Making friends with shadows on my wall
Title: Making friends with shadows on my wall
Author: marlowe78
Pairing: Jensen, Jared
Rating: PG
Word Count:~10.009
Warnings: bad language, bloody images but nothing really bad
beta: as always the awesome soncnica and worked over again *blush* by corbyinoz
Disclaimer: All fiction, as in: not true! Title is from the song "Unwell" by Matchbox 20. Go, 90s!
Summary:: Jensen was just doing his job. He made no mistake. There is a note on his bathroom-mirror that actually says so - "You did nothing wrong". But it was wrong anyway.
a/n:
So, I wrote something again. I like it. For more information about "WTF is she talking about??", read the notes at the end.
**************************** Making friends with shadows on the wall ****************************
The window is dirty.
Scale and dust, left over from long-ago vaporized raindrops, mixed in with the smog from outside. A few scattered bug-carcasses and spider-shit, bird-poop on the upper left corner. How the hell did a pigeon shit there?
Visibility is blurred, but the aim is still true, the red dot firmly on the target's back-head. He could shoot. The glass won't even make a difference, not with this rifle, not with this ammo, not even from this distance. Not from across the road, up the building opposite, two stories up, on the roof. Not lying on his belly, flat, rifle loaded, safety off. No distractions, no wind at all. No sound, up here, he's alone.
Responsible for only one thing.
Right then, the subject moves. Pulls a gun, holds it against the hostage's head. He can pull the trigger now, the woman is much smaller than the subject.
He crooks the finger, slightly, slowly, oh-so-slowly.
Inhales, counts to two, exhales.
Feels the trigger-point, that infinitesimal stop between triggering and BAM, that milli-movement, the tiny nudge you have to overcome to make it all go away, make it all good.
Or not, but that's not his job. He's just pulling the trigger.
He does, gives that tiny amount of pressure and the bullet is loose, flies across the hundred-foot-gap, and right then, right that millisecond it took to make the conscious effort to do it, to shoot, the subject turns.
Turns right around, looks right out the window, right into the scope, right into his eyes. Smiles, in recognition, like he's always done when they meet. “Hey there, Ackles,” the subject says, that cocky grin on his lips right when the bullet hits, shatters the skull, splatters the brain all over - in dead silence, because there is no sound up here.
There's never gonna be sound again.
**
With a gasp, Jensen shoots up in his bed. His heart is racing in his chest, kaboom-kaboom-kaboom, like explosions, like the ones you hear when you make the charge, when you plow through the door, access through the vents.
Shoot your friends.
He groans, his heart still beating crazily, sweat cooling on his skin. It hadn't even been like this.
The bedding is soaked again, third time this week, and he's running out of sets. With a shaking hand, he wipes at his face, not surprised when it comes back wet, and not just from the perspiration. It's not the first time, either, this week.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and wants to be able to go back to sleep. Not that he desires to go back into that dream-memory, but he needs the sleep, the rest. He's been running on fumes for... well, fuck, must be up to three weeks now. He knows that's not healthy, and he knows even better that it's outright dangerous. So far, he's managed to walk straight-backed and upright, look alive and strong like he always does, always did. Knows that because he checked, in the mirror, and because even the shrink didn't give him concerned glances.
Capt'n 's not calling him in, either, so he's good.
But not. Not really. He can do his job, he's still good - no, fuck, great! - at it, but he's... not good. Because once he's home, the world starts to shrink around him, starts to warp and twist, like after the worst hangover he's ever had, back after he passed the academy, best of his class.
It starts flipping and turning and bucking, like it wants to dislodge him, get him to make a mistake, a bigger one than he already made.
But he didn't. Well, he did, but not technically. He didn't. It wasn't wrong, it was right, he did right, made the right choices... that were still so completely, utterly, devastatingly wrong. He's not the only one, not the worst of them, but he still did wrong by doing right. So wrong.
Water. His throat is parched and with uncoordinated limbs, Jensen slides to the edge of his bed, lets his feet touch the floor... and stops.
Because there is blood on the carpet, red, red blood. And fragments, bone, brain. An eye. Under his cabinet, an eyeball is peeking out, right at him, staring right into his own eyes, blind and blunt and unfocused. Hazel. No twinkle, no joke. Dead.
He swallows, hard, no moisture in his mouth, and it hurts so much like he has razor-blades on his tongue. He wants to speak, say something but what can you say? What can you say to your blood-soaked shaggy carpet, to the accusing eye of your friend?
Sorry?
What a joke.
So Jensen sits and stares, tries to think but can't, can't get that eye to stop looking at him, drilling into his brain, into his mind and heart and soul. It's unnerving, but he can't move. He might die of thirst, but there is no way that eye will let him go.
Please, he wants to say, please, I'm thirsty. But he doesn't, because what should it care - it's dead, he killed it, so what should it care.
**
The shrill trill of the phone shakes him up, makes him drop from the bed. He'd actually fallen asleep sitting there, and for a second, he blinks to understand where he is. Carpet - blue. No blood. Cabinet - wood, light oak. No eye underneath.
A dream.
His throat's still parched, but his phone's more important right now.
“Yeah, Ackles,” he croaks and has to cough. Dry.
“Man, you sound like shit. Don't tell me I woke ya!” A glance at his clock tells him that it's eleven in the morning, and he's sure that when he woke from thirst, it had been pitch-black outside. Now, the cold sun of winter is hiding behind the clouds, a grey sort of fuzzy light all over the city.
“Fuck,” he groans, makes his legs straighten up and carry him to the bathroom, to the sink. “You did, asshat. Got two days off, you know that.” His fingers still shake, but he manages to open the tab and hold the glass for his toothbrush underneath. Manages to drink without coughing. “Whassup?”
“Day off's off, man. Sorry to say. Got us a situation at Internal Affairs.”
He chokes on air. “What?”
“You hard of hearing? Got a situation at Regent's Bank, up on fifty-seventh. Need every guy able to walk and hold a gun. Dittko's in charge, though.”
Jensen can't even say how fucking glad he is that it's a bank, even though Dittko's a righteous asshole. Probably comes with the job - a lot of guys have called him the same.
“Shit. Come pick me up?”
“Already on my way, sleepyhead. Move your ass or I'll just come up and embarrass ya with the chick.”
“Hardyharhar.”
But he'll be ready before Kane even rounds the corner. Always is, always will.
**
There is no chick. There hasn't been a chick for months, even way before. He'd kinda been hoping for a something, for a chance he might pull off, because there's no way anyone would give him shit if he did, but... nope. Everything went to fuck in a handbag and then some, and there's not even need for his own right hand, not to mention the complications that come with a living, breathing, talking being in his vicinity. Hell, he might shoot them in his dreams, only to wake up to the reality of actually shooting them.
Maybe he should lock up his gun where he won't have access to it in a state of slumber.
“Coffee.”
It's not a question. Kane wouldn't ask redundant questions, wouldn't seek answers he knows already. Also, he's the best friend one can have, because his wife makes the world's best coffee and always fills a thermos-cup for Jensen as well.
She still does. She might still like him, then.
“Thanks,” Jensen grunts because he's polite and all. And because whenever he forgets, Kane will nudge him so the coffee spills all over his legs. He's gotten red burn-marks once, and Kane had been so shocked from seeing them in the locker-room that he'd taken to cool down the pipe-hot coffee before filling it in.
Not today, though, Jensen notices when he burns his tongue.
“Sorry, 's hot.”
He only grunts, because for one, there's not enough caffeine inside him yet, and for the other, it's a redundant statement to make when your partner's just hissed from a burnt tongue.
Might be good, though. He might not be tempted so much in talking back to Dittko.
“So, what's up?”
“Crazy guy didn't get a loan. Might or might not have killed the bank-manager, holds the rest hostage. They thinkin' about twenty. Employees and customers.”
“Fuck.”
“That's what I said.”
They don't talk the rest of the way.
**
So, the thing is, Jensen was the Guy Behind, temporary commander of the HBT-unit in their district. He's good, no, he's fucking great at that job and earned it. He fucking earned it, but right now, he's not in charge anymore. Not forever - they told him it's not forever! - and he's not off the job, actually, but they took some of the responsibilities off his back, urged on by the shrink after the evaluation. When he took the command, his boss was out of commission - heart-attack at fifty, the healthiest guy Jensen knows and isn't that a fucking joke? But he'd been doing that job for months already, it was looking like he'd take over completely before all Hell broke loose.
Now, the doc'd said it's not the job that he can't do, he just also said that maybe he's better off for a while being passenger, not driver.
Jensen won't say how fucking grateful he is for that. Can't, because he's a tough-guy, and tough-guys have no problem getting back on the horse after getting thrown. Tough-guys never agree with the whimpy shrinks.
Yeah, right.
He also won't say because those whose opinion matter know already, just from knowing him. And the Capt'n might not know, but the shrink said, so she kinda knows. You know. Roundabout.
Dittko, though... Dittko's an ass. He's good, yeah, but he's also a human ass. Borderline-racist and not-a-border-in-sight homophobe paired off with being a sexist asshole first class. How they ever found someone like that to put in that position is one of the big riddles in life, Jensen thinks, but he has to admit that Dittko does his job well and if ever anything of his prejudices impairs his judgment, no-one ever noticed.
He's fucking good, that's what he is, and Jensen's only problem with doing what he's told is that he'd had that job for a while, and he liked being in charge. Maybe a little too much.
“'Kay, here's the deal, far as we know. Subject went into the bank at just past ten, tried to talk with the manager -” Dittko snaps his fingers impatiently, and Miller provides the name Gerald T. Overholler from just behind the commander. “Right. That one. He tried to talk him into getting his loan prolonged, which was denied. Some pleading, some ugly, embarrassing scenes” meaning the subject was crying, because Dittko hates nothing more than crying guys “and then he went outside, came back a few minutes later and started shooting. Our witnesses say he shot directly at Overholler, but they're not clear as to how much he was hit. If at all. So. Soon after, he grabbed one of the tellers, intern, young thing, I think nineteen” - “Eighteen,” Miller interrupts and gets a glare as response - “eighteen. Threatens people he's gonna shoot her and everyone who moves and then starts to get the doors and windows barricaded. As of now, we got some part-visuals through the blinds, but no clear view on the subject and just some hints as to how many hostages. No sound. Estimated twenty to twenty-five, plus the subject.”
“Lee?”
Dittko shoots another glare, this time at Mehra who, despite being called 'sweetheart', 'babe', 'darling' and 'sweet-cheeks' by that asshole on a regular basis, never flinches. She's cool as ice, or at least that's what she makes everyone believe.
In fact, Janina's a wildfire in the sack, passionate and hot as hell, but on the job, you wouldn't be able to guess. Jensen's fallen into bed with her more than once, a lighthearted, no-strings kinda deal they have. She gets lonely, he gets lonely, they both suck at relationships with anyone not a cop and so that's one of the easiest solutions.
He won't mind if she finds the guy of her dreams, though, and she's fine with him looking for his own special someone. They're friends with benefits, in the truest sense of the word.
“Darling, we can do that without the psycho-mumbo-jumbo,” the commander sneers, and this time, the whole team rolls their eyes. Because while they all secretly thrive on the adrenaline of getting a situation solved with minimum force but maximum thrill, they all know how much better it is for everyone involved to let someone talk the subject out of it.
Also, since the Fuck-Up - capital letters - everyone had found a much bigger respect for the guys who actually listen, instead of just listening in.
“Well, Commander, sir, we all know the rules. You sayin' we're not waiting for our negotiator like we're actually made to? Because if that's what you're sayin', Commander, sir, I'd like that in writing.”
Jensen grins at Mehra, who glances over but doesn't openly acknowledge him. Atta girl!
“No, of course I'm not saying that, Sergeant,” Dittko grits through his teeth, even though everyone knows that's exactly what he wants to do. “Lieutenant Lee is bound to be here any second. So I think we better use our time and get our perky asses out there and get us some fucking visual and fucking sound! Any objections?”
There's none, of course, and the team spreads out.
