Chapter Text
Written by nyxocity
Art by kingsblkdragon and LSHM-22
He presses his hands against the chest wound, blood warm and slick against the palms of his hands, the feel of it making his stomach wrench, turn over inside him. So much blood, God.
No.
“You’re not supposed to die,” he whispers, leaning down, words breathed out with iron-clad desperation.
“Don’t you dare fucking die.”
Two months ago…
Jared’s pouring himself another glass of scotch after dinner when Ethan comes into the room.
“Want one?” Jared asks, holding up the glass.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“One day I’m going to corrupt you,” Jared promises, grinning before he takes a sip. He sighs when Ethan just looks at him, dark eyes penetrating the haze of Jared’s buzz.
“What?”
“I found our guy.” Ethan’s vibrant, eager, as he sits on the edge of the dining room table. "His name's Jensen Ackles," Ethan says, sounding official. "Twenty-nine years old. Originally from Odessa, Texas. Joined the Navy when he was eighteen. Former Navy Seal sniper with a seven year career, excelling in the areas of surreptitious entry, technical surveillance, and high threat protective security. Extremely advanced weapons training. Awarded a bronze star after performance above and beyond the call of duty in Afghanistan in 2006. Honorably discharged in early 2007. He's been doing bodyguard work ever since his feet hit the civilian streets four years ago, and he's got one hell of a reputation as a straight up badass."
Jared rolls his eyes, swirls the glass of scotch in his hand. "Great. All I need. Some guy thinks he's Chuck Norris following me around twenty-four seven."
"Chuck Norris was Delta Force."
"Whatever," Jared waves a hand at Ethan. "Still a pain in my ass."
“Jared,” Ethan says, and Jared sighs. He knows that tone of voice, the one that means Ethan's not going to shut up until Jared says yes. And to be fair, Ethan doesn't pull that tone out very often. If he did, he wouldn't still be Jared's agent after all these years.
"Is he cute, at least?" Jared asks, arching a brow at Ethan, corner of his mouth pulling into a grin. "I mean, he better be some kind of amazing eye candy if I'm gonna be looking at him constantly for God knows how long."
Ethan's mouth thins into a hard, twisted line of a smile. He pulls a picture from the file and hands it over to Jared.
Jared shakes his scotch restlessly as he snaps the photograph out with a flourish and looks down.
It's a dramatic photo, shadow and light dividing Jensen's face into sharp contrasts. Jared notices his eyes first, striking, intense. Green and gold, set behind a fringe of dark lashes, tiny lines creasing the edges of his steely gaze. Wide, almost square face, saved by a jaw line sharp and solid enough to be cut from stone, cheekbones to match; vee's that draw down to a point, mouth full and sensuous, lower lip casting a shadow across the divot in the center of his chin. Dusky blond hair with lighter highlights, cropped short and close, swept back in a pattern that isn't quite spiky, isn't quite business.
Ethan is such a bastard.
Jared stares at the photograph for a full minute, thumb running along the lower edge. He hands it back to Ethan, sets his eyes on the gold liquid in his glass. "You did that on purpose."
He can practically hear Ethan smirk. Asshole. But that's why Ethan gets shit done in this town; he knows what buttons to push, and just how hard to push them to get what he wants.
"Fine," Jared says and downs his scotch. "Hire him."
Jensen turns his car onto the long, winding drive and notes the smoothness of the road, the way the trees line the edges, spaced perfectly on both sides
Jensen’s done his research. The potential client’s name is Jared Padalecki, king of the action movie genre and a well-known celebrity; twenty-five years old, born into money and show business, with a reputation for being flamboyant and decadent. Jensen’s mostly got his mind made up about this case already. He’s not against working in show business, but an actor this young at the height of his career, known for partying and public antics and making appearances everywhere—this case sounds like Jensen’s idea of a nightmare.
Still, Jared’s being stalked and receiving death threats.
There’s a speaker box to the left in front of the double iron gates, and Jensen takes in the solidness of the bars, notes the thick, seven foot high brick walls they attach to. He wonders about the strength of the hinges and the locking mechanism as he reaches out and presses the intercom button. “Jensen Ackles to see Mr. Ethan Anderson.”
“Yes, Mr. Ackles,” someone’s voice chirps back at him with the just the faintest crackle of static. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The gates swing open with a slow, light creak.
Jensen pushes the button again. “Can you see me?”
“Excuse me?” the voice crackles back.
“Can you see me?” he says again. “On your cameras?”
A long moment passes before the person on the other end answers. “Yes.”
“Do I match the picture you were given of me?”
There’s an even longer pause. “We’re expecting you.”
“Yes. Do I match the picture you were given?”
“We were just told to expect you,” the voice on the other end answers, sounding slightly mystified.
Jensen nods and rolls up the window. He follows the long, winding driveway, noting the landscaping leading up to the house.
