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Kisses Sweeter Than Wine, 1/4
San Antonio in July is just about the last place on earth Jensen has any desire to be, but a job's a job and while he's doing much better on that front, he's not doing well enough that he can turn down a sweet assignment just because he doesn't like the weather. He tells himself it's only for a couple of days.
He needs to be there early in the morning, early enough that he's going to have to fly in the day before, which is fine, except there's a little voice in the back of his head--one that sounds remarkably like Josh--mentioning that maybe it's time to let go of the remaining shit between him and the family. As much as it kills Jensen to acknowledge that his brother might be right, he goes ahead and checks the flights. There's one that gets into DFW right around noon, and it's like a sign, so he steels himself and picks up the phone.
He's almost overwhelmed at the eagerness in his mother's voice when he calls to see if the tenuous bonds they've reformed--not much more than phone calls at the holidays--will extend to an actual visit; a lot of things have been said about how disappointed everyone is in his choices, but maybe Josh has been right all along that it doesn't have to mean the end of the world.
Jensen sets it up so he's only going to visit for a few hours; not jumping into the deep end on his first time home in years is probably the smarter strategy. He knows he made the right choice as soon as he sees his father's jaw tightening when the conversation turns to the details of Jensen's life. Still, they manage to be civil long enough to eat a late lunch together. Jensen doesn't miss Dallas, or the life he'd thought he wanted; the only disappointing part is not having more time with Mackenzie. She'd been a freshman that last Christmas, ridiculously grown-up for fourteen, but still with braces and a not-quite-polished charm. She's a rising senior now and Jensen barely recognizes her, at least not until she flies into his arms and demands, "Tell me everything," just like she'd always done even as a little girl wanting him to vett her reading choices before she'd condescend to spend her time on them.
Jensen would be lying if he said he wasn't happy to be able to tell them all he was working on a story for a national magazine, and it's a bonus that his mother reads Saveur religiously. His father, of course, makes sure to point out that Jensen's only interviewing a reality show contestant. "It's hardly a great contribution to society."
Jensen's been feeling a little ridiculous for cutting himself off from everyone; it's good to know he'd made the right call years ago. It's still too bad it took as long as it did to verify that.
His mom is disappointed when he makes his excuses and says he has to leave, but he's fairly certain his dad has reached his limit on not explicitly listing all the ways Jensen's let them down. Adding one more to the list is probably nothing more than is expected of him. Mackenzie follows him out to his rental car, chattering about school and classes and an internship she wants to apply for, like it hasn't been more than two years since Jensen's been home, and he's suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful to her.
"Mom has a copy of everything you've ever had published, you know," she says, cocking her head and watching him intently. "She has a deal with the reference librarian at school. She had it even before you started talking to them again--they have a search or something for your name. They go and find anything that pops up and make a copy of it. Dad pretends like he doesn't know that she does it, but she leaves them out where he can find them and he reads them, too."
"Honey," Jensen says. "I appreciate what you're saying--more than you'll ever know, but I--I'm finding it a little hard to believe."
"You don't believe it, or you're scared to believe it?" Mackenzie asks, and Jensen wonders just when his little bratty sister grew into this shrewd, compassionate young woman.
"I want to believe it, Princess," Jensen says. "I just can't quite get there."
"I'm glad you're here anyway," she says. "Can you believe that?"
"Absolutely," Jensen says, hugging her. "Absolutely."
"I wish you could stay longer, but I'm so glad you came at all," she whispers in his ear.
"Me too," Jensen whispers back. He promises he'll call her--every week, she says firmly--and gets in the car for the drive down to San Antonio. He barely makes it to I-35 before his phone rings, with his brother's number on the display.
"Yes, Josh, I'm still alive," Jensen says, without preamble. "Not planning on driving the car off the road or anything".
"I told you it wasn't going to be a big deal," Josh says. "I'm just calling to tell you--"
"I told you so," Jensen finishes for him. Getting back to a closer relationship with Josh has been the best thing about being estranged from the rest of the family. They'd lost their way while Jensen had been in school; the more they talked, the more Jensen realized how much they'd both missed each other.
"More like congrats for getting in and out in one piece, but yeah, sure, I told you so works, too." If there are times when Jensen wants to kick himself for not listening to what Josh was trying to say, even as Josh was distancing himself from the family, at least Jensen had the sense to answer the phone when Josh called after everything blew up that Christmas.
Jensen snorts as he hangs up, but he appreciates the call regardless. It makes it easier to get his head back into the real reason he's back in Texas, the one that has to do with, as his father so graciously pointed out, a reality show contestant and a paycheck.
Everything cooperates and Jensen's at his hotel and checked in with enough time to get in a little research before he goes out to find dinner. He's already been through the press packet from the network and fast-forwarded through a half-dozen shows. He's a little surprised that there isn't a pathetic excuse for a cookbook that he'd be obligated to read; he thought it was standard operating procedure for the network, to "prove" that the winner of their ridiculous little reality charade was a real "chef," but as far as he can tell, Jared Padalecki, the most famous and successful winner of America's Next Celebrity Chef, has never actually published so much as a holiday collection of his favorite foods to serve family and friends. Jensen supposes he shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth. He's read and reviewed enough atrocities from Jared's fellow "chefs" to know the drill--frozen meatballs cooked in Kraft Catalina French dressing was what really sent him over the edge--but it's still a bit of a surprise. As far as he knows, the network leaves no stone unturned in wringing every last cent out of their pretty shills.
Jensen never considered not taking the assignment; no one in his right mind would turn down a shot at getting something into Saveur. He doesn't really care why the editors want to break with a decade of adamant opposition to the cult of celebrity chefs or why they've decided to start with a guy who's little more than a pretty face, an untrained good ol' boy from Texas. As long as their check cashes and Jensen can add another article in a national to his portfolio, he's good.
Out of habit, he stops at the front desk and asks for restaurant recommendations. The hotel is in a neighborhood that boasts a couple of non-chain restaurants where he has a chance of getting food that hasn't been salted, greased, and drowned in a "special sauce," but it never hurts to get a local opinion.
