Three Steps Past Triton (J2, NC17) Part 1
The first part of this first part has already been posted, as a standalone ficlet. It, uh, it grew. :)
The hangar lock ain't exactly romance central, but there's plenty of sex for sale here. Sixteen months on a freighter'd make any spacer think pretty much anything other than his own hand and his own skanky crew looks like a banquet. Jensen's seen it often, and done it enough to not condemn Nix and Wack for the glee with which they pounce on a pair of rank-looking nightbirds, all cheap stink, ragged net and slick silver painted on mouth and tits.
These days, Jensen thinks first. He thinks about the high likelihood of disease among these unfortunate whores, and the even higher rate of sleazebag pimps and lovers who hang about them, ready to part a careless spacer from his hard-earned. Now, Jensen can handle himself in any fight you care to name - last guy to find that out died with a blade in his eyeball, and a look of great surprise - but these days, he's older, more cautious, more tired. And, given the choice, he'll mostly handle himself, and save himself the trouble of involving others.
Which is handy, in deep space. Jensen's made a lot of money, lately, by not caring so much if he never sees nor touches another human.
So that ain't what's happening here. Yet Jensen ain't moving on.
This one's a kid. Well, maybe eighteen, nineteen, but he's all angles and legs, not near grown, though Jensen hopes he don't get much taller than his current beanpole self. He's pretty enough atop the heights, foxy eyes and wide mouth begging for dick. (Verbally, as well as metaphorically, so Jensen gets no points for symbolism there.) But he ain't Jensen's type. Whatever that was, back when it mattered.
And yet Jensen has stopped, and is standing.
"Rates are reasonable, and I'm willing, sir. You're gonna love how willing I am." The kid smiles, and it's sleazy enough, but it's also naïve enough to be nearly real. The same way the kid's clothes are tight denim and silver skin, nipples on parade and dick outlined clear as day, and yet he wears them like Jensen's kid brother would, apparently all unconscious of the picture he makes. This kid has good tricks, Jensen'll admit. He also has bruises, a little on one cheek probably connected with the healing bust lip he's tried to smear over with slick. And on one wrist, Jensen spots old Scythe scars. The kid may not still be a user - users usually can't walk nor talk enough to turn tricks - but he's been there. Tough deal. Yet he's smiling.
For some reason, Jensen's still thinking, and he's still stopped by the boy. He can see Nix waving a thumbs up like Jensen's a done deal but- "No thanks, kid. Not in need just now."
"Sure of that?" The kid is persistent. And more so than most whores, he's focused on Jensen. "Cuz I saw you were off the Impala, and that's a long haul in the black. And if you're who I think, you're out on the Lucifer tomorrow. Which means you have maybe a six hour window to feel some human touch in justabout three years of space."
"Two hours," says Jensen, absently. "Manifest looks hinky, gotta be checking the- Wait. You don't care." Except the kid maybe does. He's worked out who Jensen is. He knows about voyages and transfer times (anyone could maybe know Jensen, but someone who doesn't know missions would've said he had nearer eighteen hours on-station free time). He's surprising, and Jensen doesn't often get surprised. "You a spacer family, then?"
"No family," says the kid. "But I'm station bred. And my dad, he was a freighter pilot. I always wanted to see-" He stops, parrots Jensen. "Wait. You don't care."
And yet. Jensen kind of does. Dad was around, but there's no family now. Kid's been scythed, but got out from under its sway. Kid dreams of space, but the skinny underfed look says he don't have cash for so much as a moon hop. Selling his ass with enough of a smile and not quite losing those space dreams despite all. Just possible Jensen sees a little of himself in there, though his momma would spank him for the comparison, if he ever goes home again. (Not in a month of blue moons, last he heard.)
Jensen's risked this before. Not with whores, mind. But some days you have to go with a good feeling in your gut, and he's not been wrong too often. And, if he is, there's plenty that go into deep space and never return, and nobody asks too much about their fate. So. Let's try something where it's a win for Jensen either way.
"Kid? Giving you a choice," and he watches as the kid brightens, interested, even if for all he knows all Jensen's offering is a pick of ass or mouth, or extra cash for bareskinning or whatever. But Jensen suspects the kid sees straight through him, to the other possibilities Jensen's been mulling.
"Give you double rates to spend an hour with me, swallow me down, make me see stars, then fuck me like you mean it." Jensen has pretty specific needs, and lots of kid whores would blink at them, he not being their typical clientele.
Not this kid. His cheeks pinken right up, but with arousal not confusion, belly muscles showing sharp under his shirt as his balls draw up, gut tightening with a so-clear want that's survived however long blowing ancient sweaty spacers just off their boats. Jensen almost forgets the second part in knowing this kid can give him what he'd most enjoy. But- "Or," he manages, "Or you can sign on with me on the Lucifer."
The kid just blinks. Probably thinks it's a joke or a trick. Jensen expands. "Got a rookie berth if you wanted. Pay's shit. Work's hard. Two years out, at best, and you won't be the same person when you come home. If you come home. But-" He casts a look around the lock; the oily film on surfaces; the three girls and one guy that haven't managed to hitch with even desperate deep-spacers just off-board. "'M guessing you don't have much you'll miss."
"You mean it?" asks the kid, all tremulous and disbelieving. "Because, sir, I'd do anything to get aboard. For pay, on the books for real? Double anything." His hands are reaching out, to touch Jensen in ways that can't be mistook.
He steps back. "Careful, kid. Could be a trickster, out for a freebie. But I don't take advantage of my crew that way. And if you're signing on my ship, my two hour window just vanished. We'll need to get you booked and outfitted, find you a berth and an overseer-" When whoever got the job got his dick out of whichever of the kid's colleagues he'd picked up, that would be. Meantime, he's the captain's problem. Jensen's moving off, head full of necessary tasks.
The kid stops him, hand on his arm, and slays Jensen with a simple question. "But, sir? Am I not allowed to fuck you on board?" And he looks upset, undecided even. Now, Jensen remembers being eighteen and dick-ruled, but he's pretty sure there's more to this. Like, the kid might even actually want him. For real.
