Nosce te ipsum

Jensen’s been living in the Empire for over eight years and he’s just now realising he has a problem. When a solution presents itself in the form of a shaggy-haired guy holding a cup of coffee, will he accept an offer he really can’t afford to refuse?

Chapter Text

“I’ve fallen in love with someone else,” she says. The lines around her mouth disappear and her eyes light up at the mere thought of this other person. “I still love you, there won’t be a day when I don’t, but.” She takes a deep breath, asks, “You understand, don’t you?” She steps closer, close enough that he can feel the exhalation of air from her mouth on his cheek. He closes his eyes, can’t bear to look at her. “Please tell me you understand.”

The instant she touches him, fingers light on his chest, he takes hold of her wrist, crushes the bones in a tight grasp, tugging her close. She goes off-balance, falls into him, and he grabs her ponytail with his other hand, yanks her head back so he can look at her.

“What,” she starts to say, stops, swallows, starts again. “What are you doing?”

“Have you gone to the temple?” he asks, voice low, threaded through with fury. “Have you talked to one of the hierodules?”

She starts to cry, still looks shocked, scared. “Of course! We went as soon as we, please, let go of me, please.”

He closes his eyes, more to try and calm down than to eradicate the presence of her tears from his sight. All he can feel is rage, all he can do is hold her tighter, hand curling in her hair and pulling down. Her wrist snaps. She is leaving him, and all he’s done is love her. She doesn’t think he’s good enough, nothing he’s done for her has been enough, and she didn’t have the courtesy to tell him before she told a temple worker. He’s going to kill her, he’s going to hurt her the way she’s hurt him, he’s going to --

“Cut!”

Jensen lets go of Danneel, gives her some space and an apologetic smile. He turns towards the director, rubs his forehead, and says, “I still don’t have it right, do I.” It's not a question; he knows just as well as everyone else on set that he isn't hitting the scene.

“We’ve been trying to get this scene for two weeks,” Kripke says, sliding out of his chair, gesturing for Jensen to walk with him. Danneel gives Jensen a concerned look but he waves her off, following the director.

Neither he nor Kripke says anything before they get to Kripke’s trailer. Jensen goes in first, Kripke's right behind him, and as soon as they door’s closed, Kripke’s talking. “Two weeks, Jensen. We built in six weeks padding but until we get this scene, there's no way we can get to the rest of your scenes with Danneel. Look. There’s some second unit shooting to do and the writers have red-inked some of Danneel’s scenes with Sophia that we’ll need to re-shoot.”

“What are you saying, Eric?” Jensen asks, wary; he’s never heard this particular tone of voice from Kripke before.

Kripke scratches the back of his neck. “I’m saying, take some time off. A couple weeks, a month, whatever. Pull yourself together and come back with a different view on this scene, or, or find yourself, whatever you have to do.” He opens the door, looks back at Jensen, and adds, “Please. Padding's padding and I don't care if we have to move back post-production one week or four so long as this movie's worth it, but I don’t have time to start over with a different actor and the producers wanted you. I know you can do it. I just don’t think you do.”

He leaves, the door slams shut behind him, and Jensen’s left sitting on Kripke’s couch, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do.

In the end, there’s only one thing he can do. He leaves the set, goes back to his apartment, and stares at the wall until five. When he’s sure there’ll be an answer, he calls his best friend.

“Why’re you calling me, Ackles?” Chris says, the first thing. “You 'n Danneel should be filming the big scene by now.”

Jensen grimaces, leans forward in the armchair. “Chris, I,” he starts to say, before Chris cuts him off.

“You sound like hell, Jenny,” and the thing is, Jensen can’t argue. “This sounds like something that needs liquor, and plenty of it. Want me to call Steve?”

Jensen takes a deep breath, lets it out, stares at the one blank space on his wall. “Might be a good idea.”

Chris swears, says he’ll be there in half an hour, give or take time for Agkelos’ traffic this time of day, and he’ll be bringing food and booze. When Jensen hangs up, the apartment is silent. The only noises leaking through the open window, along with the breeze, are the squealing brakes of the Leo amidst rush-hour traffic.

Jensen showers, changes into jeans and a worn-out Henley, sleeves riddled with holes. It’s warm enough that he pushes the sleeves up and doesn’t put on any socks; by the time he’s back in the living room, channel-surfing, there’s pounding on the door.

“Don’t know why you have to knock,” Jensen calls out, adding, when he opens the door, “You have your own damn key.” Looking over Chris’ shoulder, seeing Steve, Jensen’s smile relaxes even more. “Both of you do. S’the only reason my apartment has stuff in it, remember?”

“Hands full,” Chris says, sidestepping past Jensen, heading for the kitchen, 12-pack of lager in each hand.

Steve shrugs, gives Chris’ retreating back a look of martyred fondness. “Also, he’s lazy.” Jensen rolls his eyes as Chris shouts something from the kitchen, ignores Chris and holds his hands out for the pizza boxes precariously balancing on Steve’s arm. Steve offers a bottle of uisghe beatha instead; Steve’s always been able to read Jensen’s mood pretty well.

“So why are we boozing?” Steve asks, following Jensen inside, hanging back and kicking off his shoes as Jensen locks the door. “All Chris told me is that you sounded like someone ran over your puppy and there wasn’t enough left for the funeral.”

“’Cause he did.” Chris is leaning against the archway going into the kitchen, two lagers popped open in one hand, his fingers curled around a third. That’s the one he chugs from, thankfully, even as he offers the other two.

Jensen takes one and makes sure Steve gets the pizzas set down on the low table in front of the couch before collapsing into the armchair. “Did not,” he mutters back, but Chris and Steve both know him better than anyone else in the Empire. They don’t buy it for a second.

The pair sit down and sprawl out over the couch that Jensen is relatively sure they bought more for them than for him, picking up pizza in one hand, eating before the sauce drips off dough and onto any number of white things: carpet, sofa, shoes. Jensen’s never really liked white; one day they’ll mess up and get stains everywhere. He’s halfway looking forward to it.

The three of them eat, clear one of the pizzas away in minutes. Jensen hadn’t realised how hungry he was but three pieces later he’s starting to feel slightly human. The lager’s helping as well, starting a slow, warm burn in his belly, so when Steve asks what’s going on and elbows Chris to keep him quiet, Jensen doesn’t mind answering.

“Kripke kicked me off the set today.” He waits, counts down from seven. Steve’s eyes are wide from the get-go, but Chris is nodding; when Jensen gets to one, Chris stops nodding, looks at Jensen with narrowed eyes.

“Kicked off the set,” Chris says, as if he’s trying to make sure he heard that right. Jensen nods, and Chris leans back, spreads his legs. “Here I thought you were one of the good guys, Jenny. Head screwed on, seen the light, ain’t making waves. But you’re just another drama queen, that it?”

Jensen snorts, rubs his forehead again. He’s surprised there aren’t wrinkles. “At least then I’d be in front of a camera. I can’t hit a scene. It’s one of the most important ones in the whole thing, maybe even the most important, but I just can’t do it well enough to make Kripke happy.” Chris looks at Steve, and it’s almost as if the two are having a conversation, that or replaying one they’ve had a number of times before. Jensen frowns, asks, “What?”

“Which scene is it?” Steve asks.

“The one where Danneel’s character tells mine she found someone else,” Jensen replies, frown growing deeper. “Why?”

The two on the couch exchange another look and Jensen’s had it. He prides himself on his work but he’s been screwing that up. This is the first time he’s ever been kicked off-set. “If you don’t stop doing that, I’ll separate you,” Jensen warns, completely serious. “Come on, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Someone tells you they've found someone else,” Steve says, “someone you’re in love with, someone you’ve always been in love with. How do you feel?”

“I’ve already played it every way I can think of,” Jensen replies, exasperated, falling into the comfort of his chair, leather moulding around him. “Angry, sad, tired, frustrated. I’ve done everything.”

Chris tilts his head, takes a long swig of his lager. “Steve asked how you felt, Jen, not how you played it. You sidestep the question on purpose?”

Jensen blinks, decides he’s obviously missing something here. “It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he says, slowly. “What matters is how my character feels and I’m not getting it.”

Chris swears under his breath, drains the rest of the lager and gets up, going into the kitchen and coming back with the bottle of uisghe beatha and three shot glasses. He fills each one, throws each one back himself, then refills the glasses, nods for Jensen to do the same.

After three shots in quick succession, the question still doesn’t make sense. Jensen’s head is starting to get a little muzzy, pizza not doing much to soak up the alcohol after a few days of not eating much, not sleeping well, feeling too stressed out to do much other than stress even more.

“Imagine that was your girl, Jen,” Chris says, “or your boy, coming home to say that to you. How’d you feel?”

“Dunno,” Jensen says after thinking about it. “I guess it would depend.” Steve asks what it would depend on, like the two on the couch are tag-teaming him, but Jensen can’t be upset. They’re his friends, he called them, they’re trying to help. “Lots of stuff. I mean. Why?”

Chris stretches out, rests his hands on his stomach and stares at the wall above the television, the calm still-life painting hanging there. “Pretty simple question, if you ask me. Exact same circumstance, exact same everything -- if I didn’t know, what would that say about me?”

Jensen frowns, says, “Hold on,” but Chris doesn’t pause for breath.

“I mean, I know exactly what I would do if I was your character, Jen, and I bet Steve could say the same, if he ever read the script.” Jensen’s eyes flick to Steve, who shrugs, runs his hand down his thigh, fingers tapping like they're wiping off condensation, looking for a guitar, not used to being empty. “What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Jensen says, each word clear, a bullet shot towards the conversation. “If I did, I wouldn’t be having this problem, would I?”

Chris hums, finally looks over. “Then you need to find out. Much as I know you'll hate to hear it, the best place would be the temple.”

“The temple,” Jensen echoes. He reaches for the bottle of uisghe beatha, chugs it down without regard for the shot glasses sitting on the table. Now that he’s thinking about it, he wonders why Chris even bothered with glasses in the first place. “You want me to ask temple prostitutes how to act? Acting is what I do, Chris. I don’t need to ask some whore how to do my job.”

Steve looks away, doesn’t meet Jensen’s eyes, and Jensen wonders what he’s said when Chris sits up, turns his back to Jensen, blocks Jensen’s view of Steve.

“Just think about it,” Chris says, voice hard, unlike anything Jensen’s ever heard from his friend before. Fingers entwined with Steve’s, Chris stands up, pulls Steve up, prods him to the door. “And if you ever get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe, gimme a call. I’ll take a picture, write down the date. Night, Jen.”

Jensen’s standing up without knowing when it happened or how. He catches the mirror image of his bewildered expression in the reflection of Chris’ glasses when Chris turns to slam the door behind him.

His apartment’s empty, he’s half-drunk, and Jensen has no idea what’s just happened.

The next morning comes hard and fast, finds him curled up in the chair, crick in his neck, blanket half-tumbled to the floor. Jensen stands up, stretches, pops his back and winces at the pull in cramped muscles. He looks around the apartment, eyes settling on the coffee pot, clean and empty. “Well, fuck,” he says, to himself, an empty apartment, the birds chirping outside.

Jensen takes one step toward the kitchen, then glares at the coffee pot. "Fuck you," he tells it. With the blanket trailing behind him, one corner of it caught in a clenched fist, he heads for the bedroom and some cleaner clothes. "All your goddess-damned buttons," he continues on, muttering as he sheds the clothes he's slept in and rifles through his dresser drawers for clean ones. "Sitting there so innocently, like anyone can just walk up to you and make coffee, like you're not the most fucked piece of metal to exist, making me go outside for coffee. Fuck. You."

After a shower, Jensen slides into the most comfortable and worn pair of jeans he owns. The cuffs are tattered, strings dragging on the floor as he reaches for a t-shirt, does a sniff-check and shrugs it on. Socks and shoes, a hoodie just in case, and key in his hand -- Jensen glares at the coffee pot once more for good measure as he leaves and doesn’t look back.

It’s a beautiful day and he doesn’t have anywhere to be, so Jensen walks the couple blocks to Jeff’s coffee shop, breathing the air in deep, calming down and working out the kinks in his legs. It’s amazed him from the first day he crossed the border, that the air quality in the Empire’s biggest cities could be so pure and clean. All of the cities in the Republic are covered in smog and New Jerusalem’s been the worst since before Jensen was born. At times he’s glad he left before he developed the same cough his mother has, at times he wonders how the two governments can be so different as to have such a disparate effect on the environment.

Before he can think about it too much, he turns the corner onto the biggest avenue heading south into Agkelos. Jeff’s place is on the left, his side of the street, and across from the coffee shop is the main Agkelos temple. Jensen pauses, eyes caught on the façade, watching for a moment as people walk in and out as if they don’t care that they’re seen dealing with prostitutes. In fact, other people passing by sort of look, they sort of look like they wish they were either going in or coming out. Jensen doesn’t understand so he doesn’t waste any more time on it; he shakes his head and passes two businesses to walk into Jeff’s.

The bell above the door rings, slight little tinkle that Jensen usually finds annoying. Now that he’s walking in close to noon instead of on his way to an early morning shoot, it doesn’t bother him so much, sounds like rain falling into the ocean. “Huh,” he says, stopping to check and make sure that Jeff hasn’t switched the bells or done something different.

“Jensen!” Jeff calls out, and Jensen turns back towards the counter, grins and lifts one hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Thought you weren’t coming in this morning, man. Shooting the night scenes this week?”

“I should just give you the call sheet,” Jensen replies, mild, leaning against the counter, inhaling the smell of coffee, of pastries and cakes and aromatic soups. “And no,” Jensen adds, taking another deep breath. “I won’t be going into work for a while. Have some time off while they’re doing stuff with second unit.”

Jeff tilts his head, wipes his hands off on a towel and then slings it over his shoulder. He gives Jensen a concerned look, says, “That doesn't sound like you." He pauses, adds, "Or Kripke. Problems on set? Wanna talk about it?"

Jensen appreciates the offer but after Chris and Steve last night, after Kripke yesterday, he’s just not ready to talk about it. “Hey, I'm just here for coffee and breakfast,” Jensen says, hoping Jeff understands. The man should; Jeff was an actor before he decided he’d rather run one of the most profitable coffee shops in Agkelos.

“Breakfast?” Jeff asks, going along with it, his easy smile promising no hurt feelings but making sure Jensen knows the offer’s open for the future. One day, Jensen's going to figure out just how Jeff does that, former actor or otherwise. “Jensen, it’s almost lunch time. You grab a coffee and I’ll try to find brunch somewhere. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Jensen says. Jeff slides over a mug, good heavy ceramic, and then disappears into the kitchen. Jensen grins, feels better just by being here, and fills up his mug with Jeff’s special blend of the day. It smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, something spicy, and the colour’s dark, thick. Jensen takes a sip, raises an eyebrow at the taste, sweet without any sugar or cream, and then takes a seat in the corner, picks up a magazine.

It’s no time at all before Jeff’s coming ‘round with a basket, some type of sandwich inside, and he slides the food onto the table at Jensen’s elbow. “Try page thirty-two,” Jeff suggests, and goes back behind the counter, serves some tall guy with a mass of hair.

Jensen turns to page thirty-two and laughs when he sees a photograph of him and Danneel, taken at the last red-tie charity event.

He goes back the next day, earlier in the morning after a run and a shower. Jeff hooks him up with coffee and a proper lunch this time: potato soup in a bread bowl, a slice of malus pie loaded with cinnamon and sugar. Jensen decides to sit outside and ends up watching the front of the temple for four hours.

“Wanna take a picture?” Jeff asks, once the lunch crowd’s come and gone. “Last longer that way.”

Jensen hums but doesn’t say anything, not even when Jeff pulls out the chair across the table from Jensen and kicks his feet up. After a few minutes, Jensen asks, “If you had trouble playing scenes, what did you do?”

Jeff’s thoughtful, gives it some attention instead of a pat answer, and finally says, “I usually talked it over with Mary-Lou. If that didn’t help, I’d try to find a hetairos with a couple hours and a lot of patience. You’re having trouble with a scene?”

“My director kicked me off-set until I figure it out,” Jensen replies, wry and too embarrassed to meet Jeff’s eyes. “I don’t really know what to do.”

Jeff doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer any advice; whether that’s because he figures Jensen’s already been given the lecture or he wants to let Jensen work this out himself, Jensen doesn’t know. Jeff just stands up, walks back inside after squeezing Jensen’s shoulder.

The Agkelos temple stands there, across four lanes of car traffic, a Leo rocketing along every ten minutes. Jensen can’t take his eyes off of it.

On his third day off, Jensen tries to make coffee but ends up covering three-quarters of his kitchen in coffee grounds. He cleans the mess as best he can, threatening the coffee pot, saying he’s going to melt it down or take it out back and break it into little tiny pieces. When he gives it another go, the coffee grounds stay where he thinks they’re supposed to go but the water ends up all over the counter and floor.

He gives up after that, not tempting a third failure, and heads for Jeff’s. The place is horrendously busy so Jensen gets a coffee and sits down outside, facing the temple. Jeff’ll come out when he has a minute, if he wants.

Just like yesterday, Jensen ends up watching the front of the temple for hours, one of Jeff’s girls bringing out a piece of quiche when the sun’s high in the sky, Jeff emerging in the middle of the afternoon with a pitcher of sweet tea imported from the east. Jeff sits down, kicks his legs out with a sigh; one of his ankles pops and Jeff leans down, slips his feet out of their sneakers.

“Busy day,” Jensen comments. “Mid-week always like this?”

“Pretty much.” Jeff pours them both tea, takes a long swallow of his own, licking his lips as he sets the tall glass down. “Lots of people make third-day special, half to congratulate themselves for making it so far, half to give them the impetus to make it to fifth-day. Also,” he adds, wry grin on his face, “there’s a special bus that runs right by the shop on third-day.”

Jensen nods, having noticed the bus four hours or so ago. Most of the people that stepped off of it were temple workers; Jensen asks if they come here every third-day.

“The chief hetairos and hierodule run sessions for the others,” Jeff replies. “It gives the workers a chance to relax and also to continue their own education. Most of the temples have cursory staff on third-day but no one seems to mind and the workers are often rejuvenated after their day here.”

Prostitutes taking classes -- Jensen doesn’t want to think what they might be learning, what sort of massive orgiastic sessions might be taking place. It makes his stomach curl to think that people accept it so readily and he asks, “Is it just in Agkelos or everywhere in the Empire?” hoping that Agkelos is the only place to be so, so decadent, as his father might say.

“Seems to be everywhere that the chief hetairos is,” Jeff answers after a minute’s thought. “I think he did the same in his last temple. It’s spreading, though, as the workers who’ve served under him have changed locations.”

Jensen hums, sits there and sips at his sweet tea. Once a few minutes have passed, he says, “Someone told me I should talk to a hierodule.”

Jeff asks, “Have you ever talked to a hierodule or hetairos before? I don’t remember if you’ve mentioned.”

“No,” Jensen says, cutting Jeff off. “I’ve never been in a temple before.” When Jeff looks scandalised at the thought, Jensen grits his teeth. “I might’ve run away from home and changed citizenship but my father warned me about the whores. They’ve never done anything to change my perception of them. I won’t go into a temple to find a fuck and I refuse to ask one of them to help me do my job. If they knew how to act, they’d be acting.”

“I know how to act but you don’t see me in front of a camera,” Jeff says mildly. “And if you ran away from the Republic and your family, what makes you think your father was right about the temple workers?”

Jensen stands up, reaches into his wallet and pulls out a blue banknote with the profile of the oracle on each corner. “I ran away because I disagreed with the Republic’s stance on a lot of things and because I wanted to act, not because my father lied to me.” He tosses the money on the table and stalks away.

Jeff, behind him, calls out his name, but Jensen keeps moving, heading back to his apartment. His stomach’s in knots and he’s tasting the sweet tea like vomit in the back of his throat; Jeff’s got him so upset but he doesn’t know why. Talking about his father like that when Jeff’s never met the man, that offends him, but it’s not like Jeff did it on purpose. Jeff was only trying to help, Jensen knows that, and yet Jensen’s already to the corner, turning away from the coffee shop and the temple both, trying to put them out of his mind.

He goes back the next day, starts to apologise but Jeff waves him off. “Not my place,” Jeff says, wiping flour off of his cheeks with the back of his hands.

“Yeah, but I’m still sorry for acting like an ass,” Jensen says, leaning against the counter and watching Jeff cook. Jeff’s making another malus pie, something he’s famous for in this district of the city. The malus is already sliced, the pie crust is made and Jeff brushes it with egg yolk before mixing malus pieces in to a sauce of cinnamon, butter, and honey.