The first two places sound horrific, but once he convinces them he seriously wants to know where they go when they want something good, he ends up with a meat-and-two-veggie diner that they swear has for-real country cooking and a bar that smokes its own brisket. He really shouldn't be drinking, not on the night before an interview, but he's never found anyone outside of Texas who has even the first clue how to smoke brisket and it seems like a waste to be so close to the real thing and not try it out. Plus, the bar is close enough that he can walk, while he'd have to drive to the diner, so he lets that be the deciding factor even if it's still almost too hot to breathe on the short walk over.
The place is in a strip mall between a craft store and a chain burrito place, which is generally not a good sign in Jensen's experience, but even though it's a Monday night there aren't any parking spaces nearby. Jensen figures he can always leave if nothing looks good, and pushes open the first set of doors. Inside it's dark and noisy, three pool tables in the back, ESPN's talking heads gearing up for the baseball All-Star game on TVs with the sound off, and a solid foundation under it all of old-school Waylon Jennings on the sound system. It's like stepping back ten years in his life, but--aside from his parents--that's not an entirely bad thing. Most of the tables are taken but the bar's less crowded, so Jensen starts there, and when the bartender circles back by to recommend a couple of locally brewed beers and adds that Jensen can get whatever he wants off the full menu, he settles in to check it out.
There's not much on it, which makes it easy to read the whole thing as the one waitress delivers her orders around him, and slowly, he feels the last of the tension from the earlier part of the day leach out of his shoulders.
Being back home again is… weird, Jared thinks. Not any weirder than the rest of what his life's become, but it's still strange to be hanging out with a crowd at the corner table at Enrique's, rather than back in the kitchen plating orders and fighting with the deep fryer so the chips wouldn't be charred. He's lucky so many of his friends are around. He hasn't seen much of anyone since his life stopped being about this place, and it's good to catch up even though so many things are different now.
"JT!" Alexis calls. "You did not finish that entire plate? Again?"
The plate--more like a platter--of chiles rellenos is, as advertised, empty. Jared would feel a whole lot guiltier, except he knows she's not going to do anything but pick at one. Plus, it's not like they can't get more.
"Hey--I need to stock up for the rest of the time when I'm not here," Jared says, standing up and heading over to the bar to put another order in. He could just catch Rafael's eye behind the bar and save himself the trip, but everyone else at the table is coupled off and he could use a break from the reminders of how he's not. Again.
It's a fairly decent crowd for a Monday; Rafe's got his hands full with the bar, plus he's got one guy sitting there studying the menu like there's going to be a test on it, so Jared settles in for a little bit of a wait. There's no way Rafe's going to rush the guy: he's got a double-dose of the need to feed people from his parents and he doesn't get to exercise it as often as he'd like when he's behind the bar.
The guy at the bar already has a bottle of Shiner Black in front of him, which Jared absolutely approves of, and when he orders he goes for the smoked brisket and, like it's an afterthought, adds on an order of chiles rellenos.
"Good call," Jared says. He can't help talking to people, even if they do occasionally turn around and eye him like he's barged in on their religious experience. For all that he's not giving out warm, fuzzy vibes, though, Bar Guy is seriously good looking: cool green eyes and broad shoulders under a crisp white button-down. Jared gives the guy one of his best smiles, adding, "Nobody does either of those like Enrique and Clara do."
"Nobody would know that better than you, JT," Rafe says, reaching into the cooler for a bottle of Jared's favorite--coincidentally, the same beer that's sitting in front of Bar Guy, and handing it over. "What are you on, your third order tonight?"
"Well, yeah," Jared answers, smiling a little sheepishly. "And I'm here to make it four, okay?"
Rafe laughs, punching the orders in, and Jared turns back to Bar Guy, who is still as good-looking as Jared had initially thought, possibly even more so, especially as he drinks his beer--strong wrists and forearms and a mouth that Jared can barely look away from. It occurs to him that he and Sandy are pretty much done--and he's sure it's for good this time--and he's allowed to do more than just look.
"I'm Jared," he says, keeping it simple.
"Yeah," Bar Guy sighs, like Jared is this huge complication. "I know."
"Fan of the show?" Jared asks, and gets a less-than-excited expression in reply. "Fan of somebody I beat?"
"Not really," Bar Guy says. "I'm supposed to interview you tomorrow."
"Oh." Jared hopes the smile doesn't completely fall off his face, but the only reason he's doing this interview is because every suit at the network had insisted. Cooking magazines hate everything he supposedly represents, and he doesn't hold out much hope that this guy--he knows the name, Meg had told him earlier when they were going over his schedule, but it isn't coming to him now--is going to be any different. "Okay. I guess we'll just meet up at the studio tomorrow, then."
The guy nods and turns back to the TV, and Jared heads back to the table where the news of more food, at least, is greeted with enthusiasm. They are his friends, after all, and food is generally high on the list of things that make them happy. People have work and classes in the morning, though, so it's not all that late when Jared's back on his feet saying good-bye and then heading up to the bar to settle the tab.
The same guy is still there, a couple of plates in front of him, and once Jared wins the argument with Rafe to take his credit card--which he does by threatening to come over the bar and swipe it himself--Bar Guy turns to Jared. Jared smiles as politely as possible, but then Bar Guy says, "You were right. Haven't had anything that good in a while."
"Oh, yeah." Jared relaxes a little, his smile genuine now--and if he'd ever had any doubts about Clara working magic in the kitchen, they're gone, because he sure as hell hadn't expected to be talking to the guy again before their appointment the next morning. "Pure comfort food--first place I hit when I'm back in town."
There's a little silence while they wait for Rafe to run their cards; awkward but not horrendous. It's still a surprise when the guy nods toward the TV set, where the Home Run Derby is in full, cheestastic swing, and says, "Josh Hamilton is in a serious groove."
"Yeah?" Jared takes his card and receipt and signs quickly, glancing up at the TV and the new-to-Texas centerfielder. "I didn't figure you for a Rangers fan."