It's been a real long time since Jensen had that feeling. And it'll cause hell if the captain plays favourites with a rookie and-
Aw, fuck it. Jensen's not a saint. Never had ambitions in that direction.
"Not till we're out in the deep," he says. "And then only if you should choose to ask me. No payment. No obligations. You ain't a whore no more. You clear, crewman- Crewman whatsyername?"
The kid laughs, and tells him. He's still a bruised, slick-clad whore on the surface, but even more than when Jensen first laid eyes on him, he doesn't entirely look the part. Holding himself differently, darting off to collect a small stash from the lock-keeper, waving enthusiastic goodbyes to fellow unfortunates in this hellhole. He's a kid off to space camp, the way Jensen was, an eon or three back, when the world was innocent and he'd never killed a man nor met a kid who sold his ass for food and life.
Jensen's fucking conscience will be the death of him, someday. But not with this Jared kid, he's pretty sure.
*
There are different ways people approach a long haul in the black with a small crew and a buttload of nothing much to look forward to till payday in a year-and-half or longer. Some turn into zombies, just gettin’ thru, man. Some become perfectionists, making the ship their baby in lieu of personal contact. Some turn clear insane, though sometimes Jensen thinks they’re the sanest of all. (They could all die, out here, of the smallest, stupidest mistake, of inevitable metal fatigue or one slip of a blowtorch, and no one would ever know their fate, less’n one of the deep drag freighters found ’em in a century or so, and admired their popsicle corpses.)
Everyone fucks. Or at least has a fuck policy. Some pick a mate, practical and early on, getting each other off every week or two, sure and steady. Some swear off, either for a beloved waiting them in - they hope - faithful patience, or - and this is Jensen’s take nowadays - too burned and bitter to risk rubbing that off on someone they’ll be sharing recirc with for another twenty months. There’s a lot of spank vids on any long haulier, and that’s for damn good reason.
And there’s the others. The ones that Jensen used to be, once upon a freighter when the world was new. Who’ll work steadily through the willing crew, A to Z or shortest to tallest or whatever the hell measure they use, and cross every damn person off on their list. A week each, or a month, or one single time when it feels just right or the wanting can’t be stood no more. It can turn bad, sure, but mostways it don’t. It’s too impersonal, too simple. Just bumpin’ uglies and getting off. Jensen’ll never condemn it. Whatever gets you through.
Nix is that way, always has been. Everyone aboard, pretty much, has had Nix. Even Jensen, and there ain’t many womenfolk who can boast that. It’s startling, what’ll seem like a good way to waste a week when you’re three months out of port and three months off the next. When all your duty is is making sure the damn ship’s nose points 354.34 and nothing’s on fire, which generally speaking, it ain't. Jensen don’t remember the week too well - he was on light duty roster and was mostly stoned - but he does remember laughing with Nix more than he’d laughed with another soul for a year or more. More’n he’s laughed in the six-seven years since, perhaps. And he remembers they did successfully fuck at least one, maybe more than one time. That remembered open, liquid feel, clenching in ripples that arched him back in appreciation, but too soft, in all, and not the tight muscle-ring round his dick the way he most wanted.
Which is in the past, not the way things are now. He had a spell without Nix aboard, contracts that didn't suit, and when she came back on crew she got the don't touch the captain message pretty quick and didn’t ask no more. She’s still the best grip wrangler he knows, and he ain’t ever going to be sorry to see her sign on his ship. Besides, Jensen may not remember a whole bunch about their time together, but he’s damn sure he ain’t the best she ever had. So.
All of which is a bunch of verbiage that means nothing so much as that Jensen is in a stew about his new little hooker recruit, except Jared is exactly none of that. Not a whore no more. Not little and ain’t been little for a bunch of years in Jensen’s estimation. Only new if you like to patronize. Kid's been earning his place last coupla weeks at least now the rawness is rubbed off him. And he's free and single and young enough to get horny at a business proposition from a dangerous spacer, back in the day when that was his everyday trade.
It's been two months out of port, and Jensen has been watching Jared close-like. The boy has shown no interest in fucking anyone, which maybe shouldn't surprise. Give him some time to let months of selling his ass work out his pores and he'll likely feel different. What's maybe a surprise is that Jared's shown no interest in Jensen. After the way they met and all the kid might feel like he-
No. Don't go there, Ackles. Kid don't owe you a thing, and you know it.
Jensen plots the course that'll take them the next two-three months out into the wilder parts of the galaxy. Ever since he got his first command, this has been the moment he kind of loves, kind of dreads. Outside the home system, beyond the Hub, far away from the forces of law and any authority other than Jensen's own. This is no turning back, shit or bust, manning up time. Anyone on their first voyage should know this moment is passing, and Jensen only has one newbie aboard.
Jensen flips on the shipwide intercom. "Folks, this is Ackles. Just taking us into the Nebula. This is it, anyone wants to take a lifepod outta here, last chance you'll be picked up alive." It's not exactly a joke. Jensen's seen spacers freak out in the deepest of the dark before now. They should know better, but after he first watched a thirty-year greasemonkey boost himself into the back of Asphodel's darkest moon, he's known there's not much that space crazy can't explain. Space is like that. Heaven and hell and mind-messing both at once. If anyone's gonna break, better it be now.
It's probably a bad idea, but Jensen keeps the com on for the maintenance decks. "Hey, Padalecki? Get your butt up here." Nothing he wouldn’t do for any rookie. Right?
Jared arrives at a run within three minutes, panting and more than a little sweaty about the extremities. Clothing the kid has been a minor problem for the maintenance crews; given a little decent nutrition he just keeps on growing, both up and out, and the basic kit Jensen shelled out in port is already getting indecent. What he'll look like after another two years don't bear too much speculation for a respectable space captain. Nor does Jared's look today, bursting out of a vest that'd look tight on the whore he ain't, and gaping skin between the vest and drawstring pants. It's a look that Jensen would favour highly on spank sites, but on Jared there's enough grease, bruising and slight awkwardness that it all reads genuine.
