Tables for a Sasquatch
Title: Tables for a Sasquatch
Author: Neonchica
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I wish they were!
Summary: Written for the hoodie_time hurt/comfort comment fic meme found here for roque_clasique's prompt: AU j2 slash- Jared owns a restaurant, Jensen is one of those secret critics that come in and rate establishments based on their level of accessibility. He's in a wheelchair (due to old injury and not illness, please), and Jared only has very high-top tables. Fighting and then not-fighting.
A/N: I just keep doing things I never thought I would do. So this is my first J2 fic. Never really thought I would venture in this direction fic-wise, but then again, a year ago I would have said the same thing about reading J2. I guess we all tend to do things we don't expect everyonce in a while! This is really just vaguely pre-slash if anything, but hopefully it works.
From the minute he gets through the door Jensen can tell this is going to be an unpleasant dinner. Getting in the door wasn’t the problem; the entrance to the restaurant is a ramp, no steps in sight, and only the tiniest of lips over the threshold that even he isn’t bitchy enough to dock points for. For all intents and purposes, from the outside Pellegrino appears to be one-hundred percent ADA compliant, and for the first time in a couple of weeks Jensen thinks this night is going to go off without a hitch.
Problem is, that while the building codes themselves may adhere to all the state rules on accessibility, the décor within tells a completely different story.
He follows the hostess through the restaurant, eagerly hoping that the back is maybe set up differently, that there is an even dispersion of accessible tables somewhere where he can’t yet see them. Because from where he’s sitting right now, there is no fucking way he’ll ever manage to reach his dinner, and he’s tempted to just turn around right now and get the hell out of dodge before he ends up doing something to embarrass himself.
Unfortunately, though, that’s not part of the job. And he’s found himself on the receiving end of critique and ridicule in the past for not fully investigating a place before writing up a review. Doesn’t seem fair that he takes the criticism and suffers the downfall when the places in question were clearly in violation of his rights as a citizen, but somehow his offering up only a cursory disparaging glance before making a decision about a business means his ass is on the line.
So, fine, whatever. If it’s proof they want, then proof they shall have.
Pellegrino is housed in an old train station, ramps at the back of the building leading to another level that was once access to the boarding platform. Jensen pushes harder on the wheels of his chair to scale the incline as he follows the hostess, growing excessively wary as he spots the far wall of the restaurant without yet seeing a table that sits at his height.
One doesn’t exist. The hostess leads him to a small table just big enough for two people and tall enough that it sits at eye height. She pulls away one of the stools, as though that’s the only thing hampering Jensen’s ability to enjoy his dinner, and announces that his waitress will be by soon before turning to leave.
“Hold on, wait,” Jensen says sharply, causing the hostess to turn back nervously.
She doesn’t make eye contact, and Jensen has to remind himself to stay calm, that volatility never got him anywhere...except maybe in the wheelchair to begin with. But that’s in the past, nothing he can change.
“I don’t suppose you could take me to a lower table,” he asks with an even tone.
The girl shrugs apologetically, nervously looks away and around the restaurant like a shorter table might magically appear in her line of sight. “All of our tables are this height. We don’t…”
Jensen doesn’t let her finish before he’s speaking again, no patience for excuses. “I’d like to speak with your manager.” He locks his eyes on her, waits for a response, and then adds a firm ‘now’ when it doesn’t appear that she has any intention of moving quickly.
That gets her moving. In a split second she’s disappeared, back down the ramp and off to some unknown location where, he can only assume, that some manager is being alerted to his displeasure.
This isn’t usually his style - not lately, anyway - to be demanding and in your face about his issues. That’s partly why he writes the column in the first place. He knows it’s pretty darn passive aggressive, easier to hide behind a newspaper and a pseudonym than to get himself in trouble once again by opening his big mouth.
He checks his watch as the hostess scurries off, again several minutes later when no one appears. He waits nearly ten ridiculously long minutes before some snot-nosed teenage bus boy appears carrying a fold up card table and proceeds to set it up without more than a shrug of acknowledgement.
Glancing around the restaurant, Jensen can see the eyes of many patrons watching the set-up, as though his issues are interrupting their ability to enjoy their dinner, and immediately he’s overcome with a sense of humiliation for something entirely outside of his control. It’s not his fault that the place has failed to accommodate someone like him, but he suddenly feels the weight of the responsibility. That him choosing to come to this particular restaurant, knowing damn well that he’s in a wheelchair, was thoughtless and inconsiderate on his part. He shouldn’t have to feel that way.