The man who answers the door is wearing khakis and a button down. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Jensen Ackles. I’m here to see Mr. Anderson.” Jensen pauses. “You didn’t know I was coming?”
“No. But then I rarely know who’ll show up on our doorstep,” the man laughs, opening the door wider for Jensen to enter.
Jensen nods and steps inside, looking around.
The house is grandiose to the point of obscene; the lobby—it can’t be called anything other than a lobby—is filled with marble pillars and encased by a set of double spiral staircases winding down to the main floor. Two golden retrievers run across the expensive marble tile to greet him, claws clicking against the intricate pattern, yipping and barking cheerfully. Their black, wet noses nudge Jensen’s pockets, bodies quivering, their tails wagging and hopeful.
Jensen reaches down, runs his fingers through soft, red-gold strands, meeting big, wide brown eyes. Female and male, he can tell by the delicate glide of the female’s muzzle.
They’re sweet, but they’re not much for guard dogs besides the barking.
“I see you’ve met Sadie and Harley,” says an older man descending the stairs. He’s dark haired save the gray creeping into his temples, eyes warm brown behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m Ethan,” he says, crossing the entry room, hand extended.
Jensen takes his hand and shakes it. “Mr. Anderson. Nice to meet you.”
“Please, call me Ethan,” the older man scoffs with a dismissive gesture.
“No. But thanks,” Jensen smiles, taking his hand back.
“All right, then,” Ethan nods after a moment. “If you’ll follow me to my office?” Ethan asks with a gesture.
Jensen does, noting every step, every curve of hallway all the way to Ethan’s door. The office is large and lushly furnished; thick, rich carpet beneath his shoes, oil paintings hanging on the warmly painted walls, polished mahogany desk accented in gold, perfect, ceiling recessed light casting warm glow and shadow over the whole scene.
“I don’t suppose you want a drink?” Ethan asks like it’s a foregone conclusion as Jensen seats himself in the leather seat across from Ethan.
“No.” Jensen shakes his head, folding his hands together. “We don’t have to do the niceties, Mr. Anderson, though I appreciate the effort. Let’s just get to it.”
Ethan nods, light catching against his glasses. “You know the basics, I assume?”
“Death threats, one accident on the set. I have to tell you, Mr. Anderson,” Jensen says, thumb and forefinger slowly stroking the underside of his neck, “it doesn’t sound like much to go on.”
“Maybe not to someone with your background, Mr. Ackles… but…” Ethan hesitates, like he’s searching for the words and then he sits back in his desk chair, sighing. “There was another unexplained, minor explosion on set two days ago during one of Jared’s scenes—one of the stage hands was badly burned. And then…” Ethan opens the drawer of his desk.
“We don’t know where it came from,” Ethan is saying as he hands Jensen a piece of black paper. “We found it in Jared’s dressing room backstage on the same day. We didn’t think too much of it until after the explosion.”
It’s smooth, thick card stock, slick on the surface, probably a piece of high-dollar poster board. There’s a picture of a real human heart that’s dripping blood glued to the black surface, and all across the page, letters cut from individual magazines tilt back and forth, spelling out words.
Your insides are just as rotten as your outsides, whore.
Can’t wait to see them.
“Why do you think he choose this method of communicating?”
“Because it’s more psychologically terrifying,” Jensen says, eyes tracing out the edges of the letters, the bits of color and images behind them. “It’s tangible. It has a mood, a message beyond the words. Plain, printed letters on a sheet of paper don’t deliver the same kind of punch. Words on a monitor are even easier to ignore. Hand writing can be traced. This,” Jensen says, noting the clean, perfectly squared edges of each letter, “means he wants you to take him seriously.” It’s a completely clean design, not even a stray spot of glue to mar the perfection. “Whoever this person is, he’s making an art of what he’s doing. The amount of time he put into this…” Jensen trails off, caught by the background of one of the letter T’s. He squints, leaning closer.
“Here.” Jensen points to the letter and turns the page toward Ethan. Jensen can hear him breath in, quick and sharp.
“That’s… Jared’s face.”
It’s just the edge of his face, long lean jaw and the jut of high cheekbones, dark hair forming the rest of the near-black background.
Jensen looks over the rest of the letters, one hand pressed to his mouth, brows drawn together as he thinks. “Do you have a collection of magazines Mr. Padalecki has been featured in?”
Ethan nods, frowning at Jensen. “Why?”
“I think if you have someone go through all the headlines of the articles, you’ll eventually find every letter glued to this page.”
“That’s… rather disturbing.”
“As it’s meant to be,” Jensen nods, looking back to the note. He tilts the page against the light again. “Have the police checked this for fingerprints?”
“We haven’t involved the police. We’re… trying to keep this as quiet as we can. The publicity could be damaging.”
