out into international print work and renowned for her ability to catch the essence of her models even through elaborate high-fashion accoutrements.
"Good morning," she says to Jared with a cheeky wink as he hands her a cup of coffee. "Looks like we'll be getting to know each other rather well in the near future, yeah?"
"As long as I don't crash and burn right out of the starting gate, anyway," Jared says, shifting his shoulders nervously. Lauren is wearing an extremely expensive-looking black dress, and the male models she's positioning look like they've been cast out of bronze. Jared sighs, feeling gangly and ridiculous.
The rest of the day follows suit. Jared can't seem to keep up, at least three steps behind Lauren whenever she asks for something. The art director picks on him when he can't tell the difference between the Gautier and Gucci belts and isn't sure how to work the fog machine. He has to work through his lunch break and when he finally gets a chance to bolt down a sandwich, he comes back to find a French photographer who is decidedly not Lauren, and speaks no English at all whatsoever; Jared doesn't understand a word of French, and of course a communication breakdown follows on a scale that regularly accompanies international incidents.
Things only go downhill from there. By the time Jared finally stumbles up to his apartment, it's past nine o'clock and he can't feel his feet. As he sits in the overstuffed armchair in the front room nursing a bottle of Fuller's London Porter, he thinks of home, and of Sandra, and wonders how much longer he'll have to stay here before he can go back without dying of shame.
Just before he slides under the duvet, he picks up the phone from his bedside table and calls the kitchen extension of the Ackles house. His mother answers on the second ring, and he can just picture her, long hair coiled in a bun, uniform pristine, wiping her hands on her white apron as she holds the phone tucked between her chin and shoulder. "Ackles residence; how may I help you?" she says, cheery and breathless.
"Hey Mom," Jared says, and can't take his eyes off the picture of Sandra on his bulletin board.
"Jared!" she says, laughing. "So good to hear from you, sweetheart. How're things going? How was your first day? I have to get supper finished for Mrs. Ackles in just a moment but tell me what you can. I want to know everything!"
Jared hears the pride in her voice, and he feels bad that there's such a heavy weight clenched around his chest. He should be enjoying himself. "Oh, Momma," he says. Getting it out will probably feel better. "Everyone thinks I'm a total moron, I look like a doofus, I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't speak French, I don't know where anything is or how anything works. I feel like-I don't know. I feel stupid and clumsy all the time-"
"Sweetie," his mother says, concern thick in her voice, "slow down. I doubt everyone thinks you're a moron. There must be someone in the entirety of London who-"
"That's only because I haven't met everyone in the entirety of London yet," Jared groans.
"Well, it's only your second day there," she adds, still unfailingly chipper. "I'm sure everyone will come to love you as much as we do. The important thing is that you're out there on your own, doing your best, making new friends, growing up-"
Jared waits as she pauses uncomfortably.
"-not thinking about. You know. Her."
Jared blinks at Sandra's picture and presses his lips together tightly. "Momma. Life without her is a hopeless abyss of misery and despair. I'll never not think about her."
His mother sighs and clucks her tongue. "That's not true, darling. You'll see. Now you need to get some sleep so you can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work tomorrow. And don't forget to eat! I don't want you coming home even more skin and bones than you already are. I've heard horrible things about the food over there, and I worry about you, sweetheart."
"I know, Momma. I'll eat. And sleep. Give my love to everyone." He sends her a kiss down the line and hangs up with a heavy hand. He falls asleep staring at Sandra's picture, her beautiful eyes fixed on him.
In the days that follow, Jared slowly but surely begins to find his place. It's his third week in London, and he's studied the Tube map every night until he's memorized as much of it as he needs on a daily basis. He's scouted around Mayfair for all the best cafes, making a note of the ones he won't have to sell a kidney to eat at regularly. Sera, the art director, has actually begun to trust him with tasks more involved than fetching coffee, and Lauren's even agreed to start teaching him French on her breaks - but only after he agrees to get himself an upscale haircut.