“Tell you what,” Jeff says. “Stick around today, try this out for me, and we’ll call it even.” At Jensen’s raised eyebrow, Jeff adds, “It’s a recipe I've never tried before and the cinnamon's new, shipped in fresh from some of the Federation’s islands in the East Ocean. I’m not sure if it’ll work with the honey I have.”

Jensen snorts, reaches back behind the counter for his coffee mug. “Such a hardship, being a taste-tester,” he says, and doesn’t understand why Jeff doesn’t smile at the quip.

“Give you a history book for your birthday,” Jeff mutters, before shooing Jensen away. “Go sit outside; it’s nice enough and you could do with some colour on your skin.”

“You want me to turn bright red?” Jensen asks, but does as directed with a full cup of coffee, smile on his face.

People go in and out of the shop, slower than yesterday but still steady, and Jensen doesn’t take much notice of them individually until some guy comes out with two steaming ceramic mugs and asks, “That seat taken?” gesturing at the chair across the small table.

“No, go ahead,” Jensen replies, studying the guy. Tall, taller than Jensen, which is hard to find even in Agkelos, and with a mop of hair that looks like birds could nest in it without any trouble. Jeans and a t-shirt under a hoodie that’s zipped up halfway; it isn’t that cold.

“I came over from Central Empire,” the guy explains, seeing Jensen’s look, sitting down and unfolding long legs to take up half the sidewalk. “I’m still not used to the weather over on this side of the west sea, but I’m getting there,” he adds, before sliding one of the mugs over to Jensen. “Saw you needed a re-fill so Jeff sent me out with one. He said to tell you that he just got the pie in the oven. You come here a lot?”

Jensen’s taken the full mug with a murmur of thanks and is watching the stranger with a look of amusement at how outgoing this guy is. “Have my own mug,” Jensen says. “You must, too, if he’s sending you out with his precious ceramic.”

The guy laughs, a full, deep laugh that seems like it comes from a place Jensen’s never been before. “Aw, Jeff likes me. Wants to throw me out sometimes, but we get along. I’m Jared, by the way.”

“Name’s Jensen, and I know what you mean about Jeff,” Jensen replies, settling into his chair, eyes fixed on the temple, mind racing. “Central Empire? How long’ve you been in Agkelos?”

“Just over two years now,” Jared says, blowing across the surface of his coffee before he sips. “I was in Ephesian Hellas for a few years, moved around a lot before that. Agkelos is a nice place. What about you, are you a native?”

Jensen’s suddenly cautious, wondering what Jeff’s told this guy, why he wants to know, if maybe he’s a student or a struggling actor or someone who recognised Jensen. “I moved to the city a few years ago. Came from the south, originally,” he shrugs, answering without saying he’s from the Republic, wasn’t born and raised in the Empire.

Jared nods, though, doesn’t seem to notice Jensen’s reluctance or call him out on anything. Jensen relaxes slightly, decides that this guy’s nonchalance, combined with Jeff sending him out, means he can’t be much of a threat.

“It’s a trip, isn’t it?” Jared says, and, at Jensen’s look of incomprehension, says, “Agkelos. It’s nothing like Ephesian Hellas.”

“Why not?” Jensen asks. He’s honestly curious, having rarely been out of Agkelos, and then staying within the reaches of the Empire when he has left the city, filming once in Albion, once in Gaulicia. Even then, he rarely stepped out of the hotels or off the sets.

Jared shifts, acts like he’s thinking about it. “For one thing, we had an afternoon sextanoi,” he says with a grin, “and man, do I miss that. It changes the whole course of a day; we worked hard in the morning and until seven or eight in the evening, ate late dinners, had more time to rest and relax. The weather was warmer, to be obvious. I guess, the people were different, mostly. Less-stressed, it seemed. But maybe it was just a different type of stress.”

Jeff brings out pie, seems to be pleased they’re getting on so well, stays and chats for a few minutes before going back in. He comes out with proper food a couple hours after that, thick bread sliced for sandwiches, piles of cheeses and meats inside, some kind of sauce that Jensen’s never had but Jared seems to recognise.

They move inside when it turns a bit colder, the afternoon breeze off the East Ocean turning into more of a wind, palm trees bending. They take their empty dishes in, get drink refills and some baklava, squeeze into the back corner of the shop, two chairs pulled together in an alcove for serious discussion, a lamp above them soft but lighting up the corner without much trouble.

Jared talks about growing up throughout the Empire, what it was like, the kind of people he met, the foods and cultures and various languages, and when the people at the table behind them leave, Jensen finally says, “I was born in the Republic.”

“I kind of guessed,” Jared admits. His tone is kind, not at all dismissive, which Jensen is relieved to hear. When Jensen asks how, Jared says, “I’m not sure, to be honest. Lots of things: you haven’t mentioned growing up, or your parents, not to mention the way you were glaring at the temple earlier.” He doesn’t sound offended, saying that, almost treats it more as a question.

Jensen decides to take it as such, says, “I’m an actor. I’m working on a film at the moment, and, you never recognised me?”

“Should I have?” Jared asks. He narrows his eyes, studying Jensen’s face, and finally shakes his head. “Sorry. I should get out more, probably. Can’t remember the last time I was at the cinema.”

Jeff comes over to them, stands there with his hands on his hips and a smudge of some kind of pastry filling on his nose. Jared pauses mid-breath and looks up, says, “What?”

“I’m closing,” Jeff replies, and Jensen can hear the exasperation. “You two need to leave. Now.”

Jensen looks around, sees that they’re the last people left in the shop, that the counter’s clean and ready for tomorrow, that the floor’s been swept and the lights, other than their lamp, are off. He never noticed. Huh.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” Jared says, immediately standing up. “Here,” and offers his coffee mug in an outstretched arm. “Or, wait, I could take it home and bring it back clean tomorrow, if you wanted?” He sounds like a lost child, so much so that Jensen can’t help but laugh, especially when Jeff rolls his eyes and snatches the mug back.

“Like I’m letting you take your mug out of here. Knowing you, it’d end up a flower-pot in two days, that or a pencil-holder.” Jeff narrows his eyes at Jensen and Jensen doesn’t even try to argue, just stands up as well and offers Jeff his mug. Jeff takes it, says, “I’m going to go wash these up and put them away. You two better be outside by the time I’m done. Good night. Go away.”

Jared grins, Jensen can’t help but return the smile as they head for the door and Jeff’s walking towards the kitchen, muttering under his breath. “You wanna go somewhere else?” Jensen asks, once they’re outside. The cool breeze sends goosebumps up on his arms, hair standing on end.

“Unlike some itinerant actors I know,” Jared replies, covering a yawn with one hand, “I have to get some sleep. I could meet you for lunch tomorrow, though, if you want, here or somewhere else?”

“No work?” Jensen asks, almost about to agree before wondering if it’d mess up Jared’s schedule.

Jared shakes his head; curls of hair go flying everywhere. Jensen’s fascinated by them, is almost startled when Jared says, “Naw. I have some time out of the office the next month. I’ll have to put a few cursory hours in but nothing much. It'll do the rest of them good to get along without me, at any rate. Here, eleven? We can decide if we’re gonna stay or go somewhere else then?”

“Eleven, here,” Jensen agrees. “Oh, hey, let me give you my number in case something comes up and you can’t make it.”

“Nothing’s gonna come up,” Jared says, but he pulls out his keitai and punches in Jensen’s number, lets Jensen adds his to Jensen’s directory.

As they’re putting their keitai back into pockets, Jeff comes out, locks up the shop, and shoos them away. Jensen walks home bemused, wondering if he’s just found himself a new friend, and how it happened so quick. There’s just something about Jared, though.

Once he’s home, Jensen changes into sweats and a t-shirt, curls up in his favourite armchair and puts the television on. He’s not really paying attention to the news, has it on just so something can distract him from his thoughts, not that it’s helping, some story about one of the hetairos going on sabbatical for a month and why that would be news, Jensen doesn't know.

Jared’s. Jared’s something else, at ease and confident, friendly and outgoing, one of the funniest guys Jensen’s met in a long time. He seems as if he doesn’t have a care in the world but he’s talked about the office like he’s someone integral to the way it runs. He likes Agkelos but talks about Hellas like he misses it deep in his bones. Jared’s such a mystery even though he comes across just like everyone else and Jensen thinks about what might happen tomorrow, what Jared might say or do to shed some light on answers Jensen wants to questions he doesn’t know how to put into words.

Half of him wonders if it’s something about the Empire, something he’d know if he was born and bred within the Empire’s borders, but half of him thinks it’s just Jared.

He replays their conversation in his mind, all eight hours of it, and then goes to bed feeling lighter than he has since the night before he left New Jerusalem.

Jensen’s at Jeff’s fifteen minutes early. When Jeff raises an eyebrow, glancing at the clock, Jensen says, “Dude. Coffee?” and tries to stay calm. He’s excited about hanging out with Jared, honestly looking forward to it, but he still needs his morning cup of coffee before he’ll say anything else.

Jeff rolls his eyes but he fills Jensen’s mug and passes it over, leaning against the counter, clearly unconcerned about the food stuck in his hair. “So, you and Jared getting along pretty good?” Jeff asks, almost too casually.

“Why?” Jensen asks back, suddenly suspicious. He glances at his coffee before taking a tentative sip, wondering if Jeff’s done something to it; the man’s acting awfully strange this morning.

“You’re both friends,” Jeff says, shrugging. “I like it when my friends get along. I think you two will, quite well.”

Jensen’s about to reply, something almost biting, but Jared jogs into the shop, comes to a careening halt against one of the display cases, filled today with some kind of fruit pastries. “Sorry I’m late,” Jared pants. “Scheduling issues this morning at work. Got here as soon as I could.”

The smile Jeff gives Jared is the same amused grin of fond exasperation that Jeff’s directed Jensen’s way a time or two. Jensen looks away, suddenly uncomfortable, but looks back as Jared turns, leaning against the curve of the display’s glass, laughing as he catches his breath.

“You’re not that late,” Jensen points out, between sips of his coffee. “And it’s no big deal.”

“I hate being late,” Jared says, accepting a glass of water from Jeff with a grateful smile and a salute. “Hate, hate, hate it. What’re we doing today?”

The jump in topics makes Jensen’s head spin, but he shrugs, says, “I dunno. What do you wanna do?”

Jeff snickers, shaking his head.

Yesterday he met Jared and the two of them spent the day at Jeff’s, just talking, exchanging vague life histories. Today, Jared decides they should balance out the sitting with something physical. Jeff raises an eyebrow but Jared swats at the man, tells him to get his head out of the temple and back on the cavallucci, which seems to be burning.

As Jeff turns away with a curse on his lips, Jared grabs Jensen by the wrist and drags him outside, down the avenue in the opposite direction from Jensen’s house. They find a small store and rent rollerblades. Jensen protests but Jared won’t take no for an answer, and they end up in the park, Jensen wobbling, Jared literally blading circles around him.

Jensen falls down sixteen times -- he counts -- before he gets the hang of it, of stroking paces and inner balance, just the right angle to take the turns and the way he should move his shoulders for jumps over curbs.

When he goes home every part of his body aches and there’s a smile on his face.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

They meet up every day. Jensen’s learned to ask what Jared has in mind before giving Jared full carte blanche to set their schedule; he gets out of surfboarding but not Frisbee, gets out of karaoke but not a trip to the movies with messy margherita pizzas afterwards.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Jared’s testing him, trying out the edges of Jensen’s boundaries, but that’s just ridiculous. Jared simply has a wide range of interests and doesn't know which, if any, Jensen shares.

"So, what today?" Jensen finally asks, sipping at his coffee. Jared's been talking non-stop for ten minutes and Jensen still doesn't know if he should be worried he only wore sandals today, didn't prepare for anything physical. Jeff's behind the counter, shirt-sleeves tucked up out of the way, arms covered in flour, rolling out biscotti dough and listening to them banter with a smile on his face.

Jared looks outside and says, "I've half a mind to drag you along for a walk in the pouring rain," turning back in time to see Jensen shudder at the thought. "But maybe not." He stands there, thinks, and finally asks Jeff, "Do you have a chess set around here?"

Jeff straightens up, looks between Jared and Jensen, says warily, "That isn't exactly fair, Jared."

"What's not fair?" Jensen asks. "I've played chess before. I'll be able to handle myself."

Jared grins and tilts his head. "See, Jeff? No worries. You got a set?"

"Checkmate."

Jensen almost drops his mug but manages to set it down before he looks over the board in front of him. There's no possible way, his father taught him and he never loses, never. Except, apparently, he does -- there's no way to move the God without moving into check, and none of his pieces, not even the Goddess, can get back in one move to block it.

"Nine turns," Jeff says, standing above Jared's shoulder. He's looking at the board, eyes casting over the pieces, towel slung over one shoulder. "Hm. He must be good for a Republican."

It almost hurts to hear Jeff so casually dismiss him, except then Jeff looks at him, meets his eyes, and Jensen realises that Jeff's actually paying him a compliment. He wonders how, though, and glances at Jared, who's biting his lower lip and studying the board.

"If he ever manages to learn, he'll be a real challenge, even for you," Jeff goes on, placing one hand on Jared's shoulder and squeezing. "The Republican analysis with our understanding."

"Lethal combination," Jared says in agreement, Jensen thinks.

He hates it when people talk about him, but there's something under the words, something that makes Jensen think they're talking about more than just chess, and something that has Jeff believing that Jensen can, or is, or will -- what?

"Nosce te ipsum," Jared murmurs.

Jensen frowns as he leans forward. "Know thyself. The motto of the Empire. But what does that have to do with." He stops, abrupt, and sees Jared's eyes, too understanding, turn earnest.

Jensen turns, looks out of the window and sees that it's stopped raining. He stands up, quick, and the chair under him wobbles. "I'll just. You know, since it's." He tries to complete a sentence but can't, so he runs away instead.

“I have a question,” Jensen says the second Chris picks up the phone on his end.

“I’m doing fine, Jenny-boy, thanks for asking, though I wish you would’ve left it a few minutes longer. How’re you?” Chris asks, words crawling their way through a heavy drawl.

Jensen winces; that tone of voice means that he’s interrupted Chris and Steve at a really bad time. No matter how many times he tells Chris not to answer the damn phone, the guy always does. He’s pissed off, it’s not Jensen’s fault. “I’ll call back,” Jensen says.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Chris orders. “Now tell me why you’re calling at this goddess-blessed time of day.”

“What time of day?” Jensen asks. “Dude, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

Chris huffs and Jensen knows that if he’d been in reaching distance, Chris would’ve smacked him upside the head. “Some people keep the sextanoi even if Agkelos doesn’t. What’s going on?”

“The agency that you and Steve called for me,” Jensen says. “The volunteer I had during the naturalisation process. Was that a good one?”

Chris swears under his breath and Jensen can hear something behind the words, maybe sheets or the mattress creaking as Chris moves. “What’s happened, Jensen?”

Jensen rubs his face, paces around his apartment. “Someone said something today. A, a friend I’ve been hanging out with.” He ignores Chris’ less than charitable comments about Jensen’s group of friends and choice of things that fill his time off to say, “Look, he offered to serve as an initiator, not explicitly, but the offer was there, I wasn’t imagining things.”

Silence from the other end, and for long enough that Jensen’s starting to get worried by the time Chris says, “If you trust him enough to tell him you ain’t an Empire native, I’d take him up on it, Jen. Can’t hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jensen says. “Thanks. Sorry for the interruption.” He hangs up, takes a deep breath and lets it out. He’ll think about it.

Two days and it seems like it’s the only thing he can think about. He’s gone through some of his naturalisation papers, the workbooks and notes, tried to remember everything he was taught, everything he and his initiator talked about. He remembers hating it at the time, like he was being lectured on how to behave, what to think, getting not much more than a tip-of-the-iceberg history lesson on the Empire and where he’s supposed to fit in now that he’s a citizen. Jared won’t be like that, though, and trying to guess what Jared will teach him, how Jared will teach him, that’s like trying to guess at what the weather’s going to be like the first day he eventually goes back to work.

Jared. He’s tried not to think about Jared too much but it’s been hard. Not even a week with the guy and Jensen feels like he’s found someone who understands him, who can almost read Jensen’s mind. Just being around Jared makes Jensen feel like he fits in his skin and he misses that, misses the grown-up kid with shaggy hair and eyes that don’t match, sometimes too old, like he’s seen things, lived through things, that no one their age should have experienced.

He doesn't go back to Jeff's until the third day and, when he finally walks in, bell tinkling above the door, he's not surprised to see Jared in the corner, book in his hands. Jared doesn't look up until Jensen's blocking the light. Before he can stop himself, Jensen says, "You're offering to teach me, aren't you. Properly." It's not a question and Jared doesn't say anything, just turns down the corner of the page and closes the book, setting it on a side table. "Why."

"Because you're worth it, Jensen," Jared says. "And because I want to and because I can. Because it will help you even if it doesn't help with your movie. Because we're friends and that's what friends do."

“I did the whole naturalisation process when I applied for citizenship,” Jensen says, arms folded over his chest. “I’ve been taught, Jared. I’ve gone through everything I kept and I don’t know what you plan on teaching me, unless it’s history.”

Jared snorts, says, “Obviously they didn’t do a fantastic job. Who was it? It wasn’t a hetairos, not if you’ve never stepped foot in a temple.”

“They were busy,” Jensen says. “There was a volunteer agency. One of my friends arranged an appointment and the volunteer and I met once a month for half a year. He said I did just fine and approved my naturalisation papers.”

Jared narrows his eyes, says, “The hetairos of the Agkelos temenos were too busy?” He sounds horrified and furious both, like he’s asking for confirmation; when Jensen nods, Jared makes a noise deep in his throat that almost sounds like a growl. “Well, I’ll correct that, then. I’ll teach you, help you get a real start on finding yourself and your place in the Empire both, if you want me to.”

"You won't find anyone better than him," Jeff says from the side, startling Jensen. Jeff's holding a pot of coffee, is refilling Jared's mug even as he's watching Jensen. "Jared's a good one to have."

Jensen frowns, asks, "What would you know about it?" and isn't prepared for Jared to grin and for Jeff to laugh.

"Say yes," Jared says, finally, big eyes nearly pleading. "Even if you don't accept what I say, you'll at least know where we're coming from."

Jeff nods in encouragement but, really, Jensen didn't need more than the thought of what Jared might do if he said no. The depth of that imagining takes Jensen's breath away. He hadn't realised he counted on Jared that much, this quickly, even with the quiet over the past few days. With Jared here, it's impossible to push off the ache as being caffeine withdrawal.

"All right," Jensen says, wondering why he is, because he feels as if he's letting more than just his father down. He sits down. "Sure. Teach me. Nosce te ipsum."

The smile that crosses Jared’s face almost takes Jensen’s breath away.

Jeff feeds them, then has one of his girls man the counter so he can sit down with them for two hours in the middle of the afternoon. Jeff sips his coffee and watches, listens, more than he talks. It helps, though; Jensen’s come to have a lot of respect for Jeff over the years and he’s comfortable, steady and reliable, in the face of Jensen’s decision. Jared, Jared’s good, but he’s new, changed, moved from accidental friend to teacher and mentor.

Jared asks what Jensen’s naturalisation process was like, what he and the volunteer went over, like he’s taking notes for the future. After Jensen’s told Jared everything he can remember, he asks, warily, “So where are we starting?”

Jeff grins as Jared asks, “You run?” Jensen stares, so Jared says, “Jog? Work out?”

“I like to jog,” Jensen says, now doubly wary. “Why?”

“Thought we might go for a run tomorrow morning before breakfast,” Jared says, leaning back in his chair, draining the last dregs of coffee in his mug. “I’m meeting friends for lunch and then I have to head to south Agkelos mid-afternoon for the rest of the day, probably half the night, but I still wanna hang out with you for a while. If you don’t mind me tagging along,” Jared adds.

Jensen grins, showing teeth. “You’ll just have to keep up.”

Jeff laughs, says, “Don’t think you’ll have to worry about it, Jen,” which almost sounds like a warning. “Should I expect both of you to show up and stink me out of my shop once you finish up?”

“Aw, you love it when we come in all sweaty,” Jared teases back. “Nothing wrong with the good, clean smell of achievement.”

“I’ll light some incense,” Jeff replies, wry as Jensen’s ever heard him.

It’s still dark when Jensen finds himself stretching at the entrance to the local park, waiting for Jared. This district’s quiet yet, but there are lights on in windows and some of the shops that cater to the early-morning crowd are starting to open. Jensen’s not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination but there’s something about this time of day, the faintest hints of light stretching from the east, the smell of the East Ocean reaching inland, few vehicles on the road, that calms him.