Jensen nods off to Kane and his spotter, Berkowitz, then smiles at the two new guys. They're not technically new, just detached to their unit after that fiasco where two - technically three of their friends, as everyone'd thought - went to prison for dipping into the pension-box. That, and for the murder of another friend of theirs … and some other fucking shit they pulled. Assholes, all of them, and good riddance. They got off lucky, all things considered. Then again, maybe not.
Jensen gets paired with Meyer, as he'd been before, while this time, Imahara pairs up with Cassidy. It makes sense, the dude's as slim as Janina and nimble as a weasel. The two of them will fit through any airduct known to mankind, and probably slide underneath a door one of these days.
Meyer is a good guy, smart and quick, silent despite his bulk. He doesn't say much, but he smiles a lot and his eyes do a lot of talking.
“You ready, Boss?”
“Don't call me that,” Jensen growls, but he knows it's halfhearted. He's starting to get used to the nickname, not always feels the pain in his chest when someone calls him “boss”.
Maybe he'll be one, again. One day. Maybe.
“So, are you, Ackles?”
“Don't ask stupid questions.” He shoves Meyer at the shoulder and slips through the door before him, shuffling his gear around until it fits like a heavy, second skin, a second layer of himself. He can hear his partner-for-the-show laugh and he smiles a little, feels himself settling into the right mindset to be able to pull this off, to be awesome once more.
That's their job. That's who they are.
**
The door opens with a loud bang, as the unit shoves inside. They're all talking, everyone with everyone, and the noise-level in the precinct gains at least ten decibels, it seems.
Still, it's always a good day when the Hostage-Team's in a good mood - means there's no-one dead. Also, it's been a while that they were this carefree.
“Should've seen his face, man,” Berkowitz laughs, shoving Jensen against the doorjamb. “Eyes like freaking frisbees.”
Their negotiator had done a good job, talking to the fuming man inside the bank. The video-feed had been established quickly, and after they'd seen that no-one was hurt, everyone had relaxed a bit.
Lee, silky voice lulling the perp into a feeling of complacency, was certain that everything would be solved without violence, but then one of the hostages, a woman, fell into a crying-fit and couldn't stop. The hostage-taker had lost his cool, waving his two guns around and when one shot was fired - probably as an accident - Dittko had called the take-down and Lee had nodded his consent. It got too dangerous.
Smooth and swift, they'd entered the building, tear-gas obscuring the sight and hard to breathe through if you weren't wearing a mask. For a second, Meyer lost his footing and slipped, Jensen grabbing his arm so he wouldn't hit the ground, which was when he suddenly found himself staring into the barrel of a gun, long and black and sinister. The guy's hand was shaking so bad that he could've easily missed, even from a foot away, but he didn't, the shot had been true and everything had stopped moving.
“Ha ha. Wanna see your face when you realize you've just been shot in the head.” He's smiling, though, because right now, there's nothing better than knowing you're alive while everything says you shouldn't be. “Who the hell was the idiot who forgot to mention our subject's taking hostages with a fucking paintball-gun anyway?”
When Jensen had registered that he wasn't dead, the perp was already down, tackled by Meyers who apparently was worth his weight in gold. Cuffed and bundled up, their subject was sobbing and apologizing and everyone was blinking at the paintball-gun and the bobby-pistol and it had all been so different and so damn familiar at the same time.
Grimes sighs. He's been teased ever since they left the crime-scene. “Next time, why don't you use your own eyes. You'll have less to bitch at, then.”
Everyone laughs, until they see the captain in the door to her office. She's shaking hands with a tall, well-known figure, and everyone stops in their tracks, even the new guys when they walk into the brick-walls that're the backs of their team-mates.
“What?” Meyer asks, “Who's that?” and then the tall figure turns around, awkward smile in place.
“Shit,” Jensen says into the muted mumble that's suddenly surrounding him like bubble-wrap.
**
There must be something in his eyes. Has to be. Something. Or on his face, or in his hair. Did he get a few more freckles? A mole? He must look different, there has to be something different. It won't fit into his brain that there is nothing, nothing at all that shows the fucking canyons, death-pits in his soul.
A mark, or a spot.
But there's nothing he can see in the mirror, not on his face and not on his front.
Butt-naked, he's staring at his reflection, not seeing what others might, but looking for a hint, a difference.
There's nothing, though. Same old scars on his biceps and forearm, same freckles, same tan that stops right where his shirt would begin because he doesn't get much chance to take it off, even in summer. Feels too exposed without it anyway.
Shaking himself out of the funk, Jensen gets dressed, trying not to think about Jared, which is, of course, the best way to think about nothing else.
He'd looked good. A bit pale, maybe. He might've limped a bit. Yeah. Probably would limp a bit, he'd been shot in the side after all.
The whole fucking disaster must've taken its toll, because while he looked good, Jared'd also gotten thinner. Suits him, no two ways about it, not so much bulk any more. But yeah, still noticeably less.
He'd smiled at them. All of them, and maybe, maybe he'd even smiled a bit more for Jensen. Or maybe it was bared teeth - would be his right anyway. Still, even with the smile - awkward.
All of them had shuffled their feet, and then the captain had glared at them and asked if they didn't have something to do. Which they had, so...
Jared had been left behind, maybe he'd followed their way with his eyes, maybe not. Jensen wouldn't know, he'd just fled. Or not, well, he'd not technically fled. Just walked the same pace as everyone. Not looking back.
**
The window is still dirty. The view is the same, he can see the back of that well-known head, the stupid, floppy-long hair, weighed down with sweat, clinging to the neck.
The hostage - tiny, in comparison - is clutched in front of the subject, who's talking to someone else in the room, invisible.
The red dot is dancing along the subject's spine, up, up, upwards until it's perfectly lined, so perfect that it will punch a hole into the cerebellum, thus severing the spinal cord as well and come out right between the eyes.
It's perfection.
And like before, like always, just like every fucking night, every fucking week since that fucking day, the subject turns, right as he takes the shot that was never actually taken.
This time, though, the subject - fuck it, Jared, not a subject! - isn't smiling. He's not saying “Hey there, Ackles.” He's got no twinkle in his eyes, but what's there is that fucking scared, sad, betrayed, humiliated look that had passed between them, one split-second after everything had come to a conclusion, after the truth was out. After everyone was faced off with their ultimate, devastating mistakes.
Or maybe it was just Jensen who felt that look like a punch in the gut, maybe it was solely aimed at him, maybe, maybe, maybe.
Still, as always, the aim is true, and as always Jared's brain splatters all over, clearly visible in all its gruesomeness through the scope.
Still, as always, Jensen jerks up, wide-awake and soaked through, shaking and tear-drenched.
Fuck, he hates that shit.
**
They haven't talked since then. The psych-doc said it might be good to do it one day, but it hasn't really been an option, even if Jensen would've wanted to. Well. Dared to.
First, there was the hospital. Jared had been shot, after all, and while that might've been a good time to talk - well, there was just so much to do. It hadn't been easy for Jensen either, and that is and at the same time isn't a viable excuse.
Because while it's true, it also is true that no-one else Jensen knows of has actually been at the hospital, had actually talked to Jared.
And they'd all been friends. Before. Are they still?
What a mess. What a fucking mess. The Captain must've been there, Jensen thinks as he fills his big, blue mug with coffee. It's six in the morning, he's slept a full five hours, and he definitely doesn't have to go to work today. He's nearly been killed, that always earns you a few days off. If you're actually injured, a few days more.
As it is, he wouldn't know what to do with his day. He could finally clean up his bathroom, the rim around his tub is getting a life of its own. Or go shopping - he needs coffee and something edible would look nice in his empty fridge.
Maybe he could bake pizza?
Jensen swallows at the memory of Jared, Kane, Berkowitz, sometimes with Paul, and their weekly pizza-cookout. Sounds lame, yeah, but it'd always ended with a night of poker, eating cold pizza till the sun came up again.
No pizza, then.
Maybe he'll just stay in.
**
The Captain must've visited Jared. It's her duty, right? Jensen should've been there as well. He's not technically been the superior, more like a distant relative or something, but he should've.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
He didn't go, was too chickenshit to face his mistake, his failure. His betrayal. Still is too chickenshit, he thinks as he stares at his off-white kitchen-wall.
Should maybe paint it. Bright blue, with happy clouds, or something uplifting like that. That'd look good, though maybe it would make him shoot his brains out. Happy clouds all around... that'd be something Jared would like.
Jensen's not like Jared.
He doesn't talk much. He is precise in action and words, and though he likes to laugh a lot, talking is not his strongest trait.
He'd never be good at a job where he has to talk a lot.
What will Jared do now? Is there even a chance he can get his career back - if he ever wants that, that is? There must be legal consequences, right? Shouldn't Jensen know that? Why doesn't he know it?
He never asked, he realizes as he stares into the freezer, looking for something to eat. He never asked. Did he really care so little, or is he really that much of a coward?
Jensen knows he cares. Maybe more than is good. For him. For all of them.
Maybe that's part of the problem.
**
Kane's coming over. They're friends, so that's what you do, Jensen supposes. Also, his wife's visiting her sister so he's bored.
They plan to watch a movie and make fun of the action scenes, and Jensen's out to buy beer and chips and M&Ms. He's debating between peanut and plain chocolate when he hears the voice.
“Yes, Mom. Yes, I'm fine. I know... yes, I know how to cook spaghetti, Mom, that's the one thing I'll never forget. Yes. Yes. No, I'm fine!”
Jensen stops in his path, not sure what to do. It's Jared, and he's one aisle over. Canned goods. Probably buying tomato-pulp so he can cook either pasta or the awesome chilli he does. He'll probably head over into Jensen's aisle soon, if he's making chilli, because what chilli's any good without nachos?
He doesn't know if he should hide or stay, or even take the initiative and walk over to the tomatoes. So he just stands there, drenched in sweat like he is every morning, fearing his friend more than he feared the bullet yesterday, more than death.
After seven minutes, he's still standing there, getting glared at by a woman with a filled-to-the-brim shopping cart. He shakes himself, glares back because seriously, she could've just gone around him if she was in such a hurry, and makes his way to the checkouts.
He doesn't see Jared again, not inside and not in the parking-lot.
Chance gone.
Apparently, Jay's making pasta.
**
“You ever talked to him?”
Mostly through Running Scared, Kane just breaks the guy-rule, the one that says to never talk about shit. He never was one to follow rules he doesn't like, Jensen thinks.
“Who?” He pretends to be ignorant, though he knows who. Who else.
“Dumbass,” Kane growls, then winces when Paul Walker gets a puck to his face. Shit, that must've hurt. For a moment, they stare at the TV, in awe of all the blood and snot and gore. Fuck, they really pulled no punches with that movie. Jensen's never heard more 'fuck's in the locker room after a job went bad.
“Know who I'm talkin' about. Jared.”
“Ah.”
The Russian kid gets shot, and Walker's putting him into his awesome car, driving like crazy.
“No.” He suddenly feels small, weak for admitting it, but Kane's not just a normal kind of friend, he's his partner, his co-worker, and he has to know where Jensen's mind is at. As does Jensen, and more so if he ever wants to get his position back. “You?”
It's not the kid, Walker's been shot - of course - and he drops out of the car into the arms of the woman. Pretty cool woman, Jensen has to say, considering she's staying with a criminal and shooting those baby-rapists.
“Not in a while, no. Heard he's not going to prison, though.”
Jensen turns over, because even Paul fucking Walker's not as interesting. “Really?” He doesn't know if he's happy - he thinks so - about that, or a bit anxious because it means he would see Jared a lot. Or maybe not - he might move to another city, where people wouldn't know him.
Wouldn't call him friend and shoot him.
“Yeah. Skipped that bullet, I guess.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Chris flinch at the bad choice of words. And well... he would. He was the one to actually have him in his sight.
He was also the one who refused to shoot.
“You still talking to the psych-guy?”
“No. Talking to my wife.” Kane glances over, smiles a bit crooked. “I could lend her out - she's the best in setting you straight.”