"You should come to dinner with me," she says one day, warm summer sun bright on the pavement of Trafalgar Square. The models are wearing intricate, plumed headgear and dresses of floaty, opal grey linen damask; Jared's fairly certain they're supposed to be haute couture pigeons, and the effect is actually rather striking as they perch and preen on the bronze lions.
Lauren isn't looking at Jared as she says it; he assumes she's speaking to Sera. They do often go out to eat for planning meetings. When only silence greets Lauren's words, she turns from her camera to lift a wry eyebrow at Jared. "Have we suddenly gone deaf? Or mute, perhaps?" Her smile is kind and she looks particularly lovely today, the sun bringing out the gold in her dark hair, the cool green of her eyes. Jared feels the flutter of a memory and he can't help but say yes.
"No we haven't," he says. "Just staving off a heart attack. You've seen me during lunch - I'm shocked and horrified that you'd want to subject yourself to that for an extended period of time."
"Well, since I did the asking, I get to pick the place," Lauren says. "And as long as I don't take us to an all-you-can-eat buffet, we'll probably be all right. Think you could restrain yourself?"
Jared laughs as she turns back to her camera. "I think so," he says, and the vise-grip around his chest loosens a little.
He meets Lauren at Incognico, a brasserie just down the street from the main Arena offices. Everything is rich red leather and mahogany wood, starched white tablecloths and excellent service. Jared feels underdressed yet again, surrounded by businessmen and women, their finely-turned out companions. Lauren doesn't seem to mind, though, and she fits in flawlessly with her smart navy suit, tailored pencil skirt showcasing her miles of leg.
Jared whips his notepad out of his back pocket and scrawls clothes. lots of clothes at the top of his current shopping list.
Lauren orders them the Salt Cod with Aioli to start, then the Rump of Lamb with Borlotti Beans and Tarragon for their main. After a long, detailed conversation about photography and Lauren's time in New York during her gap year, Jared finds his voice at last and gets them both coffee and Warm Chocolate Mousse for dessert.
They end up at Maya on Dean Street in Soho after a pleasant walk on the busy sidewalk - "Pavement, you mean," says Lauren - passing clubbers and party-goers and businesspeople, bicycle rickshaws, and at least three dozen Black Cabs.
Jared hasn't even been to a club before, much less one quite like this. "It's rather pretentious," Lauren says, shrugging, "but it's gorgeous inside and the music is absolutely the best you can find. Plus, we might run into someone staggeringly famous. I'm always on the lookout to make connections." She rifles her hands through Jared's hair and tweaks his shirt a bit. "They hand-pick the guests from the line," she explains. "They know me, so it should be all right, but just in case-"
Jared laughs instead of letting himself be too self-conscious. When he ascends the steep staircase and passes through the floor-to-ceiling projection that functions as the door to the club, he just drinks it all in instead of feeling out of place. The walls are streaked with burnished gold, the illuminated glass platforms that encourage - practically demand - dancing; the transparent screens around the room are etched in a mosaic effect, alternating through a spectrum of neon colors as Jared watches. Black woven leather chairs sit mostly unoccupied, the entire room full of dancing people, beautiful and eclectic.
He orders cocktails from a waitress in a canary yellow hotpants-length jumpsuit, and Lauren snaps some pictures of the opulent interior with her ever-present camera. They down their drinks and Jared feels a sudden rush, like maybe his real life is finally beginning. He pulls Lauren onto the dance floor, and it's not until the wee small hours of the morning that they can tear themselves away.
When he finally gets home at four AM - after a disastrous and expensive lesson in when the Tube stops running - Jared tacks up the cardstock flier for Maya over the bottom half of Sandra's Calvin Klein ad, quickly running out of room on his corkboard amidst all the photographs, programs, notes, and postcards.