If he had any willpower, he’d get up around this time every day, go out for a jog before breakfast, but too often he’s already on the lot, going over script revisions or set changes, or still in bed, taking advantage of an hour or two’s sleep in and recovering from the day prior.

“Awake, are you?” Jared calls out quietly, and Jensen turns to see Jared beam as he jogs up, looking for all the world as though he’s been up for hours.

Jensen groans, says, “You’re a morning person, aren’t you. Damn it all to Hades, why do I get stuck with the morning people?” He looks up to the heavens, as if the Goddess herself is there watching him, and frowns at the clouds, thick and heavy, black as the night.

Jared laughs, claps Jensen on the back, distracts him from worrying about the weather. “I’ll try to keep it down,” he promises. “You ready? I thought we could go the long way ‘round the park and then take our time coming back.”

That’s not the shortest route; Jensen’s estimation for Jared goes up a notch and he thinks he understands Jeff’s warning from the day before. He glances Jared over, takes in the track pants, the t-shirt and hoodie, Jared’s long legs, and smiles. “Ready when you are,” he says, and waits for Jared to take off before following.

The park’s a good size, had to be in order to fulfil Empire regulations in a district with this many residents. It takes them a good hour to get to the far side of the park, even keeping up a steady pace, and the sky opens up and pours rain down on them for about five minutes just around dawn. Jared’s a few inches taller and knows how to use it; Jensen hasn’t had a workout this good in weeks between keeping up with Jared and jogging through near-mud conditions, dirt squelching under his feet.

They’re both drenched by the time they slow into a walk -- they didn’t have a chance against sweat and rain both -- and Jared doesn’t disagree when Jensen says they might as well just take the straight path back. The weather’s cleared up and it’s sixth-day, which means that there are people out walking dogs, children running to and fro, playing as their parents or caregivers watch from benches scattered around the gardens. Jared has to stop and pet every single dog they pass, engaging in small talk with their walkers and owners.

“I had a couple puppies,” he explains as they leave the park and turn toward Jeff’s. “Had to leave them in Ephesus when I moved. They would never’ve survived the move happily and there were good people there I left them with. But man, do I miss them.”

Jensen nods, once, and says, “I never had pets. No one in the Republic really saw the point and as much as I wanted to get a cat or a dog when I moved to Agkelos, I didn’t think it’d be fair, what with the hours I have to work.”

Jared glances at him, Jensen pretends not to notice. “You could always go visit the adoption centres,” Jared suggest. “Not to adopt, just to love on some of them, play with them. I do, every so often. It gives some of the workers a little break, too.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jensen says, and then they’re at Jeff’s, Jared opening the door for a temple worker hurrying out and ushering Jensen in first when the doorway’s clear.

Jeff looks up, wrinkles his nose, and says, “You two sit outside. I’ll have someone bring you out food.”

Jensen notices an incense burner going full blast on one of the tables, grins and shakes his head as he follows directions.

Jensen isn't sure what Jared's trying to prove, but when Jared had bounded up to Jeff's shop that morning and said, "Let's cook lunch today," Jensen had shrugged and agreed, hadn’t even bothered telling Jared that he doesn’t cook, usually burns or blows up or destroys everything he tries to make. He’s come to accept that about Jared over the past week since his freak-out: the man has this boundless enthusiasm that Jensen would almost consider naïveté, except that Jared’s the least naïve person Jensen’s ever met.

Jared proving something was one thing, but now, sitting here and nursing a home-brewed cup of coffee that Jensen thinks might even be better than Jeff's, he's stuck watching Jared cook. That's not a bad thing, really, even if it’s Jensen's kitchen that Jared's dancing around, spatula in one hand, fork in the other, because it looks like Jared knows how to cook and it looks like Jared's not having a problem making himself at home. Something twinges low in Jensen's belly at the thought, but he ignores it, pushes it away.

"I have measuring cups?" Jensen asks, five minutes after being told to sit, watch, and learn. He peers around Jared's body, long and lean and wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook!, to watch as Jared pours out milk into a glass container, stopping to check the line, then adding a dash more. "I didn't know I had measuring cups. Where'd you find them?"

Jared turns around, smiles gently, and says, "They were in the drawer next to the sink, Jen. Above the cabinet with the frying pans and saucepans and pastry sheets." Jensen raises an eyebrow, but before he can say anything, Jared adds, "Yes, you have pastry sheets. Dude, do you spend any time at all in your kitchen?"

Jensen seriously considers the question, finally answers, "I buy coffee every morning on the way to work. D'you think I'd keep doing that if I knew how to work the coffee pot here?"

Jared gives him a look of blatant disbelief and asks, almost hesitantly, "You don't know how to work your own coffee pot?"

"Nope," Jensen says, shaking his head and flicking his eyes in the direction of said pot, now merrily holding two-thirds of a pot of the best coffee Jensen's ever had. He's had a lot to compare it against. "My friends found me this place and had it furnished, stocked, everything, before I moved up."

Jared hums, turns back to the stove and pours the milk into a saucepan of half-boiling water. Jensen doesn't want to know.

"Is anything here your own?" Jared finally asks, not looking at Jensen as he opens the Cullenair, reaches in and takes out eggs, butter, and soy sauce. "Y'know, the way you'd like it?"

"The bedroom," Jensen finally says, staring down into his cup as if the coffee there holds more answers that he can give to Jared. "They'd done it up but there were things I didn't like so I changed them."

Jared digs into Jensen's freezer next, looks disappointed when he can't find something, but pulls another freezer-burned package out instead. "Why didn't you change everything, then?"

Jensen shrugs even though Jared's not looking. "Seemed easier not to, I s'pose. Didn't wanna hurt their feelings. They're over here a lot."

Silence from Jared and then Jensen sees Jared's arm move in and out of his vision. He looks up, stares at the chopping board, peppers, and knife that Jared's laid down on the table next to him. When Jensen looks at Jared, Jared grins and says, "Chop them up, what are you waiting for, an invitation?"

Something eases loose in Jensen's shoulders that he doesn't remember going tense, and he puts down his mug, gives Jared an extravagant salute, says, "Aye, aye, cap'n," and gets to work.

Chopping up the peppers gives him time to think, especially with Jared humming under his breath, doing something by the stove that smells delicious. Jared gives him onions to do as well, then carrots and celery, then malus, and Jensen's surprised to find that there's something very soothing about having his hands on food, doing nothing more than repetitious chores, hold, slice, move, over and over.

He'd never really realised how different vegetables could be before: the strings in the celery annoy him and he finds he prefers carrots because they're easier, firmer than the peppers without seeds and scentless unlike the onions, which make his eyes burn under his contacts. He sneaks a bite of the malus when he thinks Jared isn't looking and feels like he actually tastes it, crisp and tart, isn't just eating it because it's there or because he's hungry.

A half-affectionate smack on the back of his head, and Jensen rolls his eyes; he should've known that Jared's the king of the kitchen and has eyes buried somewhere under that mop of hair.

"Taste this," Jared says, and Jensen turns, sees Jared holding out a spoon of some type of sauce. He leans forward, Jared lightly holds Jensen's chin with his free hand, tips the liquid in, and Jensen makes the mistake of looking up. Flavour explodes in his mouth, but all he can focus on is Jared looking down at him, Jared's fingertips under his chin, Jared, Jared, Jared.

"It's good," Jensen says after lurching back and swallowing. He licks his lips, says, "Wow. I had all that stuff in here?"

Jared laughs and the moment passes. Jensen doesn't know how he feels about that.

Jared puts Jensen to work once they’re done eating, doing dishes and cleaning up. “Cook never cleans,” Jared says, but he’s grinning so Jensen doesn’t know how seriously to take that pronouncement.

He’s halfway up to his elbows in hot water when Jared swans past, whips up a handful of bubbles and blows them right in Jensen’s face. Jensen stands there, half-shocked, while Jared’s laughing so hard he has to grab the island to stay vertical. “Should see your face,” Jared wheezes out, cheeks bright red. “Oh, dude.”

Jensen looks down at his hands, the sponge and cloth, the sink full of water, and picks up the hose. Jared’s laugh stops, choked into a cough, and Jensen doesn’t think twice before turning the faucet on and aiming the hose right at Jared’s face.

“So help me, Padalecki, I will waste you,” Jensen growls, playful, and squeezes the trigger.

Water soaks the kitchen, gets everywhere, but by the time Jensen’s done, turned the water off, Jared’s soaking. Mission accomplished. Jensen’s laughing; Jared’s grinning under the water dripping off of him.

The phone rings and Jensen doesn’t bother looking at the caller ID before picking it up, answering, “Hello?” and ducking as Jared flings a damp towel in his direction.

“Jen?” Chris asks, sounds like he’s been caught off-guard.

Jensen picks up the towel, flings it back, and watches as Jared rubs his hair, then shakes it out like a puppy. “Hey. What’s up?”

Chris pauses, finally says, “Steve and I were wondering if you wanted to come out with us tonight. Nothing fancy, just a few drinks at the bar, maybe a pizza later if we can sit up straight enough to eat.”

Jared’s giving him a questioning look now, head tilted to one side and smacking himself as if he’s trying to get water out of his ear. Jensen tells Chris to hold on, then puts one hand over the phone, says, “Chris and Steve. They wanna know if I have plans tonight. Want me to ask if you can join us?” Jared starts telling him that’s not necessary, that he can entertain himself, but Jensen waves him off and asks, into the telephone, “Can I bring a friend?”

“Sure,” Chris says, not enthused, exactly, more surprised than anything. “Yeah, Jen, bring your friend. Maggie’s, in an hour?”

“We’ll see you then,” Jensen promises, and hangs up just in time to get another towel to the face.

Jensen ducks into Maggie’s, Jared close behind him. There’s music in the air, like always, and the smell of incense smoke and spilled liquor, honest men and women unwinding after a long, hard week. Jensen feels guilty for a minute, having spent the week with Jared, nothing pressured, nothing serious, but Jared, behind him, says, “Hey, nice place,” and sounds genuine enough that Jensen eases, relaxes.

They head for the bar, people double-taking when they pass by, but no one approaches them; above all, Maggie’s is known to be a kind place to the celebrities who slum there regularly. When they get through the crowd, Jensen orders two shots of uisghe beatha, a lager to chase them down with, and turns to Jared, question on his face.

"Lager for me," Jared tells the bartender. "Darker the better, but whatever you can find." The bartender nods with a grin, tells them to hold on one second, and disappears into the kitchen. "So, who are we here to meet?" Jared asks, turning and leaning his back against the bar, one elbow propped on the polished wood as he surveys the crowd. “Just the two of your friends or will there be a crowd?”

"Just Chris and Steve," Jensen replies, looking over the packed bar as well, eyes settling on his two friends, tucked into one corner. He nods at them, sees Jared follow his line of sight.

Jared grins, seeing Chris hold up his beer and salute them. "Your best friends," he half-asks, as if he's making sure he remembers things right.

"Best in the Empire," Jensen says. He pauses after saying that, hoping he hasn't hurt Jared's feelings somehow; they only met each other three weeks ago but it's as if they've known each other their whole lives, grown up together and lived in each others' back pockets since birth.

Jared doesn't look upset, though, and doesn't sound it when he says, far too casually, "I can't wait to hear what kind of dirt they have on you." Jensen's not sure if Jared's serious, must have an expression of disbelief on his face, because when the bartender pushes their drinks at them two minutes later, Jared's still laughing.

Checking to make sure everything's the way they ordered it -- and internally wincing at the colour of Jared's lager, darker than he's ever seen before -- Jensen gets his wallet out, but the bartender shakes his head and winks at the two of them. "On the house," he says. "I'll consider it part of my taille."

Jensen's never heard that word before, taille, doesn't know what it means, thinks maybe it's Gaulician. Jared doesn't seem to be caught off-guard, though, just laughs and tells the bartender to keep it honest with a smile on his lips, so Jensen mentally shrugs and picks up one of the shot-glasses, downing it and sliding it back to the bartender, empty.

He carries the other shot and his lager, carefully maneuvering around tables and chairs and people, Jared right behind him, saying hello to everyone Jensen almost trips over. He'll never understand how Jared can be so outgoing, so easily confident, but he's suddenly thankful for it when they get to Chris and Steve, sitting against the wall and watching them.

"Jared, this is Steve, and that redneck over there is Chris," Jensen says, gesturing with the shot glass. "Guys, this is Jared."

"Hey," Jared says, holding out one hand. "Nice to finally put faces to names. Jen's told me a lot about both of you."

Chris and Steve exchange glances, quick and communicating something, but Chris leans forward, takes Jared's hand. "Can't say Jenny ever told us much about you, Jared. Sit down, take a load off, and tell us how you ever got mixed up with that idiot."

Jared grins, pulls out a chair, sets his lager down, and says, "Man, do we have some catching up to do."

Jensen's not sure he trusts that grin, or the answering gleam in Chris' eyes, the way Steve's studying him as he sits down next to Jared, elbows bumping as he settles.

“So Jen comes back and says, ‘What, it’s not like my character cares I’m breaking Will Smith’s nose,’” Chris finishes up. Jared’s already been in gasping hysterics but the punch-line has him almost falling off of his chair. For his part, Jensen’s turned bright red, face already buried in his hands, too embarrassed to look up even though it’s the absolute truth.

“Oh, Goddess,” Jared wheezes, pounding on the table as he’s trying to catch his breath. “Jensen’s the one that broke Will Smith’s nose? I thought it was a stunt gone wrong!”

Chris leans forward, gleam in his eyes and says, all seriousness, “That’s what the director told the reporters, sure. But what action star wants to admit lil’ ol’ Jenny-boy here messed up his face?”

Jared’s still laughing, has to wipe tears off of his cheeks when Jensen risks a peek. Steve’s amused, but not to the same extent, and Chris is giving Jensen a look that Jensen is completely unable to interpret.

“I hate you,” Jensen says. Chris leans back in his chair, grinning as he stretches out an arm to rest on the back of Steve’s chair. “No, really. I hate you. Loathe, detest, abhor. Every variation.”

“You say that, Jenny, but you keep going on in that vein and I’ll tell Jared here about your first night in Albion,” Chris retorts, as smooth as the uisghe beatha the bartender’s been sending over all night, that and two kinds of lager.

Jensen groans; Chris won’t hesitate if it comes down to it and Jared looks far too interested, eyes wide as he glances between them. “I take it back,” he mutters, burying his face in his hands again, but not before he sees the look Jared gives Chris, appraising, approving, and the look Chris returns, comrades united against a common enemy. Seeing it worries Jensen, though he’s not sure why beyond the way Jared starts poking at him, wheedling and whining for Jensen to tell him the story.

Jared leaves first, gets a call from work and stands up reluctantly with an apology on his lips.

“Everything all right?” Chris asks. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“New transplant over from Gaulicia,” Jared replies, stretching. Jensen can hear Jared’s elbows pop. “New to Agkelos and new to the position. She’s having difficulty settling in but nothing serious; I should really go and take care of her, though.”

Chris nods, raises a beer. “It was good to meet you, Jared. Seems like you’re doing good with the kid here.”

Steve echoes that, reaches out to shake Jared’s hand again and adds, “You’ve impressed us, as well. Any time you wanna hang out, just call; no doubt Chris’ll want to go shot-for-shot with you at some point, he always does with the new guys.”

Jared laughs, doesn’t take offence like Jensen was briefly afraid he would. “It was good to meet you two. Have Jensen give you my keitai number.” Jared hesitates, says, “He’s lucky to have you,” and leaves a moment later, heading for the bar first.

Jensen watches as Jared exchanges a few words with the bartender, writes something on a piece of paper and leaves, waving at them over one shoulder. Jensen waves back, missing Jared already, and turns to see Chris and Steve both staring at him. “What?” he asks, suddenly on the defensive. “He’s cool, right?”

“Too cool for you, Jenny,” Chris drawls.

Jensen thinks Chris is halfway serious.

“Okay, you versus the kitchen, round three,” Jared says, walking into Jensen’s apartment carrying two tote bags loaded to the brim with food. “This time you’re cooking and I’m supervising. Also, the woman at your corner shop? She’s eight kinds of awesome. It looks like rain; are your windows open?”

Jensen blinks, tries to dissect all of those statements, and takes them one at a time. “Hades no, I’m not cooking. Which woman and which shop? Why eight kinds? No, they aren’t.” He goes over Jared’s statements, then his own, and asks, “You want the wireless on?”

Jared pauses where he’s unpacking the totes, settling half the food on the counter, stacking the other half in the Cullenair. “Naw. You have Chris’s latest CD? Put that in. I went to the music store the other day but they only had the first two.”

“You seemed to get on well,” Jensen says, an inquiry disguised as idle comment while he searches through the CD rack for Chris’s most recent record. Like he expected, Jared sees through him in half a heartbeat.

“He seems pretty awesome,” Jared says. “And he and Steve make a good pair. Have they been together long?” Jensen thinks back, tries to remember if he’s ever actually asked when they hooked up. They’ve been together since as long as he’s known Chris, says as much to Jared, who nods, goes searching through Jensen’s kitchen drawers for something, and asks, “That didn’t bother you when you moved here? I know the Republic isn’t keen on acknowledging sex, much less same-sex partnerships.”

Jensen snorts, starts the CD, and as Chris’s twangy voice fills the air, he says, “The Republic doesn’t like to acknowledge sex. Understatement of the millennia. You’re not supposed to want it, need it, think about it, desire it. Sex is something to be ashamed of and repented for.”

Jared’s watching him, not even pretending to do anything else. “That sounds awful,” he says gently. “Being forced to deny a part of who you are, being taught that there’s something wrong with you if you want to engage in it.”

“My parents,” Jensen starts, then stops, changes the direction, makes it less personal. “Procreation is the only time some people ever have sex, and even then it’s cold, mechanical. Coming here was a big shock, sure, but it was.” He stops, searches for a word, shakes his head when he can’t find one. “Anyway, Chris has put up with a lot from me. He’s a good guy and Steve’s even better, putting up with him and me both. It’s none of my business what they do between the sheets, so long as both of them want it and enjoy it.”

“What about you, Jen?” Jared asks. “You ever thought about finding someone of your own?”

Jensen laughs, actually laughs. “We are so not drunk enough for this conversation.”

“Why should we be drunk?” Jared asks, head tilted to one side, and Jensen pauses mid-chuckle, because Jared’s completely serious. Jensen swallows, looks away, and fiddles with his wireless.

He half-thinks Jared’s going to push the issue and finds himself utterly relieved when Jared doesn’t, merely says, “Come on over here and I’ll show you how to make the best salade nikanai this side of Nikaia. Now, the first thing you need is a good piece of tuna. And the first trick is how you cook it.”

Chapter 3 Chapter Text

"Hey," Jensen says the second he opens the door and sees Jared standing there, bouncing on his toes. "What are," he starts to ask, then says, "Oh, shit. Man, I'm sorry, I completely forgot we had plans. Kripke called, needs me to run by the set and pick some stuff up and I said I'd be there in a few minutes, but. Damn it."

Jared looks amused, more by the look on Jensen's face than the stream of words, Jensen thinks. Still, amusement's better than annoyance. "Jensen," he finally says, "dude. Chill. Work's work, y'know? Maybe we can meet up later, grab some coffee at Jeff's or go play pool somewhere. Just give me a call when you're free."

Jensen starts to agree, but then he shrugs, opens the door and waves Jared inside. Jared steps in, and Jensen tries to ignore how at-ease Jared looks in Jensen's space, the way Jared closes the door and leans against it, looking for all the world like this is his apartment, smile playing at the edges of his lips.

"Would you mind a quick stop on the way?" Jensen asks, rummaging through the pile of things on the coffee-table, looking for his keys. "Ten minutes, no more, I swear."

"It's fine with me if it's fine with you," Jared replies, and Jensen glances up to smile, lets his eyes rest on the way Jared has his hands in his pockets, hoodie and t-shirt shoved up around them, denim stretched tight across his crotch, just for a second.

Jensen nods, tightly, finds his keys, and goes to find a jacket.

The ride's quiet, the traffic not too bad as Jensen peels through Agkelos like he has something to prove. Jared's sitting in the passenger seat, knees pulled up and looking out of the window; when Jensen asks, Jared shrugs and says, "I don't usually see things from this angle."

"What angle?" Jensen asks, frowning this time.

