J2 | Christmas Where You Can Find It | PG
Title: Christmas Where You Can Find It
Words: 7,600
Rating: PG
Summary: In a world where everything is overrun by corporations, and most lands have been ravaged until their crops have been depleted, stands Jensen Ackles, a man who is the victim of a faulty transmission and what he thinks might be a kidnapping expedition..
Notes: Written for hunters_retreat for spn_j2_xmas, for the prompt Jared is a lonely ship's captain with only the android Misha to keep him company, with bonus stranded!Jensen. Huge thanks to raeschae for the last-minute beta ♥
Frontega is cold, and smells like salt. It’s the first thing Jensen thinks as he drops the hood of his El Camino. The second thing he thinks is he’s screwed; this stop will prolong his plans to have this assignment wrapped up in time to return home for Christmas. And the third is more of a wonder of when the hood-slam will quit echoing over the valley.
He wishes he could see as far as the echo carries, but all that lies before him are the dusty grey dips of land and the pitch black sky above.
This piece of junk car - he kicks the bumper then curses in flaring pain - had lasted through the transfer of Musselman to Frontega to the cold deserted landscape ahead of him. That was nearly a decade ago, when the plains changed from farmlands dotted by juicy red and green apples to grains and corn stalks that barely lasted two season. Once the geothermal wars hit, and Corps were drilling into every spare inch of dirt, the rivers ran messy with grit and sand, and the fields wilted.
Jensen hasn’t been this far west since he was a child, but he’d watched it all go down on his CommuniLink, which - yes! He jumps into the backseat of the car for it, and digs through fast food discs and dozens of empty cigarette vials. With this craptastic, impromptu oasis stop, he could really use a cigarette. The real things, with packed tobacco, crisp white paper, and a puffy little filter. None of this hydrogenated nicotine, tiny air shots that instantly chill one’s bones, if they could get past the longing for the routine of inhale-exhale and smoke curling around you. When he was sixteen and started the nasty habit alongside Chris, that’s what he got; the ritual of it all sunk deep into his bones like the smoke into his lungs.
He tosses shit across the back seat, praying he finds a vial with even an ounce of ‘hale left, but instead he finds the CommuniLink, which is good for now. He steps back onto the road and leans against the side of the El Camino, holding the tablet in his hands, fingers tracing patterns by memory as blue and green streaks light up the screen in his attempt to connect to … anywhere, he supposes. There isn’t much in this area, and given the last few months of travel without a living soul in sight, he’s not sure what he’ll find.
Or what could find him, really.
A lot has changed in twenty years - not just the land, or the cigarettes and the CD-thin slips of nutrition fashioned to taste like a Big Mac and super-sized fries with a fraction of the calories or fat, but the people. They’re all jittery and paranoid when they’re not calculating and vicious with their eyes on a final prize. Wiry, too, thanks to the nutrition discs. Not to mention scarce as well, as they’ve all moved in waves to whatever new stretch of resources the corps are racing for.
Word is the folks are racing north to Nutella, where a week of rain rejuvenated arid fields. Also where Mackenzie was transferring, to represent Frangelico in a trade agreement, or some such, according to his last ‘Link with his mom. Jensen, though, has been travelling for the last year on his own. He’s happy to criss-cross the landscape, likes the adventure of road trips, and send ‘Links back home to Chris to update their employer’s cartography systems.
Point is, Jensen hasn’t seen a live moving object that wasn’t on his ‘Link or the landscape in his rear-view mirror in God knows how long. So when he considers that along with the fact that the El Camino’s transmission is shot and the sun isn’t about to rise for a good six hours … he’s fairly certain it’s not good news that there are yellow and red lights coming down from the sky and weaving a figure eight around him.
The spotlights grow wider and brighter, forcing Jensen to bring a hand up to shield most of it from his eyes while he tries to judge the size of the aircraft. Another ten seconds and the lights’ movement is narrowing closer to Jensen and the El Camino as the shape of a spacecraft becomes more recognizable. Its nose is wide but short, the body curving back to a flatter tail, like an arc-shaped vessel.
When he was a kid, Jensen and big-brother Josh would flip through his grandpa’s old news rags with fascination for all the old courier ships. His mind flashes back to the image of a cruiser like this one that had made one of the last runs to Carbonia for jewels, yet had never returned to Earth.
He hasn’t heard of a Diamond Cruiser in operation for nearly thirty years, so maybe he’s just imagining things. He hasn’t slept for nearly two days, this wouldn’t be the first time his mind’s dreamt up something old.
The Cruiser sets itself down to the earth with dust and debris flying in puffs as the engine continues to flare. Jensen coughs and blinks through the dust until he can focus on the back hatch flipping down to present him with a view into the lower belly of the ‘craft.
Jensen sets his ‘Link on top of the car and widens his stance as he stares into the ship and awaits someone - something to come into view. No one does. The dust clears and the lights fade to a pleasant gold. It’s a solid minute until there’s any change in the situation, when a speaker squawks feedback and someone clears a throat.
“You comin’ or goin’?” it - a man - asks.
Jensen flinches at the noise, no matter how pleasant it is. Dirty, low southern twang like he hasn’t heard since he was eighteen, before being shipped off to the Upper 13 for the mandatory test block and subsequent career training across the ocean.
“¿Hola? ¿Como estas?” the man asks, curious and hopeful.
Jensen blinks at the awful inflection before glancing all around the ‘craft, hoping he can spot a window or hatch where the guy might be hanging around.
“Uh … Buon parma-reggiano?”
And now he’s just hungry for a thick pan of lasagna, but home-cooked meals went out the door in the late 2010s.
A figure appears in the open hatch and slowly marches down the plank. It’s a tall man, though not taller than Jensen, with dark hair in a slick side part, eyes that seem to glow as he’s backlit by golden hues, and lips that look inhuman, stretched thin with ragged skin. Jensen licks his own lips in sympathy.
“Hello there, Jensen Ackles,” this man says, voice tight and words staccato.
Jensen’s mouth drops open and closed like a fish as his stomach flips with increasing worry for what’s really happening at the moment. How in the hell does this strange man from a strange ‘craft know his name?
“Would you like to come aboard?”
It sounds more like a command than invitation and Jensen holds steady where he is.
“We can help you.”
There’s something in the man’s tone that’s bordering on a cult leader doing his best to gather his minions, and Jensen again curses his transmission for failing him right now, in this place.
Jensen’s chest gets tight, breathing harsh, and then he’s light-headed with panic. His heart races and adrenaline fills his nerves with the power to fight this man down to the ground, utilizing the fight training Rand Corp had insisted upon when they hired him - something about insurance coverage for a Topography Linkist, but Jensen couldn’t care less about it now. He knows the moves and he’ll make them to ensure his own safety.
He doesn’t get that chance, though. Before Jensen can move an inch, the man brings his arm up with a short-barreled gun and fires.
A dart breaks through Jensen’s jacket, shirt, and skin, then right out the back, filling his left shoulder with pain. He cries out and spins around to slump against the side of the car and drop so his new view of the world is a rear tire. His eyes start to cross over the letters of Goodyear and it’s lights out.
*
Jensen wakes on a cot inside what he imagines is the Cruiser’s medical ops. The ceiling and walls are painted creamy white, and the counter tops, tall cabinets, and sheet covering Jensen to the torso all match.
He sits up and winces with a tight pull in his left shoulder. He vaguely remembers the El Camino stalling somewhere in the middle of a grazed cornfield then a man appearing and shooting him without provocation. That last bit he’s sure is true because when he checks beneath the sterile white tee he’s been placed in, there’s a tight swirl of pink, healed skin. It all puts him on high alert when he gets off the cot and carefully slides the door to the hallway open. It goes left to right with a soft swish, and he peeks into the dark grey hallways to see nothing within dull metallic walls.
He slips along the wall and heads to the right, as he recalls the shape of a Diamond Cruiser laid out in those old magazines in grandpa’s attic … the weaponry chamber should be just up ahead now and Jensen hurries with quiet footsteps until he finds the door and slides it open. Once inside, he pockets a clip of rounds and palms a gun, finger wrapping around the trigger, prepared to use it.
Back in the hallway, Jensen quietly nudges the door back into place and turns to face the man from outside, the one who shot him. He’s dressed in a clean black button-up shirt tucked into a shiny leather belt and pressed dress slacks. He’s also barefoot, which makes Jensen lift an eyebrow in question.
“Jensen,” the man says, slanting his head in consideration. “You should be sleeping.”
The man lifts his arm again, with that same damned gun, but Jensen’s not a bad draw himself, and fires a bullet right at that wide forehead before the man can get his own shot off. The man drops the floor with a loud thump and Jensen takes four steps forward when he hears shouting further into the hallway
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” another voice yells as footsteps pound close. Suddenly a man, comes to a stop a few feet away, chest heaving with exertion. “What’s y’all doin’?”
Jensen aims the gun at this man and he decidedly ignores how handsome he is. He’s already been shot once then taken aboard a supposedly demolished ‘craft without question.
“You shot him?” the guy asks in worry. He shakes his head quickly, long brown hair flipping around his face, and his wide forehead crinkles with annoyance.
There’s a shuffle of noise behind Jensen, and he swings around with the gun aimed right at the man he just shot, and what the hell is this? The bullet is still in the man’s forehead, stuck right in the center, butt of the thing clearly tucked into what appears to be putty with how the skin has pressed all around it. The man frowns, plucks the bullet out, and drops it on the floor. There isn’t an ounce of blood on his forehead, which tells Jensen there’s something really fucking crazy going on here so he aims his gun lower and empties the rest of his clip into the center of the man’s chest.