*
Jensen Ackles heads to work at nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, as per usual. His Armani suit is perfectly pressed and his hat is perfectly placed, bowtie neat and straight and Blackberry practically glued to his hand. Mr. Padalecki readies the Rolls Royce to chauffer him to the Ackles Corporation offices in in the city.
Sandra comes running out of the side door of the house wearing a tiny tennis outfit, skirt flaring around her thighs and top plunging drastically. Jensen isn't exactly certain that it's entirely practical, but then nothing about Sandy is; who knows whether she actually intends to play any real tennis. She'll probably just be flirting around someone else who does. "Jensen, just a moment," she says, jogging over.
"Sandy, you do realize that you technically have a job, correct? At the Ackles Corporation? 389 Park Avenue?"
"Jensen-"
"You even have a corner office. On the forty-eighth floor. And a secretary. Whom we pay." He doesn't take his eyes off his stock quotes as he speaks, low and unconcerned about whatever it is Sandy's going to end up forcing him to do with those damned eyes of hers.
"Jensen, please. I've met somebody. Really this time! The most wonderful man," she says, clutching at Jensen's sleeve.
"And?" he says, sliding his Blackberry into his pocket. He shakes her off and clasps his hands in front of himself. "This is a problem because-?"
"Well, um." She pouts and tosses her hair, and Jensen is obviously sunk. "I invited him for dinner. This coming Friday. And, I-well I was hoping you and Mother would. You know. It's just that he's smart, absolutely genius, and so refined and mature. He's a real man not a-"
"Transvestite?" Jensen says.
"Not a stunted little boy," Sandy continues. "I just want you to maybe, sort of. Commend me a little. Play up how generous and intelligent and-okay." She tosses her hands in the air and slings her racket over her shoulder. "Okay, I want you to lie, basically," Sandra says, dropping the pretense. "I am madly in love with him and he is actually perfect in every possible way, and I need you to make me look good." She laughs and pulls at her little skirt. "Well, I can handle the looking good part. I mean-make me sound good. He's a doctor, a pediatrician even, so you know he must really be compassionate-"
"How on earth did you end up meeting a pediatrician?"
"I was at this party," Sandy says absently, "and there was a little girl there who got sick, and I had my car, the Maserati, I mean, so I drove her to the hospital. He was the attending, and we got to talking. Actually, his family supposedly knows you through business stuff or something."
"What's their name?" Jensen asks, genuinely curious.
"Morgan," Sandy says, eyebrows raised hopefully.
"As in. Morgan Industries?" Jensen blinks, nonplussed.
Sandy shrugs exaggeratedly just as their mother comes down the steps.
"Ah, children," she says with a smile, tight but real. "Morning, brown-eyes," she murmurs to Sandra and presses a kiss to her cheek. Turning to Jensen, "Shall we be off?"
"Yes, mother," Jensen says as Mr. Padalecki opens the door for her. He looks across the roof to Sandy. "And we'll do what we can on Friday. Lying or no."
She beams and hops on her toes, clapping excitedly. "Thank you thank you thank you, Jensen." She waves as her mother closes the door. "You two work on Sundays now?"
"It's Wednesday, Sandy," Jensen intones, and shuts his door firmly. Mr. Padalecki pulls down the driveway, and Jensen watches Sandra wave in the rearview mirror until they reach the end of the long path. He pulls out his laptop and switches on the wireless connection, doing some fast research.
"Mother," he says without looking up, "Sandy's dating the Morgans' son. He's coming over for dinner on Friday." She coughs and raises an eyebrow as Jensen whips out his phone. "Steve, I need you to start buying up Morgan stock. As much as you can without drawing any attention to us."
"Indeed," she mutters, and slides on a pair of oversized Dior sunglasses.
Friday comes upon them quickly, and Jensen is ready when Sandy enters the drawing room with Jeffrey Dean Morgan on her arm, both of them dressed impeccably. Jensen's fairly certain he and Sandy's beau actually go to the same tailor, if the fine cut of his suit is anything to go by.