Jensen doesn’t wait for the kid to finish before he speaks up, finding it harder and harder to hide the irritation from his tone. “I told the hostess I wanted to speak with a manager.”
“He’s busy right now,” the kid splutters as he pulls the last of the hinged legs free and turns the table upright in front of Jensen. “Figured getting you a different table would be enough.”
“I want to speak to the manager,” Jensen repeats evenly, no longer willing to back down. He won’t be brushed aside like yesterday’s news.
There’s something in his eyes that convinces the boy he’s serious, has him muttering something about ‘seeing what he can do’ before he scampers off in the same manner as the hostess before him.
Jensen tries to save face, makes a point of locking eyes with several of the surrounding patrons as he offers a tight lipped smile and a nod of the head. Sorry for the interruption, folks. Don’t let me disrupt your dinner. Nothing to see here. It’s times like this that Jensen feels an overwhelming urge to speak up for himself.
More time passes as Jensen starts to get antsy, wondering what the next step is if this manager refuses to show his face. He’s always got the column, can always give a detailed blow by blow of the disrespect he was shown during his tenure at this particular establishment, but despite what his critics say about him, he honestly doesn’t take some perverse pleasure over knocking down all the negligent establishments in this town. Truth be told, Jensen would be perfectly happy to be out of a job altogether. He would eagerly step down from his position at the paper if it meant that all the businesses in town had made the effort to allow him total access to their establishments. But until everyone realizes that the whole world isn’t six-feet tall and in total control of all four limbs, then Jensen will keep writing. Someone’s got to advocate for the wheelchair users of the world. Equality for all.
He’s got nearly a page written in his scribbled shorthand, his anger fueling the muse, when the sound of someone clearing their throat has him looking up from pen and paper. And up, and up, and up.
The guy easily stands six feet, and probably another half foot on top of that, and he’s got his hands placed casually behind his back, trying to appear appeasing. The pinched expression on his face reads differently.
“Sir, my name’s Jared. I’m the manager and owner. My staff says you requested to speak with me?”
In another time, Jensen’s voice probably would have left him completely. Because the guy standing in front of him is easily a god among men, gorgeous and built and everything that has Jensen drooling and turning to mush. But right now his emotions are running high, irritation and frustration greatest of all, and he doesn’t really care if he’s looking at God himself, the man is getting a piece of his mind.
“Are you aware that failure to comply with the American’s with Disabilities Act is a federal offense?”
It’s Jensen’s favorite opening line. He leans back against the low cut back of his wheelchair, crossing his arms against his chest as he waits for the reaction that he knows will come.
Sure enough, Jared’s mouth goes open and closed several times, posture stiffening, before he goes on the defensive. “Sir, I assure you my building was inspected before I opened this restaurant. Everything passes regulation.”
Jensen scoffs. “Yeah, everything, that is, except the most central part of all restaurants. It’s usually appropriate to provide your patrons with an accessible table to eat from.”
“Agreed,” the manager says, motioning with his chin toward the table that has been brought out, the one Jensen just spent several minutes using to write his critique. “That’s why I had that brought out for you. I’m not exactly sure what the problem is here.”
“That’s just it,” Jensen snaps. “You had to bring a table out. A folding table. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is to a person? The whole point of ADA is to put people with disabilities on an equal playing field with the rest of the population. Not, to make us feel even more ostracized, like it’s an inconvenience to set up your restaurant to accommodate wheelchairs.”
“I guess I hadn’t really thought about that,” Jared says warily. He glances around the restaurant, noting the eyes that are glued to the two men and the exchange that is unfolding. He lowers his voice, crouches down so that he’s more at eye level with Jensen.
“Look, when I opened this restaurant it was with a plan to make the seating accessible to people like me. I’m so tall - I go into restaurants and my knees smack the underside of the tables, and I’m constantly kicking the people I’m with because there isn’t enough room for my legs. I wanted a place that tall people could go where they actually fit.” He shrugs. “Guess you and I are kinda in the same boat. I mean - not really, but…”
Jensen’s argument seems to lose ground at this. He has to admit, it does appear that this guy is genuinely apologetic. And he can understand the motive for the décor. “You mean to tell me you’ve been open for nearly nine months and you’ve never had someone come in that couldn’t sit at these tables?” It’s the only thing he can think to ask at this point.