Jared smiles, answers, "I usually walk everywhere. Or I catch the Leo. I can count on one hand the number of times I've been in a car in the last year." That strikes Jensen as a little strange, mostly because he'd probably keel over and die without his car. Jared must see this on his face, that or read Jensen's mind, because he goes on to add, "It's different, that's all. Most everything I need is within walking distance, work, Jeff's, your apartment, the parks. Just what I'm used to."

"Doesn't that seem a bit," Jensen starts to say, realises he can't think of a good word, finally settles on, "insular, to you? I mean, no offense, but you must not get around much."

Jared laughs, the sound filling the car, and Jensen makes a sharp left turn, having nearly missed the entrance onto the studio lots. "Like I said, there's the Leo when I need to go any further, and I'm used to walking. It's a different way of seeing the world, one I prefer. Trapped in a car, like this, cut off from everyone? Not as much fun as being out in the sun, feeling it on my skin, or getting caught in the rain, being able to interact with people. Besides, I bet I get around Agkelos more than you do."

Jensen makes a thoughtful noise at that, because he hadn't considered that angle before. Still, before he can give it too much thought, he's going through security and pulling into a parking space. He turns the car off, asks, "Wanna see the set?" and when Jensen gets out of the car, Jared does the same on his side.

Jensen doesn't know how he thought Jared would react, maybe with wide-eyed wonder the same way Danneel's little sister did, or the way Chris blew it off with a snort, but this definitely isn't it. Jared doesn't look as if it bothers him to be around some of Agkelos' most influential people, doesn't look at all out of place, even in his ratty jeans and an off-the-shelf hoodie. He's looking around, yes, checking things out, but that ineffable sense of self-confidence and self-assurance that he always wears is still there.

Not that Jensen's miffed, but he's a film star and he went through that 'Oh, fucking fuck' period when he started, the kind of transition everyone goes through when they hit the big times and realise they're blocking out moves for a fight with multi-time Laurel winners. To see Jared not going through it, it's almost as unnerving as the first time Jensen blinked and saw Pacino standing in front of him when his eyelids flicked up.

What's even stranger is the way some of the others on-set are reacting, greeting Jensen with a wave or a called out 'Hello,' but freezing when they see Jared, eyes going impossibly wide as they stand there and gape. Jensen looks over at his friend, maybe thinking there's something on the back of Jared's hoodie, or that Jared's making those ridiculous faces of his again, but, no, Jared's just smiling at them all, nodding occasionally.

By the time they get to the mob around Kripke, there's a wave of hushed murmurings following them, and Jensen has no clue what's going on. He's not entirely sure he wants to know.

"Jared?"

Jensen turns at the same time as Jared, body movements maybe half a beat behind, and cocks an eyebrow at the young woman standing there, long brown hair, wearing next to nothing. One of the supporting actresses, then, and he's searching his mind for her name when Jared says, "Sandy! Hey, what are you doing here?"

In the next instant, Jared has two armfuls of petite brunette and Sandy's hugging Jared for all she's worth, going on about what a surprise it is to see him there, what the hell he's here for, on and on.

A bustle from the other direction and Jensen winces when he sees Kripke stalking their way, glower on his face. Jensen's got an apology waiting but then Jared puts Sandy down and Kripke's face changes completely. He doesn't stop walking, exactly, but there's a hitch in his step as his eyes flit between Sandy, Jared, and Jensen, and Jensen's about ready to explain when Jared cuts in.

"Sorry we disturbed you," he says, and Jensen can tell that Jared's completely serious. "Completely my fault and I won't say another word while I'm here." He pantomines zipping his lips, and Sandy giggles nervously, next to him, hand caught in Jared’s.

Kripke's eyes settle on Jensen, and Jensen swallows before speaking. "I'd forgotten Jared and I had plans today, so I just brought him along. Um."

Jensen can almost feel himself wincing. He forces himself to try and steal some of Jared's easy confidence, but then Kripke says, "It's all right, no harm done. We were just checking out the dailies from yesterday. Jared, I'm gonna steal Jensen here for a minute, but have Sandy show you around."

When Kripke cocks a finger and motions for Jensen to follow, he does, flabbergasted and completely confused.

Kripke leads him right to the director's trailer, and motions for Jensen to go in first, looking around Jensen. Jensen turns as he steps up, catches the briefest glimpse of Sandy tugging Jared toward make-up with a handful of people following them, and then sits down on one of the couches as Kripke steps up and closes the door behind him.

"You said you've been spending time with a new friend," Kripke says, apparently done with small talk for the day. "That's him?"

"Yeah," Jensen says, slowly, carefully. "We've been spending a lot of time at a coffee shop near my apartment and he's trying to teach me how to cook. Failing miserably but trying. Why?"

What Jensen was least expecting -- for the director to burst into a smile and start dancing around the trailer -- actually happens, and Jensen's left gaping until Kripke says, with relish, "You're going to nail that scene, Jensen, and then we'll see if you don't end out the year with your damned Laurel award to play frisbee with. Ha!"

Jensen's completely lost but Kripke doesn't give him any time to ask questions, just hands Jensen the latest revisions and a copy of his scene, telling him to "find your friend and get out of here." If there was a leer under the word 'friend,' Jensen's going to willfully ignore it.

He finally tracks Jared down over in the hair and make-up trailer, sitting in one of the chairs and letting Shannon outline his eyes in dark brown kohl while Jeannie’s doing something with Jared’s curls. Sandy’s perched on Danneel’s normal chair and there are a few others standing there, laughing as they watch, all of them having a good time. They leave when Jensen steps in, though, with something like envy in their eyes; Jensen wonders what Jared’s done to make them look like that, figuring Jared's just being Jared, puppy-dog cute and wide open.

“Hey, ready when you are,” Jensen says, then adds, dryly, “But don’t rush on my account.”

Jared had been on the verge of standing up but he relaxes back into the seat with Jensen’s addition. “Awesome. Shannon was just telling me about your normal make-up session. Dude, four hours? That’s crazy. I can tell you for a fact that none of the international senators spend that much time primping before an Empire-wide teleconference.”

Jensen snorts, says, “We get paid to look pretty. The senators definitely don’t.”

“That’s true,” Jared agrees, eyes gleaming with amusement as he uses the mirror to look at Jensen. Jensen shifts; the kohl makes Jared’s eyes look more cat-like, whatever Jeannie’s done to his hair mirroring the effect. When the girls pronounce Jared done and Jared stands up, turns to Jensen and holds out his arms for a judgment, Jensen thinks Jared’s suddenly feline, all grace and muscle.

“You look like a girl,” he says at first, but Jeannie comes over and smacks the back of his head. “Okay, okay. You look. It actually doesn’t look bad on you. Wow. Huh.”

Jared grins, kisses the girls on their cheeks, and says, “Thank you. You’re both amazing and that was fun,” before taking Jensen by the hand and dragging him back the car.

They get lunch in a small noodle place Jensen likes and often sends his PAs to for take-out, relaxing and enjoying the quiet, empty atmosphere. Jensen’s eating macaroni and cheese, his favourite, while Jared’s got something that looks less like food and more like some subterranean monster come to life: noodles as tentacles, some kind of thick, gloopy brown sauce that might as well be mud, green stuff here and there that looks vaguely like grass or moss.

They eat and talk, and when Jensen’s sopping up extra cheese with a slice of toasted pita bread, Jared’s talking about maybe taking the Leo to the ocean this week, sit and watch sunrise or sunset on the waves. Jensen isn’t thinking at all when he asks, “The Leo goes as far as the ocean?”

“What do you mean, the Leo goes as far as the ocean?” Jared asks back, puzzlement written all over his expression.

“I mean, I thought it was just a neighbourhood thing.” Jensen picks up his tray, stands and heads for the garbage, Jared following behind him. “I didn’t realise it went all over the city.”

Jared dumps his trash, tilts his head as he looks at Jensen. “You’ve seen the depots,” he half-asks, slowly. “You’ve noticed the maps before, right?”

“I.” Jensen stops there, licks his lips. “No?”

“But you would’ve seen them if,” Jared starts to say, before he stops. “Wait.” Jensen flushes at Jared’s look, turns away and scratches the back of his neck. “You’re telling me you’ve never ridden a Leo before, ever,” Jared half-asks, half-states. When Jensen doesn’t say anything, doesn’t meet his eyes, Jared says, “I didn’t even think that was possible.” Jensen looks up at that one, eyes narrowed slightly. He expects ridicule, definitely not anticipating the grin that spreads across Jared’s face.

“What,” Jensen says, resisting the urge to move backwards, step away very, very slowly.

Jared just grins wider.

Jensen follows Jared out of the restaurant and toward the closest intersection, but when Jared walks up to a ticket kiosk instead of joining the already-formed line, his trepidation turns to confusion.

“Two day passes, if you have them?” Jared asks before sliding two pink banknotes over to the guy behind the kiosk. Jensen’s never seen those notes before but guesses they must count as money when the guy takes the notes and gives Jared two yellow squares of hard plastic in return, the date stamped across one side of them in bold black ink.

This time, Jared joins the line and Jensen follows, looks at Jared then back at the kiosk, trying to decide what he should ask first. “Day passes?” he finally asks, trying to ignore the looks other people in the line are giving them.

“The first thing you need to know about the Leo,” Jared says, “is that, depending on the driver, you can be taking your life in your hands.”

That doesn’t make Jensen feel any better; he’s about to say as much but figures he’d better not in front of witnesses. “And the second?” he asks.

Jared holds up the two day passes. Sun hits the yellow plastic, shines a bright spot over Jared's forehead. “Single route passes are blue, complete day passes are yellow, month passes for one route are green but red for complete passes, and year-long passes are black with the issuing date in white.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Jensen asks when it seems like Jared’s not going to expand.

“Every Leo has a number. The numbers correspond to routes; we’re in the line for a number twelve, which goes north-south through north Agkelos, the outer reaches of the city suburbs right to the city limits. A route pass means we can get on and off any number twelve Leo, but only a number twelve and only today.”

Jensen nods, starting to see the logic. “Lemme guess. A complete day pass is for any route, but only the day you buy it. The year passes, they’re all routes?”

“Yup,” Jared replies. He elbows Jensen, then, nods at a Leo careening its way toward them. “Number twelve. You ready?”

“Beginning to think I shouldn’t’ve eaten lunch,” he mutters. One of the others standing in line snorts at that but doesn’t say anything. Jensen looks at her, studies the others on the Leo as he follows Jared’s example, climbs the steps, shows the driver his pass, and moves to sprawl out in a seat near the back, Jared across the aisle.

The people riding the Leo are all classes; one woman’s in a business suit, typing away on her keitai, while another man’s bedraggled. In New Jerusalem, Jensen would have assumed that this man was homeless; here in the Empire, with homelessness eradicated, he doesn't know what to think. A couple teenagers are talking by the driver in a language Jensen doesn’t understand, sounds East Empire, and there’s a young man in the middle thumbing through a book.

As soon as everyone from their stop’s sitting down, the Leo’s engine revs and pulls away from the curb with a squeal of tires. Jensen holds on for dear life but Jared doesn’t seem worried so Jensen tries to settle down, swallow his stomach back to where it should be.

They talk about nothing during the ride, Jensen paying more attention to everyone else that the conversation. The people are all fascinating now that he’s not pressured to do more than be a spectator to this section of their lives. The woman with the keitai never once looks up, she even gets off the Leo with her face turned to the tiny LED screen, murmuring an absent thanks to the driver. The teenagers are joined by a couple more, all carrying bags that might intimate they’re about to go shopping. Jensen’s relaxed, comfortable among this group, until the Leo pauses at the next-to-last stop, near Jeff’s. The kid who’d been reading stands up and moves down the aisle. Jensen sees the hetairos tattoo on the kid’s neck; a temple worker, then.

“And the point of this?” Jensen asks, turning away from the prostitute to face Jared. The Leo starts moving and Jensen waits for the rattling to die down before he says, “I mean, we’re just gonna have to go back to get my car.”

“The thing about the Leo,” Jared says, “is how interconnected it all is.”

Jared wasn’t kidding. They’re at the southern end of number twelve’s line, and Jared’s pulled him across the depot to look at a map of Agkelos. It’s more like a labyrinth or a maze, dozens of coloured lines crossing over one another, connecting in places, spreading out from the centre of Agkelos like some kind of spaghetti explosion.

“The fun thing?” Jared says, pointing at the northern end of the number twelve's line, where they’d started an hour and a half ago. “Getting from there, to there,” and he moves his finger to the far southern reaches of Agkelos, “in as few transfers as possible. I grew up in a big city; my friends and I would surf the Leo on days we were bored. It’s a great way to see a new place, a better way to explore somewhere you think you know. And, dude, the people you get to meet, doing something like that.”

Jensen looks again at the map. “Let me guess,” he drawls. “You memorised the map? No, not you. You just would’ve started hopping Leos.”

Jared looks at him like he’s the insane one. “Dude. They have paper maps.” He pulls one out of his back pocket, worn and well-used, waves it in front of Jensen’s face.

Instead of feeling like an idiot, Jensen just starts laughing. “So,” he finally says. “Where are we going and how many jumps do you think we can make it in?”

“West Agkelos, as close to the ocean as possible. How many do you think we can do it in?” Jared asks.

Jensen glances over the map, realises it has a lot in common with the underground maps in New Jerusalem, and tries to dissect the colours, the routes. “Five,” he says. “No, wait. Four. We can do it in four.”

Jared hands over his battered map and gives Jensen a half-bow complete with flourishes. “Lead on, fearless commander.”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen heads for the number five Leo stand and checks to see what time it’s supposed to be there.

They take the number five, switch after forty minutes to the number two, then ride the number one to the far western end of its route. They’ve missed the bus that’ll take them to the ocean, the number thirteen which zig-zags between the edge of the land and the bus routes terminating within a mile of the ocean, so Jared pulls Jensen into a grocery store. The name outside wasn’t anything Jensen could interpret but the characters were familiar; now that he’s inside, he can see that everything’s labelled in one of the East Empire’s languages, a pictorial alphabeta that Jensen’s never been able to pick up.

There’s a couple behind the counter, older man and woman, talking in low tones as they enter; Jared bows in their direction and says something in a different language. They perk up, start chattering back, and Jensen feels completely left out. He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable until Jared touches his arm and steers him to the counter.

“Jen, this is Keichii and Yukie,” Jared says, slow and clear. “They moved here a year ago and they aren’t fluent in the Western Empire’s language yet, but they wanted to say that they love your films.” He pauses as the man, Keichii, says something else, then adds with a grin, “Also, if you aren’t dating anyone, they have a daughter.”

Jensen flushes but nods and says, “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Jared studies him, eventually pushes him towards the drinks at the back of the store, kept cool in a humming Cullenair. Jared stays up front, one elbow on the counter as he engages in what sounds like a lively conversation; Jensen grabs two bottles of water and goes back to the front, pays and leaves as soon as it’s polite. Jared stays in a little longer, but he’s outside and holding his own bottle when the Leo comes.

Jensen’s expecting Jared to say something, maybe chide him for acting so ridiculous, maybe explain what he and the shop owners were talking about, but Jared doesn’t say a word, just sips his water and watches the scenery go by.

“I’m sorry,” Jensen blurts out while the Leo’s slowing down, approaching its last stop. Jared asks what for, and Jensen says, “I’m not. I’m not exactly good with people. That’s part of the reason I love acting so much; it makes dealing with others easier.”

Jared nods, once, as if that answers a question he’d had but doesn’t say anything else until they get off the Leo and are walking toward the beach. At the edge of the sand, Jared takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his jeans as far as they’ll go.

“Dude, come on,” Jared says, untying Jensen’s shoelaces while he’s bent over. “Trust me, it’s better this way -- it feels awesome and you won’t get as much sand everywhere when we go back. Come on, hurry up.”

Jensen kicks his shoes off, wobbles as he stands on one foot to take off a sock, repeats with the other foot. By the time he’s pushed the cuff of his jeans up around his upper calves, stuffed his socks into his shoes, and is holding the backs of his shoes in one hand, Jared’s halfway to the water. Jensen rolls his eyes and follows, is a few feet away as Jared jumps into the ocean with a loud whoop that echoes out over the water.

“Jensen, come on in, it’s warm!” Jared yells, leaning down to scoop up some of the water and throw it everywhere. He turns, sees that Jensen’s dipping his toes in, and says, grin wide enough to split his face, “Man, how cool is this?”

“Pretty cool,” Jensen admits, stepping in just enough so that the water covers his feet, toes sinking into wet sand. “But I don’t think that I think it’s as cool as you think it is.”

Jared grin, jumps and splashes them both. The smell of salt-water fills Jensen’s nostrils. “I’ve always lived close to water,” he admits, wriggling his toes and sinking as his feet displace sand and water both. “Growing up and working, both. In Ephesian Hellas, the Aegean was, like, fifteen minutes away. We spent a lot of time down there.”

“We?” Jensen asks. “Your family?”

“I never knew my parents,” Jared says, before getting distracted by something in the water and reaching down, pulling a shell out of the sand. “My mother never knew who my father was and she died about a month after I was born. I was raised by her best friend, Chara, and Chara’s partner. They had a child already, a son, and they had a daughter a couple years later. Chara was a hierodule and he was a hetairos; my brother, sister, and I grew up in temples.”

Jensen doesn’t know what to say. Jared doesn’t seem too upset about his parents and it’s not like he ever knew his mother. On the other hand, Jensen’s never heard about kids growing up in the same buildings as prostitutes.

“What was it like?” he asks. “Growing up in temples. I mean, didn’t you see.” He stops there, knows he’s well on the way to being crass and doesn’t want to offend Jared. “It’s just such a foreign idea,” he says, quickly. “In the Republic, if your parents died you went into the church. It’s just the way things happened. The priests took care of you and you joined the clergy when you were of age, no other choice.”

“Thankfully I wasn’t forced into the Goddess’s work,” Jared says, though there’s a hint of something in his eyes that Jensen writes off as glare from the sun, off the waves. “I couldn’t imagine anyone being forced to do something they didn’t want to do. No, Chara promised my mother that she’d raise me until I was old enough to make the choice, and by that point, Chara had become my mother, just like the others had become my family. I didn’t want to leave.”

Jensen nods, says that he understands. He thinks he almost does.

“And no,” Jared says, stepping to a new, fresh patch of sand, spreading his toes and grinning as he sinks again. “I was raised in full knowledge of the Empire. I knew what happened in the temple; no one ever hid that from us but the temple workers live in a different section, as do any children they might have. It’s like if a couple with children lived about Jeff’s shop, for instance. They’d know what was going on downstairs, in an abstract way when they’re young and more concretely as they grow, but they can leave through a back door and never have to enter the shop unless they want to.”

“No wonder you’re comfortable with everyone,” Jensen says. Jared turns and looks at him; Jensen adds, feeling like he’s said something wrong, “I mean, growing up like that, and you said you moved a lot. You’d have to be pretty outgoing, right?”

Jared smiles, turns away, and Jensen’s breath is taken away by the way the sun glints off of Jared’s hair, highlights flyaway strands of curls, how the line of his shoulders mirrors the curve of the horizon.

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Jared says, still looking out over the ocean. “But it helps, yes.”

They’re back at Maggie’s, late on a sixth-day. The bar’s crowded and Jensen grins as he sips his lager because his friends are playing on the small stage and that’s why everyone’s here. Chris’s twanging voice blends well with Steve’s lower tenor and the applause at the end of their third set reflects that.

Jared’s called one of the waitresses over to put in some orders for Chris and Steve; the lagers and shots are on the table when the two musicians sit down with a relieved sigh. Steve’s stretching and relaxing the muscles in his hand and Jensen hides a grin in his bottle when Chris lets out an aggravated sigh and pulls Steve’s hand over, starts massaging the guitar calluses on Steve’s fingers.

“So’re y’all taking the day off tomorrow?” Chris asks after a long swallow of lager, licking his lips. “Seems to me you two are joined at the hip now.”

Jensen looks at Jared, suddenly worried that he’s been monopolising Jared’s time, wondering if Jared’s fed up with him but is too nice to say anything.

“Dude, joined at the hip?” Jared asks, leaning forward, one eyebrow raised. “We aren’t that bad. If anyone’s joined at the hip, it’s you and Steve. How long’ve you two been together, anyway? I asked Jen but he just said it was forever.”

Steve and Chris exchange looks. “Seems like it sometimes,” Steve says. Jensen can see the way that Steve’s eyes seem fixed on Chris’s lips, the grin that provokes from Chris, cocky yet sentimental. “And sometimes it doesn’t seem long at all. Before Jen was thinking of moving here, otherwise there’s no way I would’ve been helping with the apartment.”