Speaking of bruising, "You hurt?" Jared's knuckles are swollen, bloody.
The kid looks away. "No sir. Wrench got away from me."
"Uhuh." Jensen's heard nothing about fighting below decks. He'll keep an ear out, now he knows there's something to listen for. "Be sure it don't fester. We're a long way from fancy care here. Limbs give you trouble, we'll take'em off."
"Yessir." Jared's almost serious in his respect, but there's enough of a quirk to his mouth that he clearly knows Jensen's half teasing. "You called?"
"Mmm? Oh, yeah." There was a point to this, way back. "Time to start your learning, kid. Rookie berth ain't only grunt work. I'm plotting a course, like you heard, time you saw how it's done." He pauses, trying to judge whether this'll matter to Jared the way it does to Jensen, and whether that matters a smit in the scheme of mild lust and patronage that influences Jensen's feelings for the kid.
His libido laughs, silently. Mild lust. Yeah, captain. Sure it is.
His brain eventually forces words out of his mouth. "So, this course is probably the most important part of this job. We get through the deep in good shape, we'll make it back so much faster with our cargo." More chance they'll make it alive, in fact, though Jensen's a good enough navigator that he's never seriously run short of fuel. But the phase after a heavy pick-up like this is always potentially rough. "Never count on refueling, okay? Never. You have no idea what the situation is when you arrive - it's months, maybe years, after you were commissioned. We'll only be in full comm range with maybe a month to go before we land on Hippolyta. Far too late to change our fuel plans if politics or business fucked up our contacts and changed the ground afore we can land on it. Good men have been lost that way, with a captain that don't plan ahead, wings it."
He's rambling a little. This ain't teaching, so much as unloading ten years of practical experience onto the kid at once. But it's good advice, so he lets it spill. "Best thing to look for in your next captain? Make sure he's a tightass. Stores and inventory and everything accountable. But fuel above all, okay? Pick a captain who'll get you home again."
Jared nods, but his eyes are wandering, between the navpad in Jensen's hands and the forward view station. Jensen's up here most days, most of the years, and he sometimes forgets that those in the belly of the ship can go weeks without seeing the black in all its glory. The kid brings him back to the now and the here, with a simple, "That's Charon, right?" It's pretty unmistakable for its concentric moon structures, sure, but plenty have never bothered to look and learn it. Reminds Jensen that Jared spent time learning about space, without the smallest hope of ever seeing it this deep. Good kid. Worth the training. But also, enough of a dreamer that Jensen's glad he brought Jared up here at this exact moment.
"Yup. Charon, and then Lethe, and then we're right into the Hades Nebula. Point of no return, kid. These stars don't bite, but they don't have nothing for us. I'm plotting now to get us out by Asphodel, but we'll review halfway, so's we don't get surprised by rogue orbits."
"Or comets?" Jared is watching Jensen's calculations, rapt attention at fingers on the navpad.
"Yeah. Always fun, a comet off the plot. We'll set you up a study plan for the next two months, ten weeks or so, you can come up and help us do the review come the time. Spot me a comet and you get extra dessert for a month." Jared's eyes light, like the prospect of learning drives him onward - maybe even as much as the prospect of extra food, bottomless pit that he is. "You get one hour off your regular shift for study, but everything else is in your own time. Rookie berth or no, I'm carrying no passengers." Little bit of captainly rhetoric there, but it's true enough. Anyway, Jared's a worker, wouldn't thank Jensen for time off when there's no place to go but below. "I'll set you up under Jericho for a master. Jer's not taught no one before, but he's a good teacher, good crew boss, and he knows nav well enough you won't pick up no bad habits."
"Not with you?" Jared looks down, skew-eyed, like he's wishing his mouth hadn't let out what his brain was evidently thinking. A little part of Jensen runs warm at that knowledge.
No, kid. I'm the fucking captain of this behemoth. You think the Lucifer runs itself while I sit about teaching pretty boys the rudiments of space work? Jensen's mouth fails him in turn. "Uh. Not yet, no. After the review- We'll see."
Jared nods, happy enough. "Can I stay up here while you finish? My shift ends in five, won't be missing much."
"Sure. Called you up here to learn, didn't I?" Easy words. Not, probably, words Jensen would have used with many other rookies. But it's peaceful enough, as he completes the calculations that take them into Hell's Gate, sets the course, and inputs, commenting along the way on corners cut, decisions made, risks weighed and given due respect. Jared sits, absorbed, watching Jensen and the stars. The kid gets it, all right.
If, after he leaves, Jensen sits up in the bridge a while longer than most nights, and looks a little flushed, even sticky, when he eventually leaves? Well, this ain't the kind of ship where what people do to get through deep space gets questioned.
Fucking ridiculous, jerking off to the stars and the memory of Jared watching them. Jensen wants to laugh at himself. But it's only the first time it happens, and in the end, he gets accustomed to his own needs.
*
Prosperpine is a feisty little bitch. Tries to spook them with a one-in-a-million orbital anomaly around her sun at the most congested part of the nebula, and there's some fast work on the bridge when it comes to review time. Jared plays his part - a small part, but a real one - and the ship passes through with no more than a nudge at the planet's outer skirts. This deep in Hell's Gate, space is still capable of throwing surprises at you; never so well mapped as the home belt or the outer Belt mining rim they're headed for. Jensen kind of likes it - it's closer to what he first dreamed, taking on his space camp scholarship, than the drudge that followed on regular commercial freight runs. But it's dangerous as fuck, of course, so he's on watch more than not, spelling Wack or Jericho or Trig at need and praying none of them goes sick, for they're a little understaffed for this level of nav need long term.
After a few weeks of intense work, they're pretty sure they're all gonna live through this. Hell's Gate is close to done, their path clear to the more open wastes beyond the Nebula. Jensen's sleep schedule is shot to hell, and he volunteers for a couple of long watches to let everyone else get a little bunk time. Which is how he finds out a little more about Jared, unexpected.