Jensen grins, because he can't help going there. “Naaa, I think I like living a bit crooked.” He gets an M&M thrown at his nose for that, and they laugh at each other. Paul's already back with his woman and living a happy Little House in the Prairie-life. The credits are rolling.
“Good movie.”
“Yeah, not bad. Never heard so much swearing on screen ever before.”
Jensen gets up to get a few more beers while Kane's flipping through the channels, trying to find something more to watch. They're not really done yet, but there's no way they'll do it without pretending.
They're guys, after all. Tough guys.
**
“You know you didn't do anything wrong, right?”
Jensen sighs. He's been there, checked every little thing that'd played out that day. Every fucking thing. He knows there's not an error to be found, not technically, but that's not any kind of consolation.
“I know.”
Because he does. And he still did.
“We all thought…”
“But you didn’t… you. You didn’t.”
Kane takes a big swallow from his bottle, probably so he doesn’t have to talk. And it’s true, they all thought, but…
“There isn’t a day I don’t wake up in the morning wishing I’d stayed at home that day,” he finally says, looking at the TV as if there’s actually something interesting happening. It’s a curling-competition, so probably not. “Every morning I wake up, hoping it was just a bad fucking dream. Go to work and find him there with his big mouth, not shutting up. And…”
Yeah. Jensen can kinda relate, but there’s the problem… “I never think that. Every morning I know exactly what I did.”
Kane looks over, frowns. “You didn’t do…”
“Anything wrong? I know that. Fuck, I know that so much that… well. I know.” He’s not going to tell him that it’s written on his bathroom-mirror. ‘You did nothing wrong’, because there is no-one to actually tell it to him every time he wakes up sweating, and something has to be there to remind him of that. “It might be easier if I did, I sometimes think.”
“Yeah? How figure?”
Instead of answering right on, Jensen peels at the label of his beer, then stares at the floor. “I don’t know. I just think it… might be easier.”
“Yeah? Wanna know what I think?”
“Anything gonna stop ya?”
“Well, I think,” Chris continues, completely not acknowledging the poor attempt at a bicker. “I think you think that if you made a mistake, you would actually have a reason for feeling guilty. Because what’s eating you up, what’s making you look like a scarecrow every morning is that guilt, but there is no real reason for that… and that makes it so much worse.”
The Canadian curling-team seems to be winning. Seriously, who invented that game. It’s… weird, but looks like fun. Do the guys actually do the housework in their private lives? Do they have fans, like baseball-players? Maybe there’s a whole bunch of people out there, collecting curling-cards and talking about the best brush-techniques -
“Hey, asshole. Don’t drift off when I’m being insightful. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll leave it at that.”
Jensen sighs.
“Hm. And if you’re not?”
They continue to watch the game, cheering for one team just because they can, not really because they care.
**
That night, Kane says something before he leaves that makes Jensen toss and turn and stare at his dark ceiling for hours.
“We all feel guilty. But we're all without real fault. That's the thing that makes it so hard.”
Why would the others feel guilty? Well... ok, so yeah, they might feel bad for believing all the lies that were told about Jared. That'd make anyone feel a bit uncomfortable when it turned out that it was all just that: lies and misdirections.
But Jensen? Jensen did more, more than any of them. Did worse than any of them, because while they all might've believed the lies, and all might feel like bad friends, Jensen was the one behind the scenes, he was the one in charge, and in the end, made the worst mistake-that-was-none.
He was responsible, it was his responsibility!
The others shouldn't feel guilty, he realizes. And he also realizes that as the man in command, it should've been his job to make that clear. They had no real choice but obey. Or had they?
Kane didn't. He didn't obey, and he didn't fire. He disobeyed a direct order, got a reprimand for it and that way, was one of the very few who should feel completely fine with how things turned out.
'Cause in the end, he was in the right.
He's not any further in solving the inner workings of his team when he finally succumbs to sleep.
**
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Uhm...”
In the silence, the old-fashioned clock on the desk ticks incredibly loud.
“Well, you came in here and asked me for my time, so I assume you want to actually talk to me, right? If that's the case, take a seat and open your mouth, because I honestly have enough other things to do - even though I don't mind watching you a little.”
The Captain winks at him, and for a second Jensen feels like a schoolboy who just realized his teacher is human and likes his looks: flustered, embarrassed and slightly smug. He's just glad he stopped blushing after high-school but can't stop his hand from scratching his neck. He sits down on the visitor's chair, slightly uncomfortable, put on display like that.
“Uh, yeah.” He coughs, then straightens, glad when she puts her pen down and gives him her full attention. Something must show on his face, because she softens slightly, the way he's often seen her do with people who come to her with personal issues.
She's a pretty awesome Captain. Maybe he should tell her that.
“Does it have to do with the Padalecki-situation?” She might've guessed, but it still startles Jensen how well she seems to know him. Her face, more handsome than beautiful, softens a bit more, the gray eyes that he's known to freeze people into popsicles instantaneously warming invitingly.
“Yes, ma'am. It's... Well, I'm kinda wondering if... Will he return? I mean, to the team?”
She sighs, leans back in her cushy leather-chair, which gives off a few squeaky sounds. “Would you want that?”
“I... I don't really... Maybe?”
“Because I'm not sure that would be a very smart idea. But you know this team better than anyone else: if you think it is, I might reconsider.”
“So that means he's not lost his job?” Jensen blurts out before he can stop himself, and only after the words have left does he shut his jaw with an audible click.
The Captain raises her eyebrows. “You didn't know?”
Put to shame by her incredulity, he looks at his fingers, mindlessly rubbing at the seams of his pants. Huh, he's actually worn the material thinner - must've been doing that for some time.
He can hear her exhale and for a hard, long second, he has to swallow back the angry tickle that threatens from the back of his throat. “No, he's not lost his job. I'm not sure if he'll have much of a future in this city, not with everyone knowing about this miserable chain of events. But he wasn't at fault, he didn't take hostages on a whim, instead he was forced into a situation that was so deliberately planned and executed that it just looked like it. He was charged and questioned for resisting arrest and is still suspended for another two months. Padalecki might take his stocked-up time for leave after that, and he's not yet said if he's returning at all, so... But no. He's not fired. He was framed, and didn't really commit a crime.”
It's not news, not really. He's known that it was a frame-job, all a lie, all a bad, evil game. He knew that, but hearing it said out loud makes it all come crashing down on him. All the errors he made, all the things he decided, wrong but not, right but bad... all come into his carefully blanked mind like a horde of Vikings breaking through the door of a monastery. He has to swallow some more, has to clench his jaws and inhale deeply so he won't sob right here in the room with his boss, where everyone could walk right in and where he'll have to walk out and past his team before he can erase any evidence of him losing his shit like that.
“Ackles.” The Captain is still behind her desk, leaning forward but far enough away to leave him the space he needs, giving him time without leaving him alone. Acknowledging his turmoil but not giving it any more attention than she seems worth, and that's exactly why she's so damn good. It's not something special to lose your shit, her demeanour says. It's pretty normal, and I'm not concerned about you because I know you can handle being a bit rattled, and you can handle it alone.
Right now, he'd marry her for that alone.
“You listening?” Jensen nods, glad that he didn't really cry like a baby, just had a few breathing-issues. Bad enough. “Padalecki was framed, by our people, people he thought were comrades, partners, even friends. They buried him neck-deep in evidence and suspicion, left him no way out but the one that came to pass. And if he hadn't had the smarts to ask for the right person at the right time, we would've buried him without fanfares, without the proper honor because we'd still believe all of it. It was a shitty, shitty situation he was in, and it was sheer luck that it ended as it did. He was framed and betrayed by friends and team-mates, and it shook him up pretty hard.”
Again, Jensen swallows down bile. It's the truth, harsh but very much the truth. She's not finished, though. “He has to deal with his shit, and it might help if one of his team” her eyebrow underlines perfectly that she thinks he should be the one “actually talks to him. But” she cuts in before Jensen even finished breathing in for a response “there is one other thing we shouldn't forget. Padalecki wasn't the only one wronged in this game; all of us were.”
She stops speaking and waits for him to look her in the eyes, hard and kind at the same time. Determined, steely. Great. “We were all framed, Lieutenant. Don't you forget that. All of us were set up to murder one of our own, one of our friends.”
**
It still takes him ten more days until he makes up his mind. And it might've taken even longer if coincidence or fate didn't think it prudent to kick his cowardly ass.
In his excuse, there were three more missions they had to go out on, one of them, the latest, ended with a dead suspect - guilty, but still dead - and the resulting foul mood Kane gets in after that kinda thing without fail. Jensen's used to the drill: kill a subject, take Kane out to a bar afterwards - kicking and screaming if you have to - get him tipsy (not drunk) and get the shit pummelled out of you.
It's tried and true, and the far better alternative than the endless misery that would come if he'd let him go home and fight with Stacy. Cudlitz is still in counselling, has been since he slapped his wife after a similar bad day, gave up his position on the team and is seriously thinking about leaving the force altogether. Jensen thinks it's a shame, the guy was good company and a fucking amazing shot. His wife's right, though, he also knows, and that's why he's been the punching-bag for his friend for going on to three years now.
Sometimes, he has to instigate the fight, sometimes it happens on its own. Usually, he lets Kane get in three or four good hits until he's giving back - and there's no way Stacy's five feet five inches would still be standing after even the first punch.
That's why, when fate decides to be an ass, Jensen's sporting an impressive but fading bruise on his cheek and sore ribs.
**
So he's alone, on his way home anyway. He'd played a bit of pool with Imahara and Janina, won against her because she's much more of a dart-person but had to bow in the end to Grant's better understanding of angles and action and reaction and such shit.
They've left a while ago and Jensen's just paid for their drinks when he turns smack-dab into Jared.
“Oomph” is his first word to him since the day it happened, and while he's had time to think about what the Captain said and agree with her in principle, it's still completely different when he's looking at his friend, seeing him up-close and with that haunted, unnatural look in his eyes.
For a few seconds, they just stare at each other, and Jensen can't say what possibly goes on in Jared's head. His own is running on fight-or-flight, on I'm so sorry and the urge to pretend nothing ever happened. He doesn't know what to say, even though it was so clear to him this morning and every other morning since he's made up his mind.
Finally, Jared licks his lips and turns away, breaking the spell. He looks sad and lost, a hundred years younger and older at the same time, and Jensen can't let this chance slip through his fingers.
Can't.
“Jared...” he starts, though he still has no clue how to go on. Jared stops but doesn't turn, his shoulders tensing visibly and Jensen... just swallows everything down and goes on. “How are you?”
**
Incredulity is what he sees in his eyes. Jared's staring at him like he's a green dog with pink polka-dots, a weird, unknown creature never spotted before. It's not a good feeling.
“How the fuck do you think I am?” Jared rasps out when it's clear nothing more's coming out of Jensen's stupid mouth. His voice is rough and worn, and he sounds weary and angry at the same time, not to mention unbelieving that someone who knows could actually ask that.
“Uh...”
“How the fuck do you think I feel, Jensen? Honestly, what kind of answer do you want? That I'm fine? Or maybe that I'm better than ever, with all the free time I've got? How about 'oh, wonderful, Jensen, good of you to ask - I never liked being part of a team anyway'? That satisfying for you?”
“Jared...”
“You actually have the balls to ask me that crap-question, right here, in the middle of a fucking bar... I can't believe I thought you were an ok-kinda guy.” He turns away, and though it stings a bit, Jensen knows it was only said to sting, not because it's actually true, not because Jared thinks different now.
Jensen's still an ok-kinda guy, he knows that he is and is basically just pissed about that blasé attitude he's faced with.
“Hey, don't turn your back on me, Jared!”
“And why not?” Jared sneers over his shoulder. “Why not, huh? You did, but I'm not allowed?”
“I... It...” This is not how he was planning this situation to go. “I'm...”
“Don't say you're sorry if you don't mean it, Jensen. Just... don't bother.” Again, Jared starts walking away, and Jensen can't have that. He let him walk away, let him down before and even though he felt like shit, he's sure Jared felt even worse. Jensen won't let his own remorse keep him from doing the right thing. Finally.