"Mother, Jensen, this is Jeff. Jeff, my family." Sandy beams brightly and Jeff shakes everyone's hands.
"My pleasure," he says, voice deep and pleasantly gruff. He smiles and his eyes light up.
Jensen rubs his hands together and swallows audibly. Sandy wasn't kidding about this one. "So, a doctor?" Jensen manages.
"No, no, Sandy was just lying to get you to let me see her," Jeff says, practically twinkling.
Jensen can't help but snort, and even his mother laughs lightly.
"I borrowed your checkbook and donated a million or so to the children's wing of the hospital," Sandy says, smiling proudly.
"Sandra!"
"What a warm, generous heart you have, Sandy," Jensen stutters out, throwing his arm around her. "Doesn't she just?"
Jeff looks fondly on her, and Jensen pats her hair gingerly with a big smile.
*
Jared is walking home from Hyde Park on his day off, his camera slung about his neck, thinking over everything Lauren has taught him in the past few weeks. He can still feel her hand warm on his arm, and smell her flowery shampoo.
He almost misses Giles Hattersley stepping out of an office in Mayfair just across the street from Jared's flat. He waves, and Giles gestures to the taxi pulled up to the curb for him, sending it away.
"Good afternoon, my young man," Giles says, shaking Jared's hand with a bright grin. "Up for some lunch?"
"Actually," Jared says, at ease already, "I was just going to try out some new recipes I found the other day. I've been teaching myself to cook, and it's working out pretty well. Care to join?"
Giles checks his watch and nods. "Absolutely. Can't wait to hear how it's all going for you."
Giles settles in the front room with a cup of Irish coffee as Jared puts the finishing touches on his attempt at an endive, apple, hazelnut and gorgonzola salad, including homemade dressing. "Let me know if it's horrific," Jared says with a laugh, setting the small table by the picture window.
After he takes a ginger bite, Giles nods, pleased. "Actually, it's really quite tasty," he says around a mouthful.
"Awesome," Jared says, and pulls at the hem of his new shirt. Lauren had no qualms about telling him exactly where he should shop, but Jared made her let him pick out what he wanted for himself.
"So, how's tricks?" Giles says after a long moment of chewing. "I hear you and Cohan are getting quite chummy."
Jared laughs a little, looking out the window. "She's great. Really great. Perfect boss, even better photography teacher. Kind of a crappy French teacher, though. But fun to go out with."
"You like her a lot, don't you?"
"I guess so, yeah." Jared picks at his salad.
"But there's something stopping you from really being with her," Giles says. Jared should be shocked or insulted, maybe, that his boss's boss's boss is taking such an intimate interest in his life. But Giles just has a worldly, approachable way about him, and Jared feels nothing but relief. "Someone back home. I may have heard you mention-"
"Yeah," Jared says, only a little embarrassed. "I just. She keeps me company." They both know he's not talking about Lauren.
"Does she?" Giles puts down his fork with a delicate clink. "You know, I moved to London without knowing a soul here, just a clueless lad sitting around pubs writing stupid fuck-all in my journal. Day in and day out, it was life in London and drinks and scribbling nonsense. Until one day it wasn't nonsense anymore. It was something real." He meets Jared's eyes, unblinking, voice soft and grave. "The pavements of London are as historic as they are dirty and crowded, Jared, and there are stories trod into the cement deeper and stronger than the old gum and cigarette butts that are all you can see on the surface. I found myself in London; I knew myself in London."
"Oh," Jared breathes. His gaze is drawn back; he takes in the sweep of Giles's lips, his thick waves of hair and soft eyes. Jared gets that simple sort of clench down low in his stomach, like he gets when Lauren draws her fingers across the nape of his neck.
Maybe he really will find himself in London.
*
Jensen is deeply ensconced at the desk in his office at the mansion. It sits on the ground floor, with huge paned windows looking out over the stone patio where many a grand Ackles party has taken place.