It's deep into the night watch, ship's mostly on low power, low lighting, low crewing, trying to mock up the life planetside that half Jensen's crew can't recall and the rest probably never even lived. Jensen always was a night owl, though, even down on the dirt. He's nowhere near asleep when he hears a noise out in the corridor, a noise that shouldn't be. The kind of thump that could mean muffled explosion, or metal fatigue or-
Or a kid, punching the wall.
Jared's knuckles are bleeding, which belatedly maybe explains why Jensen's heard nothing about below deck fighting yet Jared often seems a little more bruised than even an apprentice fuel tech should.
"Kid? You beating on my ship for any particular purpose?"
Jared was so deep into whatever's on his mind that he must have missed Jensen's arrival entirely. He jumps roughly fifteen feet in the air and lands, awkward and off-balance. Should be funny, but ain't. The kid's usual optimism is nowhere, dark circles under his slanted eyes, focus blown. Somewhere else.
"On the bridge, Padalecki. Now." Sometimes, authority'll get through where humanity won't, and Jensen uses that.
Jared's a more commonplace sight on Jensen's bridge now, and he ain't quite so mesmerized by the stars as he was. Still, appears they calm him a little. Jensen leaves him be while he runs standard tenth hour checks. Last measurement in, he turns to the kid. "You want to tell me why?"
Jared's eyes close. Odd. Kid don't shut himself off, as a rule. Which means it's maybe family, love and loss and all that crap. But then Jensen spots the way Jared's left fingers are working at his right wrist. The scythe scars flare red.
Jensen's up and in Jared's face before he can even feel the anger rise. "You brought that shit on my ship? I'll skip you right into Hell's Gate itself, if-" But Jared's alarmed-open eyes are clear. He walked in here. No way is the kid scythed. Jensen knows better. Besides, the scars, now he looks properly, are red and picked but nothing fresh.
Jensen stands up, away from the kid's chair. Rests his butt on the comm deck, casual-like and reassuring (hell, it's all on auto, and he'll know if anything sets off an alarm. Regardless of all protocol, but not actually moronic, that's Jensen with this kid). "Sorry. Overreacted. I know it ain't that way. But you still hurting over that filth?"
Jared nods, eyes flicking closed again, reserved. "Wasn't on it more 'n a couple of months, ten weeks at most. Just after Dad- And Bernie got me off it, got me working." Whoring. But better than sucking the life from himself with a killer like scythe, that's for certain. Kid wouldn't be here now if he'd gone on much longer. Eyes open, earnest and deep. This much Jared'll tell. "But the hunger, Captain. It's- Some nights it's so strong, still. I used to fuck, just to get my head out of it. But that's not me now. So when I saw-"
Jensen's silently processing not me now, the kid's solemn claim to celibacy. He's not too captainly, in his head just then. Almost misses the kid clamping his mouth shut after that little slip. But not quite. You do not get to be a contract captain in the tightass interstellar Corp world they inhabit without spotting clues smaller than that.
"They drugging, down on F deck?" It won't be scythe, Jensen wouldn't miss that. Could be nothing more than sweet slow maryjane, every spacer's acceptable time-speeder. But it could be more. The kid shuts up sharp, but Jensen has the scent of misbehavior now. "Drugging hard? On the job?" Jared wrinkles his nose, a fleeting dismissal. "Well. All right then." Jensen won’t make trouble, so long as it's off watch. Still could be trouble if they run out in the black. If some spacer shares his stash too soon, runs low, could be fights and ambush by the time they're on the home straight. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, there's the kid.
"Space helps, right?" Jensen tips his chin, indicating the infinity of deep space spread out behind him. "Hard to feel like anything can beat you, when you've made it this far."
The kid nods, and it's a truth Jensen's seen in him before. But the kid's attention is straying from the black to the captain, legs spread out - Jensen belatedly realizes - in an inviting vee at the kid's eye level.
Well, the good news in this situation is that the kid's stopped picking at his scythe scars, mental and actual. Bad news is that Jared flicks his tongue once over his parted lips and Jensen hardens faster'n a fifteen year old with a centerfold. The kid smiles, knowingly. "Captain?"
"Yeah?" Jensen's voice is unaccountably husky, of a sudden.
"We far enough in the black now? Okay if I ask?"
Jensen doesn't pretend coy. "Yeah. We are. But you know shipboard life now. You know it'll play bad with the others."
"Don't have to shout about it," says Jared, absently. "Cuz I've been meaning to ask, when it was the right time. And seems to me that you've been seeing to yourself too long, up here."
Jensen chokes.
"Thought I didn't know that? Don't fret, Captain. Don't reckon the others know it. Don't reckon they got my nose for how you smell when you're wanting. Don't reckon they know how you feel 'bout the black."
Jared's fingers are walking down Jensen's fly, drawing the fastenings apart. Jensen lost control, somewhere way back, and it's all about the kid, now. The kid slips his hand inside, loose wrap of warm human touch round a dick that hasn't felt any such but Jensen's own for too many years now. Jared leans forward, out of his chair, breath wafting hot over Jensen's groin. Not quite on his dick. Not quite yet.
"Captain?" says Jared, very low.
"Yhhm?" says Jensen, too loud, too uncontrolled.
"I'm askin' now. Please?"
Jensen probably never does assent within the meaning of the legalities, but his look and actions would by all that's righteous signify consent. Even knowing he left the fucking bridge door open don't get too much between him and the feel of the kid's hot, eager mouth, vibrating as the kid groans in pleasure. Jensen's head tilts back, watching the stars through the arc of the bridge windows, one hand cupped round Jared's cheek, feeling the kid suck and swallow.
Seeing stars, he comes.
It's a perfect moment, but after perfect moments come other moments, necessarily less ideal. Jensen comes back to himself to find the kid tucking his dick neatly away, and wiping his mouth. Smiling, but not anything more.
Confused, Jensen's first words aren't too welcoming. "Thought you said that wasn't you, now?"
"No more it is, Captain. Thanks," says Jared, and slips away, like there's nothing more to be said. Or done. Did he even come? Not so's Jensen noticed.
Jensen, discombobulated still, returns to checking that he didn’t just blow them off course, mostly through wriggling his ass while getting blown. But it's all straight. Just like it never was more than a fantasy.
