TL&ToaDID - DAY FOUR; pt. 1
When Jensen wakes up, he’s staring at a different ceiling again-he sits up, taking a moment to fully register where he is, and then he sighs again, flopping back down onto his pillow. It’s a surprisingly comfy pillow, on a ridiculously comfy bed, and so he just lies where he is, willing himself to stay awake-it’s not that hard in the end. The longer he keeps his eyes open, the faster the memories come rushing back to him, and all of a sudden his stomach plummets, and he can practically feel himself dropping out of the sky again.
He has to swing his legs out of the bed and place his feet on the floor.
He feels grounded again.
And now that he’s out of bed, Jensen thinks he might as well get up-he stands, straightening and stretching, arching his back as he yawns. He makes his way out of the room, trying his hardest to remember the way to the kitchen; he’s pretty sure he won’t bump into Jared again, because there was no dip at the end of his bed, and, for some reason, he can’t help but feel ever so slightly disappointed. He brushes the feeling aside, though-Jared’s probably out trying to catch the people who wanted to kill him; he’s grateful, he truly is.
He rounds a corner and a sudden feeling of déjà vu overwhelms him, as he bumps into someone again-but this time, it’s not Jared.
He can tell.
Jared feels different.
This-judging from the smell and the slight, breathy laughter, as well as the way he grips Jensen’s wrists and spins them effortlessly, pinning Jensen against the wall-is Misha.
This is Misha, and Misha is currently very hot, and very sweaty; he’s wearing a loose-fitting t-shirt, and it’s clinging to his chest-he’s breathing heavily, a towel slung around his neck, and it looks like he’s just finished a fairly rigorous workout. He’s also pressed very closely against Jensen, holding his hands up above his head and grinning that taunting, tantalizing grin. His eyes are glittering, mischievous, as he murmurs, “Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty. I was just planning on waking you.”
Jensen wrinkles his nose.
“You stink.”
“This is the smell of a man, Jen.”
“It’s awful.”
“You shouldn’t feel overwhelmed.”
“I’m not.”
“Or intimidated.”
“I’m definitely not,” Jensen says, but he can’t keep the smile from his voice even as it spills across his face.
Misha’s treating that as a victory for him, because, if possible, his grin becomes even wider-there’s that air of mischief again, and he doesn’t let Jensen even think about anything else. One moment, they’re a breath away from each other, and then the next, Misha’s closed the distance between them, placing a kiss against Jensen’s collarbone. It’s gentle and it tickles slightly, and Jensen’s about to tell him to quit it-he’s about to smile and laugh it off, but then Misha grins against his collar and he sucks, and Jensen forgets what he was going to say. He arches upwards, letting out a broken gasp; almost out of instinct, he tries to jerk his hands away, but Misha’s still got a tight hold of them and he can’t move.
Instead, he’s only able to stand and gasp and squirm, as Misha kisses and sucks and bites at his collarbone.
It’s awful.
And, at the same time, it’s brilliant.
Finally, Misha pulls away. He does so slowly, eyes flicking up to meet Jensen’s-and then his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, ever so quickly, and his lips stretch into that tell-tale grin again. He steps backwards.
Jensen’s hands fall to his sides.
He’s flustered and panting, and he can’t help but note that he seems to be flustered and panting a lot lately. He doesn’t think Misha and Jared and this entire situation have a particularly healthy affect on him; it’s addictive, though, and he thinks of those kisses, and then this, and he feels his cheeks heat up. It might not be the healthiest of effects, but it’s most certainly enjoyable, and Jensen is definitely-in a warped, twisted sort of way-having fun.
“There’s coffee on the table. Give me five minutes, and I’ll join you-unless, of course, you want to join me.”
Misha winks.
Jensen flips him off.
“Screw you very much,” he says, but he’s grinning.
“Oh, one day, my friend-one day.”
“Enjoy your shower, stinky.”
“I plan to,” Misha calls over his shoulder, as he walks away. “And say hi to Zach for me. Try and cheer him up a little, okay?”