“I see.” Jensen pauses, considering for a moment. “How did Mr. Padalecki react to this note?”
“Jared’s… not easily shaken. He gets his share of death threats through fan mail—it’s something you sort of get used to, being this famous. But the fact that someone managed to get backstage and leave this on the same day as the explosion… brings the threat too close to reality for my comfort.”
“So,” Jensen says thoughtfully, setting the note down. “What you’re saying is that Mr. Padalecki doesn’t believe he needs protection.” Jensen steeples his fingers together, forefingers resting against his lips as he studies Ethan’s face.
“No,” Ethan says, looking sheepish. “Not yet,” he adds quickly.
“Then why am I here, Mr. Anderson?”
“He agreed to have you brought on, just in case.”
“A client who doesn’t believe they need protection is a high risk,” Jensen says. “I can’t do my job effectively if they’re not taking it seriously.”
“We’d be willing to pay you double your normal rate for any trouble,” Ethan offers instantly.
Jensen shakes his head, corner of his mouth curling in disgust. “It’s not about the money, Mr. Anderson; it’s about doing the job. An uncooperative client means there is high risk of failure for completing the job successfully.” Jensen rises from his seat and buttons his suit jacket closed as he considers Ethan. “I don’t do failure.”
“Please,” Ethan says, rising from his chair. “Just meet him first, and then see what you think.”
“I already know what I think, Mr. Anderson, and I’d be willing to bet that meeting Mr. Padalecki is only going to confirm it.”
“There’s more,” Ethan sighs. “Last night, Jared found this in his trailer on set.” Ethan reaches into his desk and pulls out a photograph. He tosses it onto the desk without looking at it. “That’s a picture of Jared on set from four days ago—before the incident.”
“You should have shown me this, first,” Jensen mutters as he picks it up.
Jared is smiling a low, almost-sweet, sexy smile directed at someone outside the frame. He’s nearly nude in the picture, tiny towel wrapped around his waist and barely reaching mid-thigh. There are dashes drawn in careful blue ink around every joint in his body, around the muscles of his stomach and chest. Dashes circling his eyes, nose, his lips, ears. The words “DIE WHORE” are spelled out across the picture in those same precisely cut-out letters.
Jensen runs a finger over the letters, not quite touching them. “And Mr. Padalecki still isn’t convinced that this person is serious about their threats?”
Ethan shrugs, frustrated as he shakes his head. “He thinks one of the crew did it as some kind of prank. He doesn’t believeit’s related.”
“You mean he doesn’t want to believe it’s related,” Jensen clarifies.
“Yes.”
“It’s the same person,” Jensen says. “The use of the word ‘whore’ in both—not a term normally used in reference to men—and the precision of the letters, the line work.”
Ethan shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Mr. Ackles… Jensen,” he pleads, and Jensen’s eyes snap to him sharply at the sound of his name. “Please. He needs your help.”
“The accident that happened… where was Mr. Padalecki when the explosion took place?”
“It was just at the end of the scene in the photo. Jared was leaving the stage when it happened.”
“He wants you to know he was there… that close,” Jensen says slowly, thinking. “The stage accident… it was just a warning. He wanted to make sure everyone was paying attention and prepared to take his next message seriously. The explosion was never intended to harm Mr. Padalecki.”
“Why do you think that?”
“The blue ink,” Jensen says, pointing to the lines. “It’s how they section out cattle to be carved.” He looks up and meets Ethan’s eyes. “This guy wants hands on. He wants a close, intimate, messy kill.”
Ethan is as pale as milk.
Jensen looks at him for a moment, and then back down at the photo. “He wants to scare Mr. Padalecki before he makes a real attempt. But if he can’t get his hands on him directly… he’ll find another way.” For all his size and build, Jared looks completely vulnerable with his naked body sectioned out; ink dividing him into parts and pieces, demeaning him, de-humanizing him into nothing but meat.
The message and intent of the sender is crystal clear. If this psycho gets his hands on him… he’s going to take his time and have fun.
Jared looks so young and innocent with that smile, that gleam in his eyes.
Jensen sets the photograph down on the desk.
“Have someone take a picture of both of these notes. Then have them use the pictures to check the letters used in these notes against the magazine headlines. Have them take down the date of every article each letter is cut from. If it comes up conclusive, the dates will tell us how long he’s been tracking Mr. Padalecki.”
Ethan is bending over his desk, scribbling notes as fast as he can on a yellow legal pad. “Where will the originals be?”
“I have some discreet people I can contact,” Jensen goes on. “I’m going to send the originals to them. I’ll have them analyze these for fingerprints, chemicals and trace elements on the paper, in the glue. If there’s anything here that can lead us to the guy, they’ll find it.”
Ethan nods, still making notes.