Jared chuckles incredulously. “Honestly? Yeah. It’s never come up before.”
“Wow.”
“But I can completely understand how this would be a problem. It’s just, I…I guess I had a different problem in mind when I designed it. I’m sorry, though. I’ll be looking for some new tables - lower ones - I promise.”
“That’s a good start,” Jensen agrees.
“And I’ll tell ya what,” Jared offers, flagging down a waitress. “Dinner’s on me tonight. Order whatever you want - drink’s too.” He glances at the waitress, making sure she understands where the bill is to go, too. Looking back at Jensen, he pats the table as he stands back up. “I’m sure you don’t to spend any more time in my presence. Enjoy your dinner…”
“Jensen,” Jensen supplies, realizing he hasn’t given his name yet. Not that he would have had a reason to earlier.
“Enjoy your dinner, Jensen,” Jared repeats. He holds out a hand for him to shake, continues as they connect. “I do apologize for the misunderstanding, but I hope you’ll take the time to come back soon. I promise to have a better table for you next time.”
“I appreciate that.” Jensen watches Jared start to walk away, and finds himself suddenly feeling this strange loss, a fear of what might happen if he never sees this guy again. And it’s weird, because not ten minutes ago he was ready to rip him a new one for being so inconsiderate.
“Hey, wait,” he calls out, hating that it sounds frantic. Jared turns, a question written on his expression.
“I know you’re probably busy - but I, I’m not really in the mood to eat alone. I don’t suppose you’d want to take a dinner break with me?”
Jared seems to hesitate for a minute, but he eventually throws his hands up, nods his head in compliance. “Yeah, sure. Everyone’s gotta eat, right?”
They’re both playing the same game, pretending the idea isn’t nearly as big a deal as it actually is. Jared holds up a finger. “One minute, I’ll be right back,” he says, then disappears. He returns soon after carrying a folding metal chair that he puts on the opposite side of the card table they’ve set up for Jensen. “Some ass hole went and bought all these sasquatch chairs for this place. No way that’d be comfortable at this table.”
And any residual tension melts away.
Author: Neonchica
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I wish they were!
Summary: Written for the hoodie_time hurt/comfort comment fic meme found here for roque_clasique's prompt: AU j2 slash- Jared owns a restaurant, Jensen is one of those secret critics that come in and rate establishments based on their level of accessibility. He's in a wheelchair (due to old injury and not illness, please), and Jared only has very high-top tables. Fighting and then not-fighting.
A/N: I just keep doing things I never thought I would do. So this is my first J2 fic. Never really thought I would venture in this direction fic-wise, but then again, a year ago I would have said the same thing about reading J2. I guess we all tend to do things we don't expect everyonce in a while! This is really just vaguely pre-slash if anything, but hopefully it works.
From the minute he gets through the door Jensen can tell this is going to be an unpleasant dinner. Getting in the door wasn’t the problem; the entrance to the restaurant is a ramp, no steps in sight, and only the tiniest of lips over the threshold that even he isn’t bitchy enough to dock points for. For all intents and purposes, from the outside Pellegrino appears to be one-hundred percent ADA compliant, and for the first time in a couple of weeks Jensen thinks this night is going to go off without a hitch.
Problem is, that while the building codes themselves may adhere to all the state rules on accessibility, the décor within tells a completely different story.
He follows the hostess through the restaurant, eagerly hoping that the back is maybe set up differently, that there is an even dispersion of accessible tables somewhere where he can’t yet see them. Because from where he’s sitting right now, there is no fucking way he’ll ever manage to reach his dinner, and he’s tempted to just turn around right now and get the hell out of dodge before he ends up doing something to embarrass himself.
Unfortunately, though, that’s not part of the job. And he’s found himself on the receiving end of critique and ridicule in the past for not fully investigating a place before writing up a review. Doesn’t seem fair that he takes the criticism and suffers the downfall when the places in question were clearly in violation of his rights as a citizen, but somehow his offering up only a cursory disparaging glance before making a decision about a business means his ass is on the line.
So, fine, whatever. If it’s proof they want, then proof they shall have.