It’s ten o’ clock, but when Jensen walks into the kitchen, Zach’s sat at the dining table with a bottle of whiskey in front of him. He looks awful-he’s pale and scruffy and unkempt; his shirt is crumpled, and he looks as if he’s quite literally gotten dressed in the dark. He’s done the buttons up all wrong. When Jensen sits down, he reeks of alcohol, and he’s bleary-eyed-he runs a hand through his hair once, and Jensen eyes him warily; he glances into the mug he’s clutching in his hand and raises an eyebrow. “D’you want some coffee with that whiskey?”
Zach waves a hand.
“Spare me the lecture, honey,” he says.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh, something is very wrong, but Misha is going to ignore it until it bites him on the ass-and you’d think, what with that little incident yesterday, that he’d take this all a little bit more seriously, but no. How often am I right, anyway?”
“I-”
“Rhetorical question, Jen. Don’t answer that.”
“Right. Sorry.”
There’s silence for a while longer, then. Jensen goes back to pouring himself a coffee, and Zach goes back to wallowing in misery-it’s a slightly uncomfortable silence, though, because Jensen is desperate to ask about what’s happened. He wants to know exactly what has gotten Zachary Quinto, of all people, so stressed out, but he’s not quite sure how to phrase the question. Instead, he just heaps a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and spins the spoon around for a while, biting his lip as he thinks of what to say.
In the end, he doesn’t have to.
Zach says:
“Crowley is back.”
Jensen stills.
Everyone knows about Crowley.
He’s like an urban legend, a myth-he’s well known by pretty much every journalist, and he’s mentioned in passing at practically every court case, but no one has ever really seen him; no one has ever come close to catching him. The closest anyone has ever gotten to doing such a thing was Jared, and he didn’t catch Crowley-he chased him away with his tail between his legs. And even he didn’t meet Crowley; he just backed him into a corner, until he had no option but to leave.
There are three things you should know about Crowley.
He is very, very clever.
That is one of them.
The second is that he is extremely powerful. He is British, and deadly so. While he’s slicing into your skin, tugging bits of your intestines out through that gaping wound in your stomach, he’s going to sip his tea and act so damn cynical the whole time. Don’t expect any of that bedside-nurse treatment; you’re going to get a bitter recount about London weather, followed by a polite description of just exactly how he’s going to force you to eat your own lungs, and finished up with a sarcastic little quip about how bad your day probably is. Most of his power currently resides in the USA, at the moment, but he’s known everywhere.
And the third and final thing is this:
Crowley is completely and totally sane.
That is why he is the scariest man alive.
He’s basically New York’s closest thing to the Devil.
Jensen exhales slowly, shakily, and then meets Zach’s gaze.
“I think I will have some of that whiskey, actually,” he says, and tips a small amount into his coffee.
“It’s better when you drink it straight from the bottle.”
“I don’t think I’m that desperate.”
“You should be, sweetheart. He’s been overseas for a while now, after that last incident with Winchester, doing business in England; and business there is good-he’s got no reason to return, because he’s doing just fine where he is. I should know; I’ve been keeping tabs. If he’s back, it’s because something-or someone-has drawn him back, and let’s face it-exactly who’s face has been plastered all of the news lately? You’re hot stuff, Jensen Ackles; everybody wants you. Winchester, Misha-and now you’ve even got the bad guys on your tail, and you didn’t for a second stop and wonder why that is? This whole thing stinks of Crowley.
Zach narrows his eyes.
He takes another swig of whiskey.
“He’s back in black, honey, and you’re the reason why.”
They sit in silence for a little while after that-Zach’s slumped forwards, sprawled across the table, and Jensen’s moved the whiskey bottle out of reach. He’s not sure what exactly to say; a part of him knows that he should be trying to think up a plan here-and a part of him can’t help but remember what Chad said, about how Ruby and Meg had thought they could ‘use this’, whatever ‘this’ was. He thinks of Misha’s confession from yesterday, too, and all of a sudden his head is swimming.
It’s all such a mess.
It’s all so fast.
He needs to slow down, if only for a second, and think.