"Grew up outside of Dallas. They're not high on my list, but I keep an eye out, enough to know who's playing for them anyway."
"I don't do much more," Jared says, folding the receipt into smaller and smaller squares. "Not these days." He hesitates for a long second because, contrary to family legend, he's not entirely reckless and idiotic, but then the guy is about to lose interest, and Jared jerks his head toward the TV. "How serious of a groove?"
"That's number ten and nobody else has more than eight, so, pretty damn serious."
Hamilton hits numbers eleven and twelve over the right-field wall in Yankee Stadium while Jared stands there and watches and the crowd is really getting into it. "Hey Rafe," Jared says, as he slides onto the next bar stool. He's fully aware that this really isn't one of his brighter ideas--wanting this guy is one thing, but staying around and hanging out with him is playing with fire--but he's doing it anyway. "Can we get sound on that?"
Hamilton keeps hitting them, and Jensen finally introduces himself.
"Thanks," Jared says, with a lopsided smile. "My sister--she's my assistant--she told me your name, and I know it's on my schedule, but I've been sitting here drawing a complete blank."
The bartender cycles back down to where they're sitting, and Jared doesn't hesitate when he asks if they want another round. Jensen honestly couldn't care less about who might win, but it's his fourth beer and it's been a long time since he's just hung out and let a night unfold. It's the kind of place that believes in feeding everyone who walks through the door, so there are baskets of chips and snacks up and down the bar, and the bartender is quick to bring out samples of a couple different kinds of salsa that they make on the premises. After a while they end up with a basket of peanuts in front of them, and Jensen finds himself watching Padalecki's hands, quick and competent and strong, cracking the shells.
He tells himself to snap out of it, but the rhythm of Padalecki's movements is distracting, almost mesmerizing. It doesn't matter how many times Jensen drags his eyes away and figures out what's happening on the TV, makes himself say something that's not ridiculous or completely inane, a minute later he's back looking. He makes it all the way to the end, though he has no idea who actually wins the stupid contest, but the last time he looks up Padalecki's looking back at him, and there's not much Jensen can say.
"Thanks, Rafe." Padalecki tosses a couple of bills on the bar, watching Jensen with steady, open eyes. Jensen follows him out into the lingering heat of the night and waits while he signs an autograph for a woman who walks out after them. When he turns back to Jensen, he doesn't do anything to hide his interest. "Okay," he says, taking a deep breath. "This is probably the stupidest thing I've done in a long time, but, uh, how good are you at compartmentalization?"
Jensen looks at him, really looks, and stops trying to ignore everything he's been noticing all night, from the shaggy hair his fingers are itching to comb through, to the way the hard muscles Jensen can see in his forearms are all but masked by the loose, baggy shirt he's wearing, and everything circling back to how Jensen's just spent an hour watching those hands and pretending like he doesn't want them on him.
"Hell," Jensen mutters.
"Come again?"
"Yeah," Jensen says, shaking his head, almost not believing he's going to do this. "It's probably the stupidest thing you've done in a long time, and yeah, I'm good at compartmentalizing." He doesn't mean for the last part to come out quite as sharply as it does, but his whole life's been all about not letting one part bleed over into the next. Especially this last year. It's kept him going but maybe just once he'd like it if he wasn't feeling like half of him isn't allowed to talk to the other half. Now's probably not the time, though. "How about you?"
"I've gotten a crash course, lately." Jared takes a deep breath, then says, "My place is--I stay over on the river, and my buddies chipped in for a going-away present of a bottle of Herencia Mexicana, if you're not ready to call it quits."
"I don't think I am," Jensen says, even if adding tequila to everything else he's drunk isn't the best idea. Jared's smile flashes out, and after seeing that smile a thousand times while mainlining Jared's entire season of Celebrity Chef episodes Jensen should know this one isn't anything special, but he's having a hard time remembering that as they sort out that neither one of them has a car they need to worry about, and that Jensen is fine walking the few blocks to Jared's condo. They make the trip in silence, which strikes Jensen as odd--it's not awkward, and Jensen's more than okay with not having to come up with polite conversation, but it doesn't seem to be Jared's style.
"Cat got your tongue?" Jensen can't help asking as they make the final turn to Jared's unit.
"Can't think of anything to say." Jared shrugs, and fumbles with the key. He looks sidelong at Jensen, then says, in a voice that's little more than a whisper, but that goes straight through Jensen, "Can't think of anything that's not you--what you're gonna taste like, how you like it, what kind of noises you'll make when I get my hand on your dick--"
"Get the fucking door open," Jensen interrupts, losing the battle to stay quiet or, hell, even to get his voice to keep from shaking in the rush that Jared's words bring."Now, before I--"
Jared finally gets the key turned; he's shouldering the door open and dragging Jensen inside, slamming him hard against the wall, one hand wrapped tight around Jensen's upper arm, the other twisting in his belt loop.
"Before you what?" Jared rasps, hissing as Jensen gets his own hands into that wild, shaggy mop that's as much Jared's trademark as his smile. Jensen doesn't bother to answer, just pulls Jared down into a bite masquerading as a kiss.
"What do you want?" Jensen asks, when Jared finally breaks the kiss long enough that they can drag some air into their lungs. Neither one of them is letting go of the other, and Jensen can't remember the last time he's skated so close to losing control. "Tell me," he insists, as Jared gets one big hand up under his shirt, and God, he's shaking and Jensen knows he hasn't had that effect on anyone for longer than he wants to think about.
Jared tips his head back and looks through his bangs at Jensen, breathing in quick, sharp pants. "Suck me," he whispers, as though it's the most deviant thing in the world. "That's--I want you to suck me."
"Oh, baby." Jensen smiles, and lets the tip of his tongue trace along his lower lip, smiling wider when Jared can't pull his eyes away from it. "No problem at all." There's a couch not far away, big and deep enough that even Jared can stretch out on it, and when he nudges Jared moves easily, letting Jensen steer him right toward it.