Jensen stops, a thought striking him. “The picture of the heart glued to the first note; have someone confirm whether or not it’s human or bovine.”
Ethan stops writing, glancing up at him again.
“I’m not kidding.” Jensen goes on without waiting for a response. “I’ll need to meet with the security team immediately. I’ll also need to meet with Mr. Padalecki’s entire staff—household staff, assistants, drivers—everyone who will be coming and going on a regular basis. Schedule individual interviews for each of them; fifteen minutes per interview should be sufficient. We’ll need to strengthen security measures on the grounds and in the house, on the set and especially Mr. Padalecki’s trailer. I’ll also need all personal background information on Mr. Padalecki himself; family, friends, relationships, enemies.” Jensen stops, looking at Ethan. “Are you getting all this?”
Ethan looks like a deer caught in headlights.
“Give me your notepad.” Jensen reaches for it, pulling a pen from his breast pocket. He tears the away the page Ethan started and begins writing in neat, cramped, printed letters across the fresh page. “I’ll also need an assistant,” he informs Ethan without looking up. “Someone close to Mr. Padalecki that you know you can trust.”
“I’ll come up with a list of candidates,” Ethan says.
“Excellent.”
“Mr. Ackles…” Ethan sounds hesitant, and Jensen pauses, glancing up.
“Does any of this… frighten you at all?”
“Human nature never stops being scary,” Jensen answers as he returns to writing. “You just get good at living with it after a while.”
When Jensen’s done with his list, Ethan invites him down the hall to meet some of Jared’s staff.
“Mike will handle all your requests and make sure they get to the correct people.”
“Mike?” Jensen arches a brow, pausing in his step.
Ethan opens the double doors to another office—even larger and more posh than Ethan’s. “Mr. Ackles,” Ethan says by way of introduction as the door swings open, “this is Mike Rosenbaum. He’s Jared’s manager.”
Mike rises from behind the burnished mahogany wood of his desk. He moves with a smooth, liquid, serpentine kind of grace, and Jensen wonders whether or not he should have met the staff before he accepted this job. Mike’s tall, with a short-cropped, carefully arranged mess of hair, and he’s got maybe four years on Jensen. He has flat, pale blue-gray eyes and the kind of smile that makes Jensen’s skin itch. Mike steps forward in his Versace suit, extending a hand with perfectly manicured nails.
“Manager?” Jensen asks Ethan, ignoring Mike’s hand. “I thought you were Mr. Padalecki’s manager.”
“Ethan is Jared’s agent,” Mike clarifies, smooth as silk as his hand closes around Jensen’s and draws it into a firm shake. “Ethan gets Jared the gigs, books his appointments. I’m the one who advises Jared on his personal decisions, takes care of his public image. Ethan used to do that in the beginning, but he’s way too busy these days.”
Well, that’s a polite way to say Ethan’s been put out to pasture in favor of younger, more Hollywood material.
“So,” Mike says, holding Jensen’s hand just a little longer than necessary. “You’re the super-hero I’ve been hearing so much about. Nice to meet you, Jensen.”
“Please,” Jensen says, flashing Mike a quick, hard smile. “Call me Mr. Ackles.”
Mike arches a brow at Jensen, head tilting with a charming smile. “No need to be so formal. We’re all family here.”
“Got enough family of my own, thanks,” Jensen says, nodding politely. “Mr. Rosenbaum,” Jensen adds, taking his hand back.
“I see.” Mike shoots a glance at Ethan, eyes dark, and then he looks back at Jensen with a nod. “So,” Mike begins. “Let’s get to it, then.” Mike clears his throat, voice taking on an imperial tone. “Mr. Padalecki certainly understands that he’s being threatened, but we don’t want this to completely upset his life. There’s a certain standard of lifestyle that needs to be maintained, and we’re relying on you to make sure that his quality of life is able to be maintained throughout this trying time.”
Jensen’s mouth quirks a tight smile, his hands pushing into his pockets as he looks up at Mike. “Lifestyle, quality of life—both of these standards require your client to be alive to enjoy them. Until this stalker has been caught, and the threat ended, I suggest ‘lifestyle’ be shoved to the back burner in the interest of maintaining it.”
Mike opens his mouth, eyes narrowing, and Jensen pulls a hand free, holds it up. “I’m sure that you’re a reasonable man who understands the importance of your client remaining alive.” Jensen lifts his chin and meets Mike’s annoyed gaze head on. “After all… that nice, big, fat paycheck you get every month? That will stop if Mr. Padalecki is dead. Your… quality of life would be very severely affected, Mr. Rosenbaum,” Jensen adds, squinting at Mike. “And none of us want that to happen… do we?”
“You think that’s all Jared is to me?” Mike demands, quietly furious as he takes a step closer to Jensen. “A paycheck?”