*
Part Two
The hangar lock ain't exactly romance central, but there's plenty of sex for sale here. Sixteen months on a freighter'd make any spacer think pretty much anything other than his own hand and his own skanky crew looks like a banquet. Jensen's seen it often, and done it enough to not condemn Nix and Wack for the glee with which they pounce on a pair of rank-looking nightbirds, all cheap stink, ragged net and slick silver painted on mouth and tits.
These days, Jensen thinks first. He thinks about the high likelihood of disease among these unfortunate whores, and the even higher rate of sleazebag pimps and lovers who hang about them, ready to part a careless spacer from his hard-earned. Now, Jensen can handle himself in any fight you care to name - last guy to find that out died with a blade in his eyeball, and a look of great surprise - but these days, he's older, more cautious, more tired. And, given the choice, he'll mostly handle himself, and save himself the trouble of involving others.
Which is handy, in deep space. Jensen's made a lot of money, lately, by not caring so much if he never sees nor touches another human.
So that ain't what's happening here. Yet Jensen ain't moving on.
This one's a kid. Well, maybe eighteen, nineteen, but he's all angles and legs, not near grown, though Jensen hopes he don't get much taller than his current beanpole self. He's pretty enough atop the heights, foxy eyes and wide mouth begging for dick. (Verbally, as well as metaphorically, so Jensen gets no points for symbolism there.) But he ain't Jensen's type. Whatever that was, back when it mattered.
And yet Jensen has stopped, and is standing.
"Rates are reasonable, and I'm willing, sir. You're gonna love how willing I am." The kid smiles, and it's sleazy enough, but it's also naïve enough to be nearly real. The same way the kid's clothes are tight denim and silver skin, nipples on parade and dick outlined clear as day, and yet he wears them like Jensen's kid brother would, apparently all unconscious of the picture he makes. This kid has good tricks, Jensen'll admit. He also has bruises, a little on one cheek probably connected with the healing bust lip he's tried to smear over with slick. And on one wrist, Jensen spots old Scythe scars. The kid may not still be a user - users usually can't walk nor talk enough to turn tricks - but he's been there. Tough deal. Yet he's smiling.
For some reason, Jensen's still thinking, and he's still stopped by the boy. He can see Nix waving a thumbs up like Jensen's a done deal but- "No thanks, kid. Not in need just now."
"Sure of that?" The kid is persistent. And more so than most whores, he's focused on Jensen. "Cuz I saw you were off the Impala, and that's a long haul in the black. And if you're who I think, you're out on the Lucifer tomorrow. Which means you have maybe a six hour window to feel some human touch in justabout three years of space."
"Two hours," says Jensen, absently. "Manifest looks hinky, gotta be checking the- Wait. You don't care." Except the kid maybe does. He's worked out who Jensen is. He knows about voyages and transfer times (anyone could maybe know Jensen, but someone who doesn't know missions would've said he had nearer eighteen hours on-station free time). He's surprising, and Jensen doesn't often get surprised. "You a spacer family, then?"
"No family," says the kid. "But I'm station bred. And my dad, he was a freighter pilot. I always wanted to see-" He stops, parrots Jensen. "Wait. You don't care."
And yet. Jensen kind of does. Dad was around, but there's no family now. Kid's been scythed, but got out from under its sway. Kid dreams of space, but the skinny underfed look says he don't have cash for so much as a moon hop. Selling his ass with enough of a smile and not quite losing those space dreams despite all. Just possible Jensen sees a little of himself in there, though his momma would spank him for the comparison, if he ever goes home again. (Not in a month of blue moons, last he heard.)
Jensen's risked this before. Not with whores, mind. But some days you have to go with a good feeling in your gut, and he's not been wrong too often. And, if he is, there's plenty that go into deep space and never return, and nobody asks too much about their fate. So. Let's try something where it's a win for Jensen either way.
"Kid? Giving you a choice," and he watches as the kid brightens, interested, even if for all he knows all Jensen's offering is a pick of ass or mouth, or extra cash for bareskinning or whatever. But Jensen suspects the kid sees straight through him, to the other possibilities Jensen's been mulling.
"Give you double rates to spend an hour with me, swallow me down, make me see stars, then fuck me like you mean it." Jensen has pretty specific needs, and lots of kid whores would blink at them, he not being their typical clientele.
Not this kid. His cheeks pinken right up, but with arousal not confusion, belly muscles showing sharp under his shirt as his balls draw up, gut tightening with a so-clear want that's survived however long blowing ancient sweaty spacers just off their boats. Jensen almost forgets the second part in knowing this kid can give him what he'd most enjoy. But- "Or," he manages, "Or you can sign on with me on the Lucifer."
The kid just blinks. Probably thinks it's a joke or a trick. Jensen expands. "Got a rookie berth if you wanted. Pay's shit. Work's hard. Two years out, at best, and you won't be the same person when you come home. If you come home. But-" He casts a look around the lock; the oily film on surfaces; the three girls and one guy that haven't managed to hitch with even desperate deep-spacers just off-board. "'M guessing you don't have much you'll miss."
"You mean it?" asks the kid, all tremulous and disbelieving. "Because, sir, I'd do anything to get aboard. For pay, on the books for real? Double anything." His hands are reaching out, to touch Jensen in ways that can't be mistook.
He steps back. "Careful, kid. Could be a trickster, out for a freebie. But I don't take advantage of my crew that way. And if you're signing on my ship, my two hour window just vanished. We'll need to get you booked and outfitted, find you a berth and an overseer-" When whoever got the job got his dick out of whichever of the kid's colleagues he'd picked up, that would be. Meantime, he's the captain's problem. Jensen's moving off, head full of necessary tasks.
The kid stops him, hand on his arm, and slays Jensen with a simple question. "But, sir? Am I not allowed to fuck you on board?" And he looks upset, undecided even. Now, Jensen remembers being eighteen and dick-ruled, but he's pretty sure there's more to this. Like, the kid might even actually want him. For real.