Chris nods, slowly. “Must’ve been a year or two longer than that.”

“Since you brought up the subject,” Jared says, grinning brightly, “I wanted to ask. Would you be at all offended if Jen redecorated? He’s terrified of getting anything on the carpet and that’s really no way for someone like him to live.”

“Someone like me?” Jensen asks, feigning insult. “What in Hades is that supposed to mean?”

Jared’s grin doesn’t slip at all; in fact, it seems to glow just one or two shades brighter and wider. “It means you make a mean salade nikanai but I still don’t know how the eggs ended up on the ceiling.”

Steve snorts, tries to cover it up by taking a long swallow of lager. Jensen tries to be affronted but can’t hold it up. He closes his eyes, leans back in his chair, and says, “At least you never saw where the tomatoes landed.”

Jared breaks out into hysterics; when Jensen looks, Chris is shaking his head but he looks like he’s having a good time, not at Jensen’s expense but with him, a big difference.

“We thought he’d change everything before now,” Steve admits when Jared settles down enough for everyone else to be heard. “Kind of surprised he didn’t. So if you need any help moving furniture, don’t call us. We’ve already done it once.”

Jensen stares at Steve, then at Chris when the other man nods, shrugging.

The bartender comes over, taps on the table and sets down a plate of bread, a dish of melted cheese for dipping. “Compliments of the owner,” she says, reaching up to scratch under her ponytail once her hands are free. “Said something about music and good moods spreading out.”

“Hey, tell him thanks,” Jensen says, lulled into a good mood by hanging out with his three closest friends. “We appreciate it.”

Jared gives him a wide grin, reaches out and dips a finger into the cheese, sucking it away. “Oh, this is good,” Jared says -- at least, that’s what Jensen thinks Jared’s saying. It’s sort of hard to tell.

Chris rolls his eyes and Steve retaliates by swatting Chris on the back of his head. Jared’s elbowing Jensen and gesturing at the dip with big eyes, and Jensen smiles, relaxed and comfortable, because he’s never felt so at home before, even if the sight of Jared sucking on his finger makes him feel ill.

Jared shows up at his front door early on seventh-day, one wide cotton tote in his hand, ready for shopping. Jensen hasn’t gotten out of bed yet; technically he got out of bed in order to answer the door, but it doesn’t count because he still has pillow wrinkles down his face, mussed up hair, and he didn’t plan on being up. In fact, he plans on getting back into bed as soon as he can.

Jensen opens the door, leans on it, doesn’t say a word.

“You need coffee,” Jared says, after whistling one low and amazed note. “Like, wow. You really need coffee.” Jensen stares, too asleep to do anything but, saying that, he wrinkles his nose. Something smells. Hm. “Lucky for you,” Jared adds, and lifts up one hand. Jensen doesn’t care about the hand, fixates on the carry-holder.

Two steaming cups of coffee.

Jensen loves Jared but he loves coffee more.

Jared takes pity on him, offers one cup to Jensen, who drains it in an instant. Jensen stretches out his hand for the other, Jared gives it to him, and by the time Jensen’s halfway through this cup, he’s feeling slightly more human.

“What are you doing here,” Jensen says, moving enough so that Jared can push his way past him and head for the kitchen.

“We’re going to find some new things for your apartment,” Jared says, as if Jensen should already know that.

Jensen glances at the clock, shakes his head and closes the door, turns to stand there and stare at Jared. “Dude. It’s four in the morning. We only left Maggie’s at one. I’m sleeping.”

He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he says it; Jared grins, says, “You’re standing here talking to me, you idiot. Go put clothes on; you can wake up in the Leo.”

Four in the morning and the idiot wants to go shopping. Jensen doesn’t believe it but, then again, he’s the one getting dressed and going along with it. He shouldn’t think too hard about who the real idiot is.

Jared talks the whole way to south Agkelos. Jensen’s taken about half of it in, completely amazed no one’s tried strangling his hyperactive friend. From what he's gathered, half-conscious, there’s a giant souk once a month in the southern suburbs; it’s one of the best in the entire continent, people come from all over, Jensen’s going to love it. Personally, Jensen thinks he’d appreciate it more if he had more than two hours of sleep to go on, but Jared’s enthusiasm is contagious and Jensen's wide awake by the time they step off the third Leo. That might have been helped along by the food Jared brought with him, some kind of bread soaked in wine, dried figs, and a flask of some drink Jared called chá mate, but Jensen gets off the Leo, stretches, hears his elbows pop, and smiles at Jared for the first time all day.

“There you are,” Jared says, happily, and gestures down one street. “And here we are.”

Despite the early hour, there are quite a few people; Jensen guesses they’re all here for the souk. He blends himself in with the crowd, Jared right next to him, greeting everyone they pass, and when they turn a corner, Jensen stops mid-stride.

The place set aside for the souk is huge. Jensen’s not sure what he’d been expecting but this definitely isn’t it. “How are we supposed to find anything?” he asks Jared in a low voice.

Jared grins, rubs his hands together. “Well, we can either set up a plan of attack or dive in and see what happens. Most of the furniture and carpets are on the far side, so we could walk around the outside, go in that way and battle our way out back this way, or we can give ourselves over to the Goddess and pray we don’t come out bleeding.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow, expecting Jared to be joking. He swallows when he sees that Jared isn’t.

Six hours later, Jensen pulls Jared out of the souk and drags him over to a side café that must cater specifically to the market crowd; the waitress comes out, sees how much they’re carrying between bags and bundles of delivery papers, contracts, and nods in something like approval. “Bet you boys want something wet, hm?” she asks, not even waiting to see if they agree. Wet sounds good to Jensen and he doesn’t care if it’s hot, cold, or out of someone else’s mouth.

“I think we’re off to a good start,” Jared says, settling down his tote full of things, knick-knacks and small items for Jensen’s living room.

Jensen sets a sheaf of papers down on the table, pages through them, and says, “A good start? Jared, with all the deals we’ve made, not to mention arrangements for delivery, I won’t have room for anything else. We’ve bought new furniture, carpets, and paintings for every single room in my house.”

Jared grins, kicks one sneaker off, and Jensen winces at the smell. “’S what we came for, right? New stuff? And you’ll have it all this week.”

“If I’m still living,” Jensen mutters.

Their waitress comes back, slams down four large glasses of ice-cold water and convinces them that they need real food, something sweet to drink, before disappearing again. Jensen downs one whole glass of water, almost exactly the way he downed that first coffee this morning, and gives a pleased sigh when he sets it back, empty.

“That was fun, though, right?” Jared asks, look in his eyes that Jensen doesn’t trust. “I mean, sure, you probably won’t ever need to do it again, but you’ve had the experience now.”

“Yeah,” Jensen agrees, albeit reluctantly. It was fun, all that haggling, bargaining, everyone equal in the quest for whatever it is they wanted. No one had even given him a second glance. Jared they had, probably because Jared has a bad habit of wildly gesturing when he's bargaining and his arm-span makes that incredibly dangerous, but they still elbowed him out of the way, so Jensen doesn’t feel bad about that. All told, he’s come out the other side feeling as if the fight was worth it for everything he bought. “I guess.”

Jared snorts, sips at his water, and leans his head back, closes his eyes. “Sleep well tonight, at least,” he says, and then that’s the end of Jared. Within two minutes, the kid’s mouth is open and he’s close to snoring.

“Tonight,” Jensen mutters. “You didn’t make it to noon.” He studies Jared, though, and finds himself concerned when he sees the circles under Jared’s eyes, the way his hands are folded on his belly, as if Jared literally can’t stay awake any more.

Their waitress drops off warm drinks, something that looks like chocolate and smells like honey, and she clucks her tongue against her teeth, seeing Jared sleeping. “Chile don’t get ‘nough rest,” she murmurs. “In half a mind to call and complain to those people thinkin’ he the be-all, end-all of they work.”

Jensen tilts his head, listening to her, and when she takes a break to breathe, he asks, “Where are you from? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but your accent, I’ve never heard one like it before.”

“Oh, chile,” she says, winking at him. “ask your girl, when you be seeing her.”

“My,” Jensen says. “You mean Danneel? You’re from the Gaulician area of the West Empire?”

She nods, takes away their empty water glasses. “Of a sort. Born and bred down south, chile. Now, I’ll be bringing back food. Y’all sit and rest; y’got a long ride home.”

Jared wakes up when she sets some plates on the table, gives her a tired smile of thanks and grins wider, more awake, when she ruffles his hair like she knows him. Jensen's about to ask if she does but she smiles and tells them to holler if they need anything else before leaving. Jensen looks over the food, frowns, and says, “I have no idea where to start.”

He knows Jared’s awake when a familiar laugh rings out.

Jensen eats with one eye focused on the crowd moving along the edges of the souk. The people are fascinating and he says as much at one point, picking chocolate-covered nuts out from between his teeth. Jared asks him why, of course, and Jensen thinks about it before replying.

“It’s like you said,” he says with a one-sided shrug. “Everyone’s equal. Anyone could be in there, senators or workers or executives, and no one gets any preference.”

“The souk’s a microcosm of the Empire,” Jared says. “Think about that. And then decide what we’re doing next.” At Jensen’s look, Jared takes a sip of his warm xocolātl and says, “There’s entertainment in the afternoon, after most of the merchants close up. Buskers,” Jared adds. “Last time I came down, one guy was doing the entire Oresteia. It was awesome, dude, you should’ve seen it.”

Jensen wriggles his toes, wincing as he does so. “Jared,” he starts to say, before Jared cuts him off.

“If you wanna go home, that’s fine. Goddess knows we have plenty to do before you’ll be ready for all the new furniture coming this week.” Jared sits back, swallows down the rest of his xocolātl, and adds, wicked smile on his face, “We should call Chris and Steve. Interrupt their sextanoi.”

“No,” Jensen says immediately, shaking his head. “No way.”

Chapter 4 Chapter Text

They’re spending the day in the downtown Agkelos temenos, going through one of the many museums cloistered around a huge garden-park in full bloom. Jared’s bounding around from piece to piece, no matter the medium, dragging Jensen along behind him. At first, Jensen thought it was just to show him Jared’s favourite pieces, all the things that Jared likes, but Jared seems to know a lot about everything in the place. By mid-afternoon, Jensen realises that he’s been tricked into getting a history lesson the whole time.

They pause for lunch once they’ve hit the café buried deep in the bowels of the statue-lined grotto. Jensen sits down at a table with a thankful sigh; sneakers are comfortable but he’s been walking for hours, pulled this way and that by Jared.

Jared ruffles Jensen’s hair and Jensen tries to bat Jared’s hands away before the damn kid gives up with a laugh and says he’ll go get their food. Jensen twists in his chair, turning around to see that the café’s an order-at-the-counter place. He slumps and breathes a silent prayer of thanks that Jared’s taking mercy on him.

He’s staring at a statue across the hallway, trying to wrap his mind around the strange curvature, when Jared plops two trays on the table and sits down across from Jensen. “Sandwiches, some soup and salad, something sweet for dessert, and coffee. You’ll need the caffeine, Jen. We’ve still got half the museum to go.”

“I’m pretty sure I know everything there is to know about Renaissance art now,” Jensen protests mildly. “Not to mention the history. I’m ready for a nap, Jared, not more.”

Jared snickers, doles out the plates and bowls, hands over heavy silverware, forged steel. Jared’s fingers, long and lean like the rest of him, are warm when they brush Jensen’s skin. “Bet you don’t know everything there is to know,” Jared says, “but, all right, pop quiz time. You answer these right, we’ll pick up a couple pies and call it a day.”

“Deal,” Jensen says, before tasting the soup -- country potato, cheese and scallions on top, not as good as Jeff’s but a close second. “Lay it on me, professor.”

“Tell me about the renaissance,” Jared says, rearranging something on his sandwich under the top slice of bread. “Hm. Tell me, tell me about the Empire’s reaction to the renaissance.”

Jensen swallows another bite of soup, gets his thoughts in order as he pours a balsamic dressing over his salad. “The renaissance began, roughly, in the fourteenth century. Men like da Vinci and Michelangelo decided that, in order to more fully know themselves, they needed to travel. They pissed off Central Empire and headed for the Federation; the only reason they made it so far was an Empire-wide pronouncement from the oracle’s office that they were doing the will of the goddess. So they went to the Federation and brought back all sorts of things that people thought were lost.”

Jared’s nodding as he eats, eyes focused on Jensen except for when he needs to look at his plate or bowl. “What kind of things?”

“Artistic methods, old Judaic writings, some transcriptions of the early Christian cult’s worship services,” Jensen replies. “When the travellers got back, they went straight to the oracle, asked her what they should do with the things they discovered. After the oracle told them that they were the ones who went searching, and not for anything tangible, they realised they'd done what they set out to do: they learnt more about themselves. Granted, they learned more about the early history of break-away factions than anyone in the Empire had ever known, but that was almost incidental. I mean, Leonardo had a leg amputated and Michelangelo was almost burned at the stake in, where, somewhere close to Magdaleyn?”

“Just outside,” Jared says, polishing off his sandwich. “Why was this such a renaissance, though?”

Jensen sighs, takes a sip of his coffee before going on. “Because they each set up a hugely successful dânešgâh when they returned? They donated what they brought back for everyone to study and each member of every expedition ended up teaching. There was a huge growth of art in every medium, not to mention the Empire placed permanent embassies in the Federation.” Flavour bursts on Jensen's tongue as he switches to the sandwich, chews slowly.

“What was so big about that?” Jared asks, head tilted to one side.

After a moment's thought, Jensen says, more quietly, “No more war. The Empire decided that if it was stable enough to have citizens leave and return even more enthusiastic about their citizenship, it was stable enough to reach out and peacefully engage with other states. And then, with fewer concerns about war, more people chose to study cultures outside of the Empire. By 1500 Empire Era, small areas of the Federation near the Eastern Empire were asking for annexation; the Federation didn’t stop them.”

“So everything we’ve been looking at today, from the time of Costantinate Hellas to Medici Roma, was about what, Jen?” Jared asks, looking at Jensen with such an intent gleam in his eyes that Jensen feels like his answer’s actually going to mean something.

He casts about for an answer, tries connecting everything he’s looked at today with what he’s just said, all on top of a need to please Jared, to not disappoint the guy taking time off work to drag him around art museums. “Confidence?” Jensen says, half a question. When Jared asks for clarification, Jensen tries, he really does. “All the early things, from the decline of the Christian cult to the rise of the Medici in Roma, they started with people. The statues lining the grotto, they’re all about people, singular studies and all in the same style. As time passed, the styles changed and individual subjects turned to, what, groups, then regions inside of the Empire, then places and people outside? Da Vinci’s most famous painting was a scene from the Federation; Michelangelo’s most famous sculpture was of the Republic’s president. Everyone was confident in the Empire.” He stops, says, half taken aback, “They knew themselves and their place in the world. Huh.”

Jared beams around a mouthful of food. He chews, swallows, and says, “I knew you’d get it before we got to the Gonzaga-era. Awesome.” He leans forward, as if about to tell Jensen a secret, and says, “Dude, I don’t like the Gonzaga stuff. So thank you.”

Jensen laughs, surprised, and feels pleasure run upward from his toes with the look Jared’s bestowing on him, blames it on the caffeine, the chance to go home and unwind in front of the television.

“Mignon!”

Jensen blinks as an older woman comes down the grotto’s pathway, calling out a pet name. He’s even more surprised when Jared stands up, turning as he does, opening his arms.

“Senator Ostroff,” Jared says, warmly, and the woman embraces him, gives Jared those air-kisses that the Gaulicians seem so fond of. “It’s good to see Agkelos' politicians taking time out of their schedules to revisit our history.”

Senator Ostroff laughs, more honestly than Jensen would’ve thought a politician capable of. “Such a comedian, Jared. And who are you here with, today?”

“Senator, this is Jensen Ackles,” Jared says, turning slightly. Jensen stands, awkward, shakes the senator’s hand, endures her appraising gaze, eyes skittering over every inch of his body. “Jen, this is Senator Dawn Ostroff, one of the representatives Agkelos sends to Feropolis.”

“I’m a fan, Mr. Ackles,” the senator says, one corner of her lips tilted up. “Even more so now. Enjoying your time with Jared, I hope?”

Jensen’s eyes flick to Jared, who gives him the faintest impression of a shrug. “Art history isn’t exactly my thing, senator, but Jared makes it interesting.”

Senator Ostroff laughs, a shrill sound, and nods. “I’m sure he does, Mr. Ackles. You two have fun; Jared, I’ll see you next week, I hope?”

“I look forward to it, Senator, as does Kristin,” Jared replies.

The woman smiles again, gives Jared another pair of air-kisses, and leaves with two aides in tow, fluttering around her nervously. When she’s finally out of sight and, hopefully, hearing distance, Jensen hisses, “Dude, what the fuck was that all about? You know one of the senators well enough to have standing appointments and pet names?”

Jared shrugs, gives him an enigmatic smile, and asks, “You done with lunch? We can skip the Gonzagas, catch a few of the late Tuscan pieces and be back to your district by the time the game’s on tonight.”

Jensen gapes, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, closes it again. “Yeah, I’m done,” he grouses.

“She’s a friend, Jen,” Jared says, soft, as he’s cleaning up their table. “That’s all. We like to have breakfast together every two or three weeks, catch up on things. Sometimes she likes to get my advice on issues, sometimes I have things to talk to her about. A friend. Does it bother you? She can take some getting used to, I know.”

“You hang out with actors and musicians, with bus-drivers and senators and temple prostitutes and restaurant owners,” Jensen says, shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t bother me. Flabbergasts me, sure, but that’s it. I’m. I pretty much stay in my circle.” Jared nods as if he understands, laughs when Jensen mutters, “Did, anyway, before you came along.”

The laugh loosens something in Jensen’s shoulders, and he bitches about art for the next hour, getting a kick out of making Jared roll his eyes, laugh, scoff, lecture breathlessly about a certain type of marble.

The museum’s not so bad, Jensen guesses, but he’ll never admit that to Jared.

Sandy and Danneel are already at the restaurant when Jensen and Jared finally arrive. They’re still laughing, freshly scrubbed and cleaned up, and the two girls eye them frankly when they sit down across the table.

“And what’ve you two been doing?” Sandy asks, eyebrow raised.

Jensen’s not sure what she’s thinking or implying, though he knows the question isn’t entirely innocent, so he just shrugs and says, “Jared took me downtown to the temenos yesterday and dragged me around until I thought my feet were gonna fall off. So what does he wanna do today? Find some kids to play a game of pick-up b-ball with. My feet? Never gonna forgive me. They about wiped the floor with us but then Jared here busts out moves that should have him playing professionally. Man. It was close. Oh, Jare. You know Sandy but this is Danneel, one of my best friends.”

“The suffering actress who puts up with Jen when everyone else is ready to give up,” she says. Her voice is a little tight, and she shifts in her seat; she doesn’t offer a hand for Jared to shake and he doesn’t do anything to make her. “And the female lead in his current project. Pleasure to finally meet you, Jared.”

There’s definitely something going on judging by the way Danneel’s emphasising certain words, but the waiter comes over with four glasses and a pitcher of ice water, asking if they need menus, before Jensen can think of a polite way to ask what in Hades is going on.

“I don’t,” Sandy says, looking at everyone else. “Do you?”

“I know what’s on the menu,” Danneel says, her eyes still focused on Jared. “And I already know what I’d like to have.”

The elbow Sandy pokes into Danneel’s ribs isn’t at all discreet and neither is the look the two women exchange, but Jared ignores it, tells the waiter he’ll need a menu if that’s not too much trouble. Jensen echoes the sentiment and the waiter leaves only to come back a moment later with four menus.

“What’s good?” Jared asks, when the waiter’s taken their drink orders. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Everything I’ve ever had here before,” Jensen replies.

Sandy nods her agreement, adds, “They do some good Hellenist dishes, as well,” one eyebrow raised. “That’s really why they’re so popular.”

Jared nods, studies the menu, and says, without looking up, “Are we getting dinner or dessert or appetisers, what? Maybe we should all just pick some smaller things and eat meze-style?”

Everyone agrees, Jensen hesitantly, having never had Hellenist food before. When the waiter comes back, they order one bottle of red wine and one of ouzo to go with the meal, along with an array of appetiser dishes, and give the two menus back. The waiter leaves with a smile and another man swings by and leaves a basket of dark bread for them to snack on.

“So, Danneel,” Jared begins, “I know Jensen’s not from Agkelos, and Sandy moved here after finishing a degree at one of the dânešgâh up north. What about you, are you an Agkelos native?”