“If he was more than that to you,” Jensen returns, voice level, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Maybe you’re overestimating the threat.” Mike’s eyes have thinned to slits; his arms folded over his chest as he sizes Jensen up.
“Maybe you’re underestimating it. You don’t want to play the odds on your client’s life, do you, Mr. Rosenbaum?”
Mike just stares at him, eyes scrutinizing, storms brewing in those grey-blue depths.
“Quality of life depends on it, after all,” Jensen adds with an ironic smile.
“I don’t like you,” Mike informs him, leaning close to Jensen’s face.
“You don’t have to like me,” Jensen returns, smiling even brighter.
“Mike,” Ethan interrupts, moving closer. He lays one, slight, gentle hand on Mike’s shoulder. “We agreed to let him take the lead.”
“Within conditions, Ethan,” Mike snaps, enunciating each word with savage exaggeration.
“The conditions that Jared chooses, Mike.”
“I make Jared’s choices,” Mike says, turning toward Ethan.
“Only when he says so.” Ethan’s voice is sympathetic and matter-of-fact.
“You’re right,” Mike says, suddenly all breezy sarcasm as he puts both of his hands on Ethan’s shoulders. “I did advise Jared against this, after all.” He throws the words like daggers holding the older man for a moment before he spins, cutting his eyes at Jensen.
“Looking forward to working with you, Mr. Ackles,” Mike says with a twist of his head, voice and eyes hard.
“Yeah.” Jensen nods, returning the steely look. “Can’t wait.”
Mike turns away, walking down the hall, and Ethan’s hand comes up, clapping Jensen on the shoulder.
“Well,” Ethan says. “I think you’re going to fit right in.”
Ethan spends the morning introducing Jensen to the rest of the household staff; cook, maids, grounds caretaker—who turns out to be the guy who answered the door—Jared’s driver, Jared’s personal assistant, a few others.
It’s verging on noon when Jensen makes a sweep of the grounds surrounding the house. So many holes, so many leaks he needs to plug; trees to be trimmed back, cameras to be installed. It’s a decent security system, but not nearly enough.
The wind blows, leaves turning backwards and inside out all around him, light and shadow playing over his eyes. Jensen hates when it’s windy—every rustle of tree leaves makes him edgy, eyes tracking every movement.
The head of the house security team is one Victor Antonelli. Jensen spots him through the leaves along the path circling the grounds of the house. He’s dark-skinned with hair shorn so close to his head that he’s almost bald, and dressed in an impeccable suit. As Jensen walks closer to the path, Victor stops walking, hand falling to the gun at his side, head turning in Jensen’s direction, eyes scanning the woods.
“Mr. Antonelli,” he calls. “It’s Mr. Ackles. I’m coming out.”
Jensen raises his hands, blinking against the harsh sunlight as he steps out onto the path. Victor’s got his gun free, but pointed down—eyes narrowed on Jensen—and then he stops, breaking into a grin. “Right. You’re the bodyguard. I recognize you from your picture.”
Victor’s got a few years, a few inches and a lot of pounds on Jensen, and the kind of handshake where Jensen’s hand could get lost inside the other man’s.
“I’m told you’re the man to speak to about security.”
“That’d be right,” Victor nods, looking Jensen up and down as he lets go of Jensen’s hand. “They told me you were on the grounds—wasn’t expecting you to come popping out of the bushes like that, though.”
“Have to admit, I was curious to see what your reaction would be,” Jensen says.
“And?”
“Good work.”
Victor nods, turns and keeps walking down the path. “So… I heard you were military.”
“I was,” Jensen says, falling in step alongside Victor. Neither of them is looking at the other, both sets of eyes trained on the grounds.
“Navy,” Victor says, like he’s confirming it. “I was Army. First Lieutenant, 3rd Brigade 25th Infantry Division.”
The title clicks into place for Jensen, face turning. “Tropic Lightning. You were in Afghanistan?”
“In two-thousand-four. Betting I didn’t see the action you did, though,” Victor grins.
“You’re probably glad you didn’t,” Jensen says, forcing a smile.
“Ain’t that always the way?” Victor smiles easily, and his whole demeanor is laid back and professional. Jensen likes him better than anyone else he’s met so far. Which is… odd.
“Don’t take this the wrong way… but I expected… I thought the Army hated SEALS?” Jensen asks, raising a brow.
“You were Navy… you hate the Army, Mr. Ackles?”
“No.” Jensen shakes his head. “I always thought the rivalry was stupid.”
“Right. End of the day, we’re all brothers and sisters in arms. It’s like sibling rivalry. You can’t stand each other most of the time, but when shit goes down, you stick together.” Victor pauses, looking at Jensen. “Shit’s going down, right? It’s gotta be, else you wouldn’t be here.”
Jensen nods wordlessly.
“Then we stick together,” Victor says. “So you just tell me what you need.”
