TL&ToaDiD - DAY TWO, pt. 1
On the second day, things are back to normal.
Well, that’s definitely what it seems like-Jensen gets into work at quarter to nine, as he usually does, and manages to get an hour of work done before Chad appears, complaining loudly about the weather and his car and about a girl called Kirsty who apparently slept over last night. He’s got lipstick smudged across his cheek, but Jensen doesn’t point it out. He then spends a good half an hour spreading his shit across his desk and generally doing as little work as possible, while describing Last Night to Jensen in as much detail as possible, until Jim comes out of his office and clouts him across the head. “I’m not payin’ you to sit around and look pretty, idjit,” Jim informs him, before fixing Jensen with a pointed look. “Or you, princess, so you can quit your gigglin’.”
Jensen quits it.
He also doesn’t giggle.
When Jim is back in his office, they both decide it’s about time they try and get some more work done. Chad buckles down, begins searching through the photos he took last night-he opens them up in Photoshop and begins twiddling with the lighting until he’s happy; Jensen, meanwhile, picks up the blurred photograph Sandy handed him yesterday. He’s already written up a transcript of the interview yesterday, and so he’s decided it’s about time he took another look at that new superhero story he has. He unpins it from the wall of his cubicle and frowns at it, squinting in the hope that it might actually turn into something useful-no matter how hard he looks at it, all he can see is a series of blurred shapes.
There’s no story there, not at the moment, not the way it is. He supposes that’s the challenge really-it’s up to him to try and find that story.
Which, frankly, is easier said than done.
He tries everything.
He googles ‘flying man’, ‘man in clouds’, ‘flying man in black’ and ‘angel superhero’ at least fifteen different times; and, the majority of the time, he finds photographs of Winchester. Actually, that’s pretty much all he finds. (He does find a video of a man calling himself an angel, strapping what looks like home-made wings to his back and jumping from a tree.) He listens to the drunken phone-call again, searching for any significant phrases he can work on, but there’s nothing. There’s absolutely nothing. It’s useless, a pointless story, and he scowls, slamming the photo down on the desk.
“This is ridiculous,” he snaps.
“So is your face,” Chad murmurs, distracted, speaking just because he can, “But I’m not complaining.”
“Shut it, Murray.”
“How did your interview go, anyway?”
“You’re not actually interested, are you?”
“Not really.”
“You just want to laugh at my misfortune.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, then, I’d hate to disappoint you-it was crap. As you guessed. He didn’t quite eat me alive, as you so nicely put it, but he did slip his number into my coat pocket, ask if I’d go for a drink with him, and generally sexually harass me as much as possible-so yeah, I think it went really well and I cannot wait to do it again,” Jensen says. He’s glad for the distraction, in all fairness, because he’s getting nowhere with the story he’s currently working on-and then Chad’s head pops up over the top of their joining cubicles and he narrows his eyes, peering down at Jensen for a while, before Jensen raises an eyebrow and asks, “Dude, what?”
“When I said you should try and get laid, Jen, I didn’t mean you should chat up every guy you see,” Chad sniffs, frowning. “I mean, seriously-first Winchester, and now this? You little minx, you.”
“I didn’t flirt with anyone!”
“Of course.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Chad flaps a hand, and then rests his chin in said hand and says, “Well, now that you’ve successfully grabbed my attention, you’re going to have to give me every single little detail, Jenny.”
Jensen snorts.
“Yeah, you wish, Murray.”
As it turns out, Chad doesn’t actually have to wish that hard-when Danneel turns up, she’s got a newspaper tucked beneath her arm and a shit-eating grin on her face, and she looks at Jensen like she knows something he doesn’t. Then she heads over to Sandy, whispers something to her, and the pair of him are suddenly staring at him in an entirely new light-and then she unfolds the newspaper and they look at that, and, within about fifteen minutes, suddenly everyone in the room is peering at Jensen. It’s weird. It’s making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end, and, after a while, he can’t take it any longer. He twists in his seat, beckons Danneel over, and then hisses, “What?”
Her grin is wicked.
“Oh Jensen, you naughty boy.”
She hands him the newspaper.
And suddenly Jensen is looking at himself-yep, short hair, green eyes, and those are definitely the clothes he was wearing yesterday-kissing Misha Collins. The photo has been blown up; it’s huge, spans across the tabloid newspaper, and Jensen’s face is partially obscured-he’s lucky the photographer wasn’t very good, because if it had been Chad taking the photo, his features would have been clear as day. As it is, it’s blurry and shaky. It’s still him, though.
He slumps in his chair.
Danneel grins.
Then, she leans forwards and bombards him with questions:
“So, what, are you two dating now? Are you dating Misha Collins? Was he good? I bet he was really good-did you have sex with him? Jesus, how long have you been dating him for, Jensen? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! Is he good in bed? I bet he is. I mean, just look at those hips! You bottom, right?”
By the end of it all, Jensen is fluster and bright red.
And pretty pissed off.
Today is going to be a long day.