It's been a real long time since Jensen had that feeling. And it'll cause hell if the captain plays favourites with a rookie and-
Aw, fuck it. Jensen's not a saint. Never had ambitions in that direction.
"Not till we're out in the deep," he says. "And then only if you should choose to ask me. No payment. No obligations. You ain't a whore no more. You clear, crewman- Crewman whatsyername?"
The kid laughs, and tells him. He's still a bruised, slick-clad whore on the surface, but even more than when Jensen first laid eyes on him, he doesn't entirely look the part. Holding himself differently, darting off to collect a small stash from the lock-keeper, waving enthusiastic goodbyes to fellow unfortunates in this hellhole. He's a kid off to space camp, the way Jensen was, an eon or three back, when the world was innocent and he'd never killed a man nor met a kid who sold his ass for food and life.
Jensen's fucking conscience will be the death of him, someday. But not with this Jared kid, he's pretty sure.
*
There are different ways people approach a long haul in the black with a small crew and a buttload of nothing much to look forward to till payday in a year-and-half or longer. Some turn into zombies, just gettin’ thru, man. Some become perfectionists, making the ship their baby in lieu of personal contact. Some turn clear insane, though sometimes Jensen thinks they’re the sanest of all. (They could all die, out here, of the smallest, stupidest mistake, of inevitable metal fatigue or one slip of a blowtorch, and no one would ever know their fate, less’n one of the deep drag freighters found ’em in a century or so, and admired their popsicle corpses.)
Everyone fucks. Or at least has a fuck policy. Some pick a mate, practical and early on, getting each other off every week or two, sure and steady. Some swear off, either for a beloved waiting them in - they hope - faithful patience, or - and this is Jensen’s take nowadays - too burned and bitter to risk rubbing that off on someone they’ll be sharing recirc with for another twenty months. There’s a lot of spank vids on any long haulier, and that’s for damn good reason.
And there’s the others. The ones that Jensen used to be, once upon a freighter when the world was new. Who’ll work steadily through the willing crew, A to Z or shortest to tallest or whatever the hell measure they use, and cross every damn person off on their list. A week each, or a month, or one single time when it feels just right or the wanting can’t be stood no more. It can turn bad, sure, but mostways it don’t. It’s too impersonal, too simple. Just bumpin’ uglies and getting off. Jensen’ll never condemn it. Whatever gets you through.
Nix is that way, always has been. Everyone aboard, pretty much, has had Nix. Even Jensen, and there ain’t many womenfolk who can boast that. It’s startling, what’ll seem like a good way to waste a week when you’re three months out of port and three months off the next. When all your duty is is making sure the damn ship’s nose points 354.34 and nothing’s on fire, which generally speaking, it ain't. Jensen don’t remember the week too well - he was on light duty roster and was mostly stoned - but he does remember laughing with Nix more than he’d laughed with another soul for a year or more. More’n he’s laughed in the six-seven years since, perhaps. And he remembers they did successfully fuck at least one, maybe more than one time. That remembered open, liquid feel, clenching in ripples that arched him back in appreciation, but too soft, in all, and not the tight muscle-ring round his dick the way he most wanted.
Which is in the past, not the way things are now. He had a spell without Nix aboard, contracts that didn't suit, and when she came back on crew she got the don't touch the captain message pretty quick and didn’t ask no more. She’s still the best grip wrangler he knows, and he ain’t ever going to be sorry to see her sign on his ship. Besides, Jensen may not remember a whole bunch about their time together, but he’s damn sure he ain’t the best she ever had. So.
All of which is a bunch of verbiage that means nothing so much as that Jensen is in a stew about his new little hooker recruit, except Jared is exactly none of that. Not a whore no more. Not little and ain’t been little for a bunch of years in Jensen’s estimation. Only new if you like to patronize. Kid's been earning his place last coupla weeks at least now the rawness is rubbed off him. And he's free and single and young enough to get horny at a business proposition from a dangerous spacer, back in the day when that was his everyday trade.
It's been two months out of port, and Jensen has been watching Jared close-like. The boy has shown no interest in fucking anyone, which maybe shouldn't surprise. Give him some time to let months of selling his ass work out his pores and he'll likely feel different. What's maybe a surprise is that Jared's shown no interest in Jensen. After the way they met and all the kid might feel like he-
No. Don't go there, Ackles. Kid don't owe you a thing, and you know it.
Jensen plots the course that'll take them the next two-three months out into the wilder parts of the galaxy. Ever since he got his first command, this has been the moment he kind of loves, kind of dreads. Outside the home system, beyond the Hub, far away from the forces of law and any authority other than Jensen's own. This is no turning back, shit or bust, manning up time. Anyone on their first voyage should know this moment is passing, and Jensen only has one newbie aboard.
Jensen flips on the shipwide intercom. "Folks, this is Ackles. Just taking us into the Nebula. This is it, anyone wants to take a lifepod outta here, last chance you'll be picked up alive." It's not exactly a joke. Jensen's seen spacers freak out in the deepest of the dark before now. They should know better, but after he first watched a thirty-year greasemonkey boost himself into the back of Asphodel's darkest moon, he's known there's not much that space crazy can't explain. Space is like that. Heaven and hell and mind-messing both at once. If anyone's gonna break, better it be now.
It's probably a bad idea, but Jensen keeps the com on for the maintenance decks. "Hey, Padalecki? Get your butt up here." Nothing he wouldn’t do for any rookie. Right?
Jared arrives at a run within three minutes, panting and more than a little sweaty about the extremities. Clothing the kid has been a minor problem for the maintenance crews; given a little decent nutrition he just keeps on growing, both up and out, and the basic kit Jensen shelled out in port is already getting indecent. What he'll look like after another two years don't bear too much speculation for a respectable space captain. Nor does Jared's look today, bursting out of a vest that'd look tight on the whore he ain't, and gaping skin between the vest and drawstring pants. It's a look that Jensen would favour highly on spank sites, but on Jared there's enough grease, bruising and slight awkwardness that it all reads genuine.
Speaking of bruising, "You hurt?" Jared's knuckles are swollen, bloody.