“I’ve got a list of security I’d like to improve here. First, I’ll need to get my headset linked into your communication system.”
“Not a problem. Sam can do that for you right away.”
“We’ll need a security booth at the front gate. Something that size should only take a few days to build; in the meantime, we can get a small trailer out there. There will be a guard stationed at this booth at all times. No one gets in unless the guard there has been notified to expect them, and then that guard will check the guest’s ID against the ledger. In addition, every guest will need to recite a short pass-code phrase before they can enter. The phrase will be provided by the person booking the appointment and will be unique for each appointment. This information will also need to be provided on the ledger. Who would you recommend for the front gate duty? The shifts will require several people who tend to be conservative and stick to the rulebook.”
“I’ve got a few people who’ll fit the bill.”
“Good. The house security alarm system is good, but I want more cameras posted around the grounds, motion detectors, tight together. I don’t want a single spot where anyone or anything could slip through. We’ll need someone to monitor those all the time as well.”
“You got all this written down?” Victor asks, glancing at the papers in Jensen’s hands.
“Right here,” Jensen says, holding them up.
Victor wraps his hand around the pages, eyes asking Jensen without words, and Jensen lets go of them. “We’ll make it happen.”
Jensen nods again, and looks at Victor, wondering.
“Tell me; are you a friend of Mr. Padalecki’s?” Jensen asks.
“Friend is a regional term,” Victor winks. “Jared’s more like family.”
Perfect.
“And you understand the need for all this?”
“Not just that. I also understand that if Jared needs help, he’s going to get it.”
“Good.”
“You have no idea how glad I am that this is happening, Mr. Ackles. I’ve been on them to beef up security for years, but Mike wouldn’t have it. Unnecessary, he said. I’m lucky I get anything approved.”
Jensen nods, grateful that someone around here seems to have some sense. He glances around, pushing his hands into his pockets. “How did you see a picture of me when no one at the gate had?”
“I demanded to see one when I heard you were on the grounds. Mike notified the gate at the last possible minute. I didn’t even know you were coming until you were already here. The process for visitors is terrible. Been trying to get them to change it since I got here. Mike said it was too “formal”, that it’d put off the important people who drop by.”
“Couldn’t have that,” Jensen replies, dryly sarcastic.
“Oh, heavens, no,” Victor agrees, echoing Jensen’s tone perfectly.
Jensen glances at the security plans in Victor’s hand. “So you know Mr. Rosenbaum isn’t going to like any of this.”
“Hell… he doesn’t like anything,” Victor says, rubbing at his nose and laughing.
Jensen cuts his eyes to the side and laughs, too.
“Come on, Mr. Ackles. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”
By three o’clock Jensen’s met the team and finished his round of the grounds with all of them. Victor keeps things light and easy, and everyone’s extremely cooperative, and Jensen’s… rather stunned. He figured security would be his biggest hurdle—resentment, mostly—but there’s not a trace of it.
Of course, now he has a meeting with Mr. Rosenbaum to get to.
“Good luck with Mike,” Victor says with a knowing smile as they separate by the front door.
Jensen nods, forcing another smile as he steps inside the house. He steels himself for the bullshit he’s going to have to deal with as he makes his way up the stairs—but when he gets there, Mike’s office is empty. Jensen stands just outside the door, waiting for twelve minutes—checking each of them on his watch—until he finally leaves, making a tour of the house, hand writing down notes as he moves through all the rooms and corridors.
The spring day is winding down into darkness when Jensen finally finishes. He sinks onto one of the couches in the entry room, breathing out hard as he looks over his list.
Sadie runs up to him, pink tongue licking at his hand, nose nudging underneath.
“So what do you think, Sadie?” Jensen asks, rubbing the soft space between the bones at the point of her chin.
Sadie just shoves her jaw into Jensen’s touch, big brown eyes looking up at him with total trust.
“So simple for you, isn’t it?”
Sadie opens her jaws, long pink tongue lolling out as she pants.
“We should all be dogs,” he says, fingernails scratching the scruff of her throat.
There’s a room prepared for him in one of the… wings. Everything is beautiful dark wood, gleaming in the low lamp light, dresser, desk, night tables and armoire. There are gorgeous, old-fashioned leather couches with swooping arm rests, and an overstuffed chair set into one corner by a low, gleaming table. There’s pale, champagne-colored carpet under his feet, leading to the private marble tiled bathroom with its old fashioned claw-foot tub and basin.
All the comforts.
He takes his time hanging his clothes in the armoire on wooden hangers, smoothing them down and spreading them far enough apart not to wrinkle—after all, there’s plenty of space.
He changes into his pajamas and brushes his teeth while watching himself in the huge bathroom mirror—its edging made of what he’s sure is real gold, swirling patterns pulled from its shape.