The power forces the man back against the pipe-lined wall, but doesn’t stop him from lifting his own gun and shooting Jensen in his other shoulder. Just like outside, Jensen spins with the impact and falls right against the other tall man’s chest. As his eyesight glosses over, his brain quickly logs how pretty this man’s hazel eyes are, how strong his arms are to hold Jensen up, and then he thinks - knows - that he’s passing out again.
*
Jensen’s hearing comes back in waves before he can get his eyes open. He’s not sure why he’s horizontal at the moment; the last he remembers is his transmission kicking the bucket and searching for one last nicotine ‘hale.
“And you got his car?” a smooth, Southern accent asks.
“It’s in the underhaul,” someone replies with a flat, deep voice.
“What’d the scan say?”
“That he’s a slob.”
“What?”
“The backseat is a trash can of cig vials and nutrition discs for something called a Big and Tasty.”
A low chuckle makes Jensen nervous and he dares to crack open one eye lid. There are two heads crowding above him with a pale light haloing them. He can barely make out the shape of one average head with smooth hair and another that’s a bit larger with dark hair swinging around the face.
Jensen suddenly remembers being shot - twice - and his right shoulder burns and throbs.
“What else did you find?” the long-haired man asks.
The other man turns to respond and now Jensen can see the profile of the man who shot him. He flinches with the proximity and memory of that man lifting his gun into the air and firing. Twice.
Jensen’s struck silent, fear strangling his voice. In the back of his mind, he thinks the new man is handsome with a tanned, smooth face, high cheekbones, and low sloping nose. There’s something fresh and playful in his eyes as he watches Jensen watch him back. Suddenly, Jensen remembers slumping bonelessly against this man as they both slid to the floor.
“Hey, you okay?” the handsome man asks.
Jensen remains silent, unwilling to give his captors any response.
“He speaks English,” the shooter says.
“Well, good,” the other says with a smooth smile. “My Spanish only goes so far as Yo quiero mas tacos.”
The thought of tacos makes Jensen’s stomach grumble. He hadn’t had a disc in half a day when the transmission went, and who knows how long he’s been holed up in this ship without further sustenance.
A bright laugh draws Jensen’s attention back to the long-haired guy who won’t stop smiling. “You, too, huh?”
The shooter puts his hand to Jensen’s forehead and Jensen immediately flinches, fights against it, but then there’s a quick zing of cold shock running under his skin. He can feel it travel down his face, through his chest, and down into his toes. Just as quickly as it comes, it’s gone when the guy removes his hand.
“He’s dehydrated.”
“Well, I would be, too, tryin’ to survive on nutridiscs.”
“His blood pressure is also high.”
Jensen stares at the guy because, shit, of course his blood pressure is high. He’s being held captive aboard a ship heading who knows where.
“And now he’s angry.”
“Jesus,” the smiler says and shoves the shooter out of the way. “Maybe if you weren’t hoverin’ so much. Go get dinner started and we’ll all be a li’l less angry.”
The guy gives a short nod and is gone.
That handsome face focuses on Jensen and grants a small smile. “So, now that we’re finally alone -”
Jensen moves to sit up and fight whatever was the rest of that statement, but he can’t go anywhere. His hands are tied to the cot with a canvas strap across his waist to keep him down. “What in the hell?” Jensen grumbles with a dry, scratchy throat.
“This ain’t hell.”
“That ain’t my problem.”
With a frown, the guy shifts where he sits on a rolling stool. He comes closer and rests his arms in the bit of space next to Jensen’s head on the cot. “I’m not a fan of tying people down, but you shot my droid. Twice.”
“Droid?”
He glances over his shoulder to where the droid had disappeared. “Yeah, I picked Misha up a few years ago.” He looks at Jensen again. “He’s a bit odd, dry. I think the saying used to be ‘off his rocker’? But he makes a mean meatloaf.”
Despite the absurdity of the situation, Jensen’s mouth waters at the thought of a home-cooked meal. “Meatloaf?” He clears his throat through the roughness of it and realizes he likely hasn’t talked in weeks. Definitely not to another human being, in person. “Where do you even get meat in this world?”
“I know, right?” he asks with a huff. “Grains and nutridiscs can only keep a man strong for so long.”
Jensen chuckles before he can stop; it’s not like he wants to make friends here.
“It’s not truly meat, and I’m not sure what he really does in the kitchen, but the system is magic. You wanna give it a try?”
“If it gets me out of these,” Jensen says, wrenching his hands around, “then I’m up for anything.”
The guy looks unsure and bounces his head as he seems to mull it over. “It could. But I have to be positive you won’t shoot Misha again.”
“He shot me first,” Jensen argues. “Outside and again in here.”
“It’s just a stun.”
“It fucking hurt.”
He frowns with a sad, “I know.” But then he’s moving to unwrap the restraints and lifts his hands up as he looks at Jensen. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Jensen nods, slowly sits up and swings his legs over the side of the cot. He takes in the medical lounge, remembering his first glance in the place when he last woke up and then crept around the ‘craft. Nothing looks as sharp or sterile as it had that first time, but Jensen’s sure it’s because he’s not searching what could be crafted into a weapon.
Jensen rolls both his shoulders, testing for tightness from the shots, and slips fingers inside the collar of yet another fresh white t-shirt to feel the tiny circle of raised skin where he’d been shot outside.
“Does it still hurt?” the guy asks. He rolls close and reaches with a hand to the front of Jensen’s shoulder and the other hand at his back. “We treated the wounds with a co-ag shot, but I think the first one was a little worse.” He squeezes and nudges it in different directions then frowns when Jensen hisses a breath. “I guess that’s a yes.”
In seconds, the guy rolls to a counter behind him then returns with a small needle-tipped gun. He pushes it into Jensen’s shoulder and shoots, forcing a quick shot through Jensen’s shoulder before everything numbs over.
Jensen draws away, trying not to react too harshly in case the restraints will make another appearance. He grabs his shoulder again and just faintly feels his own touch. “You could buy me a drink first.”
He smiles and nods. “I can make that up to you.” Then his hand is out, palm wide as he waits for Jensen to take it. “I’m Jared Padalecki, and welcome aboard”
*
The meatloaf really is magic. Or maybe heaven, even if Jensen’s unsure it exists in a world like theirs. It’s moist and perfectly seasoned, filling his belly with a weight he hasn’t had since he was eight, when his grandma would make biscuits and gravy for the family’s regular Sunday brunch.
Jensen leans back in his chair, an old wooden thing that was probably crafted by hand decades ago. As Misha clears the kitchen table, Jensen looks around the room. It’s the opposite of the crisp white of the medical room, with a long wooden table and matching chairs, and an oaky countertop running around the room. The wall’s a muted green with a refrigerator that’s the same shade and nearly disappears from sight. He can’t decide if he wants to frown at the strangeness of the tight space, lit up with strings of multi-colored Christmas lights criss-crossing the ceiling, or smile with delirious, childish excitement for something he can barely remember from his childhood. It’s homey and warm, and completely misplaced from the dry lands he’s been driving over the years.
Across the table, Jared smiles and taps his fingers on the table. “So was I right? Magic in your belly, eh?”
Jensen absently rubs his stomachs and nods. “Yeah, pretty near that.”
“Wait for the chocolate raspberry pie. It will blow your mind.”
Something close to delight washes over Jensen and he widens his eyes. “I’m not sure there’s much room left in here,” he says with another pat to his stomach. “But I think I can find some.”
Jared chuckles, wipes his mouth with his napkin, then pushes his chair back to stand. “Well we’ve got a li’l while ‘til then. You want the grand tour?”
Jensen follows Jared through the innards of the ‘craft and listens to Jared’s easy voice as he talks about the random items that decorate the few rooms they pass. Misha’s room is equipped with a metal bunk that’s lined with plugs that recharge him every few days and most surfaces have rounded edges that Jared says they had to install to keep the droid from denting his arms and legs. The gym features a treadmill, weight bench, and flat screen TV mounted flush to the wall. It has a constant loop of old music videos Jensen remembers from his teenage years, and Jared chuckles to say that hard-driving rock and upbeat pop hits always keep him running longer.
The media lounge has a full-wall screen that is playing an old home video with dogs racing across a green yard, and Jared fondly smiles as he gestures at it. “My dogs, from back home. I miss those li’l mutts.”
Jensen lifts an eyebrow. “They’re not so little.”
“Compared to me, they’re still pups.”
It’s pretty true, really, given the height and build of Jared, but Jensen keeps that thought to himself. Sure, Jared is attractive in all the right ways, going by Jensen’s preferences, but this is still a random spacecraft that has taken Jensen away from his job back on Earth. He’s not ready to dismiss all skepticism.
As they circle around the halls, Jared walks briskly past a room that’s dully lit and packed to the ceiling with crates. Jensen comes to a stop and looks inside, worry curling in his belly when Jared tries to shuffle them along.
“What is all that?” Jensen asks, taking a step back from Jared.
“Oh, that?” Jared’s voice sounds light, yet Jensen can sense there’s something underneath. “It’s our latest haul. We were on our way to deliver then got a li’l waylaid trying to save a damsel in distress.”
Jared’s wink doesn’t ease the tension making Jensen’s back rigid. “What kind of haul?”