“Hey!” he shouts and grabs Jared's shoulder, and the reaction is completely expected, violent and thrills him to the bone, fills him up with hope.
Jared's on him in seconds, has him by the front of his shirt as he pushes Jensen hard against the counter of the bar. He's right in his face, snarling like a vicious dog and his breath is hot and a little garlic-y. It's a dangerous situation, probably as much danger as facing off with a bear, but all Jensen can feel is relief.
**
“Fuck off,” the bar's owner yells after them when his two burly friends dump Jensen and Jared out the back, “or I'll call the police.”
It makes Jensen grin, then giggle even through the pain, and he's happy when he hears Jared chuckle next to him.
They're a mess.
Jared had pressed him hard into the wood of the bar's counter, and there'll be an ugly bruise forming across his spine. It's nothing serious, definitely not the worst of his injuries and Jared certainly has some interesting marks to add to that collection.
After that initial push, Jensen had shoved Jared away, hard, and followed with a knee-jerk in the direction of Jared's crotch. It never delivered, since Jared just twisted out of the way so his thigh caught the force, and maybe that's gonna bruise, too, but Jensen's glad that the fight didn't end there.
Maybe he really is a masochist, he thinks as he tries to breathe shallowly, his ribs digging painfully into his insides. They're cracked, he thinks, at least a few of them. He knows because it hurts worse than the bruised ones from earlier, from Kane, and he knows from experience that broken ribs are weirdly less painful. Some doctor had explained it once, but Jensen's not sure he remembers it right. Is not sure if he really gives a shit.
But he feels happier than he has in a long time, more free and filled with relief after getting the shit punched out of him - after giving back as much. He smiles a little at the dull streetlamp above him, flickering in the darkness. Jared's shifting close by and he hopes he's not going to leave now.
They'd been on each other like a pair of tomcats, leaving skill and training behind in favour of rage and hurt and guilt and probably some other fucked-up emotional baggage. Jared had him pinned quickly, he's taller and even with his weight-loss he's still packed with muscles. Considering he's actually only using his mouth on the job, it should be weird that Jensen's the one with less muscle-definition.
But fighting's not just about muscles and weight. It's about skill and angles and momentum, which is why someone as small as Janina is on their team, which is why Jensen was able to turn the tables on Jared after he took a bit of a pummelling, twisting and kicking and wrenching so he was the one on top.
Because in the end, Jared is their fucking negotiator, and isn't paid to fling himself through a window on a rope.
“I ssink you broke my tooss.”
It's been nicely quiet so far, only their breaths against the noises of the night; the cars on the streets not far back, the tinkling of glass and the voices behind the door they were just thrown out of.
“Sorry,” Jensen croaks, because his windpipe feels as bruised as his whole body. Jared had slammed him into one of the stools on the bar, sometime between them being on the dirty floor and them getting dragged outside. It had hurt, and for a second, Jensen'd thought he was going to die right there, asphyxiating in a fucking bar.
But it was just a bruise, he was just a bit stunned and Jared grabbing his hair and head-butting him sure shook him back into being alive.
“Sorry my forehead cracked your tooth,” he clarifies, because that must be when it happened. “Or my knuckles?” He's not sure. He punched him more than once, and just because there is blood slowly trickling along his forehead doesn't mean it's really from a tooth.
“Or maybe it wass when you srew me againsht sse wall,” Jared hisses, and that he's bickering back means a lot... it means they're good. Or, well, not yet.
“Jay?”
“Yeah?” He can kinda see Jared poking at his mouth, hears him hiss in the darkness.
“I'm really sorry. I... I'm sorry.”
With a flop, Jared's hand falls back to the ground and he sighs. “What exsactly do you mean?”
“When... when all went to Hell. I... I didn't... I didn't believe you might not have done that. Might not have killed him. And I'm... I... “ he trails off, doesn't know how to go on. Jared's silent next to him, and the chill that's creeping along his legs and backside is not entirely from the ground he's spread on.
**
It feels like hours when Jared finally talks again, and though it's miserable and cold here, Jensen doesn't want to move in fear of losing this chance once more.
“Don't get me wrong here. It wass... I can't ssay it di'n't hurt. I mean, I had nossing, nobody. Eferyon I tried to talk to, tried to make believe in me just turned afay and left me stranded, and... I don't know if I can ever get past ssat, you know?”
Jensen's breath freezes in his chest but he nods, then hums in agreement. Because for all he fears that this is the end, Jared's right, and is entitled. Hell, if Jensen was in his place, he wouldn't be sure either.
“But... is's not like I tried, ya know? I mean...” he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I mean that is's fucking cold here. Les's get ssis conferssation some'ere warmer. Wiss maybe some ice for my face.”
He struggles up, bitching and groaning and cursing about the various aches that must've been aggravated lying here, and Jensen wants to laugh but thinks better of it when one of his ribs pulls sharply.
“You good?” Jared asks, already on his feet and leaning against the brick-wall.
“Gimme a sec.”
He does, but when Jensen's not actually making an effort - because fuck, it's really nice to be so numb - he shuffles a bit closer. “Need a doctor, pussy?”
And this time, Jensen can't help but laugh, can't suppress the groan that comes with it. “Ow, you ass... fuck...” Slowly, he turns onto his stomach then up on his knees, and with a hand from Jared he's finally standing, bent a bit in the middle and hugging his upper body. “'m good.”
“Yea, can ssee shat. Fuck, thiss tooss is annoying.” Jared spits and there's a little click, so he might not have been exaggerating. “Ouch.”
**
They take a cab, because neither is fit to drive. Jared doesn't say anything when Jensen gives the driver his address, and only his. He's not complaining when they both stagger into the elevator, and not when Jensen shows him towards the big, comfy couch in his apartment. He's groaning a little, though, when Jensen hands him an ice-pack but that might be gratitude.
For a while, they sit and nurse their various aches, silent and alone despite having company.
“I don't know how much you know about the evidence against me, all that was put on me?” Jensen smirks bitterly, because he's seen it, all of it. He had to see it, it was plastered all over the incident-room when the shit hit the fan. “See, when they dumped all that shit on me, all the evidence, it was... It got so bad I didn't know if they might not be right, you know?”
Jared's lisp is nearly gone, maybe he got used to the chipped tooth already. Jensen's a bit jealous, because his ribs still hurt. Then again, Jared's whole face is one big bruise, and even though Jensen's sure he did get a few knuckles to his own head, most of Jared's punches where aimed to the middle, the torso and his stomach.
He's holding the ice-pack against his neck, because breathing's still a bit sharper than it used to be and while everything else hurts more, this is the only thing that might still give him serious trouble later.
“And the thing is,” Jared continues “... thing is ssat when I wasn't so sure about myself any more, I could be less sure about anyone of you. I... I didn't trust anyone. Not even you.” The last sentence is so soft and small, Jensen's not sure he was supposed to hear it. But he did, and … that makes him feel better.
“I can't say I blame ya.”
“No. No. You can't. And... I can't really blame you for thinking the same. I mean, it's not easy to just … feel that way, but intellectually? I know that none of you is to blame.”
Jensen feels another hot spike of shame through his chest, and it's really not just a rib. Because if Jared's not actually pissed about them believing this shit, he's pissed about -
“But when we all knew I wasn't... I didn't do that, when you arrested the real assholes who killed Paul. When all was over and Collins shot me up, no-one bothered to come over. And that,” Jared's sounding a lot better now, hard and cold and still so fucking hurt that it's hurting Jensen by proxy. “That's something I can't really get behind. So maybe I understand all of them that were just buddies, or something...” he shakes his head, and Jensen imagines that he's not actually understanding them at all. He wouldn't, in Jared's place. “...but you? We were friends, man. I … at least I thought we were. And you didn't even check on me?”
Jensen can feel the eyes on him, dark and accusing and right. So right in their anger and sense of betrayal. He'd feel the same way, and if it wasn't for his intimate knowledge of the reasons why he … failed as a friend, he'd be angered on Jared's behalf. As it is, he still feels angry over his cowardice, but can't change anything about it. Except maybe explain, as far as that's possible.
“I did. I just.. never came over personally.”
“Why?”
Jared's so calm, maybe even a little timid, like he fears the answer to that.
“Because I'm a coward,” Jensen says, right out, hard words and accusing himself, and even though he still avoids Jared's gaze, he still feels it on him. “Because I couldn't face you, after.. after. I... I didn't want you to hate me, and the more time went by, the more I knew you'd hate me for not coming sooner... and then it just... got a life of its own, I guess. If I could turn back time.... I wish...”
He takes in a sharp breath and turns to finally face Jared, face his worst fear and his best friend, and the pain from his ribs shoots up inside his chest and leaves him gasping. Which, of course, makes it worse. But he's looking at Jared, and tries to make him see that he's so fucking sorry, that he wishes... everything. The pain is sharp and urgent, and the tears run down his face. It's a good disguise, he thinks, even though he's not so sure they really aren't all due to his ribs.
Jared smiles at him, weary and sad. “I got you good, didn't I?”
“More than you know, Jared,” Jensen whispers and blinks. So much more than you know.
**
In the morning, Jared is still there. Jensen's not fit to work, called in sick and everyone would believe it's because of yesterday, because of getting into a fight with Kane. It's common knowledge, and people have claimed that they're in a really bizarre abusive relationship. They're not, and the Captain's got her eye on them so there's nothing to worry about.
He's baking pancakes, stiff and achy, but he feels like pancakes now. Jared usually likes them, and they're easy to chew with only half his teeth.
Which is of course an exaggeration, there's only one of them and it's only chipped.
“Shit, I guess I have to go see a dentist now,” Jared calls from the bathroom, and it's such a nice idea to have Jared over for breakfast, to have him there and be with him, and Jensen turns around just when Jared walks out.
The skillet hits the kitchen-tiles with a wet splat, and Jensen can't move or speak. There's a red dot on Jared's forehead, and before there is any time to react, his brains get splattered all over the white wall and he slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
His eyes dull, accusing, sad and so full of betrayal.
**
“Jensen!”
With a loud gasp, Jensen flings his arm out, hits something right in front of him. He hears a yell of pain but not much else, because his body is screaming to him to stop fucking moving, right fucking now.
It takes a while to settle back in reality, to remember. They kicked the shit out of each other and got kicked out of a bar, then they emo-d it out. Jared stayed over and Jensen fell asleep with the heavy, hot weight on the mattress right next to him, feet touching underneath the blanket.
“Sorry,” he rasps when he can speak again and looks over, where Jared is clutching his nose.
He looks horrible, black and blue and swollen all over. There's blood on his lips, probably from where Jensen hit him but he's glaring so they're good.
“Sorry. Hair-trigger.”
“Yeah, I noticed. You whimpered.”
“Fuck, I did not!”
“Oh yes, you did. Like a little puppy without its mom. All 'hmmm-hmm-hmmmm' and whimpery. It was annoying.”
“Shut up, asshole. Must've hit you too hard on your soft head. You're delirious.”
Jared settles back down with a groan, silent and so … present. It's comforting, and when Jensen feels the rasp of large feet against his shin, he smiles.
“Snuggle-bear,” he murmurs and he can feel the chuckle all through the mattress, all into his skin.
“Now who's delirious?”
Jensen smiles.
**
The window is dirty.
Scale and dust, left over from long-ago vaporized raindrops, mixed in with the smog from outside. A few scattered bug-carcasses and spider-shit, bird-poop on the window-sill.
He really should take the time to clean it, before Jared comes back in the afternoon.
*************************************************************************
Notes (as promised): This story is heavily influenced by the movie "The Negotiator" (awesome movie - go watch it!), which is where you can find some background on what basically went on. My Jensen is based on the character of Commander Adam Beck, while Jared is Danny Roman. Well, kinda.
Also, HBT stands for "Hostage Barricade Terrorism" - it's taken from the movie as well.
(Finally, there's another part for this story. It's not a sequel, more like a prequel. Hope you'll enjoy it as much as this part.