The bed is feather soft, pillows made of down and silk, comforter to match, high canopy rising above him.
He sleeps on one of the couches instead; tucked under a rough, argyle blanket pulled from the chest at the foot of the bed.
It’s 7 a.m. and Jared’s already tired. He stayed out way too late drinking last night, and Peter picked today to finish the boiler room scene—which is not only high on extreme emotion, but literally hotter than hell since they’re shooting it in one of Universal Studios real boiler rooms. He stretches out his arms, rolling his head back and forth against the tension in his neck, yawning so deep it’s almost painful.
Someone smacks Jared’s stomach--hard--while he’s stretching, stomach exposed, and his eyes snap open, hands closing into fists.
“What, did I interrupt your beauty sleep?” Tom demands, grinning.
“You so almost just got punched.”
“Psh,” Tom makes a dismissive motion, still grinning. “I can take anything you’ve got to throw, baby.”
“You take the hits for me,” Jared laughs. “Any time you wanna go, baby,” Jared says, lifting his fists in jest.
“Yeah?” Tom arches a brow, smirking sideways at Jared. “You gonna take me somewhere nice?” he asks, leaning in with a flirtatious grin.
Jared laughs, all attempts at posturing lost as he slides an arm around Tom. Tom’s been his stunt double for five years; flirting between them is like other people having morning coffee.
“So. We gonna get through this boiler room thing okay?”
“One of us is,” Tom smirks.
“I hate you,” Jared groans, letting all his weight fall against Tom without warning.
Tom grabs him, supporting his weight and pulling him to his feet. “On your feet, soldier.”
“You didn’t bring me any coffee,” Jared complains, looking up at Tom, refusing to rise to his full height.
“I’m not your slave boy ‘til you fuck me, sweetheart,” Tom smiles. “Now get up before I tickle you.”
“Fine,” Jared sighs, rolling his eyes like he’s put upon as he rises. “I’m still gonna need some coffee, though,” he mourns. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and touches the screen, watching it light up. As his finger moves to text Sandy to bring some coffee, his phone beeps, a new text message settling into the queue.
He doesn’t recognize the phone number. He frowns and touches the screen, opening the message.
Your bodyguard won’t save you.
It’s only a five word message, but Jared stares at it for a full minute. Until now, Jared was pretty sure this was all some elaborate prank being pulled by someone he knows, and the set accidents most likely being, well, accidents. This puts things in a bit of a different perspective. No one but Ethan, Mike and his house staff know about Jensen being hired, and Jared has known all of them for years now. He trusts them.
No. This is someone else; someone who’s been sneaking around outside his home recently enough to know that he’s hired protection. Someone who’d accessed his phone when they’d snuck on set several days ago. It has to be a fan. Jared loves his fans, but some of them are more than a little crazy. He gets letters from female fans who tell him how beautiful their children are going to be, some from both sexes that threaten suicide or bodily harm against Jared if he doesn’t comply with their requests to meet, and there’ve been two who’ve tried to invade his home and been caught far outside the grounds. But even they never turned out to be dangerous.
He’s not worried. This is probably just another harmless, if disturbed, fan. Still, maybe it’s not such a terrible idea, having some extra security around.
“Must be one hell of a text--” Tom breaks off, freezing, fingers gripping hard against Jared’s shoulder. “Who the fuck is that?” Tom’s head tilts so far sideways that Jared has to blow the long strands of Tom’s hair out of his face to see.
Jensen is wearing a navy suit, white shirt and a plain, pale blue tie that complements the color of his eyes. Hands tucked into his suit pants, moving with a quiet, self-assurance as his eyes take in every detail of the room.
“Oh,” Jared starts to say, half-whispering to Tom as he stands at his full height. “That’s…”
Jensen’s green eyes lock on Jared’s then, and Jared suddenly forgets how to speak. Jensen is Adonis, David, all the Pitt-Jolie offspring rolled into one, and it’s seriously not fair.
Tom shakes his head, resigned as he whispers, “He’s so fucking yours, isn’t he?”
Jared finds the presence of mind to clap Tom sympathetically on the back as he pulls away.
Jensen holds out a hand as he meets Jared’s step forward, and Jared reaches out, closes his fingers around Jensen’s.
“Mr. Padalecki,” Jensen says with a nod.
Jared arches a brow as he pauses in shaking Jensen’s hand, shooting Jensen a crooked grin. “Mr. Padalecki is my dad—I’m Jared.”
“I prefer to keep things professional, Mr. Padalecki.” His eyes are intense, sharp and calculating as they travel the length of Jared's frame down and back up again. There's no warmth in them; numbers and formulas, escape plans and loaded guns in those eyes—a man set straight to his job.
Oh, yeah. This ought to be fun.