She laughs, shakes her head and looks up at Jared from under her eyelashes. Jensen frowns, sees Sandy do the same, but Jared doesn’t react except with the same interest Jensen’s seen on his friend’s face a million times before. “Hardly,” she says, and there’s a hint of a different accent in the word, one that comes out more when she says, “I moved to Agkelos from the south, the Gaulician area. My family’s all down there. They’ll be so impressed when they hear who I had dinner with tonight.”

Jared laughs, a short amused sound, nothing more. “It must be nice to have family you still keep in contact with,” he says. If that had been directed at him, Jensen would have flinched, but Danneel doesn’t, not quite, merely tilts her head in acceptance and agreement. She backs off, though, acts more like the Danneel Jensen knows and has become close to over the course of this film.

Jared changes the subject, asks the three of them about working with Kripke, about the film, and food comes as they’re explaining the scene Jensen’s having trouble with.

The food’s different, not bad, but it’s nothing like Jensen’s ever tasted before. The pastries are thinner than paper but crunchy enough to make their presence known, the eggplant’s soaked in all kinds of sauces and spices, the cheese is bitter and bursts full of flavour in Jensen’s mouth. Some of this would, he thinks, be easy to cook, but some of the dishes look ridiculously complicated, especially in contrast to how quickly they’re eaten.

He tastes each thing on the table, has seconds to make sure he knows what he likes and doesn’t, and sees Jared smiling at him out of the corner of his eyes, pleased that Jensen’s trying new things.

“It’s looked like Hades,” Sandy offers, picking up a slice of fast-day moussaka and turning it this way and that, trying to decide which way to attack it from. “I mean, you guys did it over and over and over again, day after day, and Kripke’s never been happy.”

Danneel, mellowed with one glass of wine in her, some saganaki and boureki already in her stomach, says, “It has been Hades.” She rolls her eyes, takes a sip of wine. “It seems like it should be pretty easy. We’ve already filmed half the movie, we have a good handle on our characters, but nothing’s good enough. You're looking at this from the outside, Jared. Have any ideas?”

“Seems like maybe you don’t have a good enough handle on your characters?” Jared suggests, cutting off a chunk of tyropita and spreading it on a piece of baked pita, the slice outrageously small in his hands. Jensen bristles but, before he can argue, Jared adds, “What would they have done if it had been Jensen’s character falling in love with someone else, not yours? Or if your character had come home pregnant?”

“Well, they would’ve,” Danneel starts to say, before trailing off. She looks at Jensen, who shrugs, and then says, “Huh. Maybe you’re right.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow, leans back and wipes off his lips, reaches out for a swallow of ouzo to help the saganaki down. “So we need to spend more time with our characters,” he says. “Jared, we’ve spent months with these characters. I feel like I know everything there is to know about mine and I’m sure Danneel feels the same way. What, in the name of the Goddess, are we supposed to do?”

Jared hums around a mouthful of food, swallows and asks, “You know how they spend their days?” When both Jensen and Danneel nod, Jared shrugs, reaches for another piece of moussaka. “Do that. Spend a day in their lives. Try to think like they do. Interact with people the way they would. Eat at places they'd eat, drink what they drink, do what they do.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Danneel complains.

“A day in the life,” Jared says. “You already know what they do, so finding out what they think about what they do shouldn’t be so bad. It’ll be easy. You’re both good actors.”

Danneel brightens at that and Sandy grins, looking at Jared. Jensen feels uncomfortable in his skin, itchy; Jared’s not an actor but the advice is sound, something Jensen should have already tried.

He admits as much later, after he and Jared have escorted the girls home, riding on the Leo in the dead of night. The driver watches them both in the large rear-view mirror and takes the corners slowly.

“Sometimes we’re too close to the situation to find an easy solution,” Jared says. “No worries.”

And just like that, Jensen doesn’t.

He gets off at his stop, waves goodbye, and sees Jared settling in next to the driver, engaging the man in conversation. Jensen grins and shakes his head. He walks the rest of the way home.

Wine always goes to Jensen’s head and he wakes up with a belly that still feels full, a lingering fuzziness in his head. It’s not a bad feeling, per se, simply one he’s not used to, usually choosing lager or shots when he goes out at night. He gets out of bed after lying there and staring at the ceiling for half an hour, drowsing in and out of consciousness, pads to the bathroom and pisses, takes a shower and washes his hair with something that smells of cinnamon and limes, something that reminds him, the smallest bit, of Jared.

Jensen strikes a deal with the coffee pot when he’s dressed and browsing for food; carefully following Jared’s directions, Jensen makes his first pot of coffee. It doesn’t taste as good as Jared’s or Jeff’s but it’s drinkable and, better yet, he doesn’t need to clean anything up or leave the apartment.

Breakfast is toast slathered in honey-butter, going over his script again, paying special attention to the scene he’s having trouble with. When the phone rings, he isn’t at all surprised.

“I thought we could do it today,” Danneel says the instant Jensen answers. “Kripke said it was a good idea and gave me the day off. Sophia’s not the happiest but whatever, I’ll make it up to her later. You up for it?”

“Where do we start?” Jensen asks in reply.

Danneel laughs; when she talks again, the traces of her accent are gone, smoothed into her character’s voice. “I don’t know about you, darling, but I’ve a hankering for a walk in the park. Shall I meet you there?”

Jensen closes his eyes, rubs his forehead. It’ll take the ride there to get in his character’s head but that’s fine; if he leaves now, he can catch the Leo connection with minutes to spare. “I’ll let the secretaries know I’ll be out of the office for the weekend, sweetheart, and I’ll meet you in an hour.”

“Ta,” Danneel says; “Travel safe,” and hangs up.

Jensen takes a deep breath and disappears into the mind of his character.

Twelve hours later, Jensen blinks and sighs, feeling the weight of another person slide off of his shoulders. Being out and interacting with people who don’t know he’s pretending to be someone else, there’s a certain sense of freedom in that. There’s a certain amount of heaviness, too, though, as if he’s losing himself. That’s always the trouble he has with new roles, that dread of being pushed aside by someone else’s thoughts, dreams, fears.

It seems to have gotten better over the past few weeks, somehow, probably a result of time away from the set. Today’s the first day in a long time that Jensen comes back to himself instantly and throws down a shot of uisghe beatha, swallowing with a relieved sigh, savouring the taste. His character hates alcohol, never drinks.

Danneel laughs, sipping at a glass of wine. “That was fun,” she says. Her accent’s back, heavier than normal as if to compensate for the past twelve hours. “And I think it helped. You?”

“Definitely,” Jensen says, no thought necessary. Danneel raises her eyebrow, so Jensen rolls his eyes and nods, takes a minute to think about it. “I think I’m closer to getting that scene; I understand the guy a lot better. I’m not. Not there yet? Not yet.”

He’s thinking out loud, never feels strange doing that in front of Danneel. They’re good friends; Chris introduced them the week after Jensen moved to Agkelos with a wink and a nudge to the shoulder. Danneel had rolled her eyes and drawled something about matchmakers and fishwives, Chris hadn’t been able to make a comeback, and Jensen laughed at the way Danneel’s eyes sparkled in triumph.

She’s perhaps grown to be his best female friend during the course of this film, stuck working ridiculous hours together under one of the most demanding directors in Agkelos. They’ve had massive brainstorming sessions before every single one of either of their films since meeting, jumped at the chance to work together for once, and so when she asks, “What is it gonna take for you to be there?” he takes the question seriously and doesn’t feel stupid doing so.

“Dunno,” he finally says. “I really don’t. And I have to lecture tomorrow.” He closes his eyes in mock-despair.

Danneel pets him on the shoulder. “I know you hate those but they aren’t that bad, Jen.” He groans and she says, “They aren’t. You take them way too seriously. If you’re that,” she skips the word, waves her hands around, “about it, just call Jared. He’d go with you.”

Jensen ignores the suggestion and decides to mock Danneel. “If I’m that?” he echoes, mimicking her windmilling arms, and laughs when she smacks his arm.

Jensen walks Danneel to the nearest Leo stop when the bar closes, waits with her until the Leo comes. They exchange small talk about on-set happenings until the Leo comes, at which point Danneel leans over and kisses Jensen on the cheek. “Let me know how it goes,” she says. Jensen's left standing at a complete loss for words.

He calls Jared the second he gets home, doesn’t bother with changing or using the toilet or even kicking off his shoes.

Jared must be awake; he answers his keitai on the second ring with a slightly worried, “Jensen? You all right?” There are voices in the background, all of them dropping to a murmured hush, too quiet for Jensen to pick out individual words.

“Fine,” Jensen replies, then asks, “I’m not disturbing you, am I? Are you at work?”

“Just finishing up for the night,” Jared says. “One of my people needed to raise an issue and we ended up calling in pretty much everyone else for the discussion.” He sounds tired, worn out, and Jensen suddenly feels guilty for having such a great day, being in such a good mood. Still, Danneel’s right and he hates, with every fibre of his being, the Q-and-A sessions he has to do for students. “Anyway,” Jared goes on. “What’s up?”

Jensen hesitates, finally takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling for inspiration, like there’s a script up there somewhere for this phone call and he just needs to follow it. “There’s a, a thing tomorrow. I was hoping you’d be able to go with me.”

“A thing?” Jared asks, and though the fatigue’s still there, Jensen’s relieved to hear amusement as well. “What kind of thing?”

Danneel was sure Jared would go but Jensen feels suddenly like he’s imposing, like this is so ridiculous because if Jared’s at work this time of night, something serious is going down. “You know those sessions the studios put on once a month for students?” Jensen pauses, expects Jared to make the connection, doesn’t expect the laughter that follows. He can almost see Jared shaking his head in amusement, those curls flying every which way, and wishes he wasn’t such a dork when it comes to public speaking.

“I’ll meet you at the auditorium,” Jared promises. “I’m going out for breakfast with a few friends but I’ll be there.” He pauses, says something to someone else in the room with him, and adds, “You’ll do fine, Jen. Try and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. “ Jensen doesn’t say anything, so Jared waits a few beats, asks gently, “Unless there’s something else?”

Jensen glares at the ceiling. “Danneel kissed me,” he blurts out, uncomfortable with the admission, skin itching. “On the cheek. Danneel kissed me on the cheek.”

This time he expects laughter, doesn’t get it. Instead, “Do you want to have sex with her?” comes out of Jared’s lips. The glare turns vaguely fish-eyed and Jensen’s glad the ceiling can’t talk.

“What?” he asks, voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Jared sighs, murmurs something under his breath, too low for Jensen to decipher. “I don't know what your initiator went over with you," Jared says. “Here in the Empire, we view sex as an act of worship, engaged in with a partner we love and respect. Someone we feel a certain amount of commitment with and to. It’s not something to be entered into lightly, Jensen. I hate to come down hard, but your naturalisation process wasn’t the best and we haven’t talked about it in any detail. I want to be sure you know all of this before anything happens. Do you know if Danneel’s seen anyone at a temple recently?”

Jensen opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “No?” he half-says. “She didn’t say anything. And I’m not planning on falling into bed with her anytime soon, so you don’t have to worry. I just, y'know. She kissed me.”

Jared sighs; Jensen imagines the other man’s running his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Jen, I am,” Jared says. He sounds honest enough, serious but amused, too, that Jensen feels some of his discomfort ease away. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

Jensen thinks of the voices in Jared's background, how late it is, how quick Jared answered his keitai. “Dude,” he says. “It's bedtime. Later's fine.” He pauses, knows he sounds like a child seeking reassurance when he asks, “You'll be there tomorrow?”

“My hand to the Goddess,” Jared swears.

“If you’re not, I’m never talking to you again,” Jensen jokes, a level of earnestness under the words. Jared laughs but promises again, and clicks off yelling for someone named Alexis.

Jensen hangs up, stares thoughtfully at the phone, and then goes to bed and falls asleep still wearing his socks.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Jensen says. “Jared.”

Jared stops so suddenly that Jensen almost runs into him. “It’ll be fine,” Jared says. Jensen wishes that damn voice wasn’t so soothing; it is and he finds himself relaxing almost against his will. “And if it’s not, we’ll just leave, no questions asked. Promise.” Jared waits, though, and Jensen knows that if he says he doesn’t want to do this, Jared’ll lead him out the same way Jared led Jensen in. The choice means a lot to Jensen, maybe even more than the misplaced trust and faith Jared has in him means to him.

Jensen squares his shoulders. “The instant things go haywire, I’m calling you on it,” he warns Jared.

“Deal,” Jared says, and opens the door. He doesn’t give Jensen time to catch his breath or take a deep one, to step aside and pull up his public persona before walking out there. Instead, Jared takes hold of Jensen’s left hand and tugs, right into the spotlight.

He’s off-balance, almost lurching, and he glares at Jared for tugging him onto stage before he’s ready. Only after Jared lets go, prods Jensen toward the centre podium, does Jensen realise he’s on stage and glaring at his friend. For once, he’s not panicked, not when he’s too angry at Jared, and it gives him an entirely different perspective. He’s never been anything but terrified in front of this many people.

“Hi,” he says, close to the microphone but not close enough for feedback -- this is the first time in memory that the audience doesn’t cringe as a feedback whine accompanies his first words. No one says anything, though, and the dead silence is almost as bad. “Um.” He turns around, gives Jared a look of absolute desperation.

Jared steps into the limelight and Jensen hears a collective whisper start up. He feels his cheeks start to turn pink but Jared either doesn’t notice the murmuring or doesn’t care about it.

“Hey,” Jared says, bumping shoulders with Jensen, lifting his other hand to wave at the crowd. “So, you’re all here to hear Jen speak about what it means to be an actor, right?” Jared doesn’t pause for an answer, but Jensen sees a few heads nodding in response. “But, more than that, you want to know what it means for Jen to be an actor. Am I right?” More heads, and Jensen’s amazed. “I mean, three-time Laurel nominee, currently working on a film with Eric Kripke, himself a Laurel-award winning director, and a cast-list that I’m sure you know better than I do.”

A few titters at that and Jensen can’t help cracking a grin. Jared’s treating it like a conversation; Jensen’s never had a conversation with three hundred people before but he prefers talking over lecturing and Q-and-A sessions.

“So I’ll shut up and let him ramble for a little about his day-to-day, and when he’s done, you can all attack him with question marks.” Jared steps back, slides one hand over Jensen’s shoulder, and, just like that, this is suddenly his crowd. They’re rapt, ready to listen, but, more than that, they’re relaxed, eager, and in a good mood.

“Jared Padalecki, everyone,” he says, tone wry, gesturing at Jared. The applause is something he expects after this much time with the guy. As it quiets, Jensen puts both hands on the podium, leans forward, and says, “My day-to-day is a lot less glamorous than you all would think. For one thing, the hours suck.”

Jensen doesn’t believe it when Jared comes forward and puts one hand on Jensen’s arm, silently interrupting him after he’s done answering some woman’s question about whether or not Kripke’s really as superstitious as rumour suggests. He turns, eyebrows raised in question; Jared taps the face of Jensen’s watch.

Three hours. Jensen’s been up for three hours and it hasn’t even felt like one.

“Guess we’re out of time,” Jensen says. The crowd groans, actually sounds disappointed. “Er. Sorry? You guys’ve asked some really good questions. I’m sorry we didn’t have time for more.”

People clap, some of them stand up, even, and Jared leads Jensen away, back out of the door, closing it and shutting the noise out from behind them. “You did good,” Jared says. “I won’t say I told you so, but.”

“I’ve never had these go so smoothly before,” Jensen says, and he stops in the middle of the hallway, turns and frowns in the direction of the door before turning that frown onto Jared. Jared tilts his head in question, and Jensen asks, “Did you pay them or something?”

Laughter blossoms in Jared’s eyes before it comes spilling up out of his throat. Jared slaps Jensen on the back, says, “Dude, you are so funny,” before walking down the hallway, leaving Jensen to stand there or follow.

“No, seriously,” Jensen says, jogging to catch up with Jared. When he’s level, he looks to the side and asks, “How the hell did you do that? Jared. Come on, man.”

Jared returns the look, grins, and says, “I didn’t do anything, Jen. It was all you. Why don’t we stop by Jeff’s for coffee?”

“And they gave you a standing ovation,” Jeff says, echoing Jensen’s summary of the afternoon. “What’s wrong with that?”

“No one’s ever done that before,” Jensen replies before Jared can open his stupid, laughing mouth. “I’ve never had a Q-and-A go that well and I’ve done a lot of them. ‘Course, I never had Jared give me an introduction before one either, and you know everyone loves this guy.”

Jeff exchanges glances with Jared, ducks his head and smiles into the mug as he lifts it to his face. Jensen sighs, leans back in his chair, because he knows how it works. He asks a question he thinks is legitimate, Jeff makes a comment, and suddenly said legitimate comment turns out to be a fantastically stupid one. All while Jared’s sitting there not saying anything, like he’s some kind of oracle-in-training.

“Oh, just get it over with,” Jensen mutters, rubbing one hand over his face.

“Ever think it went so well because you weren’t treating it as one of those other Q-and-As?” Jensen shakes his head, not understanding where Jeff’s question is going. Or coming from, for that matter. “Usually you’re tense about them, right?” Jeff asks. “Usually you try to get it over with as quick as possible. But this time you were having a give-and-take, something you interacted better with. And, sure, you had back-up, but the atmosphere as a whole was more laid-back. You responded to that, that’s all. You’re a good person, Jen, and thoughtful, funny. People can see that when you’re not trying to be ‘Jensen Ackles, actor,’ and you’re just being yourself.”

That makes sense. It turned his legitimate question into a stupid one, though, just like he thought it would.

“You want a lesson about the Empire,” Jared pipes up, leaning in. Jensen can’t help but look at Jared, the way his bangs frame his face, the way his eyes are lit by the wall sconces, something unearthly about that peculiar shade of green.

Jensen swallows down a shiver, looks at the bottom of his own empty mug. “What we just did, that was a lesson?”

Jared grins. “You were out of your comfort zone, weren’t you? And you learned something about yourself, about other people. Don’t be scared of people, especially when you’re on stage and they’ve paid for the privilege of listening to you speak. We’re all the same, down at the core, Jen. They learned from you just as much as you learned from them.”

“Everything’s like that,” Jeff adds. “Life in the Empire, it’s a constant give and take. You deserve just as much respect as anyone else, no more and no less, and they deserve the same from you.”

“What about the oracle?” Jensen asks. “Doesn’t she deserve more respect?”

Jeff looks at Jared, who pushes hair out of his face. “The oracle’s only human,” Jared says, carefully. Jensen doesn’t know why, but he gets the feeling that not many people are brave enough to say that about the de-facto spiritual head of the Empire. He glances at Jeff, sees the older man listening intently, like this is the answer to a question he’s had for years, as well. “Yes, she’s touched by the Goddess, but the Goddess is the one who chose her. Otherwise, she might be working here in Jeff’s shop. Those who devote their lives to the Goddess are following a calling just as everyone follows a calling. Theirs just happens to be centred around a temenos instead of a shop or a set or an office.”

Jensen frowns. “You’re talking as if every job is important, Jared. From what I’ve seen, nothing is as important as the oracle and the temple prostitutes.”

Jeff tries to hide a wince; Jensen's frown deepens, seeing it, but Jared merely shrugs. “That’s not Empire logic, it’s Republic opinion. Just think about it: the hetairos and hierodules live in the temple. They don’t receive money for what they do. They’re supported by the temple, which is supported by everyone else’s generosity and devotion.”

“Otherwise they wouldn’t eat or have somewhere to sleep,” Jensen says, thinking it through. “So in return for, for what they do, people. It’s like bartering.”

“Likewise with the oracle, to a certain extent.” Jared appears oddly intent. “Yes, she’s the mouthpiece of the Goddess, but where does her power come from beyond that? From people listening. The government could stop taking her advice just as easily, perhaps even easier than things are now. Don’t think the oracle's unaware of that. She knows precisely that she can wield her influence only so far before people stop taking her seriously, just as the government knows what they can get away with before she’d instruct the temple workers to incite a rise against the government.”

Jensen rubs his chin, thinks about that. Jeff and Jared watch him, quiet, and let him come to his own conclusions.

“It’s like a dance,” he finally says. “Carefully choreographed, with tension at every level. It only works because everyone makes it work.”

“It only works because people make the effort to find where they fit,” Jared says, softly but there’s no hiding the slight correction. “If people are out of step, it all breaks down. That’s why the Empire has such a focus on knowledge. Without knowledge of ourselves, we don’t know where we’re supposed to be or how we're meant to be supporting our portion of the Empire.”