"Right there." Jensen pushes him down until he's sprawled out, all long legs and lean, hard muscle under Jensen's hands. Jared starts fumbling with his belt and the waistband of his jeans, but Jensen slaps his hands away. "Mine," Jensen says, and if it's more of a purr than he intended, well, there are a hell of a lot of things not going as he intended this night, and that's the least of them. He takes his time with Jared; the thick, soft leather belt, and the worn cotton of his jeans, as though he's unwrapping an unexpected but eagerly anticipated present. Jared doesn't push him, even though he's practically shaking by the time Jensen's done, his hands digging into the soft cushions on the couch hard enough that Jensen can see the veins in stark relief.
"Fuck, man," Jared chokes out, as Jensen sits back on his heels and just looks. It's a gorgeous sight. "Don't tease--"
"I'm not." Jensen slides both hands along Jared's thighs. "I'll give you exactly what you want." Jared jumps at the first touch of his tongue, nothing more than a quick, flickering lick along and under the crown; Jensen grins and ignores the wordless plea for more, and settles into working the base, short strokes with the flat of his tongue that wet the skin, give Jensen a chance to get to know how Jared tastes.
Jared stays still, somehow--Jensen feels the tension and need in the muscles under him, but otherwise he doesn't move--so Jensen rewards him, licks long and careful up the length of his dick, teases again under the crown, and then drops back down to start everything over again.
"Oh, God," Jared whimpers. "Godgodgod, please." His voice breaks at the end, and Jensen wants more, wants to hear him come apart, wants to be the one making him come apart. He takes just the head of Jared's dick into his mouth, works the slit with the tip of his tongue, sucks hard. Jared keens high in his throat and Jensen eases off, looking up until Jared meets his eyes before he relaxes and swallows Jared deep.
It's been a while; he's not quite as good at this as he used to be, but he doesn't stop, just does it again, and again, and that's all it takes: Jared's hips arch up and he's deeper still in Jensen's throat, gasping Jensen's name and coming apart just like Jensen wanted.
Jensen holds Jared there as long as he can, until he has to let him go to breathe, but even then he goes back for more, more touches, more tastes, until Jared's breathing settles and he lets go of the couch to stroke his hands over Jensen's head and neck and shoulders.
"Come here," Jared rasps, pulling Jensen up so he's straddling Jared's lap, hands braced on Jared's shoulders. Jared stares up at him, eyes still almost black from arousal, serious and intent, and it's a little hard to breathe, having all that focused on him. His dick is hard and aching inside his jeans, even before Jared slides his hands down and traces a long, slow path along the waistband, easing open the top button before stopping. "You like to tease," Jared whispers against Jensen's mouth. "You're real good at it, but what I want to know..." He trails the back of his fingers down along Jensen's zipper, ghosts them over the line of his dick so light Jensen almost can't feel it, except for how he can, every nerve lighting up at the slightest brush of those long fingers. "What I want to know is if you like it when somebody does it to you."
Jensen doesn't answer, but then he doesn't need to, not with how he's playing along with Jared's little game. He could reach down and take care of things himself, and Jared knows that, but since Jared's finally fucking doing something, Jensen doesn't have to break the mood.
"Yes," Jensen hisses, as Jared works a hand inside his jeans to wrap around his dick. He holds Jensen for an endless few seconds--Jensen grits his teeth and makes himself stay still--but then starts jerking him, slow strokes; careful at first, then turning rough, enough to drag a growl low out of Jensen's throat. "Oh, fuck yeah."
"Let it go," Jared's saying, his nails dragging the length of Jensen's dick, a bright, hot trail slashing through Jensen's control as though it never existed. Jensen digs his hands into Jared's shoulders, holding on like he's going to drown if he doesn't. "Yeah," Jared breathes, doing it again, base to tip and back down, his eyes locked on Jensen's. "You do like it."
His hands are wicked--rough and sure one second, barely there the next, teasing Jensen to fucking death--but it's his eyes that Jensen can't fight. He should look away, close his eyes, do something to keep Jared at a distance, there but still separate, but he can't do anything but look back and hold on and let Jared make him come.
Jared holds him steady through the after-shocks but lets go as soon as Jensen lifts his head, shifting over so Jensen can ease down to sit next to him on the couch. It still takes a bit for Jensen's breathing to even out, but Jared radiates a laid-back sort of calm, enough that Jensen doesn't feel like he needs to rush, at least not until he starts thinking about what he's just done, because fucking the guy he's supposed to be interviewing just screams of class and professionalism.
He sneaks a glance a Jared, and thinks maybe there's a little sobering reality catching on there, too, but Jared only sits up a little straighter and tugs his t-shirt down. "There's a bathroom off the kitchen," he says, quietly.
"Thanks." Jensen makes his way with as much dignity as he can--which isn't much, not when his thighs feel like he's just sprinted a mile. The bathroom's not much bigger than a closet, just a powder room, but all he really needs is a little water and a couple of minutes to pull himself together. He stares at his reflection, at the reddened mark not quite covered by his t-shirt, and splashes a little more water on his face before he goes back out.
Jared's cleaned up, too, standing in the little open kitchen with a bottle of water in his hand and one on the counter for Jensen. Jensen's prepared for the whole scene to be as awkward as hell, but Jared's mouth quirks up into a half-smile that looks to be equal parts smug and rueful and Jensen can't help echoing it.
"Just water?" Jensen twists the cap off and takes a swallow. "I distinctly remember something about tequila."
"Oh! Yeah, right," Jared says, with a couple of spectacular flailing motions. "I really do have--Do you want--"
"Relax," Jensen says, lifting his bottle. "This is probably a much better idea."
"This is where I should admit I don't really do this, right?" Jared studies his own bottle of water with enough intensity that Jensen half expects it to burst into flames. "I have no idea how it's supposed to go, but I'm guessing I'm not supposed to be acting like a dork."