“Supplies.”
The simple answer makes Jensen even more wary of the whole situation. “For?”
The way Jared’s face drains of the playfulness he’s had for the last hour tells Jensen all he needs to know. This ship is likely not operating under legal terms, Jared’s probably a smuggler, and that can’t mean anything good for Jensen’s future. In the last few years, there have been dozens of reports of kidnappings with smugglers racking up millions in ransoms.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Jared insists with a kind, concerned face.
“And what am I thinking?” Jensen steps a few more feet back and squares his shoulders. “So, what? I’m another haul for you? Gonna call my family and insists they pay up or else?” He can feel his blood pumping hard through his body, muscles tightening, and fingers twitching with unease. His voice grows louder when he says, “That’s it, huh? You found a poor guy stuck out in the middle of nowhere and you just found your next payday.”
“Jensen, no, look-”
“And how the hell do you know my name anyway? Your droid knew it the second he stepped off the ‘craft!”
Footsteps creep up behind Jensen and when he turns, Misha’s just a few feet behind him.
“Misha, no,” Jared says firmly. “It’s fine.” Then he puts his hands out towards Jensen, attempting to placate, but there’s no way Jensen’s about to trust him. “Look, you’re right. It looks like that, but it’s not what happened. We were on our way to deliver our haul. Your communilink dinged our radar and within minutes, there was a cruiser backtracking to grab you so we swung back around to get you first.”
“Right,” Jensen huffs. “So you decided to poach on another cruiser’s attempts to grab me.”
“Okay, yeah, in the simplest of terms. But not really.”
“You’re a dirty smuggler.”
Jared slowly nods then sighs, his broad shoulders settling low in defeat. “Yeah, but in a good way.”
“There’s a good way?”
Jared gestures around them as his voice gets tight. “You know that for every town that’s gone down in poverty there are a dozen Corps that are hoarding goods and selling to the highest bidder? So we steal from them and sell it at a reasonable price.”
Jensen laughs harshly. “Yeah, you’re a real merry Robin Hood.”
“Maybe if we show him,” Misha says.
Jensen spins back to the droid, immediately alarmed of what that could really mean. He watches Misha walk into the room and the lights brighten as he moves further inside. Without any effort, he lifts the top of a crate up and picks up a block of plastic-wrapped boxed macaroni. The blue Kraft boxes are easily recognizable and Jensen is shocked to see them. He walks closer to the entryway and sees boxes inside the crate, full to the brim with oranges and apples.
He’s not sure what he was really expecting to see, but it’s not the bundles of clothes, blankets, and bottled water that Misha shows off from another crate. Jensen can feel his adrenaline ebb away into something softer as he realizes that Jared was telling the truth.
A stack of crates near the back of the room have random patterns of red and green paint on the sides, standing out among the rest of the unmarked boxes. Jensen nods towards them and asks, “What’s with those ones?” Jared motions towards them so Jensen takes the permission to open one of the crates up and he finds stuffed animals and other random children’s toys packed in together.
“Christmas,” Jared replies with a softness that twists Jensen’s stomach. “Not all smugglers are heartless , conniving bastards.”
*
Misha leads Jensen to a small room with a bunk and dresser that he says is Jensen’s for as long as he’s with them.
“And how long is that?” Jensen asks.
“We’ll reach the Oakville landing in two days’ time.”
Jensen had driven through Oakville in February. The forests were bare and dry, and Jensen’s certain it’ll look pretty much the same when they get there. He’s not sure where he’ll go from there, but at least he’ll be back on land and best case scenario, he can hitch a ride out of there and back to Texas a day late for Christmas dinner, but it’s better than nothing, he supposes.
“You miss your family,” Misha says suddenly.
After a few moments, Jensen nods, realizing he can’t hide much from the droid’s senses. “I haven’t been home for a few years and I was hoping to make it for the holiday.”
“Christmas is a human emotion more than a date.”
Before Jensen can ask what Misha means, he’s left alone. The lights in the room fade from white to a soft red and a TV posted in the corner clicks on to a video of a crackling fireplace. Jensen stares at it with a sudden tightness in his chest.
It eases, replaced with warmth, when the speaker in the ceiling crackles to life with the soft strains of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes, imagining he’s back home behind his parents’ old standup piano with his fingers pressing ivories while he and his brother and sister serenade the family with egg nog and wine passed around the living room.
He appreciates the moment and burrows under the covers with kind memories in his head.
Maybe Jared’s right, and not all smugglers purely heartless.
*
Jensen wakes in the morning when the ‘craft starts shaking. Before he can get himself braced on the mattress, the ship sharply turns and Jensen is thrown off the bed with a yelp.
He gets to his feet and staggers into the hallway, fighting against the incline when the ‘craft picks up. He turns a corner and has to step around cans of non-perishables rolling out of the supply room. Soup, chili, and canned vegetables pass him as he keeps marching towards the front of the ship and to the cockpit.
Jared and Misha are seated in captain’s chairs, surrounded by flashing lights on the control boards, and they’re exchanging snappy directives as they pilot the ‘craft.
“What’s going on?” Jensen asks as he holds tight to the back of Misha’s chair when the ship lurches to the side again.
Jared glances over his shoulder and grimaces before looking forward again, snapping different switches around and steering the ship as smoothly as he can. Which isn’t much. “Remember that cruiser I told you about?” He points at a radar screen above them. “I think they’re a li’l mad we snapped you up first.”
On the radar, Jensen can see a triangle following a blinking red circle that must represent the other cruiser. The circle moves left on screen as the ship dips to the side and the triangle follows. Another quick move and the ‘craft swings a 180. The other ship, a mammoth grey cruiser, is now seen through the wide windshield and fires at them. Blue bursts across the field of vision when a shot hits just above the windshield. The ‘craft rattles and jerks to the left, and Jensen loses his balance and winds up face-first into the controls.
Jared yanks Jensen back then takes control again. “You better buckle up, buddy!” he shouts as the ‘craft swings out of the way of the next dozen shots.
Jensen stumbles to a chair behind him, sits, and straps himself in. He anxiously watches as Jared and Misha handle the ship to slip between each shot the cruiser fires at them. It feels like those first-player games Jensen used to play as a kid and he gets lost in how efficiently Jared’s hands move across the console. Jensen suddenly finds himself enjoying the view of Jared’s finesse, his well-honed skills at managing the ship even when another blast knocks something bad enough that they’re now tipping left and the ‘craft is sputtering frantically.
After a long fifteen minutes of this cat-and-mouse game, of Jensen’s nearly breaking his fingers with how tightly he’s been gripping the sides of his chair, the ‘craft lifts and picks up speed when Misha pushes a lever forward.
“Hyperspeed enabled,” Misha says and Jared cackles when the radar shows the cruiser is dropping off the edge of the screen.
“That beast can’t compete with my baby.”
“Is that beast coming back?” Jensen asks loudly, mostly to be heard over the drive of the motors, but also because he’s rather tense about this whole situation.
Jared smirks at Jensen. “Lemme ask my co-captain.” He spins in his captain’s chair to Misha, who’s deftly handling the controls to set the ‘craft in auto-pilot. “Misha, we good?”
“We’re rounding the McCormick hemisphere,” the droid reports.
“So, we’re good,” Jared says easily.
“We are?” Jensen asks.
“Aside from being down an engine,” Misha points out as he looks over his shoulder to Jensen. “And that we’re now more than four days off our path of travel, we are all individually in good health and thus ‘we are good’.”
Jared huffs. “Misha, why are you such a buzzkill?”
“I’m sorry?” Misha asks, obviously confused.
Shaking his head, Jared brushes it off and shifts the ‘craft into Altspeed to bring it back to a normal travel pattern. “I guess we’ll be making a pit stop in McCormick, get this baby fixed.”
Jensen tries to ignore the tightness in his chest and fights to unbuckle his seat belt. He needs to get out of here and pace a bit. He’s feeling claustrophobic in the cockpit, especially now that he realizes he’s well off his own course and will not be home in the vicinity of Christmas.
When he’s finally free of the seat belt, Jensen leaves the cockpit for his room as he tries to comfort himself with the thought that at least he’s still alive. Twice now, Jared has stepped in the path of a renegade cruiser, and that’s got to be better than being home for the holidays.
*
When they get to the McCormick landing port, Jensen follows Jared and Misha out as the two are welcomed by a crew of mechanics who promise to have the ‘craft up and running by the next afternoon.
There isn’t much to the port town aside from a few dozen ranch homes cramped together on a few city blocks. Beyond that, the area looks completely abandoned and like every other territory Jensen’s driven through in the last year. One mechanic explains that the Corps had swept through the port and surrounding towns more than a decade ago, and once the crops were harvested, most people moved on.
“It’ll be a pretty quiet Christmas Eve, but we’re used to that by now,” the guy adds, scrubbing his salt and pepper beard.
While being reminded that today is Eve, Jensen is suddenly hollow at the thought that the residents who have stuck around won’t have much for themselves this holiday or any others.
“Before you get too far into her,” Jared says, pulling the mechanic away from the ‘craft, “You mind if we grab a few things first?”
“Yeah, of course. Have at her.”
Dumbly, Jensen waits on the landing pad as Jared and Misha unload all of those Christmas crates Jensen had looked through the day before. He remains quiet, but tags along, when they push the palates into the center square of what remains in this town, and then he’s easily smiling as Jared hands out the presents laughing and grinning through the whole process. Children tear through wrapping paper and shriek with each present as the parents attempt to corral them, but they’re all excitable through the process.