That’s what he’s trying to do when Misha walks into the room, dressed only in baggy tracksuit bottoms-he’s shirtless, a wet towel slung around his neck, and his hair is still dripping. It’s momentarily distracting, and Jensen finds himself tracking the movement of a droplet of water, as it runs down Misha’s neck, along that smooth expanse of pale, milky skin, and then disappears past his belly-button. Jensen manages to tear his gaze away then, swallowing dryly, and glances up; his eyes meet Misha’s, and he’s grinning again.
Zach, meanwhile, looks at the pair of them and snorts loudly.
Misha looks away, then.
He glances at the whiskey bottle, at Zach’s dishevelled appearance, at the half-full mug of amber liquid, and then quirks an eyebrow. “What happened to you?”
“You did, honey-and him and Winchester and Crowley, and Jesus, why didn’t I just get a normal job like my mother told me to?”
“We’ve got it under control, Zach.”
“When do you ever have anything under control?”
After a while, Jensen begins to feel trapped-Misha’s got a nice place, sure, and seeing Misha around is pretty nice in itself, but it’s not quite enough. Zach gets up after a little while-disappears into the bathroom to sort himself out, and then comes out looking like himself again, neat and perfectly styled-and then he leaves, talking on the phone in a brisk, fast voice to someone called Sebastian. After that, it’s just Misha and Jensen, but even Misha has things he’s got to do; he stays for an hour or so longer, and then takes Jensen into this office and explains the entire security system of the place to him-then, after typing in a few passwords, he leaves too.
Jared doesn’t appear once.
He’s disappointed by that.
Then, after everyone’s gone, Jensen has nothing to do-he finds a room full entirely of arcade games, beside what looks like a library; he finds a spa and a Jacuzzi and an endless amount of bedrooms. There’s nothing to capture his attention, though, and so when he flops down on a sofa in one of the rooms, and starts flicking through different channels, he decides that he needs to get out of there. Otherwise, he’s going to go insane waiting for something to happen, and Jensen definitely doesn’t want that.
Wearing a bright orange hoodie of Misha’s, he shoves his hands into his pockets and decides he’s going to do a little bit of investigating of his own.
He is a journalist, after all.
Jensen doesn’t manage to get far. Within seconds, he’s recognised by at least three different members of the public, and then he has to race down the street to avoid prying questions. After that, he ducks around a corner, into an alleyway, and tugs his hood up, hiding his features; he walks with his head low for a while, trying to think of a plan. He thinks about heading into work and grabbing his stuff off his desk-he has a sudden, burning feeling that the blurred photo is somehow tied up in all of this-but he’s not risking moving out into the open like that; instead, he finds a pay-phone and calls Chad.It takes him a couple of minutes to answer and, when he does, he sounds disgruntled and exhausted. “Chad here-and look, whoever this is, this really isn’t a good time, so unless you’re a really hot chick and you’d like to have sex with me pronto, then can I call you back later?”
“I wouldn’t have sex with you even if I was a really hot chick,” Jensen answers, rolling his eyes; he can’t stop himself from grinning, though.
There’s a short pause.
Chad splutters.
Then he laughs.
“Dude, that’s a lie.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Murray.”
Chad snorts, and then there’s this brief silence as he seems to gather himself. When he speaks again, his voice is serious. “Where are you, anyway, man? I was worried-you don’t phone, you don’t write; I almost thought you’d forgotten about little ol’ me. So which boyfriend are you staying with, then? Collins, I’d imagine, since Winchester’s been all over TV, beating up every crook and criminal he can find. I think he’s a bit pissed.”
“Really?”
“Oh, definitely. Sandy says it’s very romantic.”
“She would, though.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a brief pause.
Jensen closes his eyes. He takes a few seconds to sort out his thoughts-he needs help with this Crowley thing, and while Chad isn’t the best person to do it, he’s the only person he’s got right now. He needs to find out just exactly who he needs to be looking out for, and if Chad can’t help him, there’s got to be someone else who can and is willing to-Danneel, maybe, or Steve and Chris. Any of them. He starts speaking, and once he starts, he doesn’t stop. “Chad, I need you to listen to me, and I need you to listen closely, because I’m not going to repeat myself-everything that happened yesterday, all of it, is related to Crowley. We don’t exactly know how yet, and Misha doesn’t believe it, but Zach does, and that’s more than enough on me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not. He is.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know.”