"It's not really my thing either," Jensen says. He can hear Chris laughing in the back of his head, because whatever Jensen's issues are, slutting around has never been one of them. There are days when he wishes he could do the casual thing, but so far, that's not been happening. "So, y'know," Jensen adds, shrugging. "Your dorktastic style is safe with me."
"Yeah?" Jared's still focused the bottle of water, peeling the label off with careful hands. "So, I'm just that special?"
Jensen snorts, and Jared's smile flashes out again but Jensen sees a little uncertainty under the surface.
"I...The last break-up was a bad one," Jensen admits, which is the understatement of the fucking decade. He takes his own turn studying his water bottle, not sure where the words are coming from. He's not into talking about his private life with anyone but, well, no one, lately. Josh knows the basics: Jeff and he broke up. Chris and Misha know a little bit more, but only because they see him a couple of times a week and not even Jensen can keep shit that ugly and public separate from the rest of his life. When he glances up, though, Jared's listening, like he gets it. "It's been a while since I've been out there looking."
"I've been in this on-again, off-again thing for so long I think I've forgotten anything I might have ever figured out about actual dating," Jared says. "We're off. Again." He shrugs.
"How's that work?" Jensen asks, before he thinks. "Sorry. That's--I'm just... I don't have enough left after a break-up to think of going back." It's a little more honest than he intends, but that seems to be the theme of the night.
"Man, I don't know," Jared answers, with a startled half-laugh. "I guess--we just keep coming back to something we know? I don't--she's awesome, and when it's good between us, it's really good, and I keep thinking I'll get it right this time." He shakes his head, like he's not expecting to be talking so much either. "Except I never do."
"I guess maybe you get points for trying?" Jensen feels a little stupid, talking about stuff like this when he's barely got his dick back in his pants, but his mouth won't shut up. "That's not something I can do."
"It keeps getting rougher. Every time we do it, it's--it gets worse at the end," Jared says, quiet and low, like it hurts just thinking about it. "I don't know if it was worth it."
"That's the question, though, isn't it?" Jensen asks. He and Jeff--there had been some good times, but he's never going to be able to think of them without the ugliness of Jeff's secrets--and Jensen's own complicit, thoughtless stupidity--coloring them, tainting them.
"Yeah, I guess it is." Jared smiles, not big or showy, but it looks real. "Sorry, man. Like I said, I'm not up on these kinds of things, but I'm pretty sure getting all emo on you isn't how it's supposed to go."
"Let's just call the whole night an anomaly and be done with it," Jensen says.
"You got it," Jared agrees, and the silence that follows is--well, not entirely comfortable, but not entirely horrible either.
"I should probably take off," Jensen says.
"I can--do you want a cab?" Jared reaches for the phone on the counter. Jensen doesn't, but it's the middle of the night and he's in a strange city; walking probably isn't the best idea, and this is seriously why he doesn't do random hook-ups, because fucking hell, he hates this. Jared punches a number into the phone and hands it to Jensen, murmuring his address when Jensen hesitates.
"Can we--is there any possible way this could not be awkward as hell tomorrow?" Jared said, in a single rush of words. "Not so much because of the interview, just because I... I didn't expect any of this, and it's been good. It'd suck to have it end up weird."
"So, what--just pretend like none of this happened?" The thought of ignoring everything should make Jensen's night, but even just saying the words ends up making him feel vaguely slimy.
"No," Jared answers, drawing the word out as though he's trying to buy some time to think. "I don't want to pretend like it didn't happen, because it was fucking hot, and I liked it." He looks at Jensen with a shrewd, open intelligence. "I think you liked it, too."
Jensen rolls his eyes, but nods, and Jared smiles at him.
"I just don't want it--us--to be awkward," Jared says, simple and direct, like Jensen can make it all better if he just tries. Jensen wants to tell him to grow the fuck up, but there's something in the dark eyes that tells him that Jared knows exactly what he's asking for, how impossible it is, but he's asking for it anyway.
"Fine," Jensen sighs, not examining why he's going along with the whole idea when he knows better. "We'll just wave our magic wands and make it be shiny and happy."
"Thanks." Jared nods, serious for all of a second before his mouth quirks up. "Magic wands, huh? I'll bet yours is pink and sparkly," Jared says, his laugh low and warm, intimate.
"Basic black," Jensen answers, unable to resist the laugh no matter how idiotic the conversation is, or how much he's telling himself not to get sucked in by the charm. Up close and personal, it's no wonder Jared won the show. "No sparkles."
The cab pulls up outside, its headlights flashing through the windows, and Jensen puts the water bottle on the counter. Jared walks with him to the front door and puts his hand on Jensen's when he reaches to open it. "Thank you," Jared says, back to being serious. Jensen isn't sure what exactly he's being thanked for--the blow job or what--but he nods, equally serious.
"See you tomorrow," Jensen says, and Jared lets him open the door.
"Yeah," Jared says, leaning against the door frame and smiling. "You will."
It's only a short cab ride back to the hotel, and the shower in the room is unexpectedly decent, but nothing short of a spa is going to distract Jensen's brain, so he just goes with it. He's on auto-pilot as he gets set up for the morning, wake-up calls and the alarm on his phone as a back-up and making sure he's got maps and stuff printed off. When he'd been planning things out, this time was going to be for him to review the rest of the notes he'd made before the interview, but that plan's been more or less overcome by events. Ending up back at the guy's apartment and on his knees will do that.
He doesn't expect to get much sleep--he figures his brain is good for at least a couple of hours of recrimination--but something about the way Jared hadn't just shoved him out of his apartment sticks with him and he ends up crashing not long after he crawls under the sheets. It's not quite sunrise when the alarms go off, but he's rested and relatively not-stressed about whatever it was that happened the night before. Maybe he's setting himself up for a giant fall, but he can't make himself be realistic about it.
When they'd set everything up, Jared's assistant--his sister, Jared had said--had called three times to make sure Jensen didn't mind meeting Jared at the local TV affiliate, squeezing in the interview between some segment Jared's doing for the local morning talk show and the flight he has to catch to meet up with the crew for his own show on the network. Jensen hadn't really cared, but once he gets to the studio and they let him hang around while they shoot, he's actually glad he's there, pre-sunrise wake-up call notwithstanding.