Pellegrino is housed in an old train station, ramps at the back of the building leading to another level that was once access to the boarding platform. Jensen pushes harder on the wheels of his chair to scale the incline as he follows the hostess, growing excessively wary as he spots the far wall of the restaurant without yet seeing a table that sits at his height.
One doesn’t exist. The hostess leads him to a small table just big enough for two people and tall enough that it sits at eye height. She pulls away one of the stools, as though that’s the only thing hampering Jensen’s ability to enjoy his dinner, and announces that his waitress will be by soon before turning to leave.
“Hold on, wait,” Jensen says sharply, causing the hostess to turn back nervously.
She doesn’t make eye contact, and Jensen has to remind himself to stay calm, that volatility never got him anywhere...except maybe in the wheelchair to begin with. But that’s in the past, nothing he can change.
“I don’t suppose you could take me to a lower table,” he asks with an even tone.
The girl shrugs apologetically, nervously looks away and around the restaurant like a shorter table might magically appear in her line of sight. “All of our tables are this height. We don’t…”
Jensen doesn’t let her finish before he’s speaking again, no patience for excuses. “I’d like to speak with your manager.” He locks his eyes on her, waits for a response, and then adds a firm ‘now’ when it doesn’t appear that she has any intention of moving quickly.
That gets her moving. In a split second she’s disappeared, back down the ramp and off to some unknown location where, he can only assume, that some manager is being alerted to his displeasure.
This isn’t usually his style - not lately, anyway - to be demanding and in your face about his issues. That’s partly why he writes the column in the first place. He knows it’s pretty darn passive aggressive, easier to hide behind a newspaper and a pseudonym than to get himself in trouble once again by opening his big mouth.
He checks his watch as the hostess scurries off, again several minutes later when no one appears. He waits nearly ten ridiculously long minutes before some snot-nosed teenage bus boy appears carrying a fold up card table and proceeds to set it up without more than a shrug of acknowledgement.
Glancing around the restaurant, Jensen can see the eyes of many patrons watching the set-up, as though his issues are interrupting their ability to enjoy their dinner, and immediately he’s overcome with a sense of humiliation for something entirely outside of his control. It’s not his fault that the place has failed to accommodate someone like him, but he suddenly feels the weight of the responsibility. That him choosing to come to this particular restaurant, knowing damn well that he’s in a wheelchair, was thoughtless and inconsiderate on his part. He shouldn’t have to feel that way.
Jensen doesn’t wait for the kid to finish before he speaks up, finding it harder and harder to hide the irritation from his tone. “I told the hostess I wanted to speak with a manager.”
“He’s busy right now,” the kid splutters as he pulls the last of the hinged legs free and turns the table upright in front of Jensen. “Figured getting you a different table would be enough.”
“I want to speak to the manager,” Jensen repeats evenly, no longer willing to back down. He won’t be brushed aside like yesterday’s news.
There’s something in his eyes that convinces the boy he’s serious, has him muttering something about ‘seeing what he can do’ before he scampers off in the same manner as the hostess before him.
Jensen tries to save face, makes a point of locking eyes with several of the surrounding patrons as he offers a tight lipped smile and a nod of the head. Sorry for the interruption, folks. Don’t let me disrupt your dinner. Nothing to see here. It’s times like this that Jensen feels an overwhelming urge to speak up for himself.
More time passes as Jensen starts to get antsy, wondering what the next step is if this manager refuses to show his face. He’s always got the column, can always give a detailed blow by blow of the disrespect he was shown during his tenure at this particular establishment, but despite what his critics say about him, he honestly doesn’t take some perverse pleasure over knocking down all the negligent establishments in this town. Truth be told, Jensen would be perfectly happy to be out of a job altogether. He would eagerly step down from his position at the paper if it meant that all the businesses in town had made the effort to allow him total access to their establishments. But until everyone realizes that the whole world isn’t six-feet tall and in total control of all four limbs, then Jensen will keep writing. Someone’s got to advocate for the wheelchair users of the world. Equality for all.
He’s got nearly a page written in his scribbled shorthand, his anger fueling the muse, when the sound of someone clearing their throat has him looking up from pen and paper. And up, and up, and up.
The guy easily stands six feet, and probably another half foot on top of that, and he’s got his hands placed casually behind his back, trying to appear appeasing. The pinched expression on his face reads differently.
“Sir, my name’s Jared. I’m the manager and owner. My staff says you requested to speak with me?”