Sandra bursts in without knocking, as usual, clearly happy in a confused sort of way. She paces in front of Jensen's desk, twirling a lock of hair around one perfectly manicured finger. "Jeff proposed to me," she finally spits out. "Well, sort of. I don’t know, it was a convoluted sort of mutual-proposal. I just. I don't know, it was very. Odd. I'm not entirely sure what was decided but. I think I might be getting married."
Jensen claps once and stands, hardly able to believe his luck. "Sandy! That's fantastic! It's really the best thing you could've asked for. You two will be disgustingly happy together, I'm sure."
"I just. I don't know! I've never-it's never been so easy before, but there he was in his sexy white coat, tending to a sick child, and I was in my knockout new Valentino cocktail dress and Mother's tiara and it was like. It was like a storybook. I just had to say yes!" Her eyes are shining even as she cracks her knuckles nervously. Jensen clears his throat to try and get her to stop - that always grates on his nerves - but she doesn't seem to notice.
"You did. I absolutely think it was the right decision. You're perfect for each other, and you're both very lucky. With the right man, anything is easy, Sandy. Even commitment." Jensen lays it on thick while keeping one eye on the blinking numbers pertaining to Morgan Industries' stock profile.
Sandy slides herself across Jensen's desk to press a sloppy kiss to his forehead. "Thanks. You're a lifesaver."
The next time Sandy comes to Jensen's office, it's his office on Park Avenue, and Jensen almost has a heart attack. "Jensen," she shouts, banging his door open in the middle of his meeting with Manns and Smith, his and Morgan's attorneys.
"Sandra, I'm in a meeting," he soothes.
"Yes, you are, and I need to speak with you, so you'll just have to continue it later."
"But-"
"When was the last time I set foot inside this office? This is not something that can wait."
"Gentlemen, please help yourselves to the lunch spread in the conference room. We'll pick up where we left off in just a moment," Jensen says. The attorneys leave without incident.
"What is this bullshit supposed to be?" Sandy snarls, thunking down a newspaper in front of Jensen once the door has closed behind them. It's the Business section of the New York Times, and the article at the top of the page outlines his anticipated merger with Morgan Industries.
"It's my job. And yours too, if you'd stop fucking everything that moves long enough to-"
"Well I have, now, haven't I? Because you pretty much forced me into this relationship, into this engagement. Do you think I'm completely braindead? I know you were just manipulating me so you could get your hands on Morgan Industries."
"There is a great deal of competition for this merger, and I need all the help I can get. Morgan has the newest digital technology developers on exclusive contract, plus the best and cheapest mobile computing technology for healthcare systems. It's the new frontier, and I can't afford to miss riding that wave. We're talking billions of dollars here, Sandy." Jensen scrubs his hands over his mouth, then through his hair.
"I'm not ready for this sort of commitment. You're completely ruining my life! How am I supposed to handle this? Being tied down, forced to-"
"Be a better person? I didn't plan this, you know. It was you who begged me to lie for you, to pretend you were such an amazing person so he couldn't help but fall for you. It was you who came to me and said you'd proposed to him. You were stupidly happy, and now what? You're bored and just want to throw him away? You don't deserve Jeff Morgan, but for some reason he appears to love you and genuinely wants to be with you," Jensen says, exasperated.
Sandy shifts uneasily. "Doesn't that-doesn't that worry you? Just-aren't you a little concerned about his mental health?" Jensen slaps his hands down on his desk in exasperation. After an uncomfortable silence, Sandy just looks steadily at him.
"So the merger. That's just a coincidence?"
"Clearly. I was just seizing an opportunity. That's what I do. What I've always done. I had to snap this one up quick, and you just happened actually to be of service for once."
"Of service?" Sandy huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. "This is my heart we're talking about here. My life."