Jared's already on the kitchen set, in jeans and boots with a bandana tied around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. He's wired and miked, working his way through the segment with a producer, with serious intent behind the non-stop jokes. As Jensen gets settled in a chair beyond the lights and cameras, Jared catches sight of him and waves, like they're buddies instead of a couple of strangers who've fucked, and Jensen finds himself nodding back in the same way. He's a little relieved that Jared's attention snaps back to the producer and the show; they're going live in under a minute and Jensen is just as happy to be forgotten.
Jensen doesn't usually do interviews; most of his published articles have been about places or food in general. Trying to get the feel of an actual person is like trying to put together one of those puzzles where the pieces are printed on both sides and the picture on the box isn't clear; it always takes a while to figure things out and try to get a sense of the whole from the bits.
The editing on Celebrity Chef is notorious for manipulating actual events, so watching Jared do his thing live is an unexpected bonus for Jensen, even if Jared is only standing around making endless variations on breakfast burritos. He has a smile and a joke for everything; when one of the hosts introduces Jared's segment as ideas for brunch and Jared gestures to the jeans and boots and asks if he looks like the kind of guy who does brunch, Jensen's got the perfect hook for the interview.
Jared feels a little guilty when he sees Jensen waiting for him as he's coming out of the studio. "Hey, man, I'm sorry I took so long," Jared says, tucking his bandanna in his back pocket. His hair is still a little wet--collateral damage from where he'd washed off the make-up they'd used on him--which at least means it sort of stays back when he rakes it off his face.
"No problem," Jensen says, and maybe he really doesn't mind that Jared's stopped and talked to everyone he knows, and anyone who comes up to him, posed for pictures, all that. It's what Jared always does, but today it's eaten into the time he has with Jensen.
"I'm all yours now," Jared says, and Jensen nods.
"So if you're not the kind of guy who does brunch," Jensen starts, as they head outside to the parking deck, "what kind of a guy are you?"
"Pretty much just what you see," Jared answers, shrugging and pushing his hair off his face again. Jensen watches him closely; Jared slams down the memory of those eyes looking at him, green and intense and knowing, right as Jensen had opened his throat and let Jared fuck it hard. He takes a deep breath and finishes, "Just a guy."
"Yeah," Jensen says. "That's what it says all over your PR package."
"So that automatically makes it a lie?" Jared doesn't exactly snap, but he can't keep the edge out of his voice, and of course Jensen picks up on it.
"No," he answers. "But it does make it boring. Everybody knows you're 'just a guy.' I thought maybe there was more."
"I don't know," Jared says. "I started working in the kitchen with Enrique and Clara--where we were last night--when I was 14 and I never left, not until I got the Celebrity Chef gig."
"And you came back," Jensen says. "We're shoehorning this interview in now because you're doing a guest bit on a local morning show in a third-tier market on your break from your own show."
"It's no big deal," Jared says. "When I got the audition for Celebrity Chef I'd never done anything in front of a camera, but they gave me a crash course here. Filmed me, showed me how to work the camera, let me get a little bit comfortable. I'd have bombed out the first week if I'd gone in as cold as I was."
"Yeah," Jensen says. "It was touch and go with you early on in the show."
"It was rough," Jared says. "I was rough. I mean, I'd been in the kitchen for a long time, but I think I was the only guy there that year who hadn't had any formal training. Add no experience in front of a camera and I'd have been right back here. I'm just paying them back a little. "
"Sure," Jensen says, nodding. "You've been working around the industry for a lot of years--you never considered going to the Culinary Institute? Apprenticing with someone?"
"Not at first," Jared answers. "I got the job to save money for a car, and I kept on working there because it was easy. I kept promising my folks I'd go to college, but they kept expanding the place, bringing in more food, stuff from Clara's family, Enrique's dad's secret recipe for the brisket and … I don't know. It was fun, but more than that, they trusted me, taught me stuff. Gave me the run of the kitchen when I was a kid."
"Like you're an old man now," Jensen says, and Jared rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, you too," he says. "Then the whole Celebrity Chef thing came up and--well, I guess you know the rest. It's all over the PR crap."
"You got talked into entering by a friend, charmed your way through the interviews, and the rest is history."
"More or less," Jared says, shrugging. "Look, do you want to do this here? In the parking lot of Channel 5?" Jensen shrugs; Jared shoves his hands in his pockets. "Rafe--from behind the bar last night--he thought it'd be hysterical. Which it was, for the most part, and then I won."
"You just stayed on?" Jensen watches Jared closely, the way he's got his hands shoved into his pockets, the lack of anything close to his usual smile. "For how many years?"
Jared looks at him for a long time before he says, "Look, we can talk about that, but seriously, man, not here. I either have to get something to eat, or pack. I'm running out of time."
"If you're leaving the choice up to me, I should go with the packing," Jensen says, with just as long of a look.
Jared nods slowly. "Sneaky. Trying to keep me off-balance so I'll spill something juicy?" He sighs. "Here's the truth: I hate doing interviews like this, okay? I'm trying to get better at it, but I've still got a long way to go. I'm not trying to blow you off, but really, me standing here talking is going to suck." He's got that look, he knows it; the one that makes Chad throw things at walls. Jensen just looks back at him.
"What'd make it not suck?" he asks, and he's sincere, even if it's clear he feels like Jared's playing him.
"For real?" Jared hesitates again, then shrugs. "Food is always good, but cooking would be better." Jensen looks at him sharply, and Jared holds his hands up. "Yeah, I know the whole no-really-see-how-into-food-I-am angle is a bit much, but…" He shrugs again. "It gives me something to do, helps me not think about how you're only talking to me so you can tell everybody else in the world about it."
"Well, the last time I checked, Saveur didn't have quite those circulation numbers," Jensen says dryly. "But okay. Sure. I'm not supposed to completely antagonize the subject, right?"