Don't just stand there, say nice things to me
Author: marlowe78
Pairing: Jensen, Jared
Rating: PG
Word Count:~10.009
Warnings: bad language, bloody images but nothing really bad
beta: as always the awesome soncnica and worked over again *blush* by corbyinoz
Disclaimer: All fiction, as in: not true! Title is from the song "Unwell" by Matchbox 20. Go, 90s!
Summary:: Jensen was just doing his job. He made no mistake. There is a note on his bathroom-mirror that actually says so - "You did nothing wrong". But it was wrong anyway.
a/n:
So, I wrote something again. I like it. For more information about "WTF is she talking about??", read the notes at the end.
**************************** Making friends with shadows on the wall ****************************
The window is dirty.
Scale and dust, left over from long-ago vaporized raindrops, mixed in with the smog from outside. A few scattered bug-carcasses and spider-shit, bird-poop on the upper left corner. How the hell did a pigeon shit there?
Visibility is blurred, but the aim is still true, the red dot firmly on the target's back-head. He could shoot. The glass won't even make a difference, not with this rifle, not with this ammo, not even from this distance. Not from across the road, up the building opposite, two stories up, on the roof. Not lying on his belly, flat, rifle loaded, safety off. No distractions, no wind at all. No sound, up here, he's alone.
Responsible for only one thing.
Right then, the subject moves. Pulls a gun, holds it against the hostage's head. He can pull the trigger now, the woman is much smaller than the subject.
He crooks the finger, slightly, slowly, oh-so-slowly.
Inhales, counts to two, exhales.
Feels the trigger-point, that infinitesimal stop between triggering and BAM, that milli-movement, the tiny nudge you have to overcome to make it all go away, make it all good.
Or not, but that's not his job. He's just pulling the trigger.
He does, gives that tiny amount of pressure and the bullet is loose, flies across the hundred-foot-gap, and right then, right that millisecond it took to make the conscious effort to do it, to shoot, the subject turns.
Turns right around, looks right out the window, right into the scope, right into his eyes. Smiles, in recognition, like he's always done when they meet. “Hey there, Ackles,” the subject says, that cocky grin on his lips right when the bullet hits, shatters the skull, splatters the brain all over - in dead silence, because there is no sound up here.
There's never gonna be sound again.
**
With a gasp, Jensen shoots up in his bed. His heart is racing in his chest, kaboom-kaboom-kaboom, like explosions, like the ones you hear when you make the charge, when you plow through the door, access through the vents.
Shoot your friends.
He groans, his heart still beating crazily, sweat cooling on his skin. It hadn't even been like this.
The bedding is soaked again, third time this week, and he's running out of sets. With a shaking hand, he wipes at his face, not surprised when it comes back wet, and not just from the perspiration. It's not the first time, either, this week.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and wants to be able to go back to sleep. Not that he desires to go back into that dream-memory, but he needs the sleep, the rest. He's been running on fumes for... well, fuck, must be up to three weeks now. He knows that's not healthy, and he knows even better that it's outright dangerous. So far, he's managed to walk straight-backed and upright, look alive and strong like he always does, always did. Knows that because he checked, in the mirror, and because even the shrink didn't give him concerned glances.
Capt'n 's not calling him in, either, so he's good.
But not. Not really. He can do his job, he's still good - no, fuck, great! - at it, but he's... not good. Because once he's home, the world starts to shrink around him, starts to warp and twist, like after the worst hangover he's ever had, back after he passed the academy, best of his class.
It starts flipping and turning and bucking, like it wants to dislodge him, get him to make a mistake, a bigger one than he already made.
But he didn't. Well, he did, but not technically. He didn't. It wasn't wrong, it was right, he did right, made the right choices... that were still so completely, utterly, devastatingly wrong. He's not the only one, not the worst of them, but he still did wrong by doing right. So wrong.
Water. His throat is parched and with uncoordinated limbs, Jensen slides to the edge of his bed, lets his feet touch the floor... and stops.
Because there is blood on the carpet, red, red blood. And fragments, bone, brain. An eye. Under his cabinet, an eyeball is peeking out, right at him, staring right into his own eyes, blind and blunt and unfocused. Hazel. No twinkle, no joke. Dead.
He swallows, hard, no moisture in his mouth, and it hurts so much like he has razor-blades on his tongue. He wants to speak, say something but what can you say? What can you say to your blood-soaked shaggy carpet, to the accusing eye of your friend?
Sorry?
What a joke.
So Jensen sits and stares, tries to think but can't, can't get that eye to stop looking at him, drilling into his brain, into his mind and heart and soul. It's unnerving, but he can't move. He might die of thirst, but there is no way that eye will let him go.
Please, he wants to say, please, I'm thirsty. But he doesn't, because what should it care - it's dead, he killed it, so what should it care.
**
The shrill trill of the phone shakes him up, makes him drop from the bed. He'd actually fallen asleep sitting there, and for a second, he blinks to understand where he is. Carpet - blue. No blood. Cabinet - wood, light oak. No eye underneath.
A dream.
His throat's still parched, but his phone's more important right now.
“Yeah, Ackles,” he croaks and has to cough. Dry.
“Man, you sound like shit. Don't tell me I woke ya!” A glance at his clock tells him that it's eleven in the morning, and he's sure that when he woke from thirst, it had been pitch-black outside. Now, the cold sun of winter is hiding behind the clouds, a grey sort of fuzzy light all over the city.
“Fuck,” he groans, makes his legs straighten up and carry him to the bathroom, to the sink. “You did, asshat. Got two days off, you know that.” His fingers still shake, but he manages to open the tab and hold the glass for his toothbrush underneath. Manages to drink without coughing. “Whassup?”
“Day off's off, man. Sorry to say. Got us a situation at Internal Affairs.”
He chokes on air. “What?”
“You hard of hearing? Got a situation at Regent's Bank, up on fifty-seventh. Need every guy able to walk and hold a gun. Dittko's in charge, though.”
Jensen can't even say how fucking glad he is that it's a bank, even though Dittko's a righteous asshole. Probably comes with the job - a lot of guys have called him the same.
“Shit. Come pick me up?”
“Already on my way, sleepyhead. Move your ass or I'll just come up and embarrass ya with the chick.”
“Hardyharhar.”
But he'll be ready before Kane even rounds the corner. Always is, always will.
**
There is no chick. There hasn't been a chick for months, even way before. He'd kinda been hoping for a something, for a chance he might pull off, because there's no way anyone would give him shit if he did, but... nope. Everything went to fuck in a handbag and then some, and there's not even need for his own right hand, not to mention the complications that come with a living, breathing, talking being in his vicinity. Hell, he might shoot them in his dreams, only to wake up to the reality of actually shooting them.
Maybe he should lock up his gun where he won't have access to it in a state of slumber.
“Coffee.”
It's not a question. Kane wouldn't ask redundant questions, wouldn't seek answers he knows already. Also, he's the best friend one can have, because his wife makes the world's best coffee and always fills a thermos-cup for Jensen as well.
She still does. She might still like him, then.
“Thanks,” Jensen grunts because he's polite and all. And because whenever he forgets, Kane will nudge him so the coffee spills all over his legs. He's gotten red burn-marks once, and Kane had been so shocked from seeing them in the locker-room that he'd taken to cool down the pipe-hot coffee before filling it in.
Not today, though, Jensen notices when he burns his tongue.
“Sorry, 's hot.”
He only grunts, because for one, there's not enough caffeine inside him yet, and for the other, it's a redundant statement to make when your partner's just hissed from a burnt tongue.
Might be good, though. He might not be tempted so much in talking back to Dittko.
“So, what's up?”
“Crazy guy didn't get a loan. Might or might not have killed the bank-manager, holds the rest hostage. They thinkin' about twenty. Employees and customers.”
“Fuck.”
“That's what I said.”
They don't talk the rest of the way.
**
So, the thing is, Jensen was the Guy Behind, temporary commander of the HBT-unit in their district. He's good, no, he's fucking great at that job and earned it. He fucking earned it, but right now, he's not in charge anymore. Not forever - they told him it's not forever! - and he's not off the job, actually, but they took some of the responsibilities off his back, urged on by the shrink after the evaluation. When he took the command, his boss was out of commission - heart-attack at fifty, the healthiest guy Jensen knows and isn't that a fucking joke? But he'd been doing that job for months already, it was looking like he'd take over completely before all Hell broke loose.
Now, the doc'd said it's not the job that he can't do, he just also said that maybe he's better off for a while being passenger, not driver.
Jensen won't say how fucking grateful he is for that. Can't, because he's a tough-guy, and tough-guys have no problem getting back on the horse after getting thrown. Tough-guys never agree with the whimpy shrinks.
Yeah, right.
He also won't say because those whose opinion matter know already, just from knowing him. And the Capt'n might not know, but the shrink said, so she kinda knows. You know. Roundabout.
Dittko, though... Dittko's an ass. He's good, yeah, but he's also a human ass. Borderline-racist and not-a-border-in-sight homophobe paired off with being a sexist asshole first class. How they ever found someone like that to put in that position is one of the big riddles in life, Jensen thinks, but he has to admit that Dittko does his job well and if ever anything of his prejudices impairs his judgment, no-one ever noticed.
He's fucking good, that's what he is, and Jensen's only problem with doing what he's told is that he'd had that job for a while, and he liked being in charge. Maybe a little too much.
“'Kay, here's the deal, far as we know. Subject went into the bank at just past ten, tried to talk with the manager -” Dittko snaps his fingers impatiently, and Miller provides the name Gerald T. Overholler from just behind the commander. “Right. That one. He tried to talk him into getting his loan prolonged, which was denied. Some pleading, some ugly, embarrassing scenes” meaning the subject was crying, because Dittko hates nothing more than crying guys “and then he went outside, came back a few minutes later and started shooting. Our witnesses say he shot directly at Overholler, but they're not clear as to how much he was hit. If at all. So. Soon after, he grabbed one of the tellers, intern, young thing, I think nineteen” - “Eighteen,” Miller interrupts and gets a glare as response - “eighteen. Threatens people he's gonna shoot her and everyone who moves and then starts to get the doors and windows barricaded. As of now, we got some part-visuals through the blinds, but no clear view on the subject and just some hints as to how many hostages. No sound. Estimated twenty to twenty-five, plus the subject.”
“Lee?”
Dittko shoots another glare, this time at Mehra who, despite being called 'sweetheart', 'babe', 'darling' and 'sweet-cheeks' by that asshole on a regular basis, never flinches. She's cool as ice, or at least that's what she makes everyone believe.
In fact, Janina's a wildfire in the sack, passionate and hot as hell, but on the job, you wouldn't be able to guess. Jensen's fallen into bed with her more than once, a lighthearted, no-strings kinda deal they have. She gets lonely, he gets lonely, they both suck at relationships with anyone not a cop and so that's one of the easiest solutions.
He won't mind if she finds the guy of her dreams, though, and she's fine with him looking for his own special someone. They're friends with benefits, in the truest sense of the word.
“Darling, we can do that without the psycho-mumbo-jumbo,” the commander sneers, and this time, the whole team rolls their eyes. Because while they all secretly thrive on the adrenaline of getting a situation solved with minimum force but maximum thrill, they all know how much better it is for everyone involved to let someone talk the subject out of it.
Also, since the Fuck-Up - capital letters - everyone had found a much bigger respect for the guys who actually listen, instead of just listening in.
“Well, Commander, sir, we all know the rules. You sayin' we're not waiting for our negotiator like we're actually made to? Because if that's what you're sayin', Commander, sir, I'd like that in writing.”
Jensen grins at Mehra, who glances over but doesn't openly acknowledge him. Atta girl!
“No, of course I'm not saying that, Sergeant,” Dittko grits through his teeth, even though everyone knows that's exactly what he wants to do. “Lieutenant Lee is bound to be here any second. So I think we better use our time and get our perky asses out there and get us some fucking visual and fucking sound! Any objections?”
There's none, of course, and the team spreads out.