"Yes, your life. And my life, too. My life, which pays for your life, Sandra. Your life where you never finish anything you start. You went to business school and then never got a job. Went to law school and never took the bar. Took tennis lessons, riding lessons, dancing lessons, violin lessons, piano lessons. And not once did you actually learn anything. We got you French tutors, Latin tutors, Spanish tutors. But can you speak any language at all but English? Of course not. And when was the last time you went out with a man more than twice?"
"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," Sandy says, hands clenched by her sides. "You're lecturing me about relationships when you're so warped and loveless I've never even seen you with anyone you weren't trying to get to sign something." She paces in front of the desk, stiletto heels sinking in the plush carpet. "You just lose yourself in work so you don't have to deal with the complexity of dating women you can't fall in love with or men you can't be seen with."
Jensen can hardly breathe, trying not flinch as she smashes the nail directly on the head. He grinds his teeth and eventually grits out, "Finish something, Sandra. Jeffrey Dean Morgan is the best thing to ever happen to you, and you'll regret it forever if you don't go through with this."
Sandra spins on her heel and storms out, slamming the heavy mahogany doors behind her.
*
Lauren is sprawled on Jared's couch reading Vogue while Jared is puttering around in his kitchen, attempting to teach himself how to properly sear sea bass. He hears the familiar thunk of the post through the slot just as he pulls the last filet out of the pan. "Can you check that for me?" he calls over to her.
"Bills. Catalog. And something from Long Island," she says after a moment.
Jared flicks off the heat and rushes over to grab the letter out of Lauren's hand. "Letter from home," he says, and flops onto the couch to read. Lauren insinuates herself alongside him, but doesn't try to read over his shoulder.
The first part is all business is usual, talking about Momma and Dad and the rest of the staff, all the parties and things the Ackles family is up to. But then Jared's breath goes still in his throat.
…I know what I'm about to say is going to be difficult for you to read, and your mother and I debated telling you at all. I didn't think I could get it out over the phone, so I decided I'd better write you with the news. Maybe it will be easier to take this way. You've cared for Sandra Ackles for a very long time now, and it will perhaps upset you to know that she has just become engaged to Jeffrey Dean Morgan, the eldest son of the Manhattan Morgans, who own Morgan Industries…
The rest turns into a blur as Jared reads on, not even processing the words. He lets his hand fall limply to his lap, the letter fluttering to the floor. Lauren pulls herself up to lie across Jared's chest, picking idly at his buttons as she speaks, voice soothing and quiet.
"Jared," she begins, but trails off. She inches further up his body, warm and soft against him. She seeks out his lips, pressing a kiss to them, slow and tentative. Jared breathes her in, free to let his mind go blank as he tastes her lip balm, feels the brush of her hair against his neck, her breasts against his chest. Their kiss turns stronger, and Jared sits up, pulling her with him into his lap. She opens her mouth, slicks her tongue against his as they kiss deeper, closer.
Lauren hitches her hips up, once, twice, then stops completely, pulling away, leaving Jared out of breath. She licks at her lips, cradling Jared's face in her graceful hands. She rubs her thumbs across his cheekbones, sighing. "Jared. I haven't the slightest idea what that letter said. And I don't want to know." She places her hand lightly over Jared's, then drags it up to his temple, sweeping her fingers across the fine hair above his ears. "It's for you to settle with, in your own way."
Jared nods, eyes falling shut. He thinks of Sandra, and of how her rich brown eyes peer out from the sea of photographs, letters and fliers tacked to his corkboard, all that's left visible of her perfect image.
Jared walks the pavements of Soho, of Tower Bridge, of the North and South Bank. He trudges through Camden, bright colors hardly dulled by the grey cast of rain, through the City, past cathedrals and train stations and St. Pancras Church, where he stops to hear the lunchtime choir rehearsals in the rectory. He learns stone edifices as well as the plywood fronts of twenty-four-hour kebab shops, off-licenses and post offices and universities.