Soon enough, children are playing board games in the street, tossing footballs and baseballs, and a few are taking turns as they huddle around a telescope.
Jensen is overcome with warmth and contentedness witnessing the event. Then there’s a strange feeling in his stomach when Jared glances over with a soft smile and small shrug, as if he’s dismissing his own generosity. This man has gone from a Class-A criminal to a Santa Claus, as endearing as the jolly man himself.
Hours later, the town is still running on the holiday excitement. As the families continue to celebrate with all their new presents - remote controlled cars, stuffed animals, and bikes and trikes - Jensen leans back on the open bed of a truck parked a few houses away from the fun. Watching Jared head up a game of tag football reminds him of family games back home, but he realizes, with a fuzzy feeling overcoming him, that this is an entirely new memory: crafting Christmas from nothing.
Jared is mauled by a handful of kids, aged eight to twelve, as he tries to rush the ball forward. Valiantly, and playfully, he fights against them, but still goes to the ground. He brightly laughs as the kids tickle him into releasing the ball. They cry “fumble!” and one of girl snatches the up the football and runs it into a nearby driveway that serves as an end zone.
Cheers pass through the families watching and Jensen claps along with them, slowing only when he sees Jared is still on the ground but looking at him with a gentle smile. Jensen teases Jared by shaking his head in mock-disappointment, and Jared gets to his feet and joins Jensen on the bed of the truck.
“This reminds me of back home,” Jared says. “All the kids out playin’, parents laughin’ together, rather than everyone inside after dusk.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Jensen easily agrees. He thinks of all the towns he’s passed through over the past few years. Most are rundown and near-empty. Those still inhabited are typically full of houses gone quiet at night and streets empty of anyone not on a job.
“Always being out in the sky, it’s hard to remember all of it sometimes.”
“Where is back home for you?”
“Like it ain’t obvious,” Jared laughs. Jensen does, too, because it’s evident in Jared’s accent.
“Texas is a good place.”
“It is. You ever seen East CanAm for Christmas?”
Jensen shakes his head, because for all the times he’s gone up to North Atlantic, it was never during colder weather, for good reason. Snowstorms slow his work, so he has always focused more throughout the Southwest.
“Snow. Snow is freakin’ everywhere.”
Jensen laughs. “I’ve heard that before.”
“It’s hell on the landing ports, but probably the prettiest sight you’ll ever see.”
“I can only imagine.”
“You should get out there sometime. Break up your road trips.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jensen agrees.
They watch the kids start up another game of football, and Jared clears his throat. “I never said I was sorry,” he says carefully.
Jensen stares at him. “For what?”
“For not getting you home for Christmas.”
With a slow nod, Jensen acknowledges that it’s not anything he was expecting, or wanted, but then he waves at the crowd. “This is pretty nice, too. Smuggling has its perks, huh?”
“So you’re not so offended by my profession anymore?”
Jensen chuckles. “Is it that noticeable?”
Jared smirks and gives Jensen a side-ways glance. “Well, you have been looking at me like I’m Superman all night.”
Promptly, Jensen’s stomach flips, then he’s interested in Jared’s flirtation. “A bit forward, don’t you think?” he jokes.
“But not wrong, eh?”
“No, I suppose not. You’re quite the giver.”
Jared flits his eyebrows teasingly then pats Jensen’s knee and squeezes a little. “Speakin’ of givin’, there’s something I wanna show you back on the cruiser.”
Jensen lifts his own eyebrow. “How many times has that line worked?”
Shrugging, Jared makes a makes an iffy motion with his hand then stands to face Jensen. “The real question is if it works now.”
Overcome with the Christmas spirit here in this town, encouraged by Jared’s friendly smile and good impression, Jensen figures it couldn’t hurt to see this through. He stands and brushes off the back of his jeans. “Lead the way.”
Misha is still among the families, yet zeroes in on Jared and Jensen leaving. Jared salutes him and Misha nods then gets back to unboxing a toy with the preciseness that Jensen imagines only a machine could have.
Long runs on the empty road mean it’s been so long since Jensen’s had any sort of advance tossed his way and that it seems like he’s back in a high school crush when Jared leads him up a thin stairwell to a tight platform with clear glass above it. The arching shield covers the whole area - what little there is of it - to show the vast sky above, pitch black dotted with hundreds of perfect stars.
Jared shuffles towards the middle and gets on his back. Jensen follows then lies beside Jared when they run out of room for anything else.
“Weather Synchro,” Jared says to the glass. “East CanAm.”
Before Jensen can ask what’s happening, the there’s a quick ding of a computer, the shield flickers twice, then the sky is covered with falling snow. Jensen is aware it’s computerized, but the sight is mesmerizing and he watches the scene in fascination.
“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” Jared asks.
Jensen turns his head and Jared is looking right at him, eyes shining with the snow’s reflection. His mouth goes dry and he is seeing Jared in a much greater light here, for bringing this moment to him. “The Christmas Song,” he replies quietly.
Jared smiles and says to the system, “Nat King Cole. Track one.”
The system dings again, then a piano chord chimes followed by dreamy strings until Nat King Cole’s voice begins to sing. Jensen only thinks on it for a second, reaches out for Jared’s hand beside his own, and slips his fingers between Jared’s. He feels light-headed and happy when Jared squeezes back and they allow the song to play on in their silence.
Once the song rings out its final notes, Jared glances over. “What’s your second favorite song?”
In lieu of answering, Jensen shifts closer and kisses Jared. It’s a soft touch of lips, an even softer touch of Jared’s hand on Jensen’s cheek. Jared slants his mouth over Jensen’s then presses his tongue inside and Jensen happily opens wider to wind his tongue with Jared’s. Jensen goes dizzy, but doesn’t stop, he keeps the lazy pace of the kiss and breathes deeply through his nose to prolong it as much as possible.
Jared pulls back just an inch and says, “Frank Sinatra.”
“What about him?” Jensen asks, lost in a slight daze from their kiss.
The system dings and Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the space as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas starts. Jared’s cheek go pink. “My favorite.”
“Good choice.”
*
Jensen wakes with a crick in his neck and realizes there’s a solid mass beneath it that forces his head to an odd angle. He blinks awake to find Jared’s face inches away from his own, eyes closed, and lightly breathing as he sleeps. It’s Jared’s arm under his neck and Jensen remembers listening to all of the great Christmas songs he hadn’t heard since he last celebrated Christmas with his family a few years ago. There was plenty of conversation and more kissing as well, until Jensen fell tired, entranced by the snow still falling in the glass above them.
Jared shifts and snuffles. He then opens his eyes with a sleepy, “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” Jensen returns.
“Sorry I put you to sleep.”
“No, it was nice,” Jensen insists. He looks up to the glass shield and the snow is gone, replaced by the glow of the rising sun. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
Jared’s stomach growls and he looks embarrassed. “Sorry for that.”
Jensen chuckles and pats his own stomach. “I’m kinda hungry, too.”
“Kitchenmate,” Jared says as he moves away and up to his knees. He adorably knuckles his eyes then ruffles his hair. “Start breakfast.”
At the system’s ding, Jensen can feel his mouth water for another home-cooked meal.
They silently shuffle back out of the hatch and when they get to the kitchen, Misha is already sitting primly in a chair at the table. He eyes Jared and Jensen each then goes back to mechanical parts in front of him, fitting nuts to bolts.
“Eggs and sausage in the warmer,” the droid says. “Coffee’s on as well.”
Now, Jensen is fully salivating for good, rich coffee to join their breakfast.
They eat while Misha recounts stories of the rest of the evening, naming children who were thoroughly ecstatic with their presents and parents who couldn’t stop expressing thanks.
“A regular ol’ Santa Claus, you two,” Jensen says before taking a long sip of his perfectly sugared coffee.
“Santa Claus is a mythical figure in western culture,” Misha points out.
“Really?” Jensen asks drily.
“The modern form is derived from the Dutch figure of Sinterklaas and the-”
“So, I was thinking,” Jared says suddenly, “it’ll be a little while ‘til we get back your way in Texas.”
Jared seems nervous as he regards Jensen, and Jensen finds he’s no longer frustrated at the prospect. It’s been so long since he’s had human company and last night has gone a long way to making up for lost time.
“And maybe in the meantime, you could help us out a little with your skills in the maps department.”
Jensen is intrigued and eyes Jared. “How so?”
“Playing Robin Hood in space could be a lot easier with a cartographer on board. Someone who can read maps better than a dirty smuggler or a droid.”
Another sip of coffee and Jensen sets his mug down. It doesn’t take long to consider the prospect, so he pleasantly smiles. “I was beginning to consider a job change.”
“You’d be applying your same skill set,” Misha says.
Jared groans. “Hey, Misha, why don’t you go check on Jeff’s work on the engine?”
“I can check the Ops Pad.”
“You need more human interaction,” Jared grumbles. “Go work on your conversational skills.”
“If you insist,” the droid says oddly.
Jared nods and watches Misha leave. When they’re left alone, Jared leans back in his chair, slanting himself towards Jensen. “Just a temporary thing, but what d’you think of joining our crew?”
Jensen scrunches his mouth, as if in thought. “Does two really make a crew?”
“Three would,” Jared says, hopeful.
A smuggler and a droid with a lack of understanding human contact don’t seem like much, but still. “I think I could give it a shot.”