Jensen nods off to Kane and his spotter, Berkowitz, then smiles at the two new guys. They're not technically new, just detached to their unit after that fiasco where two - technically three of their friends, as everyone'd thought - went to prison for dipping into the pension-box. That, and for the murder of another friend of theirs … and some other fucking shit they pulled. Assholes, all of them, and good riddance. They got off lucky, all things considered. Then again, maybe not.
Jensen gets paired with Meyer, as he'd been before, while this time, Imahara pairs up with Cassidy. It makes sense, the dude's as slim as Janina and nimble as a weasel. The two of them will fit through any airduct known to mankind, and probably slide underneath a door one of these days.
Meyer is a good guy, smart and quick, silent despite his bulk. He doesn't say much, but he smiles a lot and his eyes do a lot of talking.
“You ready, Boss?”
“Don't call me that,” Jensen growls, but he knows it's halfhearted. He's starting to get used to the nickname, not always feels the pain in his chest when someone calls him “boss”.
Maybe he'll be one, again. One day. Maybe.
“So, are you, Ackles?”
“Don't ask stupid questions.” He shoves Meyer at the shoulder and slips through the door before him, shuffling his gear around until it fits like a heavy, second skin, a second layer of himself. He can hear his partner-for-the-show laugh and he smiles a little, feels himself settling into the right mindset to be able to pull this off, to be awesome once more.
That's their job. That's who they are.
**
The door opens with a loud bang, as the unit shoves inside. They're all talking, everyone with everyone, and the noise-level in the precinct gains at least ten decibels, it seems.
Still, it's always a good day when the Hostage-Team's in a good mood - means there's no-one dead. Also, it's been a while that they were this carefree.
“Should've seen his face, man,” Berkowitz laughs, shoving Jensen against the doorjamb. “Eyes like freaking frisbees.”
Their negotiator had done a good job, talking to the fuming man inside the bank. The video-feed had been established quickly, and after they'd seen that no-one was hurt, everyone had relaxed a bit.
Lee, silky voice lulling the perp into a feeling of complacency, was certain that everything would be solved without violence, but then one of the hostages, a woman, fell into a crying-fit and couldn't stop. The hostage-taker had lost his cool, waving his two guns around and when one shot was fired - probably as an accident - Dittko had called the take-down and Lee had nodded his consent. It got too dangerous.
Smooth and swift, they'd entered the building, tear-gas obscuring the sight and hard to breathe through if you weren't wearing a mask. For a second, Meyer lost his footing and slipped, Jensen grabbing his arm so he wouldn't hit the ground, which was when he suddenly found himself staring into the barrel of a gun, long and black and sinister. The guy's hand was shaking so bad that he could've easily missed, even from a foot away, but he didn't, the shot had been true and everything had stopped moving.
“Ha ha. Wanna see your face when you realize you've just been shot in the head.” He's smiling, though, because right now, there's nothing better than knowing you're alive while everything says you shouldn't be. “Who the hell was the idiot who forgot to mention our subject's taking hostages with a fucking paintball-gun anyway?”
When Jensen had registered that he wasn't dead, the perp was already down, tackled by Meyers who apparently was worth his weight in gold. Cuffed and bundled up, their subject was sobbing and apologizing and everyone was blinking at the paintball-gun and the bobby-pistol and it had all been so different and so damn familiar at the same time.
Grimes sighs. He's been teased ever since they left the crime-scene. “Next time, why don't you use your own eyes. You'll have less to bitch at, then.”
Everyone laughs, until they see the captain in the door to her office. She's shaking hands with a tall, well-known figure, and everyone stops in their tracks, even the new guys when they walk into the brick-walls that're the backs of their team-mates.
“What?” Meyer asks, “Who's that?” and then the tall figure turns around, awkward smile in place.
“Shit,” Jensen says into the muted mumble that's suddenly surrounding him like bubble-wrap.
**
There must be something in his eyes. Has to be. Something. Or on his face, or in his hair. Did he get a few more freckles? A mole? He must look different, there has to be something different. It won't fit into his brain that there is nothing, nothing at all that shows the fucking canyons, death-pits in his soul.
A mark, or a spot.
But there's nothing he can see in the mirror, not on his face and not on his front.
Butt-naked, he's staring at his reflection, not seeing what others might, but looking for a hint, a difference.
There's nothing, though. Same old scars on his biceps and forearm, same freckles, same tan that stops right where his shirt would begin because he doesn't get much chance to take it off, even in summer. Feels too exposed without it anyway.
Shaking himself out of the funk, Jensen gets dressed, trying not to think about Jared, which is, of course, the best way to think about nothing else.
He'd looked good. A bit pale, maybe. He might've limped a bit. Yeah. Probably would limp a bit, he'd been shot in the side after all.
The whole fucking disaster must've taken its toll, because while he looked good, Jared'd also gotten thinner. Suits him, no two ways about it, not so much bulk any more. But yeah, still noticeably less.
He'd smiled at them. All of them, and maybe, maybe he'd even smiled a bit more for Jensen. Or maybe it was bared teeth - would be his right anyway. Still, even with the smile - awkward.
All of them had shuffled their feet, and then the captain had glared at them and asked if they didn't have something to do. Which they had, so...
Jared had been left behind, maybe he'd followed their way with his eyes, maybe not. Jensen wouldn't know, he'd just fled. Or not, well, he'd not technically fled. Just walked the same pace as everyone. Not looking back.
**
The window is still dirty. The view is the same, he can see the back of that well-known head, the stupid, floppy-long hair, weighed down with sweat, clinging to the neck.
The hostage - tiny, in comparison - is clutched in front of the subject, who's talking to someone else in the room, invisible.
The red dot is dancing along the subject's spine, up, up, upwards until it's perfectly lined, so perfect that it will punch a hole into the cerebellum, thus severing the spinal cord as well and come out right between the eyes.
It's perfection.
And like before, like always, just like every fucking night, every fucking week since that fucking day, the subject turns, right as he takes the shot that was never actually taken.
This time, though, the subject - fuck it, Jared, not a subject! - isn't smiling. He's not saying “Hey there, Ackles.” He's got no twinkle in his eyes, but what's there is that fucking scared, sad, betrayed, humiliated look that had passed between them, one split-second after everything had come to a conclusion, after the truth was out. After everyone was faced off with their ultimate, devastating mistakes.
Or maybe it was just Jensen who felt that look like a punch in the gut, maybe it was solely aimed at him, maybe, maybe, maybe.
Still, as always, the aim is true, and as always Jared's brain splatters all over, clearly visible in all its gruesomeness through the scope.
Still, as always, Jensen jerks up, wide-awake and soaked through, shaking and tear-drenched.
Fuck, he hates that shit.
**
They haven't talked since then. The psych-doc said it might be good to do it one day, but it hasn't really been an option, even if Jensen would've wanted to. Well. Dared to.
First, there was the hospital. Jared had been shot, after all, and while that might've been a good time to talk - well, there was just so much to do. It hadn't been easy for Jensen either, and that is and at the same time isn't a viable excuse.
Because while it's true, it also is true that no-one else Jensen knows of has actually been at the hospital, had actually talked to Jared.
And they'd all been friends. Before. Are they still?
What a mess. What a fucking mess. The Captain must've been there, Jensen thinks as he fills his big, blue mug with coffee. It's six in the morning, he's slept a full five hours, and he definitely doesn't have to go to work today. He's nearly been killed, that always earns you a few days off. If you're actually injured, a few days more.
As it is, he wouldn't know what to do with his day. He could finally clean up his bathroom, the rim around his tub is getting a life of its own. Or go shopping - he needs coffee and something edible would look nice in his empty fridge.
Maybe he could bake pizza?
Jensen swallows at the memory of Jared, Kane, Berkowitz, sometimes with Paul, and their weekly pizza-cookout. Sounds lame, yeah, but it'd always ended with a night of poker, eating cold pizza till the sun came up again.
No pizza, then.
Maybe he'll just stay in.
**
The Captain must've visited Jared. It's her duty, right? Jensen should've been there as well. He's not technically been the superior, more like a distant relative or something, but he should've.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
He didn't go, was too chickenshit to face his mistake, his failure. His betrayal. Still is too chickenshit, he thinks as he stares at his off-white kitchen-wall.
Should maybe paint it. Bright blue, with happy clouds, or something uplifting like that. That'd look good, though maybe it would make him shoot his brains out. Happy clouds all around... that'd be something Jared would like.
Jensen's not like Jared.
He doesn't talk much. He is precise in action and words, and though he likes to laugh a lot, talking is not his strongest trait.
He'd never be good at a job where he has to talk a lot.
What will Jared do now? Is there even a chance he can get his career back - if he ever wants that, that is? There must be legal consequences, right? Shouldn't Jensen know that? Why doesn't he know it?
He never asked, he realizes as he stares into the freezer, looking for something to eat. He never asked. Did he really care so little, or is he really that much of a coward?
Jensen knows he cares. Maybe more than is good. For him. For all of them.
Maybe that's part of the problem.
**
Kane's coming over. They're friends, so that's what you do, Jensen supposes. Also, his wife's visiting her sister so he's bored.
They plan to watch a movie and make fun of the action scenes, and Jensen's out to buy beer and chips and M&Ms. He's debating between peanut and plain chocolate when he hears the voice.
“Yes, Mom. Yes, I'm fine. I know... yes, I know how to cook spaghetti, Mom, that's the one thing I'll never forget. Yes. Yes. No, I'm fine!”
Jensen stops in his path, not sure what to do. It's Jared, and he's one aisle over. Canned goods. Probably buying tomato-pulp so he can cook either pasta or the awesome chilli he does. He'll probably head over into Jensen's aisle soon, if he's making chilli, because what chilli's any good without nachos?
He doesn't know if he should hide or stay, or even take the initiative and walk over to the tomatoes. So he just stands there, drenched in sweat like he is every morning, fearing his friend more than he feared the bullet yesterday, more than death.
After seven minutes, he's still standing there, getting glared at by a woman with a filled-to-the-brim shopping cart. He shakes himself, glares back because seriously, she could've just gone around him if she was in such a hurry, and makes his way to the checkouts.
He doesn't see Jared again, not inside and not in the parking-lot.
Chance gone.
Apparently, Jay's making pasta.
**
“You ever talked to him?”
Mostly through Running Scared, Kane just breaks the guy-rule, the one that says to never talk about shit. He never was one to follow rules he doesn't like, Jensen thinks.
“Who?” He pretends to be ignorant, though he knows who. Who else.
“Dumbass,” Kane growls, then winces when Paul Walker gets a puck to his face. Shit, that must've hurt. For a moment, they stare at the TV, in awe of all the blood and snot and gore. Fuck, they really pulled no punches with that movie. Jensen's never heard more 'fuck's in the locker room after a job went bad.
“Know who I'm talkin' about. Jared.”
“Ah.”
The Russian kid gets shot, and Walker's putting him into his awesome car, driving like crazy.
“No.” He suddenly feels small, weak for admitting it, but Kane's not just a normal kind of friend, he's his partner, his co-worker, and he has to know where Jensen's mind is at. As does Jensen, and more so if he ever wants to get his position back. “You?”
It's not the kid, Walker's been shot - of course - and he drops out of the car into the arms of the woman. Pretty cool woman, Jensen has to say, considering she's staying with a criminal and shooting those baby-rapists.
“Not in a while, no. Heard he's not going to prison, though.”
Jensen turns over, because even Paul fucking Walker's not as interesting. “Really?” He doesn't know if he's happy - he thinks so - about that, or a bit anxious because it means he would see Jared a lot. Or maybe not - he might move to another city, where people wouldn't know him.
Wouldn't call him friend and shoot him.
“Yeah. Skipped that bullet, I guess.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Chris flinch at the bad choice of words. And well... he would. He was the one to actually have him in his sight.
He was also the one who refused to shoot.
“You still talking to the psych-guy?”
“No. Talking to my wife.” Kane glances over, smiles a bit crooked. “I could lend her out - she's the best in setting you straight.”