After the initial burst of questions, Jensen simply glowers at anyone who even dares approach him, returning to his work; he still can’t find anything useful, and it’s steadily winding him up, and that photograph-he’s not sure which he’s thinking of now; the one of the blurred superhero or the one of Misha kissing him-is the bane of his existence. Despite the fact that he’s trying desperately to distract himself, he can still feel eyes on his back and he wonders, absently, if this is what it’s like to be noticed by everyone.
He decides he doesn’t like it very much.
The phone rings.
“Uh, Jensen-can I have a word quickly?”
“Is it about that photograph?”
“Well, yes, I was going to ask, but-”
“Not now, Sandy.”
“But it’s important.”
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“You’ve got a-a, uh, guest. A visitor. Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus Christ is visiting?”
“What? No!”
“Then tell whoever it is to come back later,” Jensen waves a hand, frowning at his computer screen. “Seriously, I’m busy, Sandy. Tell them I’ll meet them for lunch or something, but just make them go away, okay? Please? Unless it’s someone asking about that photo-then tell them to go and fuck themselves. Also, make sure to mention that I’m not dating that dickhead.”
“Okay. Okay. Right, I can do that.”
She hangs up.
About five minutes later, Sandy is hovering by his side again-this time, instead of saying something, she simply grabs the back of his chair and spins him around. He blinks up at her, confusion evident on his face, and, in response, she thrusts a bouquet of tiger lillies into his arms. They’re a brilliant shade of orange, bright and vibrant, and they make Jensen’s head swim. He stares down at them, up at Sandy, back at the flowers and then says slowly, carefully, “You’re a pretty girl, Sandy, but I don’t think of you in that way.”
“They’re not from me,” Sandy sniffs.
Jensen thinks she doesn’t have to sound so indignant.
“Who are they from, then?”
“Winchester.”
“Run that by me one more time.”
“Winchester left them,” Sandy tells him. “Hey, I’m just as surprised as you are. I mean, one second, there I am, sitting at the front desk and covering for Genevieve-you know how she is; she’s practically always late. But there I am and, all of a sudden, there’s this gust of wind, and Winchester’s stood in front of me, holding flowers. I think I swooned a little. But anyway, he gives me these flowers, and I’m about ready to accept his hand in marriage, and then he just goes, ‘Can you give these to Jensen for me?’ So I tell him to wait there and I call up to you, and then you arrange a date for lunch with him. You should have seen his smile. Those dimples are gorgeous.”
She nudges him.
“I’m jealous.”
Jensen still cannot understand what’s going on.
“I’m having lunch with him?”
“Well, duh-you arranged it.”
“But you never said it was him!”
“You barely let me speak,” Sandy rolls her eyes. “Besides, you were very adamant about doing your work, Jen.”
“This isn’t fair!”
“What isn’t fair?”
“This!” Jensen flaps a hand. “He shouldn’t be here.”
Sandy peers at him for a moment, long and hard, and then her eyes widen and she says, “Oh my God. Are you dating Winchester?! Because, y’know, I thought you had a thing for Collins, but all of a sudden this-and the flowers-and lunch-and if you are dating him, then I don’t think you should be going around snogging other people, okay, because that’s just not done.”
That raises a few eyebrows. Within a few seconds, Jensen finds himself the centre of attention again-just when people were finally beginning to stop looking at him. Practically everyone has slipped out of their cubicle, craning their heads to look at him; he can see Steve nodding appreciatively, as if it’s something to be extremely proud of, and Chris is mouthing the words ‘you sly dog’ at him, a smirk plastered across his face. Chad, meanwhile, is looking at him with something akin to murder in his eyes.
Jensen throws his hands in the air.
“I am not dating Winchester!”
“I think the lady doth protest too much, honey.”
“I hate you.”
“I think it’s cute. I mean, he bought you flowers-that’s like the definition of a gentleman. You’ve found your very own knight in shining spandex, Lois Lane,” Sandy grins, and she waggles her fingers as she makes her way back to her desk.
For about half an hour, Jensen leaves the flowers exactly where they are, propped up on the floor by his desk. They’re distracting, though-he blames it on the obnoxious shade of orange, but he knows that isn’t true. After a while, he picks them up; he brushes his fingers across each petal, soft and gentle, and then he heads over to the kitchen, walking briskly. He can still feel eyes on his back, and when he steps into the kitchen and shuts the door behind him, he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Then he finds the tallest glass they have-no vases, sadly-and fills it with water.
Carefully, methodically, somewhat tenderly, he trims the stems of the tiger lilies.
Then he places them in the glass.
They are beautiful, he muses-he actually thinks they kind of suit Winchester.
Jensen gets another call.
It goes like this:
“Hey, Jensen? There’s a gift down at reception for you-no, it wasn’t Winchester again. It was Misha, honey. What? No, I didn’t tell him you’d meet him for lunch! I figured you learnt your lesson last time, anyway. And besides, he said he was going for a drink with you tonight, since you missed each other last night, but he did ask about lunch; I told him you were already booked though. God, he was gorgeous. Those eyes. Yeah, can you come and collect this gift now? Jim doesn’t want it crowding up reception-and the street. Yes, I know he’s still in his office, Jen, but if you take a look out of your window, you’ll see what I mean.”