"Cool," Jared says, exhaling like he's been holding his breath for a month. "And yeah, I guess my place is probably not the best idea--"
"What, your magic wand is out of commission?"
"I'm good, but I'm not that good," Jared fires back, but he's grinning again. Jensen rolls his eyes. "Okay, I have an idea, if you want to ride with me." He gestures toward his truck. She's old and her paint job is faded, but she still looks like somebody loves her, which is the God's honest truth, even if Jared's a little biased
"Sure," Jensen says, following him into the truck. "Is that actually an eight-track player?"
"Watch it, watch it," Jared says, backing out of the space. "I was a kid when I got her; all I knew was that the guys I thought were the coolest drove trucks."
"Not saying a word," Jensen answers, but he's watching Jared like he's putting together a puzzle. Jared's still not comfortable with stuff like this--stick him in front of a crowd and he's all over it, but letting people in, people who don't know him and don't give a damn about him, still makes him twitchy as hell. He switches into tour guide mode, anything to put a little distance back in the equation, pointing out local landmarks and occasionally throwing out a personal comment. Jensen nods along, paying more attention than Jared expects, even though Jared would take any bet against Jensen ever coming back to San Antonio. The scenery shifts to a comfortable suburban sprawl, houses that are nice but not ridiculous, and Jensen doesn't seem at all surprised when Jared pulls into a driveway and says, "My parents'. It's the only other kitchen in town that I know where everything is."
"Okay," Jensen says. "First time I've ever interviewed someone while hanging out in his parents' kitchen, but whatever."
"Oh, crap, you don't have to say where we talked, do you?" Jared asks, horrified by the thought. He really hadn't thought things through to the logical conclusion. "My mom's probably going to kill me anyway, bringing you here without her having the place scrubbed down." He gets the back door unlocked and moves automatically to block out the dogs who're wildly excited about having company during the day. "If it winds up in the magazine, they'll never find my body."
"It's just supposed to be a sidebar. Very short," Jensen says. "I think your life is safe."
Jared gets the dogs back out of the kitchen, but without them the house is too quiet. He detours through the family room and gets some music going, which helps, and starts considering what he's got to work with for breakfast, which helps even more. He points Jensen to a bar stool on one side of the island, then opens the refrigerator and drapes himself over the door, studying the contents and muttering to himself. There are eggs and some of the applewood-cured bacon his dad likes. Eggs and bacon are pretty mundane and boring, but they're a cliché for a reason. He investigates a bowl covered with foil and discovers what looks like plain steamed redskin potatoes, and he can definitely work with that. He comes out juggling everything and stops singing along with the music--Skynyrd, now--to make sure that Jensen doesn't have any food allergies.
"I've had a lot of odd stuff in my life," Jensen says, thoughtfully. "But so far, nothing's put me in the hospital."
"All systems go, then," Jared answers, and goes back to singing, but softer now, not much more than humming.
"This--can I call this off the record?" Jared asks, not looking up from where he's quartering the potatoes. "I mean, for real not in whatever you're going to write? Can you do that?"
"No problem," Jensen says, dryly. "We'll lump it in with last night."
"Yeah," Jared says, half-laughing and shaking his head. "Okay." He hesitates for a couple of seconds, weighing his words, trying to decide whether he can trust Jensen. It's probably way too late to be thinking along those lines, he reminds himself. "Clara was sick for a while, pretty bad. Enrique and Rafe needed to take care of her, but they're strictly a family business and there's not a lot of margin in the restaurant world." He glances back at Jensen finally, and Jensen nods. "I stayed on for about a year after I'd planned to leave, ran the kitchen for Rafe, gave him a little breathing room until she was back on her feet and they could think about the business again."
"That's not such a horrible thing," Jensen says. "You sure you want it off the record?"
"It's not my thing to tell," Jared says, simply. He keeps his eyes on the garlic clove he's smashing and mincing, and the bacon he's chopped and tossed into a heavy, cast iron skillet, but it's more of an excuse to not look at Jensen, and he gets the feeling Jensen knows that. "I don't know how much they said to any of the other family. I--You asked if I ever thought about doing anything professional and I did--had a job lined up in New York, crap pay, but I worked it out so I could live, sort of, but then all that happened and I--there really wasn't anything else I could do. We're not blood, but we're family."
He catches the garlic on the flat of the knife he's been using and drops it into the skillet, watching it carefully as it starts to brown, focusing on that and not the year he'd spent barely talking to his parents, who couldn't understand why he wasn't "doing anything" with his life, the year basically everybody he knew felt the same way. If he never hears another supportive lecture about how it's okay to be scared of change but you have to push through it anyway, it'll still be too soon. He could have told his parents, but he'd gotten mad at the lectures and nursed a grudge. Not one of his finer moments, but there you go.
He's caught up in the past, not really paying attention to Jensen, until he turns around and Jensen's leaning on the counter next to him.
"Just trying to figure out what you're doing over here," Jensen says.
"This and that," Jared answers, happy enough for something to focus on that he'll give Jensen a pass on being the one who dredged up all the memories. "I'm just making it up as I go along." Jensen reaches for the stuff piled on the corner, cocking an eyebrow at Jared for permission. "Sure, go ahead," Jared tells him, as he grabs an onion and starts in on it, his knife working fast and true.
Jensen pokes around, finding the potatoes and smoked salmon, not saying anything but not giving off any kind of a foodier-than-thou vibe, so that's something. Jared drops the potatoes into the skillet with the onions and garlic and bacon, crushing them roughly, and flips them as soon as they brown on one side. The water in the other saucepan has been at a bare simmer for a while, and once the potatoes are under control Jared gives the water a quick stir to make sure it's not too hot. He cracks four eggs and slides them smoothly in, then starts setting up the plates.
"No timer?" Jensen asks, and Jared laughs.
"I've poached so many eggs I could probably do it in my sleep," he answers, splitting the potatoes and salmon between the plates and going back for the eggs in exactly three minutes.
"If you say so," Jensen says a little doubtfully, but Jared just hands him a plate and a fork and they settle back at the bar.