Jensen grins, because he can't help going there. “Naaa, I think I like living a bit crooked.” He gets an M&M thrown at his nose for that, and they laugh at each other. Paul's already back with his woman and living a happy Little House in the Prairie-life. The credits are rolling.
“Good movie.”
“Yeah, not bad. Never heard so much swearing on screen ever before.”
Jensen gets up to get a few more beers while Kane's flipping through the channels, trying to find something more to watch. They're not really done yet, but there's no way they'll do it without pretending.
They're guys, after all. Tough guys.
**
“You know you didn't do anything wrong, right?”
Jensen sighs. He's been there, checked every little thing that'd played out that day. Every fucking thing. He knows there's not an error to be found, not technically, but that's not any kind of consolation.
“I know.”
Because he does. And he still did.
“We all thought…”
“But you didn’t… you. You didn’t.”
Kane takes a big swallow from his bottle, probably so he doesn’t have to talk. And it’s true, they all thought, but…
“There isn’t a day I don’t wake up in the morning wishing I’d stayed at home that day,” he finally says, looking at the TV as if there’s actually something interesting happening. It’s a curling-competition, so probably not. “Every morning I wake up, hoping it was just a bad fucking dream. Go to work and find him there with his big mouth, not shutting up. And…”
Yeah. Jensen can kinda relate, but there’s the problem… “I never think that. Every morning I know exactly what I did.”
Kane looks over, frowns. “You didn’t do…”
“Anything wrong? I know that. Fuck, I know that so much that… well. I know.” He’s not going to tell him that it’s written on his bathroom-mirror. ‘You did nothing wrong’, because there is no-one to actually tell it to him every time he wakes up sweating, and something has to be there to remind him of that. “It might be easier if I did, I sometimes think.”
“Yeah? How figure?”
Instead of answering right on, Jensen peels at the label of his beer, then stares at the floor. “I don’t know. I just think it… might be easier.”
“Yeah? Wanna know what I think?”
“Anything gonna stop ya?”
“Well, I think,” Chris continues, completely not acknowledging the poor attempt at a bicker. “I think you think that if you made a mistake, you would actually have a reason for feeling guilty. Because what’s eating you up, what’s making you look like a scarecrow every morning is that guilt, but there is no real reason for that… and that makes it so much worse.”
The Canadian curling-team seems to be winning. Seriously, who invented that game. It’s… weird, but looks like fun. Do the guys actually do the housework in their private lives? Do they have fans, like baseball-players? Maybe there’s a whole bunch of people out there, collecting curling-cards and talking about the best brush-techniques -
“Hey, asshole. Don’t drift off when I’m being insightful. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll leave it at that.”
Jensen sighs.
“Hm. And if you’re not?”
They continue to watch the game, cheering for one team just because they can, not really because they care.
**
That night, Kane says something before he leaves that makes Jensen toss and turn and stare at his dark ceiling for hours.
“We all feel guilty. But we're all without real fault. That's the thing that makes it so hard.”
Why would the others feel guilty? Well... ok, so yeah, they might feel bad for believing all the lies that were told about Jared. That'd make anyone feel a bit uncomfortable when it turned out that it was all just that: lies and misdirections.
But Jensen? Jensen did more, more than any of them. Did worse than any of them, because while they all might've believed the lies, and all might feel like bad friends, Jensen was the one behind the scenes, he was the one in charge, and in the end, made the worst mistake-that-was-none.
He was responsible, it was his responsibility!
The others shouldn't feel guilty, he realizes. And he also realizes that as the man in command, it should've been his job to make that clear. They had no real choice but obey. Or had they?
Kane didn't. He didn't obey, and he didn't fire. He disobeyed a direct order, got a reprimand for it and that way, was one of the very few who should feel completely fine with how things turned out.
'Cause in the end, he was in the right.
He's not any further in solving the inner workings of his team when he finally succumbs to sleep.
**
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Uhm...”
In the silence, the old-fashioned clock on the desk ticks incredibly loud.
“Well, you came in here and asked me for my time, so I assume you want to actually talk to me, right? If that's the case, take a seat and open your mouth, because I honestly have enough other things to do - even though I don't mind watching you a little.”
The Captain winks at him, and for a second Jensen feels like a schoolboy who just realized his teacher is human and likes his looks: flustered, embarrassed and slightly smug. He's just glad he stopped blushing after high-school but can't stop his hand from scratching his neck. He sits down on the visitor's chair, slightly uncomfortable, put on display like that.
“Uh, yeah.” He coughs, then straightens, glad when she puts her pen down and gives him her full attention. Something must show on his face, because she softens slightly, the way he's often seen her do with people who come to her with personal issues.
She's a pretty awesome Captain. Maybe he should tell her that.
“Does it have to do with the Padalecki-situation?” She might've guessed, but it still startles Jensen how well she seems to know him. Her face, more handsome than beautiful, softens a bit more, the gray eyes that he's known to freeze people into popsicles instantaneously warming invitingly.
“Yes, ma'am. It's... Well, I'm kinda wondering if... Will he return? I mean, to the team?”
She sighs, leans back in her cushy leather-chair, which gives off a few squeaky sounds. “Would you want that?”
“I... I don't really... Maybe?”
“Because I'm not sure that would be a very smart idea. But you know this team better than anyone else: if you think it is, I might reconsider.”
“So that means he's not lost his job?” Jensen blurts out before he can stop himself, and only after the words have left does he shut his jaw with an audible click.
The Captain raises her eyebrows. “You didn't know?”
Put to shame by her incredulity, he looks at his fingers, mindlessly rubbing at the seams of his pants. Huh, he's actually worn the material thinner - must've been doing that for some time.
He can hear her exhale and for a hard, long second, he has to swallow back the angry tickle that threatens from the back of his throat. “No, he's not lost his job. I'm not sure if he'll have much of a future in this city, not with everyone knowing about this miserable chain of events. But he wasn't at fault, he didn't take hostages on a whim, instead he was forced into a situation that was so deliberately planned and executed that it just looked like it. He was charged and questioned for resisting arrest and is still suspended for another two months. Padalecki might take his stocked-up time for leave after that, and he's not yet said if he's returning at all, so... But no. He's not fired. He was framed, and didn't really commit a crime.”
It's not news, not really. He's known that it was a frame-job, all a lie, all a bad, evil game. He knew that, but hearing it said out loud makes it all come crashing down on him. All the errors he made, all the things he decided, wrong but not, right but bad... all come into his carefully blanked mind like a horde of Vikings breaking through the door of a monastery. He has to swallow some more, has to clench his jaws and inhale deeply so he won't sob right here in the room with his boss, where everyone could walk right in and where he'll have to walk out and past his team before he can erase any evidence of him losing his shit like that.
“Ackles.” The Captain is still behind her desk, leaning forward but far enough away to leave him the space he needs, giving him time without leaving him alone. Acknowledging his turmoil but not giving it any more attention than she seems worth, and that's exactly why she's so damn good. It's not something special to lose your shit, her demeanour says. It's pretty normal, and I'm not concerned about you because I know you can handle being a bit rattled, and you can handle it alone.
Right now, he'd marry her for that alone.
“You listening?” Jensen nods, glad that he didn't really cry like a baby, just had a few breathing-issues. Bad enough. “Padalecki was framed, by our people, people he thought were comrades, partners, even friends. They buried him neck-deep in evidence and suspicion, left him no way out but the one that came to pass. And if he hadn't had the smarts to ask for the right person at the right time, we would've buried him without fanfares, without the proper honor because we'd still believe all of it. It was a shitty, shitty situation he was in, and it was sheer luck that it ended as it did. He was framed and betrayed by friends and team-mates, and it shook him up pretty hard.”
Again, Jensen swallows down bile. It's the truth, harsh but very much the truth. She's not finished, though. “He has to deal with his shit, and it might help if one of his team” her eyebrow underlines perfectly that she thinks he should be the one “actually talks to him. But” she cuts in before Jensen even finished breathing in for a response “there is one other thing we shouldn't forget. Padalecki wasn't the only one wronged in this game; all of us were.”
She stops speaking and waits for him to look her in the eyes, hard and kind at the same time. Determined, steely. Great. “We were all framed, Lieutenant. Don't you forget that. All of us were set up to murder one of our own, one of our friends.”
**
It still takes him ten more days until he makes up his mind. And it might've taken even longer if coincidence or fate didn't think it prudent to kick his cowardly ass.
In his excuse, there were three more missions they had to go out on, one of them, the latest, ended with a dead suspect - guilty, but still dead - and the resulting foul mood Kane gets in after that kinda thing without fail. Jensen's used to the drill: kill a subject, take Kane out to a bar afterwards - kicking and screaming if you have to - get him tipsy (not drunk) and get the shit pummelled out of you.
It's tried and true, and the far better alternative than the endless misery that would come if he'd let him go home and fight with Stacy. Cudlitz is still in counselling, has been since he slapped his wife after a similar bad day, gave up his position on the team and is seriously thinking about leaving the force altogether. Jensen thinks it's a shame, the guy was good company and a fucking amazing shot. His wife's right, though, he also knows, and that's why he's been the punching-bag for his friend for going on to three years now.
Sometimes, he has to instigate the fight, sometimes it happens on its own. Usually, he lets Kane get in three or four good hits until he's giving back - and there's no way Stacy's five feet five inches would still be standing after even the first punch.
That's why, when fate decides to be an ass, Jensen's sporting an impressive but fading bruise on his cheek and sore ribs.
**
So he's alone, on his way home anyway. He'd played a bit of pool with Imahara and Janina, won against her because she's much more of a dart-person but had to bow in the end to Grant's better understanding of angles and action and reaction and such shit.
They've left a while ago and Jensen's just paid for their drinks when he turns smack-dab into Jared.
“Oomph” is his first word to him since the day it happened, and while he's had time to think about what the Captain said and agree with her in principle, it's still completely different when he's looking at his friend, seeing him up-close and with that haunted, unnatural look in his eyes.
For a few seconds, they just stare at each other, and Jensen can't say what possibly goes on in Jared's head. His own is running on fight-or-flight, on I'm so sorry and the urge to pretend nothing ever happened. He doesn't know what to say, even though it was so clear to him this morning and every other morning since he's made up his mind.
Finally, Jared licks his lips and turns away, breaking the spell. He looks sad and lost, a hundred years younger and older at the same time, and Jensen can't let this chance slip through his fingers.
Can't.
“Jared...” he starts, though he still has no clue how to go on. Jared stops but doesn't turn, his shoulders tensing visibly and Jensen... just swallows everything down and goes on. “How are you?”
**
Incredulity is what he sees in his eyes. Jared's staring at him like he's a green dog with pink polka-dots, a weird, unknown creature never spotted before. It's not a good feeling.
“How the fuck do you think I am?” Jared rasps out when it's clear nothing more's coming out of Jensen's stupid mouth. His voice is rough and worn, and he sounds weary and angry at the same time, not to mention unbelieving that someone who knows could actually ask that.
“Uh...”
“How the fuck do you think I feel, Jensen? Honestly, what kind of answer do you want? That I'm fine? Or maybe that I'm better than ever, with all the free time I've got? How about 'oh, wonderful, Jensen, good of you to ask - I never liked being part of a team anyway'? That satisfying for you?”
“Jared...”
“You actually have the balls to ask me that crap-question, right here, in the middle of a fucking bar... I can't believe I thought you were an ok-kinda guy.” He turns away, and though it stings a bit, Jensen knows it was only said to sting, not because it's actually true, not because Jared thinks different now.
Jensen's still an ok-kinda guy, he knows that he is and is basically just pissed about that blasé attitude he's faced with.
“Hey, don't turn your back on me, Jared!”
“And why not?” Jared sneers over his shoulder. “Why not, huh? You did, but I'm not allowed?”
“I... It...” This is not how he was planning this situation to go. “I'm...”
“Don't say you're sorry if you don't mean it, Jensen. Just... don't bother.” Again, Jared starts walking away, and Jensen can't have that. He let him walk away, let him down before and even though he felt like shit, he's sure Jared felt even worse. Jensen won't let his own remorse keep him from doing the right thing. Finally.