Put that way, Jensen’s half-amazed he’s managed this long in the Empire; keeping with the analogy, he’s faked hearing the music pretty damned well, if he says so himself. “Huh,” he says.

Jeff smiles, gets up to refill their coffee mugs, rests his hand on the top of Jared’s mop of hair for a second.

It’s quiet, some music from the east side of the Empire playing just loud enough to hear now that only two of them are tucked in the back corner, sharing breath and time and life.

“Nosce te ipsum,” Jared murmurs. Jensen looks over, makes a noise of interest at Jared’s tone, some strange twist underneath his words that Jensen’s never heard before. “Sorry. It’s just. It’s the crux of our society, y’know? And yet so many people take it for granted.”

“Gonna do something about it?” Jensen jokes. He’s smiling, amused, but the smile fades the more time passes without Jared making a replying joke. “Jared?”

Jared nods. “Maybe,” he says, thoughtful. “Maybe I will.”

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

On fifth-day, Jared shows up at Jensen’s door in formalwear, though not formalwear that Jensen’s seen a lot of. “What in Hades are you wearing?”

“It's Hellenist,” Jared explains, looking down at the wide-legged linen trousers, the open-collared cotton button-up and pressed suit coat made out of a material Jensen isn’t familiar with. “Anyway. Get dressed.”

“Where are we going?” Jensen asks, already heading for his bedroom. “And how nice do I have to dress?”

Jared takes a second to reply, then calls out, “Orchestra performance. The group from Athens is making the rounds; they’re the best in the world.”

Once he’s dressed, Jensen emerges from the bedroom, asks, “How’d you rate tickets? Or have you had them for years and just thought it would be fun to spring this on me at the last minute?”

“Yours is not to question why, not this time,” Jared says, strange gleam in his eyes. “Now, are you driving or are we taking the Leo?”

Jensen gives Jared a narrow-eyed glare and grabs his keys. “I’m driving. Duh.”

It’s not until they’re walking out, Jensen hitting the remote unlock, that Jared says, “You look good, Jen. Clean up well.”

Jensen rolls his eyes but can’t entirely stop the smile.

“Have you always wanted to be an actor?” Jared asks, apropos of nothing as they’re sitting in the central Agkelos amphitheatre, waiting for the symphony orchestra to come on stage.

“Since the first time I saw a movie,” Jensen replies, immediately. He shifts in his chair, sweeps his gaze over the crowd below them. He’s not sure how Jared scored such prime seats but it’s better up here, further away and easier to breathe, better acoustics for a concert. “I was five, I think, and my cousin snuck one in from a girl whose family moved to the Republic. We waited until my parents left us alone for a few minutes and popped in the disc. I don’t even remember what movie it was now but I can remember sitting there, just. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before.”

Jared hums, asks, “What was it like?”

“I had to ask my cousin if those people were real,” Jensen admits. “We’d never seen anything like that, people pretending to be other people. I was so confused.” He laughs, rubs his forehead; thinking about that time in his life gives him a headache, makes him feel so sad, sometimes. “When I figured out what was going on, I asked my cousin if I could do that when I grew up. He gave me this look, said, ‘Jensen, no one in the Republic ever pretends to be anything else. Our souls would get confused.’ I didn’t understand so I just never mentioned it again. Kept my interest to myself, studied acting as much as I could, and met Chris completely by accident when he came down to visit New Jerusalem. We kept in touch and I left, the first chance I got.”

The lights flicker once, twice, and Jared says, “Five minutes until the orchestra takes the stage. Have you talked to your parents since you were naturalised? Or any of your family or old friends? You’re allowed to, you know.”

Jensen sighs, focuses his eyes on the wave of people below them, and ignores the question. All this talk of family, he hates it. The lights go down and the orchestra comes on stage to thunderous applause, half the audience standing, Jared included.

At the intermission, Jensen stands up to stretch, turns around and double-takes when he sees who’s in the box above them, the highest and most exclusive seats. Senator Ostroff gives Jensen a little wave and Kripke’s up there as well, a few other high-profile politicos and industry people all mingling and taking flutes of Narbonens wine from a passing waiter, talking about whatever people like that talk about.

Jared elbows Jensen lightly, offering a flute of wine. “Perks of the seats,” he explains with a shrug, nodding at the plate of snacks as well. “Might as well enjoy it, yeah?”

Jensen lets out a snort but sips the wine, turns back and looks at the crowd beneath them, tries not to think of who is sitting above them.

“I know they’ve toured outside of the Empire,” Jared says, gesturing at the stage. “Did they ever go to New Jerusalem?”

“If they did, the only people who went to see them went in order to get ammunition against them,” Jensen says. Jared raises an eyebrow, doesn’t look like he believes Jensen. “Look, Jared. People in the Republic, they aren’t. They’re different, all right? Petty and self-serving and rabidly anti-Empire; they won't do anything for the good of their bodies if it jeopardises their souls. And it’s not like there’s any way to tell where a soul’s at in the line, so they lie and cheat and steal and fight about whose is better.”

Jared nods, says, slowly, “I’ve heard that. I visited the Republic when I was younger, though only for a couple weeks. We flew in and out of the embassy and didn’t leave very often. The air was.” He stops, shakes his head. “It was troubling.”

Jensen looks at Jared, says, “Lots of things about the Republic are troubling.”

“Y’know, the Federation has lovely gardens,” Jared says. Jensen struggles to follow the conversation leap. “Almost too much, out of control, there just for beauty. There are big signs,” he says, chuckling and shaking his head, “'look but don't touch.' The Republic didn’t have any gardens that I saw. Obviously they either felt that no one would appreciate them or that they weren’t important. But the Empire, we have gardens. All of our major towns have at least one, all of the cities have one or two per district. We find they’re good for aesthetics but also the environment, good for talking and walking but also working and enjoying.”

“Balance,” Jensen says, draining the rest of his Narbonens.

The lights flicker, call for the audience to return to their seats for the second half, and Jared says, thoughtful as he places the empty glasses beside the plate near the entrance, “We need balance in our personal lives as well, Jen. You should think seriously about calling your parents; you can’t tell me you haven’t considered it before.”

Jensen sits down heavily, fiddles with his tie as the lights fade.

Jensen lets himself into his apartment, walks across the living room to flick on a lamp. He takes off his coat and throws it over the back of the couch, kicks off his shoes and lets them stay where they landed. He glances at the phone, shakes his head and loosens his tie as he walks to the bedroom. Once there, he pulls off his shirt and trousers, scratches his belly and peels off his socks, walks back to the kitchen in nothing but his boxers.

Call his parents. Jared makes it sound so easy.

Jensen calls Jared at three in the afternoon, asks what’s on the agenda. Jared says he’ll be right around and he shows up about fifteen minutes later, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a knapsack over one shoulder. Jensen frowns, frowns more when Jared doesn’t kick his shoes off, just leans on the door.

“You have closets in the Republic’s houses, don’t you?” Jared asks. “Prayer closets, I mean. So that you can worship by yourself. But you still have congregational worship.”

Jensen’s eyes narrow. “You’re not taking me to an orgy, Jared.”

Jared laughs, skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m not taking you to an orgy, Jensen. Here in the Empire, we limit our worship to partners and temple workers; to do less than worship with people we love or with people we’re propitiating the goddess with, that would be bordering on the blasphemous. No, you won’t have to do anything but watch.”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of this,” Jensen says. He’s being entirely truthful; he’s managed to throw off so many of his parents’ teachings, but sex, watching people have it? He’d consider himself squeamish if he was man enough to admit it. He sighs, finally says, “But I’m stupid enough to trust you, so. Just, y’know. Warn me if there’s going to be something there that I should be warned about? Okay?”

“It’s going to be very tasteful,” Jared says. Jensen thinks that’s supposed to reassure him.

Instead of the main amphitheatre where they saw the orchestra, they head to the downtown Agkelos temenos, the park situated in the middle of the art museums. Jared leads Jensen to the inner edge of the park, unfolds a blanket from his knapsack, and sits down, crossing his legs. The Leo hadn’t been any more busy than normal but there are a crowd of people sitting around the edges of the park, some families, some couples. Some of them even have picnic baskets.

“What,” Jensen starts to ask. He stops, wide-eyed, looking around, unsure how to ask his question.

“Agkelos holds these celebrations once a month,” Jared says, quiet but not reverently so, just keeping his voice down so they don’t disturb the people settling on to the grass next to them. “One of the temple workers is chosen to participate; they choose another who they trust enough to worship with. The goddess is invoked first, by all of us, and then the temple workers move to the centre of the park and worship.”

Jensen swallows, is about to ask just how the goddess is invoked, but then a hush falls over the crowd like someone’s called time. Jared closes his eyes, breathes in deep through his nose and out through his mouth, and Jensen watches as everyone else does as well.

“In and out,” Jared murmurs, patting the spot on the blanket next to him. “First we breathe and then we give the kiss of greeting. Come on, nothing to worry about, Jen.”

“Same thing you said when we went roller-blading,” Jensen mutters, “and I couldn’t move for three days.” Still, despite his grumbling, he moves, sits next to Jared and breathes, inhale-exhale, deep and calming.

That continues for a few minutes until Jensen’s light-headed from the oxygen. Then Jared opens his eyes, turns and smiles at him. Jared leans forward, kisses Jensen’s forehead, and says, “Welcome, fellow worshipper.”

Jensen finds it hard to swallow but he does, pressing his own dry lips against Jared’s forehead, echoing the words. Some of the people around them are kissing; Jensen’s suddenly glad Jared hadn’t done that.

“Were you taught the invocation?” Jared asks. Jensen nods even though he doesn’t remember half of it. He finds he doesn’t have to, not with Jared right next to him, words measured and deep, reverent. He’s never realised it before, but Jared’s actually serious about this, about sex as worship, about treating the act the way Jensen’s always heard the Empire has but never experienced directly.

Silence falls over the crowd when they’re all done and the words have faded; Jensen suddenly gets why the closest Leo stop is over half a mile away. The only thing he can hear apart from Jared’s breathing is the sound of wind through the leaves. It’s calming and Jensen finds himself lulled into something of a daze; sitting here like this is a heady experience, makes him feel like something larger than himself, like he’s part of something immense and immeasurable.

Across the park, two people stand up from their blankets, hand in hand, a woman and a man. She’s wearing a tank top, jeans, and a pair of gold and crimson laces tied around her upper right arm; his laces are around his wrist. They’re the temple workers. When they reach the middle of the park, they kiss.

The woman melts into the man as if they’re two parts of the same whole. Jensen’s not turned off by the kiss but neither is he turned on. Instead, it’s like he’s watching sculptures in the grotto come to life and do what they were created to do.

Clothes get taken off slowly, dropped to the ground and spread out, though it takes a while before the man slides to his knees, buries his face in the junction of the woman’s thighs. They’re being perfectly quiet as is the crowd, but Jensen finds himself biting his lips to keep from asking questions. He looks at Jared, finds his friend oddly intent on what he’s watching, eyes flicking as if he’s almost taking notes, studying the performance, though Jared turns and smiles when he notices the direction of Jensen’s gaze.

The two workers climax twice each during the performance, get dressed and move to the edge of the park again, sit down next to each other on the blanket and cuddle, taking comfort from one another. Jensen’s mind is racing but he feels strangely at peace, thinks maybe that’s why his mind is moving so fast.

He wonders what they’re all waiting for; Jared leans over and whispers, “In case anyone else wants to spontaneously worship, temple workers or otherwise.” No one seems to, so people start to scatter, normal volume for this crowd coming back as parents corral children, as couples leave hand-in-hand.

Jared waits until they’re some of the last people left and says, “No questions, Jen, not yet. Think about what you’ve seen, okay? I think you’ll find you already know the answers if you consider them.” He stands up, offers Jensen a hand, and Jensen takes it, getting goosebumps at the slide of Jared’s skin against his.

The blanket gets folded up, shoved back in Jared’s knapsack, and the two go walking through the park together in companionable silence.

"I think," Jared starts to say, then stops. Jensen's curious, because Jared sounds a little off-balance and that never happens. He watches as Jared stops, right there in the middle of the path, and turns to face him, squaring his shoulders. "You've done good, Jen," Jared says.

"I can feel a 'but' coming," Jensen jokes. "There's always a 'but.'" When Jared doesn't smile, Jensen's heart skips a beat. He takes a step closer to Jared, asks, soft, "What's wrong?"

Jared gives him a little smile. "You've done good. All of your lessons, I think you've started to take them to heart. But there's one area we never got into."

Jensen's mouth goes dry. Between the cooking and serving, the playing and the studying, the chess and everything in between, there's only one aspect of the Empire that they've never really gotten into. Talked about, yes, but talking about the Empire's easy sexuality and exploring it are two different things; Jared's tried explaining some things to him, basic things, but there have never been any practical demonstrations.

He's wondered why Jared's never pushed, when it seems as if Jared has him trying everything else, like maybe this is a sticking point for some reason, and the fact that he's getting an answer now, finally, is good, though he wishes it wasn't in the middle of Agkelos' busiest park.

"Jensen," Jared says, as if he's followed the trail of thoughts in Jensen's head. "Jensen, I could teach you, if you wanted me to."

Even before he realises what he's doing, Jensen's taking a step back and shaking his head. "No," he says. "No, Jared. That's not. That's. You'll get in trouble if anyone hears you say that. The only people who can do that are the temple workers. The whores."

Jared's lips curve and he accepts the word as if it's a fist to the face that he's been asking for; he doesn't flinch, just lifts his chin and keeps his eyes on Jensen's. "I'm one of the hetairos in the Agkelos temple. You sat outside of it for six hours each day, trying to work up the nerve to come inside; when you didn't, I came out."

"A prostitute," Jensen whispers. "Jared, don't tell me you're a whore, please."

"I won't lie," Jared says. His voice is too soft, too understanding. Jensen wants to scream. "If that's what you want to call me, then yes, I'm a whore. And I'm willing to teach you."

Jensen shakes his head, takes another step back. He half-expects Jared to reach out to him, but Jared just stands there, serene. "Why didn't you tell me?" He wants to hate Jared, wants to just lay into him, but this, it explains so much, doesn't it? The way people look at him, the way everyone on set seemed to know him, and that's why, because Jared's just a whore, probably fucked everyone in the city by now.

Jared tilts his head and says, "If I'd told you this before, you wouldn't have given me the time of day." The words, Jensen thinks, aren't meant to be a judgment, but that's the way they come out. Even worse is that Jared's right. If Jensen had known, at the coffee shop, that first day, even that first week, what Jared does, he'd've left without a backwards glance. Left and missed everything that happened since, wouldn't know how to work his own coffee pot now or surf the Leo, wouldn't know how to look without fear at people and treat them as his equals, no more and no less, wouldn't know that, somewhere, deep inside, he wants to learn.

He wouldn't know himself. He wouldn't know Jared. He wouldn't even know his friends as well as he does now.

"Jensen, you know where to find me," Jared says. Jensen's still frozen in horror. "If you change your mind, you know where I'll be. If not, then I hope you have a good life. Don't forget what you've learned."

Jared steps forward; Jensen thinks that Jared might try to hug him or kiss him, and he's glued to the spot, half-wanting to run, half-wanting to sink to his knees and cry, but Jared does neither.

Jared leaves and doesn't look back.

Jensen doesn’t sleep for the next week. It’s cliché, he knows that, knows he’s living every bad writer’s fantasy, the heart punishing the mind, the subconscious overruling the ego, and he’s always hated those damned psychoanalysts so he must be going crazy.

Clichés happen because they’re true, though, or because, at one point, they were true. Jensen doesn’t sleep. Without Jared, there’s no reason to. In the morning, he’ll be alone. No one will call him. No one will show up at his house or be waiting at Jeff’s. No one will take him grocery shopping or surfing the Leo or tease him about being lost in his own home.

Five days in, sleep-deprived and half-crazy, trying to repress some thoughts, encourage others, Jensen grabs his phone and retreats to his bedroom. He sits in the corner, scrunches his knees to his chest, and piles blankets on top of his body until he can feel the weight of them pressing down, stifling, close to suffocating. He calls Chris, interrupts his friend's sextanoi knowingly, and doesn’t say anything for thirty seconds.

“I’ll be right there,” Chris says, and passes the phone to Steve.

Steve talks, mindless chatter about everything and nothing. The words rush over Jensen’s head but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t hang up. He listens and when there’s a knock on his front door twenty minutes later, he says, “Chris is here.”

The front door opens, Chris calls out, and Jensen burrows deeper into his makeshift cocoon. He’s gone crazy, there’s no other explanation, but no matter how much he yells at himself, how derisive his internal monologue becomes, he simply cannot move.

Chris knocks on the doorway, blocking what meagre light was coming in from the hallway. Jensen waits, hears Chris mutter, “The hell’s going on, Ackles?” before coming inside. Chris drops to his knees next to Jensen, moves the top blanket away, and says, “Aw, hell,” the instant he sees Jensen’s face. He takes the phone from Jensen, tells Steve not to wait up, hangs up and tosses it on to the bed. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Chris asks.

“Did you know Jared’s a whore?” Jensen asks in response. “Did the whole world except me know?”

“Jared’s not a whore,” Chris scoffs, scooting over, leaning his back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. “He’s a hetairos, one of the best in the world. He was a hetairos at the Artemisium when he was seventeen.” Chris stops, shifts one foot, and asks, “You don’t know what that means, do you.”

Jensen swallows, barely resists the urge to lean on Chris’s shoulder. “No.”

Chris hums, scoots closer, like he can feel how much Jensen’s falling apart. “The hetairos and hierodules, they’re special people. They’re so in tune with themselves, their bodies and their minds, that they can read pretty much anyone. It’s almost like they’re psychic. Only the best and brightest work at the Artemisium, Jenny, and Jared was seventeen when he started. It only took him a few years and then, bam, he’s the chief hetairos of the Artemisium, which means he was the chief hetairos of the Empire.”

Jensen’s listening, trying to reconcile all of that with Jared, all of that responsibility with Jared, so carefree and happy. The psychic bit, though, that doesn’t require any thought. That’s Jared, right down to the dimples. Chris has stopped, though, so Jensen looks over, asks, “What?”

“Jenny-boy, Jared was one of the most powerful men in the world. Daily access to the oracle, international senators as his fellow worshippers, advisor to the Parthenon. And he gave it all up. Asked the oracle’s office for a different post somewhere outside of the Artemisium. Rumour has it that the oracle’s office received offers from sixteen cities within twelve hours.” Chris sighs, says, “We were lucky he decided to accept the Agkelos temple’s offer, though no one was expecting it, not when every major capital advertised openings for him. Seriously, you never once recognised him? There was that huge ceremony a couple years ago when he arrived.”

Jensen thinks back, vaguely remembers hearing news about some big celebrity moving to Agkelos. He's not sure, can't think of much at all, a numb fog surrounding him. “I think I was filming in Albion,” he admits, slow and wavering. “He’s. How many people here has he slept with?”

“All the time you spent with him and you still act like this?” Chris shakes his head, tugs one of the blankets off of Jensen, covers his legs. “Jen, the temple workers. Sure, they know just about everything there is to know about sex, but they’re so much more. You had psychologists in the Republic, right? And counsellors, and career advisors, therapists, ministers, right? Ever wonder why we don’t have people like that here, in the Empire?”

“No,” Jensen says, blinking. He tugs ineffectually at the blanket Chris has stolen, doesn’t manage to get it back. In the brief tussle, he shivers. His mind is still blank.

“We don’t need them because we have the hierodules and the hetairos. Sure, they teach sex, help draw worshippers closer to the goddess, but they do so much more.” Chris pauses, as if he’s not sure he wants to say what’s on his mind; Jensen makes an inquiring noise and Chris takes a deep breath. “My mother was a hierodule.”

Suddenly, things start clicking. All the times Chris said he had no idea who his father was, how comfortable he always seemed around Jared when others were either intimidated by him or fawning over him, they make sense now. Even Steve’s reaction, that first night after Jensen was kicked off-set. The Empire’s never been uptight about sex, per se, but Jensen’s never met many people who’ve grown up in single-parent homes. He should've known. He should've asked. All those times he was content to wait, to ignore the hints, to hide behind his ignorance. He should've asked.

“I’ve been an ass,” Jensen says. “About a lot of things.”

“Yeah.” Chris agrees, just like that, but even as Jensen’s turning to glare at him, Chris adds, “But you have the chance to make it up now. You’ve found out Jared’s a hetairos and I’m telling you he spent major hours with you that any number of other people would have been willing to sacrifice big for, money or time or blood and tears. What’re you gonna do now?”