“What can you do, then? I mean, if Crowley’s got it out for you, then...”
He leaves the rest of the sentence hanging.
It doesn’t need to be said.
Jensen nods, despite the fact that Chad can’t see him, and repeats himself. “I know, okay?”
“Although, I mean, you do have Winchester on your side-and Collins-so that’s got to count for something,” Chad says, and then there’s a pause-all of a sudden, Jensen hears him snap his fingers, and he says, “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why they’re targeting you! Because you’re Lois Lane, and Winchester is Superman and Collins is Batman, and they’re going to try and use you to take them out!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But-”
“That sort of shit only happens in movies and comic books, and since I’m in neither, I think we can rule that out.”
“I don’t know.”
“Seriously, Chad, just shut up for a second,” Jensen frowns. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Chad, because he knows Chad is correct-but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the idea that he could be used against either Jared or Misha, and so he doesn’t particularly want to think about it. Instead, he sucks in a deep, shaky breath, runs a hand through his hair, and keeps talking. “I’m not going to be completely useless, okay? I want to know what I’m dealing with, so I’m going to ask a massive favour of you, and you’re probably going to call me stupid, but I need you to do it.”
“I don’t like the sound of it already,” Chad sniffs.
“Just listen. Please.”
“Fine.”
Chad still doesn’t sound happy.
Jensen breathes in again.
Then, slowly, he begins to speak. “I need you to find Crowley-look, shut up and just listen for a second! I don’t want you to find him, but I need you to find me someone who’d know about him; like a source, or something. A freelance criminal. Whatever. Danneel will know, so ask her; but you need to find him now, and I need to meet with him today, because I need to know what Crowley’s planning. I need to know what Meg and Ruby were talking about, because it’s important, and I won’t be used like some pathetic game piece. So find someone who can spills the beans on Crowley-someone who is important, sure, but not overly so-and do it quickly, Murray. I’ll call you in an hour, and you had better have everything sorted out. Don’t make me kick your ass.”
“Jesus, Jen-”
“Now.”
Chad chuckles weakly.
“When did things get so serious, huh?”
“Probably around the same time I took a tumble out of a window.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Chad says, and then laughs again-when he speaks again, this time he sounds brighter. He sounds more like himself; less tired and exhausted, and he says, “But seriously, if you get in trouble, you call me, or one of your boyfriends, and we’ll swoop down to your rescue. And if you don’t, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Just get moving, Murray.”
“Yessir,” Chad replies, and Jensen can practically hear him salute. Then he hangs up, and Jensen’s on his own again.
An hour passes ridiculously slowly.
Jensen doesn’t really move much from where he’s stood-he walks around the block once, and that wastes at least twenty minutes. Then he goes to see if he can find a bench somewhere, and he sits down for a while, leaning forwards and watching the world pass him by. It’s kind of relaxing, despite the fact that every now and again someone recognises him, and he has to deal with the gaping and staring as they walk past. When he’s only got five minutes left, he gets up and heads back to the pay-phone.
Chad answers on the first ring.
“Did you find someone?”
“Yes-well, I mean, Danneel’d like me to point out now that I didn’t specifically find anyone, and that it was mostly her, but I’d just like to point out that I definitely did have a hand in it all,” Chad says quickly, and Jensen can hear Danneel’s incredulous snort in the background. “He’s, uh-he’s shady, I won’t lie to you, but I think we can trust him. Well, I don’t, but you’re going to have to trust him, so yeah.”
“What does he want?”
“Nothing. I think he’s just having fun.”
Jensen narrows his eyes.
“Who is he, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean-”
“He calls himself the Trickster, Jen,” Chad says, and Jensen suddenly feels like this can’t go well at all.
He meets the Trickster in Central Park. Jensen takes a cab over, purely because it’s too far to walk, but he’s too jittery and nervous anyway; there’s no way he would have been able to walk that far, as coiled and tense as a spring. He’s liable to jump at even the smallest of sounds. He walks briskly into the park, looking straight forwards, keeping his mind on the game and his eyes on the path; it’s a shame, too, because he generally quite likes taking his time walking through Central Park. He likes seeing all the street artists, taking his time browsing through the different pieces of art they have to author-he likes watching the dance troops who sometimes appear, and he likes spending a dollar on a joke. He likes how different it is to Texas, and he’s ever so slightly sad he’s not getting any time to enjoy himself. It’s only when his deep into the park that he realises he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be meeting the Trickster.