Words: 7,600
Rating: PG
Summary: In a world where everything is overrun by corporations, and most lands have been ravaged until their crops have been depleted, stands Jensen Ackles, a man who is the victim of a faulty transmission and what he thinks might be a kidnapping expedition..
Notes: Written for hunters_retreat for spn_j2_xmas, for the prompt Jared is a lonely ship's captain with only the android Misha to keep him company, with bonus stranded!Jensen. Huge thanks to raeschae for the last-minute beta ♥
Frontega is cold, and smells like salt. It’s the first thing Jensen thinks as he drops the hood of his El Camino. The second thing he thinks is he’s screwed; this stop will prolong his plans to have this assignment wrapped up in time to return home for Christmas. And the third is more of a wonder of when the hood-slam will quit echoing over the valley.
He wishes he could see as far as the echo carries, but all that lies before him are the dusty grey dips of land and the pitch black sky above.
This piece of junk car - he kicks the bumper then curses in flaring pain - had lasted through the transfer of Musselman to Frontega to the cold deserted landscape ahead of him. That was nearly a decade ago, when the plains changed from farmlands dotted by juicy red and green apples to grains and corn stalks that barely lasted two season. Once the geothermal wars hit, and Corps were drilling into every spare inch of dirt, the rivers ran messy with grit and sand, and the fields wilted.
Jensen hasn’t been this far west since he was a child, but he’d watched it all go down on his CommuniLink, which - yes! He jumps into the backseat of the car for it, and digs through fast food discs and dozens of empty cigarette vials. With this craptastic, impromptu oasis stop, he could really use a cigarette. The real things, with packed tobacco, crisp white paper, and a puffy little filter. None of this hydrogenated nicotine, tiny air shots that instantly chill one’s bones, if they could get past the longing for the routine of inhale-exhale and smoke curling around you. When he was sixteen and started the nasty habit alongside Chris, that’s what he got; the ritual of it all sunk deep into his bones like the smoke into his lungs.
He tosses shit across the back seat, praying he finds a vial with even an ounce of ‘hale left, but instead he finds the CommuniLink, which is good for now. He steps back onto the road and leans against the side of the El Camino, holding the tablet in his hands, fingers tracing patterns by memory as blue and green streaks light up the screen in his attempt to connect to … anywhere, he supposes. There isn’t much in this area, and given the last few months of travel without a living soul in sight, he’s not sure what he’ll find.
Or what could find him, really.
A lot has changed in twenty years - not just the land, or the cigarettes and the CD-thin slips of nutrition fashioned to taste like a Big Mac and super-sized fries with a fraction of the calories or fat, but the people. They’re all jittery and paranoid when they’re not calculating and vicious with their eyes on a final prize. Wiry, too, thanks to the nutrition discs. Not to mention scarce as well, as they’ve all moved in waves to whatever new stretch of resources the corps are racing for.
Word is the folks are racing north to Nutella, where a week of rain rejuvenated arid fields. Also where Mackenzie was transferring, to represent Frangelico in a trade agreement, or some such, according to his last ‘Link with his mom. Jensen, though, has been travelling for the last year on his own. He’s happy to criss-cross the landscape, likes the adventure of road trips, and send ‘Links back home to Chris to update their employer’s cartography systems.
Point is, Jensen hasn’t seen a live moving object that wasn’t on his ‘Link or the landscape in his rear-view mirror in God knows how long. So when he considers that along with the fact that the El Camino’s transmission is shot and the sun isn’t about to rise for a good six hours … he’s fairly certain it’s not good news that there are yellow and red lights coming down from the sky and weaving a figure eight around him.
The spotlights grow wider and brighter, forcing Jensen to bring a hand up to shield most of it from his eyes while he tries to judge the size of the aircraft. Another ten seconds and the lights’ movement is narrowing closer to Jensen and the El Camino as the shape of a spacecraft becomes more recognizable. Its nose is wide but short, the body curving back to a flatter tail, like an arc-shaped vessel.
When he was a kid, Jensen and big-brother Josh would flip through his grandpa’s old news rags with fascination for all the old courier ships. His mind flashes back to the image of a cruiser like this one that had made one of the last runs to Carbonia for jewels, yet had never returned to Earth.
He hasn’t heard of a Diamond Cruiser in operation for nearly thirty years, so maybe he’s just imagining things. He hasn’t slept for nearly two days, this wouldn’t be the first time his mind’s dreamt up something old.
The Cruiser sets itself down to the earth with dust and debris flying in puffs as the engine continues to flare. Jensen coughs and blinks through the dust until he can focus on the back hatch flipping down to present him with a view into the lower belly of the ‘craft.
Jensen sets his ‘Link on top of the car and widens his stance as he stares into the ship and awaits someone - something to come into view. No one does. The dust clears and the lights fade to a pleasant gold. It’s a solid minute until there’s any change in the situation, when a speaker squawks feedback and someone clears a throat.
“You comin’ or goin’?” it - a man - asks.
Jensen flinches at the noise, no matter how pleasant it is. Dirty, low southern twang like he hasn’t heard since he was eighteen, before being shipped off to the Upper 13 for the mandatory test block and subsequent career training across the ocean.
“¿Hola? ¿Como estas?” the man asks, curious and hopeful.
Jensen blinks at the awful inflection before glancing all around the ‘craft, hoping he can spot a window or hatch where the guy might be hanging around.
“Uh … Buon parma-reggiano?”
And now he’s just hungry for a thick pan of lasagna, but home-cooked meals went out the door in the late 2010s.
A figure appears in the open hatch and slowly marches down the plank. It’s a tall man, though not taller than Jensen, with dark hair in a slick side part, eyes that seem to glow as he’s backlit by golden hues, and lips that look inhuman, stretched thin with ragged skin. Jensen licks his own lips in sympathy.
“Hello there, Jensen Ackles,” this man says, voice tight and words staccato.
Jensen’s mouth drops open and closed like a fish as his stomach flips with increasing worry for what’s really happening at the moment. How in the hell does this strange man from a strange ‘craft know his name?
“Would you like to come aboard?”
It sounds more like a command than invitation and Jensen holds steady where he is.
“We can help you.”
There’s something in the man’s tone that’s bordering on a cult leader doing his best to gather his minions, and Jensen again curses his transmission for failing him right now, in this place.
Jensen’s chest gets tight, breathing harsh, and then he’s light-headed with panic. His heart races and adrenaline fills his nerves with the power to fight this man down to the ground, utilizing the fight training Rand Corp had insisted upon when they hired him - something about insurance coverage for a Topography Linkist, but Jensen couldn’t care less about it now. He knows the moves and he’ll make them to ensure his own safety.
He doesn’t get that chance, though. Before Jensen can move an inch, the man brings his arm up with a short-barreled gun and fires.
A dart breaks through Jensen’s jacket, shirt, and skin, then right out the back, filling his left shoulder with pain. He cries out and spins around to slump against the side of the car and drop so his new view of the world is a rear tire. His eyes start to cross over the letters of Goodyear and it’s lights out.
*
Jensen wakes on a cot inside what he imagines is the Cruiser’s medical ops. The ceiling and walls are painted creamy white, and the counter tops, tall cabinets, and sheet covering Jensen to the torso all match.
He sits up and winces with a tight pull in his left shoulder. He vaguely remembers the El Camino stalling somewhere in the middle of a grazed cornfield then a man appearing and shooting him without provocation. That last bit he’s sure is true because when he checks beneath the sterile white tee he’s been placed in, there’s a tight swirl of pink, healed skin. It all puts him on high alert when he gets off the cot and carefully slides the door to the hallway open. It goes left to right with a soft swish, and he peeks into the dark grey hallways to see nothing within dull metallic walls.
He slips along the wall and heads to the right, as he recalls the shape of a Diamond Cruiser laid out in those old magazines in grandpa’s attic … the weaponry chamber should be just up ahead now and Jensen hurries with quiet footsteps until he finds the door and slides it open. Once inside, he pockets a clip of rounds and palms a gun, finger wrapping around the trigger, prepared to use it.
Back in the hallway, Jensen quietly nudges the door back into place and turns to face the man from outside, the one who shot him. He’s dressed in a clean black button-up shirt tucked into a shiny leather belt and pressed dress slacks. He’s also barefoot, which makes Jensen lift an eyebrow in question.
“Jensen,” the man says, slanting his head in consideration. “You should be sleeping.”
The man lifts his arm again, with that same damned gun, but Jensen’s not a bad draw himself, and fires a bullet right at that wide forehead before the man can get his own shot off. The man drops the floor with a loud thump and Jensen takes four steps forward when he hears shouting further into the hallway
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” another voice yells as footsteps pound close. Suddenly a man, comes to a stop a few feet away, chest heaving with exertion. “What’s y’all doin’?”
Jensen aims the gun at this man and he decidedly ignores how handsome he is. He’s already been shot once then taken aboard a supposedly demolished ‘craft without question.
“You shot him?” the guy asks in worry. He shakes his head quickly, long brown hair flipping around his face, and his wide forehead crinkles with annoyance.
There’s a shuffle of noise behind Jensen, and he swings around with the gun aimed right at the man he just shot, and what the hell is this? The bullet is still in the man’s forehead, stuck right in the center, butt of the thing clearly tucked into what appears to be putty with how the skin has pressed all around it. The man frowns, plucks the bullet out, and drops it on the floor. There isn’t an ounce of blood on his forehead, which tells Jensen there’s something really fucking crazy going on here so he aims his gun lower and empties the rest of his clip into the center of the man’s chest.