Jared photographs it all, buildings and people and life as it thrums about him in London, swallowing him up at the same time it welcomes him and makes him a part of it. Sometimes he emulates Giles, picking pubs with outdoor seating and good beer where he can drink and write in his journal, soaking in the sounds around him. Languages he can't identify, all subjects and dialects, cars and mounted policemen and radios; it's cacophonous and peaceful all at once.
He joins a gym just off Oxford Street, working out his stress after work on the way home. He has gym buddies and drinking buddies and coworkers he's actually friends with. Lauren is by his side most of the time as she runs around London with him; they're an inseparable couple but completely platonic - except maybe some mostly harmless making out when they're out at Maya or Fabric or some other pumping nightspot. Jared inevitably goes overboard on Jack Daniels, Lauren falling prey to her vodka and cranberry.
Samuel Johnson famously said, "…when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life," and so Jared will always believe. When his internship at Arena is over and the time for him to return home approaches, he says goodbye to his friends, to Lauren, to Giles, and leaves his heart on the pavements of London.
He calls his family to let them know he'll be home soon, but not to send anyone to pick him up; he'll surprise them.
*
The canopies go up on the green expanse of lawn outside Jensen's office window right around ten AM on his mother's birthday. He makes his way out to the patio to watch the caterers and the decorators, the gardeners, everyone milling around the lawns. Sandra greets him from her perch on the wide granite railing of the patio steps. She's wearing a bright sundress today, orange and pink, and delicate ballet slippers. It will probably all be strewn around her room at the mansion later tonight, and either Jensen or the maid is going to be left tidying up after her when she inevitably ends up back at her penthouse in the city.
"So I hear there's a new bidder for Morgan Industries," she says, drawing her knees up. "Who is it? Viacom?"
"Among others," Jensen says, eyeing her suspiciously. The fact that she's showing any interest at all is staggering, much less informed interest.
"What are they bringing to the table? Cash or stock options?"
Jensen blinks in disbelief and breaks into a bark of laughter. "I love it when you talk dirty, baby," he says, and tugs at a lock of Sandy's hair. She looks like there's something else she wants to say.
"I really do love Jeff," she whispers. "This is the right thing to do."
"Damn straight it's the right thing to do," Jensen says. "He's a genius, plus he's hilarious and down-to-earth, loaded, kind, hot as all hell-"
Sandy elbows him, but she can't keep the smile off her face. "Why don't you marry him, then?"
Jensen laughs, pulling her down onto the steps. "Shh, someone might hear." He waves her off, still grinning. "Don't you have a gift for our mother you're supposed to be picking up?"
Sandy walks backwards up the steps to stick her tongue out petulantly at Jensen, but he gets his own back when she almost falls on her face once she gets to the top.
*
Jared stands at the bus stop in his Galliano suit, patient and ready, surrounded by his luggage. It's all brand-new: some chic Mulberry pieces courtesy of the Arena staff. They also donated way more than Jared's fair share of the fashion and gadgetry freebies they so often get saddled with. He's wearing a pair of Dior aviators, and though he was going to wear one of his new hats, he'd rather wow his family with his stupidly expensive Toni & Guy haircut.
There's a gleaming red Maserati illegally parked on the yellow curb only a few yards from where Jared stands. His heart skips a beat: that's Sandra's car.
Sandra comes out of the framing shop carrying a package which she gingerly places in the trunk. Jared feels his breath come faster, seeing her after so long, even more beautiful than he remembered. It's bittersweet, but he enjoys it. She looks up, freezing when she sees him. "Hello there," he says, unable to help his wide, easy grin. "How're things?"
Sandra turns around awkwardly, clearly unsure if Jared's speaking to her. "Uh, hel-hello." She blinks, coming closer, ignoring the ticket tucked under the Maserati's windshield wipers. Her gaze travels up and down Jared's body so heavily he can practically feel it. "I'm fantastic."
"It's a pleasant surprise to see you here," Jared says, stifling his laughter. Sandra is clearly confused and intrigued; she must not recognize him at all. The hair, the sunglasses, the clothes. The fact that he's grown at least three inches and packed on more than forty pounds of muscle. He hardly blames her.