He hasn’t been looking.
He could have missed him.
He’s about to double-back, when one of the artist calls him over.
“Hey! Hey, lady-lips-yeah, I’m talking to you, bucko,” the guy hisses, raising his voice in a stage-whisper and beckoning frantically. “Quit gawping at me, and get your ass over here.”
Jensen does as he says, frowning.
The guy gestures towards the seat in front of him, and Jensen sits down, taking the opportunity to scrutinize the other-he’s got floppy, light hair and intelligent eyes; he’s smirking around a strawberry lollipop, which he keeps pulling out of his mouth and sucking on almost dirtily-it’s ridiculously distracting, and Jensen has to remind himself not to stare. He’s got his art spread out around him; it’s generally all pretty good, actually. None of it is pencil or pen work; they’re blotchy and colourful, splashes of paint and water, but you can tell just exactly who they are. Most of them are celebrities-one of them is Johnny Depp, painted in crimson and scarlet, and another is Gwyneth Paltrow, in frosty blues-but it’s the portraits of regular people that are best; each and every single one of them is bright and beautiful.
When Jensen looks back up at him, he’s hidden behind a large sketchbook.
He frowns.
“I don’t have time for this-”
“You’ve got time, princess-trust me.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“I know.”
Jensen blinks.
The guy peers over the top of his sketchbook, rolls his eyes, and then gestures at himself with his paintbrush. “Hey.”
“You’re the Trickster?”
“The one and only.”
“But-”
“Quit looking so surprised,” he says, frowning as he disappears back behind his sketchbook. “I said we were meeting in Central Park, didn’t I?”
“I thought you’d be taller.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I’ll bet.”
There’s this awkward silence, then. Jensen listens to the sound of a paintbrush gliding across paper, and tries not to shift too uncomfortably in his seat; the Trickster, for the most part, completely ignores him, sucking his lollipop as he paints. He wonders, absently, if he even has any information at all, and Jensen opens his mouth to ask-to get the ball rolling, so to speak-when the Trickster clears his throat loudly, shaking his head as he cuts across Jensen.
“Not here.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, bucko-and I’ll say it again: not here.”
“Why?”
“Because you were followed, princess. Check out the woman in the white dress, at three o’ clock-subtly, idiot!” The Trickster rolls his eyes, and Jensen turns, glancing in that direction; she’s wearing a short, pleated dress and big, black sunglasses. “That’s Bela-Crowley’s gotten her out of a few sticky situations time and again, and, as a result, she works for him now. Her real name is Lauren Cohan; she’s got quick, talented fingers-if you get what I mean-and she’s not a bad thief, either. That’s why we’re not talking here. You’re going to have to act natural, pay me my cash, take your painting, and then we’ll meet up elsewhere.”
“Did you have somewhere in mind?”
“Nope. That’s all down to you,” the Trickster says, and then grins. “Of course, you’re going to have to lose little Miss Sticky Fingers over there.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Did I say sticky? I meant quick.”
“I’m sure you did,” Jensen rolls his eyes. “How am I supposed to lose her, anyway?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Get your boyfriend to give you a lift.”
“He’s not my-”
“Denial doesn’t suit you, bucko. Besides, the appropriate response to that statement is ‘which one?’”
“You’re an ass.”
“I’m a helpful ass, though.”
“How am I supposed to even get Winchester, anyway?”
“So you did know which one I was talking about.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Hey, you asked me a question,” the Trickster’s grin is widening now, and his movements as he paints are becoming bigger, wider, more frantic. “But it’s not that hard, really, is it? If you want Winchester, you’ve got a sure-fire way of getting the big boy’s attention, don’t you? Sure, it’s not a bat signal, but it’s close enough.”
“Stop speaking in riddles, and tell me what I have to do.”
“You need to get him to do what he does best, princess-rescue you.”
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