“Fuck,” Jensen breathes, eyes widening as he stares down at the impossible sight below him. “Fuck. How is this even happening? I mean, why to me, of all people? Shit. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.”
“That’s a lot of fucks,” Chad muses. “And holy shit, that’s a lot of flowers!”
It is.
It is definitely a lot of flowers.
Blue and purple and pink and red, they’re strewn across the streets-whole bouquets of them, all bright and vibrant and entirely obnoxious. There’s got to be over a million different types, he thinks, eyes widening further still; they’re each clutched by men in tuxedos and top hats, and they march backwards and forwards, changing positions. Slowly, they begin to spell out a name. Around him, his workmates crowd around the windows, grinning-and slowly, surely, the flowers spell out his name, and he decides that’s all they really need to see. Practically leaping across Chad, he flicks the blinds shut, ignoring the groans of protest, and then turns and leaves the office in as dignified a fashion as he possibly can.
Considering how that consists of him running and shouting, “Fucking Misha!” at the top of his voice, it’s possibly not the most dignified all of exits.
It takes Jensen a good half an hour to get rid of all the flowers-the reception has been turned into a rainforest, though, entirely jammed full of various different flowers. It looks pretty, he thinks, and it’s almost worth it when he sees Genevieve walk in through the entrance, eyes wide, gaping at her surroundings, and he almost stays to explain-but that’s when he spots the newspaper she’s clutching beneath her arm, the headline screaming WHO IS THIS MYSTERY MAN?, with yet another photo of his face, and he decides it’d be better if he just left. It takes him a while to convince the marching men to leave, though, and he’s pretty close to panicking when they announce they’ve got a song for him, too.
They’re midway through it when Winchester lands by his side.
He looks ever so slightly bemused.
“What’s all this?”
“This,” Jensen snaps, gesturing wildly at the marching band-who are now in the middle of a very intricate melody-and the flowers, “Is Misha’s idea of romantic.”
Winchester chuckles.
“What’s so funny?”
“This.”
“I’m glad you find my life so hilarious.”
“Sorry-I can’t help it.”
“Oh, shut up, you ass.”
“Well, you did kind of ask for it.”
“How?!”
“You kissed Misha,” Winchester says, as if that explains everything.
“I did not kiss him!”
“I have photographic evidence.”
“He kissed me!”
“Details, details,” Winchester grins, flapping a hand, before explaining, “Look, Misha’s a nice guy-sure, he can be a bit of an idiot, and this pretty much proves that, but he’s harmless enough. He’ll probably harass you for a little while, but he’ll get bored-or you’ll sleep with him. That’s what most people tend to do. It works.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“I’ve heard that he’s very good.”
“I am a step away from putting my hands on my ears and screaming until you shut up,” Jensen says, watching as the marching men proceed to kick their legs in time with one another-and then he rubs his forehead, sighing slightly. “Or cry. I swear this day is out to get me.”
Winchester’s laugh is softer this time, gentle and kind, and Jensen takes note of that fact; he’s a step away from asking if he can rearrange that lunch date, but then an arm circles around his waist and he’s pulled in tight against the superhero, face pressed against the other’s chest. He’s well aware of the fact that, once again, everyone is staring at him, and he notices a few cameras flash, but he’s caught unawares-his heart skips a beat and his skin feels tingly, weird, electric, and he’s well aware of just how close they are to each other; and then Winchester whispers against his ear, warm breath tickling the side of his face, “Maybe I can make it better.”
And then he pushes up.
He jumps.
And flies.
It’s exhilarating and terrifying, and Jensen feels his heartbeat speed up as they rise higher and higher-and as the wind tugs at them, Jensen can’t help but clutch at the front of Winchester’s costume somewhat desperately, his fingers struggling to find purchase. He hears-no, he feels-Winchester chuckle, and then he squeezes Jensen’s waist reassuringly, tightening his hold slightly as if to prove that he’s safe, that there’s no way he’s letting go. To begin with, they gain height quickly, but then Winchester slows, waiting until Jensen relaxes slightly.
“Are you alright?”
“Just peachy,” Jensen replies.
“You can open your eyes, y’know.”
“Asshole.”
“I’m just saying,” Winchester laughs.
Somewhat reluctantly, Jensen opens his eyes. And, oh, it’s breath-taking. From the sky, everything is so small-so tiny-and so beautiful; they’re as high as some of the tallest skyscrapers, and still they’re getting higher and higher, and suddenly the ground is so far away and everything looks so intricate. It’s like New York has become a painting, a criss-cross picture of skyscrapers and noise and business, and it’s perfect-he can see it all, every single little thing, and he thinks he quite likes flying.
And when he looks up, there is nothing but vast, open blue, dotted here and there with a few wisps of clouds.
Winchester is grinning.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he laughs. “You wouldn’t want to miss it, right?”
“No,” Jensen grins, and then he laughs as well-it’s a proper, heartfelt laugh, and his eyes crinkle and he tips back his head, and it makes him feel dizzy and scared and happy all at once. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
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