The kid looks away. "No sir. Wrench got away from me."
"Uhuh." Jensen's heard nothing about fighting below decks. He'll keep an ear out, now he knows there's something to listen for. "Be sure it don't fester. We're a long way from fancy care here. Limbs give you trouble, we'll take'em off."
"Yessir." Jared's almost serious in his respect, but there's enough of a quirk to his mouth that he clearly knows Jensen's half teasing. "You called?"
"Mmm? Oh, yeah." There was a point to this, way back. "Time to start your learning, kid. Rookie berth ain't only grunt work. I'm plotting a course, like you heard, time you saw how it's done." He pauses, trying to judge whether this'll matter to Jared the way it does to Jensen, and whether that matters a smit in the scheme of mild lust and patronage that influences Jensen's feelings for the kid.
His libido laughs, silently. Mild lust. Yeah, captain. Sure it is.
His brain eventually forces words out of his mouth. "So, this course is probably the most important part of this job. We get through the deep in good shape, we'll make it back so much faster with our cargo." More chance they'll make it alive, in fact, though Jensen's a good enough navigator that he's never seriously run short of fuel. But the phase after a heavy pick-up like this is always potentially rough. "Never count on refueling, okay? Never. You have no idea what the situation is when you arrive - it's months, maybe years, after you were commissioned. We'll only be in full comm range with maybe a month to go before we land on Hippolyta. Far too late to change our fuel plans if politics or business fucked up our contacts and changed the ground afore we can land on it. Good men have been lost that way, with a captain that don't plan ahead, wings it."
He's rambling a little. This ain't teaching, so much as unloading ten years of practical experience onto the kid at once. But it's good advice, so he lets it spill. "Best thing to look for in your next captain? Make sure he's a tightass. Stores and inventory and everything accountable. But fuel above all, okay? Pick a captain who'll get you home again."
Jared nods, but his eyes are wandering, between the navpad in Jensen's hands and the forward view station. Jensen's up here most days, most of the years, and he sometimes forgets that those in the belly of the ship can go weeks without seeing the black in all its glory. The kid brings him back to the now and the here, with a simple, "That's Charon, right?" It's pretty unmistakable for its concentric moon structures, sure, but plenty have never bothered to look and learn it. Reminds Jensen that Jared spent time learning about space, without the smallest hope of ever seeing it this deep. Good kid. Worth the training. But also, enough of a dreamer that Jensen's glad he brought Jared up here at this exact moment.
"Yup. Charon, and then Lethe, and then we're right into the Hades Nebula. Point of no return, kid. These stars don't bite, but they don't have nothing for us. I'm plotting now to get us out by Asphodel, but we'll review halfway, so's we don't get surprised by rogue orbits."
"Or comets?" Jared is watching Jensen's calculations, rapt attention at fingers on the navpad.
"Yeah. Always fun, a comet off the plot. We'll set you up a study plan for the next two months, ten weeks or so, you can come up and help us do the review come the time. Spot me a comet and you get extra dessert for a month." Jared's eyes light, like the prospect of learning drives him onward - maybe even as much as the prospect of extra food, bottomless pit that he is. "You get one hour off your regular shift for study, but everything else is in your own time. Rookie berth or no, I'm carrying no passengers." Little bit of captainly rhetoric there, but it's true enough. Anyway, Jared's a worker, wouldn't thank Jensen for time off when there's no place to go but below. "I'll set you up under Jericho for a master. Jer's not taught no one before, but he's a good teacher, good crew boss, and he knows nav well enough you won't pick up no bad habits."
"Not with you?" Jared looks down, skew-eyed, like he's wishing his mouth hadn't let out what his brain was evidently thinking. A little part of Jensen runs warm at that knowledge.
No, kid. I'm the fucking captain of this behemoth. You think the Lucifer runs itself while I sit about teaching pretty boys the rudiments of space work? Jensen's mouth fails him in turn. "Uh. Not yet, no. After the review- We'll see."
Jared nods, happy enough. "Can I stay up here while you finish? My shift ends in five, won't be missing much."
"Sure. Called you up here to learn, didn't I?" Easy words. Not, probably, words Jensen would have used with many other rookies. But it's peaceful enough, as he completes the calculations that take them into Hell's Gate, sets the course, and inputs, commenting along the way on corners cut, decisions made, risks weighed and given due respect. Jared sits, absorbed, watching Jensen and the stars. The kid gets it, all right.
If, after he leaves, Jensen sits up in the bridge a while longer than most nights, and looks a little flushed, even sticky, when he eventually leaves? Well, this ain't the kind of ship where what people do to get through deep space gets questioned.
Fucking ridiculous, jerking off to the stars and the memory of Jared watching them. Jensen wants to laugh at himself. But it's only the first time it happens, and in the end, he gets accustomed to his own needs.
*
Prosperpine is a feisty little bitch. Tries to spook them with a one-in-a-million orbital anomaly around her sun at the most congested part of the nebula, and there's some fast work on the bridge when it comes to review time. Jared plays his part - a small part, but a real one - and the ship passes through with no more than a nudge at the planet's outer skirts. This deep in Hell's Gate, space is still capable of throwing surprises at you; never so well mapped as the home belt or the outer Belt mining rim they're headed for. Jensen kind of likes it - it's closer to what he first dreamed, taking on his space camp scholarship, than the drudge that followed on regular commercial freight runs. But it's dangerous as fuck, of course, so he's on watch more than not, spelling Wack or Jericho or Trig at need and praying none of them goes sick, for they're a little understaffed for this level of nav need long term.
After a few weeks of intense work, they're pretty sure they're all gonna live through this. Hell's Gate is close to done, their path clear to the more open wastes beyond the Nebula. Jensen's sleep schedule is shot to hell, and he volunteers for a couple of long watches to let everyone else get a little bunk time. Which is how he finds out a little more about Jared, unexpected.
It's deep into the night watch, ship's mostly on low power, low lighting, low crewing, trying to mock up the life planetside that half Jensen's crew can't recall and the rest probably never even lived. Jensen always was a night owl, though, even down on the dirt. He's nowhere near asleep when he hears a noise out in the corridor, a noise that shouldn't be. The kind of thump that could mean muffled explosion, or metal fatigue or-
Or a kid, punching the wall.