The power forces the man back against the pipe-lined wall, but doesn’t stop him from lifting his own gun and shooting Jensen in his other shoulder. Just like outside, Jensen spins with the impact and falls right against the other tall man’s chest. As his eyesight glosses over, his brain quickly logs how pretty this man’s hazel eyes are, how strong his arms are to hold Jensen up, and then he thinks - knows - that he’s passing out again.
*
Jensen’s hearing comes back in waves before he can get his eyes open. He’s not sure why he’s horizontal at the moment; the last he remembers is his transmission kicking the bucket and searching for one last nicotine ‘hale.
“And you got his car?” a smooth, Southern accent asks.
“It’s in the underhaul,” someone replies with a flat, deep voice.
“What’d the scan say?”
“That he’s a slob.”
“What?”
“The backseat is a trash can of cig vials and nutrition discs for something called a Big and Tasty.”
A low chuckle makes Jensen nervous and he dares to crack open one eye lid. There are two heads crowding above him with a pale light haloing them. He can barely make out the shape of one average head with smooth hair and another that’s a bit larger with dark hair swinging around the face.
Jensen suddenly remembers being shot - twice - and his right shoulder burns and throbs.
“What else did you find?” the long-haired man asks.
The other man turns to respond and now Jensen can see the profile of the man who shot him. He flinches with the proximity and memory of that man lifting his gun into the air and firing. Twice.
Jensen’s struck silent, fear strangling his voice. In the back of his mind, he thinks the new man is handsome with a tanned, smooth face, high cheekbones, and low sloping nose. There’s something fresh and playful in his eyes as he watches Jensen watch him back. Suddenly, Jensen remembers slumping bonelessly against this man as they both slid to the floor.
“Hey, you okay?” the handsome man asks.
Jensen remains silent, unwilling to give his captors any response.
“He speaks English,” the shooter says.
“Well, good,” the other says with a smooth smile. “My Spanish only goes so far as Yo quiero mas tacos.”
The thought of tacos makes Jensen’s stomach grumble. He hadn’t had a disc in half a day when the transmission went, and who knows how long he’s been holed up in this ship without further sustenance.
A bright laugh draws Jensen’s attention back to the long-haired guy who won’t stop smiling. “You, too, huh?”
The shooter puts his hand to Jensen’s forehead and Jensen immediately flinches, fights against it, but then there’s a quick zing of cold shock running under his skin. He can feel it travel down his face, through his chest, and down into his toes. Just as quickly as it comes, it’s gone when the guy removes his hand.
“He’s dehydrated.”
“Well, I would be, too, tryin’ to survive on nutridiscs.”
“His blood pressure is also high.”
Jensen stares at the guy because, shit, of course his blood pressure is high. He’s being held captive aboard a ship heading who knows where.
“And now he’s angry.”
“Jesus,” the smiler says and shoves the shooter out of the way. “Maybe if you weren’t hoverin’ so much. Go get dinner started and we’ll all be a li’l less angry.”
The guy gives a short nod and is gone.
That handsome face focuses on Jensen and grants a small smile. “So, now that we’re finally alone -”
Jensen moves to sit up and fight whatever was the rest of that statement, but he can’t go anywhere. His hands are tied to the cot with a canvas strap across his waist to keep him down. “What in the hell?” Jensen grumbles with a dry, scratchy throat.
“This ain’t hell.”
“That ain’t my problem.”
With a frown, the guy shifts where he sits on a rolling stool. He comes closer and rests his arms in the bit of space next to Jensen’s head on the cot. “I’m not a fan of tying people down, but you shot my droid. Twice.”
“Droid?”
He glances over his shoulder to where the droid had disappeared. “Yeah, I picked Misha up a few years ago.” He looks at Jensen again. “He’s a bit odd, dry. I think the saying used to be ‘off his rocker’? But he makes a mean meatloaf.”
Despite the absurdity of the situation, Jensen’s mouth waters at the thought of a home-cooked meal. “Meatloaf?” He clears his throat through the roughness of it and realizes he likely hasn’t talked in weeks. Definitely not to another human being, in person. “Where do you even get meat in this world?”
“I know, right?” he asks with a huff. “Grains and nutridiscs can only keep a man strong for so long.”
Jensen chuckles before he can stop; it’s not like he wants to make friends here.
“It’s not truly meat, and I’m not sure what he really does in the kitchen, but the system is magic. You wanna give it a try?”
“If it gets me out of these,” Jensen says, wrenching his hands around, “then I’m up for anything.”
The guy looks unsure and bounces his head as he seems to mull it over. “It could. But I have to be positive you won’t shoot Misha again.”
“He shot me first,” Jensen argues. “Outside and again in here.”
“It’s just a stun.”
“It fucking hurt.”
He frowns with a sad, “I know.” But then he’s moving to unwrap the restraints and lifts his hands up as he looks at Jensen. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Jensen nods, slowly sits up and swings his legs over the side of the cot. He takes in the medical lounge, remembering his first glance in the place when he last woke up and then crept around the ‘craft. Nothing looks as sharp or sterile as it had that first time, but Jensen’s sure it’s because he’s not searching what could be crafted into a weapon.
Jensen rolls both his shoulders, testing for tightness from the shots, and slips fingers inside the collar of yet another fresh white t-shirt to feel the tiny circle of raised skin where he’d been shot outside.
“Does it still hurt?” the guy asks. He rolls close and reaches with a hand to the front of Jensen’s shoulder and the other hand at his back. “We treated the wounds with a co-ag shot, but I think the first one was a little worse.” He squeezes and nudges it in different directions then frowns when Jensen hisses a breath. “I guess that’s a yes.”
In seconds, the guy rolls to a counter behind him then returns with a small needle-tipped gun. He pushes it into Jensen’s shoulder and shoots, forcing a quick shot through Jensen’s shoulder before everything numbs over.
Jensen draws away, trying not to react too harshly in case the restraints will make another appearance. He grabs his shoulder again and just faintly feels his own touch. “You could buy me a drink first.”
He smiles and nods. “I can make that up to you.” Then his hand is out, palm wide as he waits for Jensen to take it. “I’m Jared Padalecki, and welcome aboard”
*
The meatloaf really is magic. Or maybe heaven, even if Jensen’s unsure it exists in a world like theirs. It’s moist and perfectly seasoned, filling his belly with a weight he hasn’t had since he was eight, when his grandma would make biscuits and gravy for the family’s regular Sunday brunch.
Jensen leans back in his chair, an old wooden thing that was probably crafted by hand decades ago. As Misha clears the kitchen table, Jensen looks around the room. It’s the opposite of the crisp white of the medical room, with a long wooden table and matching chairs, and an oaky countertop running around the room. The wall’s a muted green with a refrigerator that’s the same shade and nearly disappears from sight. He can’t decide if he wants to frown at the strangeness of the tight space, lit up with strings of multi-colored Christmas lights criss-crossing the ceiling, or smile with delirious, childish excitement for something he can barely remember from his childhood. It’s homey and warm, and completely misplaced from the dry lands he’s been driving over the years.
Across the table, Jared smiles and taps his fingers on the table. “So was I right? Magic in your belly, eh?”
Jensen absently rubs his stomachs and nods. “Yeah, pretty near that.”
“Wait for the chocolate raspberry pie. It will blow your mind.”
Something close to delight washes over Jensen and he widens his eyes. “I’m not sure there’s much room left in here,” he says with another pat to his stomach. “But I think I can find some.”
Jared chuckles, wipes his mouth with his napkin, then pushes his chair back to stand. “Well we’ve got a li’l while ‘til then. You want the grand tour?”
Jensen follows Jared through the innards of the ‘craft and listens to Jared’s easy voice as he talks about the random items that decorate the few rooms they pass. Misha’s room is equipped with a metal bunk that’s lined with plugs that recharge him every few days and most surfaces have rounded edges that Jared says they had to install to keep the droid from denting his arms and legs. The gym features a treadmill, weight bench, and flat screen TV mounted flush to the wall. It has a constant loop of old music videos Jensen remembers from his teenage years, and Jared chuckles to say that hard-driving rock and upbeat pop hits always keep him running longer.
The media lounge has a full-wall screen that is playing an old home video with dogs racing across a green yard, and Jared fondly smiles as he gestures at it. “My dogs, from back home. I miss those li’l mutts.”
Jensen lifts an eyebrow. “They’re not so little.”
“Compared to me, they’re still pups.”
It’s pretty true, really, given the height and build of Jared, but Jensen keeps that thought to himself. Sure, Jared is attractive in all the right ways, going by Jensen’s preferences, but this is still a random spacecraft that has taken Jensen away from his job back on Earth. He’s not ready to dismiss all skepticism.
As they circle around the halls, Jared walks briskly past a room that’s dully lit and packed to the ceiling with crates. Jensen comes to a stop and looks inside, worry curling in his belly when Jared tries to shuffle them along.
“What is all that?” Jensen asks, taking a step back from Jared.
“Oh, that?” Jared’s voice sounds light, yet Jensen can sense there’s something underneath. “It’s our latest haul. We were on our way to deliver then got a li’l waylaid trying to save a damsel in distress.”
Jared’s wink doesn’t ease the tension making Jensen’s back rigid. “What kind of haul?”