In another time, Jensen’s voice probably would have left him completely. Because the guy standing in front of him is easily a god among men, gorgeous and built and everything that has Jensen drooling and turning to mush. But right now his emotions are running high, irritation and frustration greatest of all, and he doesn’t really care if he’s looking at God himself, the man is getting a piece of his mind.
“Are you aware that failure to comply with the American’s with Disabilities Act is a federal offense?”
It’s Jensen’s favorite opening line. He leans back against the low cut back of his wheelchair, crossing his arms against his chest as he waits for the reaction that he knows will come.
Sure enough, Jared’s mouth goes open and closed several times, posture stiffening, before he goes on the defensive. “Sir, I assure you my building was inspected before I opened this restaurant. Everything passes regulation.”
Jensen scoffs. “Yeah, everything, that is, except the most central part of all restaurants. It’s usually appropriate to provide your patrons with an accessible table to eat from.”
“Agreed,” the manager says, motioning with his chin toward the table that has been brought out, the one Jensen just spent several minutes using to write his critique. “That’s why I had that brought out for you. I’m not exactly sure what the problem is here.”
“That’s just it,” Jensen snaps. “You had to bring a table out. A folding table. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is to a person? The whole point of ADA is to put people with disabilities on an equal playing field with the rest of the population. Not, to make us feel even more ostracized, like it’s an inconvenience to set up your restaurant to accommodate wheelchairs.”
“I guess I hadn’t really thought about that,” Jared says warily. He glances around the restaurant, noting the eyes that are glued to the two men and the exchange that is unfolding. He lowers his voice, crouches down so that he’s more at eye level with Jensen.
“Look, when I opened this restaurant it was with a plan to make the seating accessible to people like me. I’m so tall - I go into restaurants and my knees smack the underside of the tables, and I’m constantly kicking the people I’m with because there isn’t enough room for my legs. I wanted a place that tall people could go where they actually fit.” He shrugs. “Guess you and I are kinda in the same boat. I mean - not really, but…”
Jensen’s argument seems to lose ground at this. He has to admit, it does appear that this guy is genuinely apologetic. And he can understand the motive for the décor. “You mean to tell me you’ve been open for nearly nine months and you’ve never had someone come in that couldn’t sit at these tables?” It’s the only thing he can think to ask at this point.
Jared chuckles incredulously. “Honestly? Yeah. It’s never come up before.”
“Wow.”
“But I can completely understand how this would be a problem. It’s just, I…I guess I had a different problem in mind when I designed it. I’m sorry, though. I’ll be looking for some new tables - lower ones - I promise.”
“That’s a good start,” Jensen agrees.
“And I’ll tell ya what,” Jared offers, flagging down a waitress. “Dinner’s on me tonight. Order whatever you want - drink’s too.” He glances at the waitress, making sure she understands where the bill is to go, too. Looking back at Jensen, he pats the table as he stands back up. “I’m sure you don’t to spend any more time in my presence. Enjoy your dinner…”
“Jensen,” Jensen supplies, realizing he hasn’t given his name yet. Not that he would have had a reason to earlier.
“Enjoy your dinner, Jensen,” Jared repeats. He holds out a hand for him to shake, continues as they connect. “I do apologize for the misunderstanding, but I hope you’ll take the time to come back soon. I promise to have a better table for you next time.”
“I appreciate that.” Jensen watches Jared start to walk away, and finds himself suddenly feeling this strange loss, a fear of what might happen if he never sees this guy again. And it’s weird, because not ten minutes ago he was ready to rip him a new one for being so inconsiderate.
“Hey, wait,” he calls out, hating that it sounds frantic. Jared turns, a question written on his expression.
“I know you’re probably busy - but I, I’m not really in the mood to eat alone. I don’t suppose you’d want to take a dinner break with me?”
Jared seems to hesitate for a minute, but he eventually throws his hands up, nods his head in compliance. “Yeah, sure. Everyone’s gotta eat, right?”
They’re both playing the same game, pretending the idea isn’t nearly as big a deal as it actually is. Jared holds up a finger. “One minute, I’ll be right back,” he says, then disappears. He returns soon after carrying a folding metal chair that he puts on the opposite side of the card table they’ve set up for Jensen. “Some ass hole went and bought all these sasquatch chairs for this place. No way that’d be comfortable at this table.”
And any residual tension melts away.