Jared's knuckles are bleeding, which belatedly maybe explains why Jensen's heard nothing about below deck fighting yet Jared often seems a little more bruised than even an apprentice fuel tech should.
"Kid? You beating on my ship for any particular purpose?"
Jared was so deep into whatever's on his mind that he must have missed Jensen's arrival entirely. He jumps roughly fifteen feet in the air and lands, awkward and off-balance. Should be funny, but ain't. The kid's usual optimism is nowhere, dark circles under his slanted eyes, focus blown. Somewhere else.
"On the bridge, Padalecki. Now." Sometimes, authority'll get through where humanity won't, and Jensen uses that.
Jared's a more commonplace sight on Jensen's bridge now, and he ain't quite so mesmerized by the stars as he was. Still, appears they calm him a little. Jensen leaves him be while he runs standard tenth hour checks. Last measurement in, he turns to the kid. "You want to tell me why?"
Jared's eyes close. Odd. Kid don't shut himself off, as a rule. Which means it's maybe family, love and loss and all that crap. But then Jensen spots the way Jared's left fingers are working at his right wrist. The scythe scars flare red.
Jensen's up and in Jared's face before he can even feel the anger rise. "You brought that shit on my ship? I'll skip you right into Hell's Gate itself, if-" But Jared's alarmed-open eyes are clear. He walked in here. No way is the kid scythed. Jensen knows better. Besides, the scars, now he looks properly, are red and picked but nothing fresh.
Jensen stands up, away from the kid's chair. Rests his butt on the comm deck, casual-like and reassuring (hell, it's all on auto, and he'll know if anything sets off an alarm. Regardless of all protocol, but not actually moronic, that's Jensen with this kid). "Sorry. Overreacted. I know it ain't that way. But you still hurting over that filth?"
Jared nods, eyes flicking closed again, reserved. "Wasn't on it more 'n a couple of months, ten weeks at most. Just after Dad- And Bernie got me off it, got me working." Whoring. But better than sucking the life from himself with a killer like scythe, that's for certain. Kid wouldn't be here now if he'd gone on much longer. Eyes open, earnest and deep. This much Jared'll tell. "But the hunger, Captain. It's- Some nights it's so strong, still. I used to fuck, just to get my head out of it. But that's not me now. So when I saw-"
Jensen's silently processing not me now, the kid's solemn claim to celibacy. He's not too captainly, in his head just then. Almost misses the kid clamping his mouth shut after that little slip. But not quite. You do not get to be a contract captain in the tightass interstellar Corp world they inhabit without spotting clues smaller than that.
"They drugging, down on F deck?" It won't be scythe, Jensen wouldn't miss that. Could be nothing more than sweet slow maryjane, every spacer's acceptable time-speeder. But it could be more. The kid shuts up sharp, but Jensen has the scent of misbehavior now. "Drugging hard? On the job?" Jared wrinkles his nose, a fleeting dismissal. "Well. All right then." Jensen won’t make trouble, so long as it's off watch. Still could be trouble if they run out in the black. If some spacer shares his stash too soon, runs low, could be fights and ambush by the time they're on the home straight. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, there's the kid.
"Space helps, right?" Jensen tips his chin, indicating the infinity of deep space spread out behind him. "Hard to feel like anything can beat you, when you've made it this far."
The kid nods, and it's a truth Jensen's seen in him before. But the kid's attention is straying from the black to the captain, legs spread out - Jensen belatedly realizes - in an inviting vee at the kid's eye level.
Well, the good news in this situation is that the kid's stopped picking at his scythe scars, mental and actual. Bad news is that Jared flicks his tongue once over his parted lips and Jensen hardens faster'n a fifteen year old with a centerfold. The kid smiles, knowingly. "Captain?"
"Yeah?" Jensen's voice is unaccountably husky, of a sudden.
"We far enough in the black now? Okay if I ask?"
Jensen doesn't pretend coy. "Yeah. We are. But you know shipboard life now. You know it'll play bad with the others."
"Don't have to shout about it," says Jared, absently. "Cuz I've been meaning to ask, when it was the right time. And seems to me that you've been seeing to yourself too long, up here."
Jensen chokes.
"Thought I didn't know that? Don't fret, Captain. Don't reckon the others know it. Don't reckon they got my nose for how you smell when you're wanting. Don't reckon they know how you feel 'bout the black."
Jared's fingers are walking down Jensen's fly, drawing the fastenings apart. Jensen lost control, somewhere way back, and it's all about the kid, now. The kid slips his hand inside, loose wrap of warm human touch round a dick that hasn't felt any such but Jensen's own for too many years now. Jared leans forward, out of his chair, breath wafting hot over Jensen's groin. Not quite on his dick. Not quite yet.
"Captain?" says Jared, very low.
"Yhhm?" says Jensen, too loud, too uncontrolled.
"I'm askin' now. Please?"
Jensen probably never does assent within the meaning of the legalities, but his look and actions would by all that's righteous signify consent. Even knowing he left the fucking bridge door open don't get too much between him and the feel of the kid's hot, eager mouth, vibrating as the kid groans in pleasure. Jensen's head tilts back, watching the stars through the arc of the bridge windows, one hand cupped round Jared's cheek, feeling the kid suck and swallow.
Seeing stars, he comes.
It's a perfect moment, but after perfect moments come other moments, necessarily less ideal. Jensen comes back to himself to find the kid tucking his dick neatly away, and wiping his mouth. Smiling, but not anything more.
Confused, Jensen's first words aren't too welcoming. "Thought you said that wasn't you, now?"
"No more it is, Captain. Thanks," says Jared, and slips away, like there's nothing more to be said. Or done. Did he even come? Not so's Jensen noticed.
Jensen, discombobulated still, returns to checking that he didn’t just blow them off course, mostly through wriggling his ass while getting blown. But it's all straight. Just like it never was more than a fantasy.
*
Part Two