“Supplies.”
The simple answer makes Jensen even more wary of the whole situation. “For?”
The way Jared’s face drains of the playfulness he’s had for the last hour tells Jensen all he needs to know. This ship is likely not operating under legal terms, Jared’s probably a smuggler, and that can’t mean anything good for Jensen’s future. In the last few years, there have been dozens of reports of kidnappings with smugglers racking up millions in ransoms.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Jared insists with a kind, concerned face.
“And what am I thinking?” Jensen steps a few more feet back and squares his shoulders. “So, what? I’m another haul for you? Gonna call my family and insists they pay up or else?” He can feel his blood pumping hard through his body, muscles tightening, and fingers twitching with unease. His voice grows louder when he says, “That’s it, huh? You found a poor guy stuck out in the middle of nowhere and you just found your next payday.”
“Jensen, no, look-”
“And how the hell do you know my name anyway? Your droid knew it the second he stepped off the ‘craft!”
Footsteps creep up behind Jensen and when he turns, Misha’s just a few feet behind him.
“Misha, no,” Jared says firmly. “It’s fine.” Then he puts his hands out towards Jensen, attempting to placate, but there’s no way Jensen’s about to trust him. “Look, you’re right. It looks like that, but it’s not what happened. We were on our way to deliver our haul. Your communilink dinged our radar and within minutes, there was a cruiser backtracking to grab you so we swung back around to get you first.”
“Right,” Jensen huffs. “So you decided to poach on another cruiser’s attempts to grab me.”
“Okay, yeah, in the simplest of terms. But not really.”
“You’re a dirty smuggler.”
Jared slowly nods then sighs, his broad shoulders settling low in defeat. “Yeah, but in a good way.”
“There’s a good way?”
Jared gestures around them as his voice gets tight. “You know that for every town that’s gone down in poverty there are a dozen Corps that are hoarding goods and selling to the highest bidder? So we steal from them and sell it at a reasonable price.”
Jensen laughs harshly. “Yeah, you’re a real merry Robin Hood.”
“Maybe if we show him,” Misha says.
Jensen spins back to the droid, immediately alarmed of what that could really mean. He watches Misha walk into the room and the lights brighten as he moves further inside. Without any effort, he lifts the top of a crate up and picks up a block of plastic-wrapped boxed macaroni. The blue Kraft boxes are easily recognizable and Jensen is shocked to see them. He walks closer to the entryway and sees boxes inside the crate, full to the brim with oranges and apples.
He’s not sure what he was really expecting to see, but it’s not the bundles of clothes, blankets, and bottled water that Misha shows off from another crate. Jensen can feel his adrenaline ebb away into something softer as he realizes that Jared was telling the truth.
A stack of crates near the back of the room have random patterns of red and green paint on the sides, standing out among the rest of the unmarked boxes. Jensen nods towards them and asks, “What’s with those ones?” Jared motions towards them so Jensen takes the permission to open one of the crates up and he finds stuffed animals and other random children’s toys packed in together.
“Christmas,” Jared replies with a softness that twists Jensen’s stomach. “Not all smugglers are heartless , conniving bastards.”
*
Misha leads Jensen to a small room with a bunk and dresser that he says is Jensen’s for as long as he’s with them.
“And how long is that?” Jensen asks.
“We’ll reach the Oakville landing in two days’ time.”
Jensen had driven through Oakville in February. The forests were bare and dry, and Jensen’s certain it’ll look pretty much the same when they get there. He’s not sure where he’ll go from there, but at least he’ll be back on land and best case scenario, he can hitch a ride out of there and back to Texas a day late for Christmas dinner, but it’s better than nothing, he supposes.
“You miss your family,” Misha says suddenly.
After a few moments, Jensen nods, realizing he can’t hide much from the droid’s senses. “I haven’t been home for a few years and I was hoping to make it for the holiday.”
“Christmas is a human emotion more than a date.”
Before Jensen can ask what Misha means, he’s left alone. The lights in the room fade from white to a soft red and a TV posted in the corner clicks on to a video of a crackling fireplace. Jensen stares at it with a sudden tightness in his chest.
It eases, replaced with warmth, when the speaker in the ceiling crackles to life with the soft strains of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes, imagining he’s back home behind his parents’ old standup piano with his fingers pressing ivories while he and his brother and sister serenade the family with egg nog and wine passed around the living room.
He appreciates the moment and burrows under the covers with kind memories in his head.
Maybe Jared’s right, and not all smugglers purely heartless.
*
Jensen wakes in the morning when the ‘craft starts shaking. Before he can get himself braced on the mattress, the ship sharply turns and Jensen is thrown off the bed with a yelp.
He gets to his feet and staggers into the hallway, fighting against the incline when the ‘craft picks up. He turns a corner and has to step around cans of non-perishables rolling out of the supply room. Soup, chili, and canned vegetables pass him as he keeps marching towards the front of the ship and to the cockpit.
Jared and Misha are seated in captain’s chairs, surrounded by flashing lights on the control boards, and they’re exchanging snappy directives as they pilot the ‘craft.
“What’s going on?” Jensen asks as he holds tight to the back of Misha’s chair when the ship lurches to the side again.
Jared glances over his shoulder and grimaces before looking forward again, snapping different switches around and steering the ship as smoothly as he can. Which isn’t much. “Remember that cruiser I told you about?” He points at a radar screen above them. “I think they’re a li’l mad we snapped you up first.”
On the radar, Jensen can see a triangle following a blinking red circle that must represent the other cruiser. The circle moves left on screen as the ship dips to the side and the triangle follows. Another quick move and the ‘craft swings a 180. The other ship, a mammoth grey cruiser, is now seen through the wide windshield and fires at them. Blue bursts across the field of vision when a shot hits just above the windshield. The ‘craft rattles and jerks to the left, and Jensen loses his balance and winds up face-first into the controls.
Jared yanks Jensen back then takes control again. “You better buckle up, buddy!” he shouts as the ‘craft swings out of the way of the next dozen shots.
Jensen stumbles to a chair behind him, sits, and straps himself in. He anxiously watches as Jared and Misha handle the ship to slip between each shot the cruiser fires at them. It feels like those first-player games Jensen used to play as a kid and he gets lost in how efficiently Jared’s hands move across the console. Jensen suddenly finds himself enjoying the view of Jared’s finesse, his well-honed skills at managing the ship even when another blast knocks something bad enough that they’re now tipping left and the ‘craft is sputtering frantically.
After a long fifteen minutes of this cat-and-mouse game, of Jensen’s nearly breaking his fingers with how tightly he’s been gripping the sides of his chair, the ‘craft lifts and picks up speed when Misha pushes a lever forward.
“Hyperspeed enabled,” Misha says and Jared cackles when the radar shows the cruiser is dropping off the edge of the screen.
“That beast can’t compete with my baby.”
“Is that beast coming back?” Jensen asks loudly, mostly to be heard over the drive of the motors, but also because he’s rather tense about this whole situation.
Jared smirks at Jensen. “Lemme ask my co-captain.” He spins in his captain’s chair to Misha, who’s deftly handling the controls to set the ‘craft in auto-pilot. “Misha, we good?”
“We’re rounding the McCormick hemisphere,” the droid reports.
“So, we’re good,” Jared says easily.
“We are?” Jensen asks.
“Aside from being down an engine,” Misha points out as he looks over his shoulder to Jensen. “And that we’re now more than four days off our path of travel, we are all individually in good health and thus ‘we are good’.”
Jared huffs. “Misha, why are you such a buzzkill?”
“I’m sorry?” Misha asks, obviously confused.
Shaking his head, Jared brushes it off and shifts the ‘craft into Altspeed to bring it back to a normal travel pattern. “I guess we’ll be making a pit stop in McCormick, get this baby fixed.”
Jensen tries to ignore the tightness in his chest and fights to unbuckle his seat belt. He needs to get out of here and pace a bit. He’s feeling claustrophobic in the cockpit, especially now that he realizes he’s well off his own course and will not be home in the vicinity of Christmas.
When he’s finally free of the seat belt, Jensen leaves the cockpit for his room as he tries to comfort himself with the thought that at least he’s still alive. Twice now, Jared has stepped in the path of a renegade cruiser, and that’s got to be better than being home for the holidays.
*
When they get to the McCormick landing port, Jensen follows Jared and Misha out as the two are welcomed by a crew of mechanics who promise to have the ‘craft up and running by the next afternoon.
There isn’t much to the port town aside from a few dozen ranch homes cramped together on a few city blocks. Beyond that, the area looks completely abandoned and like every other territory Jensen’s driven through in the last year. One mechanic explains that the Corps had swept through the port and surrounding towns more than a decade ago, and once the crops were harvested, most people moved on.
“It’ll be a pretty quiet Christmas Eve, but we’re used to that by now,” the guy adds, scrubbing his salt and pepper beard.
While being reminded that today is Eve, Jensen is suddenly hollow at the thought that the residents who have stuck around won’t have much for themselves this holiday or any others.
“Before you get too far into her,” Jared says, pulling the mechanic away from the ‘craft, “You mind if we grab a few things first?”
“Yeah, of course. Have at her.”
Dumbly, Jensen waits on the landing pad as Jared and Misha unload all of those Christmas crates Jensen had looked through the day before. He remains quiet, but tags along, when they push the palates into the center square of what remains in this town, and then he’s easily smiling as Jared hands out the presents laughing and grinning through the whole process. Children tear through wrapping paper and shriek with each present as the parents attempt to corral them, but they’re all excitable through the process.