It’s like Chris asking him before all this mess started, before he met Jared, how he’d play the movie scene. Jensen didn’t know then how he’d act in that situation, but he knows how he needs to behave now, in this one. Jared's taught him enough. He's done his nervous-wreck thing, gotten it out of the way, had someone to call and come sit with him. He knows what he has to do now. Thanks to Jared, he knows he can.

“I’ll go back on set tomorrow and get that scene down,” he says, “and then I’ll go talk to Jared.”

Chris pats his knee. “There y’are, son. Now, can we get off the floor? My ass is numb.”

Jensen cracks a smile, corners of his lips moving upwards, and hears his joints shift as he stands.

“I’ve fallen in love with someone else,” she says. The lines around her mouth disappear, her eyes light up at the mere thought of this other person. “I still love you, there won’t be a day when I don’t, but.” She takes a deep breath, asks, “You understand, don’t you?” She steps closer, close enough that he can feel the exhalation of air from her mouth on his cheek. He closes his eyes, can’t bear to look at her. “Please tell me you understand.”

The instant she touches him, fingers light on his chest, he takes hold of her wrist, holds her gently, as if she might break. He tugs her close and it’s clear she wasn’t expecting that. She’s off-balance, falls into him, and he traces his fingers up the nape of her neck, tangles his hand in her ponytail.

“What,” she starts to say, stops, starts again. “What are you doing?”

“Have you gone to the temple?” he asks, voice low. He’s watching her, trying to search out something in her eyes -- what, he’s not sure, but he’ll know it when he sees it. “Have you talked to one of the hierodules?”

She starts to cry, can’t look at him. “Of course! We went as soon as we, please, let go of me, please.”

He closes his eyes, pulls her tighter for a moment before letting her go. All he can feel is sadness right now, that he couldn’t give her what she needed, that she might feel as if she’s wasted her time on him, herself. He opens his eyes, cups her cheek in his palm. She looks confused, worried, but he’s just so tired. They’ve been fighting it for months, didn’t want to admit it to anyone, but she’s stronger than him. She’s always been stronger than him.

“You’re happy with this other person?”

She bites her lip, looks down at the floor but then back at him. “I am.” Her voice is so soft, but there isn’t a hint of a lie in her words, no guilt. “Can we. Do you forgive me for not telling you sooner?”

He turns away, can’t look at her. She’s all he’s ever wanted, but he’s not good enough. No, that’s not it. She’s all he ever thought he wanted; he had her, he never had to see if there was anything or anyone else out there for him.

The world looks terrifying now, but also, in a vaguely nauseating way, strangely full of hope, of potential.

“It hurts,” he says. “I won’t lie to you, not now. But yes.” He turns around, opens his arms. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

She cries, hides in his embrace. In another world, another time, if he was another person, this is when he would kill her, here, now, after he’s forgiven her. But this is now, here, and he is just the way he’s always been without seeing it. There’s someone else out there for him, he knows it.

“I’ll go to the temple in the morning,” he whispers into her hair. His hands caress her back, move up and rub her neck. “I’ll sign the papers.”

Her pulse flutters under his fingers. When she pulls away, tremulous smile on her lips, he lets her go. When she leaves, he doesn’t follow.

The world hangs, crystalised, as he watches her leave, and then --

“Cut!”

Jensen jumps, pulled out of the scene, out of his character’s headspace. He feels as if he’s in freefall for a split second, then looks at Kripke, sees the man staring at him.

“That just won you the Laurel,” Danneel says, coming back to stand next to Jensen. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, pupils impossibly huge. “Jensen. That. Goddess. Where did that come from?”

Jared, he wants to say, seeing Jared’s face, that last morning. He doesn’t say anything and Kripke calls out that they’re ready to move on, that they need to re-shoot in different lighting, tells Jensen, later, that he’s glad things worked out.

“Your friend,” Kripke starts to say, then stops, reconsiders. “He was better for you than any of us even guessed. Huh.” As if that’s enough, Kripke claps Jensen on the shoulder, says, “We’ll all have to donate something when the nominations come up,” and moves on, heading after the lighting guys, yelling something about filters.

Jensen goes to his trailer, sits down on the couch, and stares at the wall, thinking.

He rides the Leo home, leaves his car in the lot; no one’ll bother it there and he can take it home tomorrow. He gets off one stop before his apartment and walks into the small grocery at the corner; the woman who owns it waves to him from behind the check-out counter.

Jensen walks down the fruit-and-veg aisle slowly, letting his hands glide over the firm skin of pomegranates, the speckled peel of three types of citrus, the cool malus, still wet from overhead sprinklers. He picks up a few different fruits, a package of eggs, a loaf of sweetbread, goes to the counter. He sees a newspaper, headline bold and glaring, Acropolis and Temple Working Together For Change.

Jensen picks it up, waiting for the woman to get back, and he scans the article, sees that the chief hetairos of the Agkelos temple is calling for people to remember their vows as citizens, to devote some time in contemplation of the Empire’s motto, and that Senator Ostroff is urging the government to do the same.

“I haven’t seen your friend here in a while,” the woman says, coming around the corner and wasting no time in ringing up Jensen’s purchases. Her eyes flick to Jensen between every item she rings up. “Will he be back soon?”

“I’m not sure,” Jensen replies. He thanks her when she’s done and leaves. He can feel her eyes following him.

Jensen goes home, whips up an omelette, and it’s not until he’s waiting for it to finish cooking that he remembers the way Jared used to cook here, realises he hasn’t done the same since Jared told him the rest of it. Jensen sits down before his knees give out. The eggs burn and the smell of vomit taints the air from the bathroom outward until it fills the house.

Morning comes and Jensen’s too wrung-out to deal with his coffee pot. He rubs crust out of his eyes, stands in a hot shower for half an hour, and emerges in a billow of steam to pull his pajamas back on and sit on the couch. He knows what he has to do, what he should do, but he can’t, not yet.

Why he thinks this would be an excellent time to call his parents, he doesn’t know, but Jensen picks up his phone and dials the operator.

“Thank you for dialling, how may I direct your call?” a woman asks him.

Jensen takes a deep breath, says, “The Republic main-frame, please.”

He can hear her clicking on something and then she says, “Connecting now, sir. Enjoy your call.”

Music plays for a second, tinny and unimaginative; Jensen’s never been reminded so much of the Republic, of the person he was not even a month ago, and then a recording comes on, asks him to enter the number if he knows it, to dial ‘0’ if he doesn’t. Jensen’s had his parents’ phone number memorised for his entire life; he takes another deep breath and enters the string of digits.

It rings once, twice, three times, and then the sound of coughing as the phone’s picked up on the other end. “Hello?” Jensen closes his eyes. “Hello? Listen if this is,” his mother says, before moving the phone away and coughing more, sounds like she’s hacking up a lung.

“Mom,” Jensen says. There’s silence on the other end, so he says it again. “Mom? Mom, it’s me. It’s Jensen. I.”

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Oh, Jen-baby.”

Jensen hangs up the phone, rubs his face, and decides he doesn’t want to be alone, not now. He dresses quickly and leaves, making his way to Jeff’s.

Jeff’s behind the counter when Jensen walks in, immediately grabs Jensen’s mug and fills it, slides it over. “Been quiet around here,” Jeff says. Jensen knows, just from that, that Jared hasn’t been in either. He feels ashamed at the thought of Jared giving him this much space, changing his routine so that there’s no way the two of them will stumble across one another, just so Jensen can think. Thinking’s such a waste of time, anyway.

“Hopefully not for much longer,” Jensen says. He’s tired, feels like he’s gone six rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champion, beat to pieces and feeling broken, but it’s better than he’s felt before, like he’s put something to rest in the process. “You got a minute?”

“For you,” Jeff says, wiping his hands on a dish-towel, “I have thirty-six minutes.” Jensen raises an eyebrow at the number, nods in understanding when Jeff adds, “Pie’ll need checking. Let’s sit down ‘n you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jensen leads the way to the pair of chairs in the back corner, the ones he and Jared unofficially claimed as their own, and sits down in Jared’s, pretending he can feel Jared’s warmth on the soft fabrics. “Back when Jared said he’d teach me,” he starts, before realising he needs to know if “You knew about Jared, this whole time?”

Jeff looks sheepish, can’t meet Jensen’s eyes. “I knew what Jared was from the first time I met him, Jen. Couldn’t not, with what I was doing.”

“What you were,” Jensen starts to ask, then stops, eyes wide, trying not to imagine Jeff and Jared in all sorts of compromising positions, belly tight and feeling sick at the thought.

Jeff laughs, says, “Not whatever you’re thinking, Jen. Jared and I never worshipped together.” Jensen breathes. “Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t born in the Empire.”

“You weren’t born. Where the hell were you born?” Jensen asks. It’s like he’s been broadsided, again. Jeff’s always seemed so, so Empire, like he fits here just as much as everyone else. The thought that Jeff's not native completely flummoxes Jensen.

“I was born in the Federation,” Jeff says, settling back into the chair, hands cradling a mug slightly smaller than Jensen’s. “My parents emigrated before I turned ten; when I came of age, I was added to the Empire’s citizen rosters. I went to Empire schools, knew all of the Empire’s laws and what it meant to be a good citizen. But I was never happy, y’know? I always felt out-of-place, hid it pretty good but I never felt like I fit.”

Jensen nods, staring at his coffee like it might hold the answers to every question he’s ever had. He felt like that, too, before Jared. “You went to a hierodule?”

“Not at first. I thought maybe it was something everyone felt. Wasn’t until I was filming with Mary-Lou in the Federation that I realised it was just me,” Jeff says. “When we got back, I went to a hetairos, to talk. Explained what I was feeling, asked what I should do, and you know what that bastard said to me?”

“No, what?” Jensen asks, grinning at Jeff; it might be disrespectful to call a temple worker a bastard but the tone’s wry and affectionate. Jensen’s felt that way about Jared enough over the past month to appreciate Jeff’s sentiments.

Jeff’s grin stays on his face, though it turns a little more serious, a little more thoughtful. “He told me I needed to ask myself why I never fit. I thought, fuck that, that’s why I went to him for answers. But he was right, in a way. So I went home and I thought about it, and I’ve never been so pissed off at myself before.”

Jensen tilts his head, doesn’t realise he’s doing it until Jeff’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Fucking Jared. “Why were you so pissed?” he asks, straightening up, though the damage’s been done.

“The Empire seems so perfect, almost too perfect. People are happy, mortality rates are low, health is good, population’s staying steady. Everyone’s wanted and doing what they want, no one has to worry about losing houses or jobs, or what would happen if they fell ill or had a surprise pregnancy, the government’s stable and democratic.” Jeff shakes his head. “I was just too hyped up about performing for everyone else that I forgot to think about myself, what I wanted. I was trying to please too many people. Once I stopped, life suddenly just. It just clicked. I kept going back to the hetairos once a week until even he was sick of seeing me. Quit my job and started this one, never looked back. I still visit the temple, more than most people, I’d wager, and worked my way through a string of workers until I settled on one that seems to understand me better than most. I don’t want to backslide, wanna feel the way I feel now forever.”

Jensen takes that all in, thinks about it for a couple minutes. He felt that way after moving into the Empire; life here is almost too good to be true. The shoe hasn't dropped yet, though. He finally asks, “The one you see now. That’s Jared, isn’t it?”

“If there’s one person who can ease someone from outside of the Empire into it,” Jeff says, carefully, “it’s Jared. He’s the best at what he does, Jen.” Jensen doesn’t say anything, and Jeff repositions himself, crosses one ankle over his knee, reaches to scratch at his foot. “He told me once that the three major powers all focus on different aspects of identity. The Federation is all about sex-identity,” Jeff explains, snickering, “and man, if you’ve never been there? Consider yourself lucky. All they seem to care about is the body, indulging every whim. The Republic’s exactly the opposite, focused on soul-identity.”

“They’d rather you ignore your body than indulge it,” Jensen says, nodding, thinking of his father. “Worry about your eternal soul, instead, and let what happens to the rest of you, happen, because it’s happening for a reason. Yeah. I always thought that was dumb.”

Jeff nods, says, “But the Empire. Here, the temple workers teach us to focus on our self-identity, on fully actualised self-knowledge.”

“Nosce te ipsum,” Jensen says. The scary thing is, what Jeff’s saying? Big words aside, it’s making sense, especially after all the time Jensen’s spent with Jared. Everything they did together, it was teaching Jensen about himself, about who and what he is, down underneath what his parents think of him, what his friends think about him, what the people he works with or the people who see his films or the woman he buys groceries from think. It’s. It’s strangely liberating, in a sense, to be whatever he wants, whatever he’s comfortable being. Liberating but terrifying.

Thirty-one years old and Jensen has no idea who he is underneath everything else. He’s got a good idea, after the last month, but he has so much further to go. He does know someone who’ll help him figure it out. That’s more than he would’ve had this time last month.

“What’re you gonna do, Jen?” Jeff asks, before tilting his mug to his lips and draining the dregs of his coffee.

Jensen finishes his as well, tries to ignore how scared his answer really makes him feel. “Go and see Jared. Duh.”

Jeff laughs, stands up and offers Jensen a hand. After Jeff’s pulled Jensen to his feet, Jeff says, “You’ll be fine. He’s a good man, Jen. And you’ve got friends. Just gotta ask them for help when you need it.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says. He briefly flirts with the idea of grabbing Jeff, indulging in a bear-hug, tells himself what the hell and goes for it. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind, holds him tight, lets him go with a ruffle of Jensen’s hair and a shine in his eyes.

Jensen has friends in abundance, is lucky enough to have Chris and Steve and Danneel as his best friends, but, walking out of Jeff’s shop, Jensen’s sure that this is the first real mentor he’s had since he ran away from home. The thought’s enough to get him across the street, standing at the doors to the temple.

Jensen gathers up his courage, takes a deep breath, and, despite the butterflies in his stomach, pushes open the front door to the main Agkelos temple. Jeff’s watching, Jensen knows, from across the street; he can feel other people watching him as well, but Jeff’s gaze props him up like the weak spot on a set design.

He wants to turn around, draw some courage from knowing someone has his back, but if there’s one thing Jensen’s learned since meeting Jared , it’s his own limitations. If Jensen turns to look, he’ll turn to walk and he won’t ever come back. He can’t do that; he needs to see Jared, so Jensen walks in and lets the doors close behind him, blocking his escape.

The unmistakeable smell of cinnamon hits Jensen’s nose, not entirely overpowering but strong with hints of something else underneath, some foreign mix of mint and nuts. It’s not a smell he’s ever come across before and neither is the wood on the floor, that the furniture’s made up of, a dark shade, close to black. The entryway, the room it opens out into, is well-lit, though, soft but bright, like hazy sunsets.

“Welcome,” a woman says, coming from a hallway to Jensen’s left, “and Goddess bless. How may I serve?”

She’s wearing a red tank top, jeans. A tattoo, her hierodule symbol, circles her upper arm and there are red and gold laces tied above and below the tattoo, ends hanging down, brushing against her wrist as she stands there, waiting, blue eyes wide, open. If Jensen had passed her on the street or if she’d been in line at Jeff’s, if she’d been wearing a t-shirt without the laces, he’d never known she was a temple worker. “Whore,” he can hear his father say.

A chime, distant, and Jensen can hear another door open, but she doesn’t look away from him. Jensen wants to run, but he tilts his chin up. “I. I’m looking for Jared. Is he.”

“Hetairos Jared isn’t seeing anyone right now,” she replies, eyes soft as the light, gaze as impenetrable as the black wood. “Is there anyone else or,” she trails off. Her head dips slightly and Jensen can see the rise and fall of her chest.

“Thank you, Alexis,” and Jensen turns around, can’t believe he never heard Jared come up behind him. “It’s all right. I have time for Jensen.”

The girl, Alexis, smiles, eyes flicking between the two of them. She doesn’t say anything, though, just turns and goes back the way she came.

Now that he’s standing here, facing Jared, Jensen doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t say anything, takes the chance to look Jared over, starting with his feet -- bare, tan, maybe even dirty -- and working upwards. Jared’s wearing a pair of ridiculously long jeans with snags on the cuffs and holes in the knees, fraying edges to the pockets, a wide rip near the middle of his left thigh that artfully frames the curves of his tattoo. A t-shirt stretches broad across his chest and shoulders, gold and crimson laces knotted around both forearms and hanging down, hair wet from sweat or a shower, Jensen isn’t sure which. Jensen looks at Jared’s face, traces the contours of Jared’s lips, cheekbones, with his eyes.

Jared’s patient, watching him, waiting for Jensen to make the first move.

There’s so much to say, so much between them. Jensen doesn’t know where to start, has already forgotten the apology he planned out last night. He must open his mouth three or four times, search for something, anything, and Jared merely stands there, patient as ever.

“I’m here,” Jensen finally says. He can hear footsteps behind him pause, turn around and leave, sees movement over Jared’s shoulder. No one bothers them. So much is encompassed in his statement; he wonders what Jared heard.

Jared nods, slowly, and asks, “Why?” There are crinkles at the edges of his eyes; Jensen hasn’t been able to get Jared’s face, their last conversation at the park, out of his mind, but he doesn’t know whether the crinkles are amusement or something else. Other than the skin around his eyes, Jared’s expression looks peacefully calm, honestly interested like always but more intent, somehow.

It all comes down to this. Jared would let him apologise and have that be the end of it, Jensen knows, have that be enough to resume their friendship as if nothing had ever happened. Jared will accept anything Jensen has to say. There aren’t any expectations, aren’t right or wrong answers. Jensen can say anything, it’s all up to him.

“I want to learn,” Jensen says, simple as everything Jared’s ever taught him, complicated as the same. “Teach me, Jared. Please.”

Jared smiles.

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Canonist, StepicliffeGrey, AO3_thisismylife, Mirya, maryjo24, crystal3rose, rocketchick99, Amberdreams, cr0wgrrl, tessa_storm, AnnieSach, reina5863, kaiein, Star_dancer54, DirtyNDusty, enteselene, and ruffboi as well as 14 guests left kudos on this work!

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starletfallen (ruffboi) on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 03:03PM UTC

Just a quick comment to say while I haven't reread it again yet, I've girded my loins to do so and am absolutely tickled pink that this story is on AO3 now. YAY!!!!

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1. rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:13PM UTC
  
  It's only here thanks to you, so...thank you!!! ♥
  
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DirtyNDusty on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:23PM UTC

Oh yeah ! One of my favorite ! Perfect opportunity to read it again :)

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1. rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:13PM UTC
  
  I hope it holds up after all these years!
  
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Star_dancer54 on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:50PM UTC

It's so fascinating coming back to a story you read so long ago, and it hitting so differently now that you've had more life experience and time in your own head. I remember liking this a lot when I first saw it, but now... there's this ache, of knowing that I still have so many corners of myself that I don't know clearly, that I haven't nourished in years, that I really need to look at and acknowledge and take care of.
Wretched brat. You always make me think too much. Thank you for that <3

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1. rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:21PM UTC
  
  I feel strangely nostalgic, looking at this fic after so many years -- there are things I would do differently now, but only the fine details; I think the broad strokes hold up...which is both awesome and kind of terrifying!
  
  Thanks so much for commenting -- it means so much to me 𓆩❤︎𓆪
  
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cr0wgrrl on Chapter 5 Wed 20 Aug 2025 04:40AM UTC

I've never been less than absolutely delighted when one of your fics crosses my radar, and this is no exception. I loved seeing Jensen's understanding grow and transform - especially how it presented in his pivotal on-screen performance.

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1. rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:18PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much for the comment! 💜💜
  
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Amberdreams on Chapter 5 Wed 20 Aug 2025 11:42AM UTC

This felt like a gentle, almost dispassionate way for Jensen to discover himself - an intriguing approach to telling the story, and interesting that the self discovery was as important (if not moreso) than any romance/attraction/falling in love.

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1. rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:18PM UTC
  
  The self-discovery was very much the focus of this, rather than any romantic aspect -- so I'm glad you found it interesting/intriguing!
  
  Thanks so much for taking the time to comment!
  
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starletfallen (ruffboi) on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 03:03PM UTC

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rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:13PM UTC

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DirtyNDusty on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:23PM UTC

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rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:13PM UTC

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Star_dancer54 on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:50PM UTC

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rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:21PM UTC

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cr0wgrrl on Chapter 5 Wed 20 Aug 2025 04:40AM UTC

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rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:18PM UTC

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Amberdreams on Chapter 5 Wed 20 Aug 2025 11:42AM UTC

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rei_c on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:18PM UTC

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