"Oh, well. You know me," she says airily. "Uh-would you. Would you like a ride?" Her smile is coquettish and beyond charming.
"If you're on your way home anyway, sure," Jared says.
"I am, yes. Ah-I don't exactly. Remember your street. Is it on the way?"
Jared shakes his head as he loads his bags into the back. His cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling. "Dosoris Lane."
Sandra's mouth falls open; she even looks charming when she's mouth-breathing. "That's my street."
"It is indeed," Jared says. "Small world." He opens the driver's side door for her, then slides into the passenger seat himself.
They're just about to the Ackles Mansion when Jared points to the driveway. "There's yours," he says, and gives Sandra a meaningful look.
"Would you like to come in for a drink or something?" she asks, getting the picture.
"Brilliant," Jared says, and leans back against the headrest. "You really don't remember me, do you?"
"Don't be silly, of course I do," Sandra says. "You're-uh. My. Neighbor. Apparently." Jared shakes his head, reveling in her scramble. "I could've sworn I know every single hot guy on the North Shore."
"What, not the entire eastern seaboard?" Jared says, snickering.
Sandra rolls her eyes. "Very funny."
"Well, you are engaged now, or so I hear. That would probably curtail your explorations."
"Yes." She trails off for a moment, then, "Well, it's been really hectic for us lately, and in fact he's at some sort of medical conference in California at the moment, so. We haven't been able to set a date." She pulls up to the house with the familiar crunch of gravel, and Jared takes in all the catering trucks, florists, and other party staff milling around in the driveway.
"I see you're having a party. You all always did have the greatest parties."
"Oh, is that where I know you from? Did I meet you at a party once?" Sandy asks, hopeful.
"No, no." Jared shakes his head. "I haven't ever been to one. Just-seen them. Heard them." He wants to start unloading his things from Sandra's car, but something inside him wants to hang onto the ruse for just a little longer. "It must be your mother's birthday today, right?"
"Yeah," Sandra says absently. They get out and she walks around to lean against the car next to Jared, her sundress blowing around her legs. "It starts at nine tonight. Would you come? Please?" Her smile is small and enticing, hair curling against her shoulders. There's no way Jared could refuse her. "As long as you tell me who you-"
"Good morning, Jared," Jensen says, preoccupied as he strides past them towards the truck full of rented tables. He looks exactly the same as when Jared left, cool green eyes and touch of gold in his hair where the sun strikes it.
Jared gives a little wave and flushes across his cheeks; the jig is up. Sandra squints at him adorably. "Jared?" She tries the name out in her mouth.
"Did you have a good time in London?" Jensen asks, signing something on a clipboard offered to him by a man in coveralls.
"Better than good," Jared says, eyes flicking between Jensen and Sandra, not sure where to look.
"Jared?" Sandra says again, a little surer, like maybe it's coming back to her.
"You've certainly grown up," Jensen says, droll. He raises his eyebrows in Jared's general direction, and Jared twitches his shoulders, hyper-conscious of the attention but pleased nonetheless.
"Well. Thank you," he manages.
Sandra's mouth falls open, and her eyes widen comically. "Jared?"
"Why does she keep saying that?" Jensen says, making a note of something in his Blackberry. "Give her a good kick and see if you can't get her dialog track to stop skipping."
Sandra doesn't even hear him, she's so involved in gaping at Jared. He simply smiles at her, standing tall and sure of himself. "Well. I should probably go," he says, and starts unloading his suitcases. "My mom and dad will be wanting to see me. Thanks so much for the ride, Sandra."
"It's Sandy, please," she says finally, and jogs after him for a few steps.
"Sandy, no," Jared hears Jensen mutter.
She stops and looks back. "But, I wasn't-"
"No. A thousand times no."
Jared laughs to himself and climbs the stairs to the apartment above the garage.
*
Part Two