Soon enough, children are playing board games in the street, tossing footballs and baseballs, and a few are taking turns as they huddle around a telescope.
Jensen is overcome with warmth and contentedness witnessing the event. Then there’s a strange feeling in his stomach when Jared glances over with a soft smile and small shrug, as if he’s dismissing his own generosity. This man has gone from a Class-A criminal to a Santa Claus, as endearing as the jolly man himself.
Hours later, the town is still running on the holiday excitement. As the families continue to celebrate with all their new presents - remote controlled cars, stuffed animals, and bikes and trikes - Jensen leans back on the open bed of a truck parked a few houses away from the fun. Watching Jared head up a game of tag football reminds him of family games back home, but he realizes, with a fuzzy feeling overcoming him, that this is an entirely new memory: crafting Christmas from nothing.
Jared is mauled by a handful of kids, aged eight to twelve, as he tries to rush the ball forward. Valiantly, and playfully, he fights against them, but still goes to the ground. He brightly laughs as the kids tickle him into releasing the ball. They cry “fumble!” and one of girl snatches the up the football and runs it into a nearby driveway that serves as an end zone.
Cheers pass through the families watching and Jensen claps along with them, slowing only when he sees Jared is still on the ground but looking at him with a gentle smile. Jensen teases Jared by shaking his head in mock-disappointment, and Jared gets to his feet and joins Jensen on the bed of the truck.
“This reminds me of back home,” Jared says. “All the kids out playin’, parents laughin’ together, rather than everyone inside after dusk.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Jensen easily agrees. He thinks of all the towns he’s passed through over the past few years. Most are rundown and near-empty. Those still inhabited are typically full of houses gone quiet at night and streets empty of anyone not on a job.
“Always being out in the sky, it’s hard to remember all of it sometimes.”
“Where is back home for you?”
“Like it ain’t obvious,” Jared laughs. Jensen does, too, because it’s evident in Jared’s accent.
“Texas is a good place.”
“It is. You ever seen East CanAm for Christmas?”
Jensen shakes his head, because for all the times he’s gone up to North Atlantic, it was never during colder weather, for good reason. Snowstorms slow his work, so he has always focused more throughout the Southwest.
“Snow. Snow is freakin’ everywhere.”
Jensen laughs. “I’ve heard that before.”
“It’s hell on the landing ports, but probably the prettiest sight you’ll ever see.”
“I can only imagine.”
“You should get out there sometime. Break up your road trips.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jensen agrees.
They watch the kids start up another game of football, and Jared clears his throat. “I never said I was sorry,” he says carefully.
Jensen stares at him. “For what?”
“For not getting you home for Christmas.”
With a slow nod, Jensen acknowledges that it’s not anything he was expecting, or wanted, but then he waves at the crowd. “This is pretty nice, too. Smuggling has its perks, huh?”
“So you’re not so offended by my profession anymore?”
Jensen chuckles. “Is it that noticeable?”
Jared smirks and gives Jensen a side-ways glance. “Well, you have been looking at me like I’m Superman all night.”
Promptly, Jensen’s stomach flips, then he’s interested in Jared’s flirtation. “A bit forward, don’t you think?” he jokes.
“But not wrong, eh?”
“No, I suppose not. You’re quite the giver.”
Jared flits his eyebrows teasingly then pats Jensen’s knee and squeezes a little. “Speakin’ of givin’, there’s something I wanna show you back on the cruiser.”
Jensen lifts his own eyebrow. “How many times has that line worked?”
Shrugging, Jared makes a makes an iffy motion with his hand then stands to face Jensen. “The real question is if it works now.”
Overcome with the Christmas spirit here in this town, encouraged by Jared’s friendly smile and good impression, Jensen figures it couldn’t hurt to see this through. He stands and brushes off the back of his jeans. “Lead the way.”
Misha is still among the families, yet zeroes in on Jared and Jensen leaving. Jared salutes him and Misha nods then gets back to unboxing a toy with the preciseness that Jensen imagines only a machine could have.
Long runs on the empty road mean it’s been so long since Jensen’s had any sort of advance tossed his way and that it seems like he’s back in a high school crush when Jared leads him up a thin stairwell to a tight platform with clear glass above it. The arching shield covers the whole area - what little there is of it - to show the vast sky above, pitch black dotted with hundreds of perfect stars.
Jared shuffles towards the middle and gets on his back. Jensen follows then lies beside Jared when they run out of room for anything else.
“Weather Synchro,” Jared says to the glass. “East CanAm.”
Before Jensen can ask what’s happening, the there’s a quick ding of a computer, the shield flickers twice, then the sky is covered with falling snow. Jensen is aware it’s computerized, but the sight is mesmerizing and he watches the scene in fascination.
“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” Jared asks.
Jensen turns his head and Jared is looking right at him, eyes shining with the snow’s reflection. His mouth goes dry and he is seeing Jared in a much greater light here, for bringing this moment to him. “The Christmas Song,” he replies quietly.
Jared smiles and says to the system, “Nat King Cole. Track one.”
The system dings again, then a piano chord chimes followed by dreamy strings until Nat King Cole’s voice begins to sing. Jensen only thinks on it for a second, reaches out for Jared’s hand beside his own, and slips his fingers between Jared’s. He feels light-headed and happy when Jared squeezes back and they allow the song to play on in their silence.
Once the song rings out its final notes, Jared glances over. “What’s your second favorite song?”
In lieu of answering, Jensen shifts closer and kisses Jared. It’s a soft touch of lips, an even softer touch of Jared’s hand on Jensen’s cheek. Jared slants his mouth over Jensen’s then presses his tongue inside and Jensen happily opens wider to wind his tongue with Jared’s. Jensen goes dizzy, but doesn’t stop, he keeps the lazy pace of the kiss and breathes deeply through his nose to prolong it as much as possible.
Jared pulls back just an inch and says, “Frank Sinatra.”
“What about him?” Jensen asks, lost in a slight daze from their kiss.
The system dings and Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the space as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas starts. Jared’s cheek go pink. “My favorite.”
“Good choice.”
*
Jensen wakes with a crick in his neck and realizes there’s a solid mass beneath it that forces his head to an odd angle. He blinks awake to find Jared’s face inches away from his own, eyes closed, and lightly breathing as he sleeps. It’s Jared’s arm under his neck and Jensen remembers listening to all of the great Christmas songs he hadn’t heard since he last celebrated Christmas with his family a few years ago. There was plenty of conversation and more kissing as well, until Jensen fell tired, entranced by the snow still falling in the glass above them.
Jared shifts and snuffles. He then opens his eyes with a sleepy, “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” Jensen returns.
“Sorry I put you to sleep.”
“No, it was nice,” Jensen insists. He looks up to the glass shield and the snow is gone, replaced by the glow of the rising sun. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
Jared’s stomach growls and he looks embarrassed. “Sorry for that.”
Jensen chuckles and pats his own stomach. “I’m kinda hungry, too.”
“Kitchenmate,” Jared says as he moves away and up to his knees. He adorably knuckles his eyes then ruffles his hair. “Start breakfast.”
At the system’s ding, Jensen can feel his mouth water for another home-cooked meal.
They silently shuffle back out of the hatch and when they get to the kitchen, Misha is already sitting primly in a chair at the table. He eyes Jared and Jensen each then goes back to mechanical parts in front of him, fitting nuts to bolts.
“Eggs and sausage in the warmer,” the droid says. “Coffee’s on as well.”
Now, Jensen is fully salivating for good, rich coffee to join their breakfast.
They eat while Misha recounts stories of the rest of the evening, naming children who were thoroughly ecstatic with their presents and parents who couldn’t stop expressing thanks.
“A regular ol’ Santa Claus, you two,” Jensen says before taking a long sip of his perfectly sugared coffee.
“Santa Claus is a mythical figure in western culture,” Misha points out.
“Really?” Jensen asks drily.
“The modern form is derived from the Dutch figure of Sinterklaas and the-”
“So, I was thinking,” Jared says suddenly, “it’ll be a little while ‘til we get back your way in Texas.”
Jared seems nervous as he regards Jensen, and Jensen finds he’s no longer frustrated at the prospect. It’s been so long since he’s had human company and last night has gone a long way to making up for lost time.
“And maybe in the meantime, you could help us out a little with your skills in the maps department.”
Jensen is intrigued and eyes Jared. “How so?”
“Playing Robin Hood in space could be a lot easier with a cartographer on board. Someone who can read maps better than a dirty smuggler or a droid.”
Another sip of coffee and Jensen sets his mug down. It doesn’t take long to consider the prospect, so he pleasantly smiles. “I was beginning to consider a job change.”
“You’d be applying your same skill set,” Misha says.
Jared groans. “Hey, Misha, why don’t you go check on Jeff’s work on the engine?”
“I can check the Ops Pad.”
“You need more human interaction,” Jared grumbles. “Go work on your conversational skills.”
“If you insist,” the droid says oddly.
Jared nods and watches Misha leave. When they’re left alone, Jared leans back in his chair, slanting himself towards Jensen. “Just a temporary thing, but what d’you think of joining our crew?”
Jensen scrunches his mouth, as if in thought. “Does two really make a crew?”
“Three would,” Jared says, hopeful.
A smuggler and a droid with a lack of understanding human contact don’t seem like much, but still. “I think I could give it a shot.”