Jensen takes a bite and then another and it's good--eggs perfectly poached, crispy bits of bacon-infused potato skins mixed into the soft interiors. He looks up to see Jared watching him and rolls his eyes. "What? I like food."
"Yeah, I noticed," Jared says. "I was watching you last night."
"Yeah." Jensen manages to answer casually, which is a freaking miracle given the way his entire brain flashes back to the night before. "Like to cook, too."
"Yeah?" Jared asks, and Jensen's more than a little happy to hear the strangled undertone to his voice. It's nice to know it's not just him with the inappropriate flashbacks.
"Yeah. I--some friends and I… we run an underground restaurant. I do most of the cooking."
"Dude, that's cool," Jared says. "We keep talking about trying to get into one when we're in LA, but so far we haven't made it."
"It's mostly an excuse to play around with recipes I'd never try on my own," Jensen says. "But it's fun."
Jared laughs. "This is stupid, but you're the first person who's interviewed me in a long time that's actually been into food, much less cooking. What kind of stuff do you do? In the restaurant." His voice sounds less strained, and if Jensen thinks he sounds a little too enthusiastic to be real, at least it's a distraction from thinking about the night before. Jensen's happy to play along. "Do you specialize?"
"No, no," Jensen laughs. "We do anything, really. One of us comes up with a theme and we go with it." Jensen glances at Jared, who nods encouragingly. Jensen doesn't think it's all that interesting, but whatever. "We started off staging it at a friend's place--we could get about ten people in if we shoved all the furniture into the bedroom and ran a table the length of the living room."
'Table' was maybe too grand of a word for a sheet of plywood on sawhorses, but Misha had come up with enough chairs that wouldn't collapse, and once they threw a blanket and a pressed linen sheet over the raw wood it looked better than it had any right to. "We kept it pretty simple for a while, but people liked it, so we kept going."
"And got more complicated?"
"The last one was a little fussy," Jensen admits. "I kinda went overboard--crepes stuffed with a lobster-mascarpone filling and a ginger-carrot emulsion, some pea shoots on top, and then a--"
"Wait, there's more?" Jared interrupts, laughing.
"Yeah, yeah, I told you I went overboard," Jensen says. "It's all from Keller's first cookbook. They--my friends who do all this with me--dared me." Jared doesn't stop laughing, but motions to Jensen to keep going, so Jensen runs through the rest of the menu as quickly as he can. "That was the salad course; for the soup course I did a cod filet on top of a cod cake with clam chowder over it all, then a lamb chop on a bed of rosemary-infused summer beans and a strawberry terrine for dessert."
Jared's still laughing helplessly, and even if it's not a mean laugh Jensen feels compelled to add, "But my friend Danneel did the terrine."
"Oh, good," Jared all but chokes out. "I was worried there for a second. Thought you might have overreached, but now that I know somebody else did dessert, I'm good."
"Dude," Jensen says, around another forkful of eggs and bacon and potatoes. "I don't even know you and you're giving me shit."
"It's a gift?" Jared snickers. "You take it so well? Seriously, you're just not what I expected. I mean, I know a lot of people who liked that book, and I know it's titled The French Laundry At Home, but I think you're the first person I've met who's actually jumped through all the hoops and cooked something from it. Much less four courses of the same meal." He cracks up again, shaking his head at Jensen.
"Well, ditto, on not being what I expected," Jensen fires back, finishing up his breakfast. "You normally cook for things like this?"
"Not hardly." Jared sobers up fast. "Normally I'm rushing through these things, and it's either somebody from a morning radio show and they have exactly 96 seconds to talk to me, or it's a PR thing for the network and I'm just one in the line. Either way, everybody generally knows what they think about me already, so it doesn't really matter what I say."
"Yeah, well, if it makes you feel better, I usually do this over the phone and know that I'm about third or fourth on the the multi-tasking priority list, so…"
"New experiences for everyone," Jared finishes, carrying the plates to the sink, stopping to stretch before he tosses them in the dishwasher, his back and arms one long, lean arc. Jensen winces in sympathy as his spine pops. "What else do you want to know?"
"Any cookbooks on the horizon?"
"Not as long as I'm on the road as much as I am." Jared makes short work of the dishes, and is wiping down the counters in minutes. "Not that I'm complaining. I fucking love doing the show; it's just pretty time-consuming. Next question?"
"Why that format?"
"Are you kidding?" Jared's laugh booms out again, and as much as Jensen had wanted to label it a pretty fake for the TV audiences, it sounds even better and more sincere up close and personal. "I get to bounce around the country, eat awesome food, hang out with people who love what they do, and eat some more. What could be better?" He gets serious after a second, and adds, "It's my thing--it's like getting to hang out with a dozen of the people who taught me to cook every season. Different food, different places, but the people who love it and do it to make their living--they're almost always someone I want to get to know. Besides, there are fifty different shows with somebody in a kitchen, and only a couple out on the road. It seemed like a good place to not get lost in the shuffle."
"Okay, fair enough," Jensen says. Jared has the kitchen back in order and Jensen has the feeling their time's about up. When they set the interview up, there'd been all kinds of muttering from Jared's side about how tight his schedule was, so Jensen's fairly happy with how much time he's gotten, and no, he tells the part of his brain that doesn't want to shut up, he's not counting the night before in that.
Jared goes back into tour-guide mode on the way back to dropping Jensen off at his car, which is fine with Jensen. It's a good wind-down to the whole process. Jared's phone starts vibrating almost non-stop with texts and e-mails and voice-mails as they're pulling into the parking lot. Jensen expects a quick good-bye, but Jared catches him with a touch to his wrist as he's getting out of the car.
"Thanks," Jared says. "Really."
"You're welcome," Jensen answers. "But, for what?"
"For making it not be weird," Jared says, with about as serious a look on his face as Jensen's seen yet.
Jensen's first instinct is to roll his eyes and make some kind of a joke; in the end, though, something inside him doesn't want to be flip about any of it, so he just says, "No problem."