Jensen lets go of Jared and pushes his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, standing straight, feet set apart. Well, as long as they’re doing this…
“I just got this text,” Jared says, pulling out his phone and turning it so that Jensen can read it. “Not many people have my personal number, so I figure it’s a fan—the same one who got on set and left the note a few days ago, probably got hold of my cell phone then, too.”
“If they know about me,” Jensen says, his eyes lifting to meet Jared’s, “then that means they’ve been--”
“Snooping around outside the house grounds, yeah. Not the first time a fan’s done that.”
Jensen looks at him like he’s calculating Jared’s words for a moment, and then he pulls a small notepad and a pen from his inside his suit jacket pocket. He makes a note of the number and tucks it away. “Most likely it will trace back to a pre-paid cell phone, but it has to be checked out. Keep the message, don’t delete it yet.”
Jared nods and puts the phone away, and before he can say anything else, Jensen goes on, voice taking on a more authoritative tone.
"I'm going to need to check the set in detail before filming can start. Any weapons being used in the scene have to pass my inspection before each use. Anything even resembling a stunt will be performed by a qualified stunt person.”
Is this guy fucking serious with this? “Ethan,” Jared calls, pleading. Ethan has to be somewhere nearby, and surely he’ll understand what a pain in the ass this is going to be—how much longer it’s going to take to shoot anything if this guy has to check every single thing.
“It's for your protection, Mr. Padalecki,” Jensen says. “Everyone on the crew has already been informed. They understand what’s expected of them.”
“Fine,” Jared says, throwing up his hands. “Ethan,” he yells, turning. “I’ll be in my trailer until Mr. Ackles is done.”
Maybe he can get some fucking sleep in the meantime.
“If you’re going to your trailer now, I’ll need to check that first,” Jensen says, falling into step beside him.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Jared says, looking sideways at him.
Jensen shakes his head. “No. In a few days, we’ll have extra security installed and cameras posted in addition to two constant guards for your trailer—but for now; we’ll have to settle for my routine check and two guards posted outside afterwards.”
“You suck,” Jared sighs.
“I’m very good at my job, Mr. Padalecki,” Jensen assures him.
“I’ll be in the director’s office—sleeping.”
“I haven’t checked that room, yet, either,” Jensen informs him, turning as Jared stops.
“You wanna carry me around while I sleep?” Jared demands.
“I’m trying to make sure you’re safe.”
“Tell you what—you check my bed first, and while you check the rest, I sleep.”
“That won’t work,” Jensen says. “If someone wired a bomb to your trailer--”
“Then check for bombs first.”
“There could be anything, anywhere. Outside, inside. I need to do a full sweep. Forty-five minutes to do a full check, and then you can sleep as long as you want.”
“Fine,” Jared snaps, rolling his eyes.
When they get to the trailer, Jensen takes off his suit jacket, beckoning to a couple of the security guards to assist him. Jared can’t help but notice the way he moves, the ripple of his muscles underneath his button down, the way his suit clings to his… really amazing ass. Jared gets a nice view of it all. He spends every minute of the next forty-five watching Jensen crawl under his trailer, under every piece of furniture. He sticks his head inside every single cabinet, even pulls out a chair from the dining room table and checks every inch of the ceiling. He’s so… efficient, and completely engrossed in his work, which gives Jared a lot of time to stare without Jensen noticing.
Jensen finishes up with a brief nod to Jared and slides back into his jacket. “You’re good to go, here. There’ll be a guard stationed outside both the trailer doors. If anything happens, you yell; they’ll hear you.”
Jared’s got half a mind to ask Jensen if he’d like to check Jared’s bed a little more thoroughly—but Jensen’s already moving past him.
“I’ll have someone send word when I finish checking the boiler room,” Jensen calls over his shoulder.
Jared turns to watch him walk away, and Jensen pauses with his back turned to Jared, clicking a button on his headset. He says a couple things Jared can’t quite make out, and Jared starts to head for his trailer. He gets two steps before his cell phone rings.
Janice. Dammit.
“On my way,” he says as he answers the phone.
Jensen’s still nearby. “Where are you going?”
“Wardrobe and make-up trailers. You gotta check those, too?” Jared asks, sarcastic.
Jensen just looks at him.
“Is this gonna be an everyday thing?” Jared asks, starting to get angry.
“This will be a quick check. This guy is focused on you, he’ll want to hit you where you live, in places that are personal or meaningful to you. Wardrobe and make-up don’t really qualify.”
“But the sets do?” Jared asks.
“It’s a good place for accidents, as you’ve seen. Besides, are you telling me acting isn’t personal and meaningful to you, Mr. Padalecki?” Jensen asks, flicking him a quick glance.
“Of course it is, but you are totally overdoing this whole thing.”
“The sooner we get there, the sooner I can finish,” Jensen says, expression not changing a bit.
Jared sighs and heads for the trailers.