“Hey!” he shouts and grabs Jared's shoulder, and the reaction is completely expected, violent and thrills him to the bone, fills him up with hope.
Jared's on him in seconds, has him by the front of his shirt as he pushes Jensen hard against the counter of the bar. He's right in his face, snarling like a vicious dog and his breath is hot and a little garlic-y. It's a dangerous situation, probably as much danger as facing off with a bear, but all Jensen can feel is relief.
**
“Fuck off,” the bar's owner yells after them when his two burly friends dump Jensen and Jared out the back, “or I'll call the police.”
It makes Jensen grin, then giggle even through the pain, and he's happy when he hears Jared chuckle next to him.
They're a mess.
Jared had pressed him hard into the wood of the bar's counter, and there'll be an ugly bruise forming across his spine. It's nothing serious, definitely not the worst of his injuries and Jared certainly has some interesting marks to add to that collection.
After that initial push, Jensen had shoved Jared away, hard, and followed with a knee-jerk in the direction of Jared's crotch. It never delivered, since Jared just twisted out of the way so his thigh caught the force, and maybe that's gonna bruise, too, but Jensen's glad that the fight didn't end there.
Maybe he really is a masochist, he thinks as he tries to breathe shallowly, his ribs digging painfully into his insides. They're cracked, he thinks, at least a few of them. He knows because it hurts worse than the bruised ones from earlier, from Kane, and he knows from experience that broken ribs are weirdly less painful. Some doctor had explained it once, but Jensen's not sure he remembers it right. Is not sure if he really gives a shit.
But he feels happier than he has in a long time, more free and filled with relief after getting the shit punched out of him - after giving back as much. He smiles a little at the dull streetlamp above him, flickering in the darkness. Jared's shifting close by and he hopes he's not going to leave now.
They'd been on each other like a pair of tomcats, leaving skill and training behind in favour of rage and hurt and guilt and probably some other fucked-up emotional baggage. Jared had him pinned quickly, he's taller and even with his weight-loss he's still packed with muscles. Considering he's actually only using his mouth on the job, it should be weird that Jensen's the one with less muscle-definition.
But fighting's not just about muscles and weight. It's about skill and angles and momentum, which is why someone as small as Janina is on their team, which is why Jensen was able to turn the tables on Jared after he took a bit of a pummelling, twisting and kicking and wrenching so he was the one on top.
Because in the end, Jared is their fucking negotiator, and isn't paid to fling himself through a window on a rope.
“I ssink you broke my tooss.”
It's been nicely quiet so far, only their breaths against the noises of the night; the cars on the streets not far back, the tinkling of glass and the voices behind the door they were just thrown out of.
“Sorry,” Jensen croaks, because his windpipe feels as bruised as his whole body. Jared had slammed him into one of the stools on the bar, sometime between them being on the dirty floor and them getting dragged outside. It had hurt, and for a second, Jensen'd thought he was going to die right there, asphyxiating in a fucking bar.
But it was just a bruise, he was just a bit stunned and Jared grabbing his hair and head-butting him sure shook him back into being alive.
“Sorry my forehead cracked your tooth,” he clarifies, because that must be when it happened. “Or my knuckles?” He's not sure. He punched him more than once, and just because there is blood slowly trickling along his forehead doesn't mean it's really from a tooth.
“Or maybe it wass when you srew me againsht sse wall,” Jared hisses, and that he's bickering back means a lot... it means they're good. Or, well, not yet.
“Jay?”
“Yeah?” He can kinda see Jared poking at his mouth, hears him hiss in the darkness.
“I'm really sorry. I... I'm sorry.”
With a flop, Jared's hand falls back to the ground and he sighs. “What exsactly do you mean?”
“When... when all went to Hell. I... I didn't... I didn't believe you might not have done that. Might not have killed him. And I'm... I... “ he trails off, doesn't know how to go on. Jared's silent next to him, and the chill that's creeping along his legs and backside is not entirely from the ground he's spread on.
**
It feels like hours when Jared finally talks again, and though it's miserable and cold here, Jensen doesn't want to move in fear of losing this chance once more.
“Don't get me wrong here. It wass... I can't ssay it di'n't hurt. I mean, I had nossing, nobody. Eferyon I tried to talk to, tried to make believe in me just turned afay and left me stranded, and... I don't know if I can ever get past ssat, you know?”
Jensen's breath freezes in his chest but he nods, then hums in agreement. Because for all he fears that this is the end, Jared's right, and is entitled. Hell, if Jensen was in his place, he wouldn't be sure either.
“But... is's not like I tried, ya know? I mean...” he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I mean that is's fucking cold here. Les's get ssis conferssation some'ere warmer. Wiss maybe some ice for my face.”
He struggles up, bitching and groaning and cursing about the various aches that must've been aggravated lying here, and Jensen wants to laugh but thinks better of it when one of his ribs pulls sharply.
“You good?” Jared asks, already on his feet and leaning against the brick-wall.
“Gimme a sec.”
He does, but when Jensen's not actually making an effort - because fuck, it's really nice to be so numb - he shuffles a bit closer. “Need a doctor, pussy?”
And this time, Jensen can't help but laugh, can't suppress the groan that comes with it. “Ow, you ass... fuck...” Slowly, he turns onto his stomach then up on his knees, and with a hand from Jared he's finally standing, bent a bit in the middle and hugging his upper body. “'m good.”
“Yea, can ssee shat. Fuck, thiss tooss is annoying.” Jared spits and there's a little click, so he might not have been exaggerating. “Ouch.”
**
They take a cab, because neither is fit to drive. Jared doesn't say anything when Jensen gives the driver his address, and only his. He's not complaining when they both stagger into the elevator, and not when Jensen shows him towards the big, comfy couch in his apartment. He's groaning a little, though, when Jensen hands him an ice-pack but that might be gratitude.
For a while, they sit and nurse their various aches, silent and alone despite having company.
“I don't know how much you know about the evidence against me, all that was put on me?” Jensen smirks bitterly, because he's seen it, all of it. He had to see it, it was plastered all over the incident-room when the shit hit the fan. “See, when they dumped all that shit on me, all the evidence, it was... It got so bad I didn't know if they might not be right, you know?”
Jared's lisp is nearly gone, maybe he got used to the chipped tooth already. Jensen's a bit jealous, because his ribs still hurt. Then again, Jared's whole face is one big bruise, and even though Jensen's sure he did get a few knuckles to his own head, most of Jared's punches where aimed to the middle, the torso and his stomach.
He's holding the ice-pack against his neck, because breathing's still a bit sharper than it used to be and while everything else hurts more, this is the only thing that might still give him serious trouble later.
“And the thing is,” Jared continues “... thing is ssat when I wasn't so sure about myself any more, I could be less sure about anyone of you. I... I didn't trust anyone. Not even you.” The last sentence is so soft and small, Jensen's not sure he was supposed to hear it. But he did, and … that makes him feel better.
“I can't say I blame ya.”
“No. No. You can't. And... I can't really blame you for thinking the same. I mean, it's not easy to just … feel that way, but intellectually? I know that none of you is to blame.”
Jensen feels another hot spike of shame through his chest, and it's really not just a rib. Because if Jared's not actually pissed about them believing this shit, he's pissed about -
“But when we all knew I wasn't... I didn't do that, when you arrested the real assholes who killed Paul. When all was over and Collins shot me up, no-one bothered to come over. And that,” Jared's sounding a lot better now, hard and cold and still so fucking hurt that it's hurting Jensen by proxy. “That's something I can't really get behind. So maybe I understand all of them that were just buddies, or something...” he shakes his head, and Jensen imagines that he's not actually understanding them at all. He wouldn't, in Jared's place. “...but you? We were friends, man. I … at least I thought we were. And you didn't even check on me?”
Jensen can feel the eyes on him, dark and accusing and right. So right in their anger and sense of betrayal. He'd feel the same way, and if it wasn't for his intimate knowledge of the reasons why he … failed as a friend, he'd be angered on Jared's behalf. As it is, he still feels angry over his cowardice, but can't change anything about it. Except maybe explain, as far as that's possible.
“I did. I just.. never came over personally.”
“Why?”
Jared's so calm, maybe even a little timid, like he fears the answer to that.
“Because I'm a coward,” Jensen says, right out, hard words and accusing himself, and even though he still avoids Jared's gaze, he still feels it on him. “Because I couldn't face you, after.. after. I... I didn't want you to hate me, and the more time went by, the more I knew you'd hate me for not coming sooner... and then it just... got a life of its own, I guess. If I could turn back time.... I wish...”
He takes in a sharp breath and turns to finally face Jared, face his worst fear and his best friend, and the pain from his ribs shoots up inside his chest and leaves him gasping. Which, of course, makes it worse. But he's looking at Jared, and tries to make him see that he's so fucking sorry, that he wishes... everything. The pain is sharp and urgent, and the tears run down his face. It's a good disguise, he thinks, even though he's not so sure they really aren't all due to his ribs.
Jared smiles at him, weary and sad. “I got you good, didn't I?”
“More than you know, Jared,” Jensen whispers and blinks. So much more than you know.
**
In the morning, Jared is still there. Jensen's not fit to work, called in sick and everyone would believe it's because of yesterday, because of getting into a fight with Kane. It's common knowledge, and people have claimed that they're in a really bizarre abusive relationship. They're not, and the Captain's got her eye on them so there's nothing to worry about.
He's baking pancakes, stiff and achy, but he feels like pancakes now. Jared usually likes them, and they're easy to chew with only half his teeth.
Which is of course an exaggeration, there's only one of them and it's only chipped.
“Shit, I guess I have to go see a dentist now,” Jared calls from the bathroom, and it's such a nice idea to have Jared over for breakfast, to have him there and be with him, and Jensen turns around just when Jared walks out.
The skillet hits the kitchen-tiles with a wet splat, and Jensen can't move or speak. There's a red dot on Jared's forehead, and before there is any time to react, his brains get splattered all over the white wall and he slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
His eyes dull, accusing, sad and so full of betrayal.
**
“Jensen!”
With a loud gasp, Jensen flings his arm out, hits something right in front of him. He hears a yell of pain but not much else, because his body is screaming to him to stop fucking moving, right fucking now.
It takes a while to settle back in reality, to remember. They kicked the shit out of each other and got kicked out of a bar, then they emo-d it out. Jared stayed over and Jensen fell asleep with the heavy, hot weight on the mattress right next to him, feet touching underneath the blanket.
“Sorry,” he rasps when he can speak again and looks over, where Jared is clutching his nose.
He looks horrible, black and blue and swollen all over. There's blood on his lips, probably from where Jensen hit him but he's glaring so they're good.
“Sorry. Hair-trigger.”
“Yeah, I noticed. You whimpered.”
“Fuck, I did not!”
“Oh yes, you did. Like a little puppy without its mom. All 'hmmm-hmm-hmmmm' and whimpery. It was annoying.”
“Shut up, asshole. Must've hit you too hard on your soft head. You're delirious.”
Jared settles back down with a groan, silent and so … present. It's comforting, and when Jensen feels the rasp of large feet against his shin, he smiles.
“Snuggle-bear,” he murmurs and he can feel the chuckle all through the mattress, all into his skin.
“Now who's delirious?”
Jensen smiles.
**
The window is dirty.
Scale and dust, left over from long-ago vaporized raindrops, mixed in with the smog from outside. A few scattered bug-carcasses and spider-shit, bird-poop on the window-sill.
He really should take the time to clean it, before Jared comes back in the afternoon.
*************************************************************************
Notes (as promised): This story is heavily influenced by the movie "The Negotiator" (awesome movie - go watch it!), which is where you can find some background on what basically went on. My Jensen is based on the character of Commander Adam Beck, while Jared is Danny Roman. Well, kinda.
Also, HBT stands for "Hostage Barricade Terrorism" - it's taken from the movie as well.
(Finally, there's another part for this story. It's not a sequel, more like a prequel. Hope you'll enjoy it as much as this part.
Don't just stand there, say nice things to me