more than words

[fufaraw]

 

Nature had decided his role, and the law upheld her decision

ONE

"I can't get the fingering right on the bridge," Jensen complained, setting his guitar case carefully on the passenger side floorboard of his truck. "I need more practice. I don't think we should include the song until I get it right."

"Song's in, son," Christian grinned at him, slinging his own guitar case into the bed of his pickup alongside Steve's. "Just have to be what we like to call OJT." He swatted at Jensen's shoulder, and Steve pulled him in for a quick hug before climbing into the cab. Jason, his own guitar already stowed in the trunk of his Camry, raised a hand.

"So. Airport, 5:00 AM, right?" Jason asked. "Anybody need a ride? Say something now, because I'm gonna go finish packing and try and catch some sleep."

"Nah, man. Josh volunteered to drop me off, but thanks." He felt the stretch of the grin on his face, and saw it mirrored on the faces of his friends as they all climbed into their respective vehicles. This time tomorrow they'd be landing in England, for three weeks' tour, playing, singing, and sightseeing. And sampling the charms of the local young women, without doubt. Girls loved singer-guitar players, and that made Jensen happy. He also loved this chance to work on his career as a musician. The tour of England, Germany and France was going to look good on his resume, whether he played with the guys or took solo gigs, as they all did occasionally.

He forced his mind away from thoughts of the troublesome finger work and the flight, and onto his list of things still to pack. His brother had agreed to drop Jensen at the airport in the morning so his truck wouldn't sit in long-term parking while he was gone. But Jensen needed to get those last few items into his bags, have some food, visit a little with his family and do his best to catch some shuteye before that early wakeup call. Preoccupied, he didn't notice the white van in the driveway before he pulled in.

A little alarmed, he calmed once he took a better look and assured himself it wasn't an ambulance. But as far as he knew, none of the family's friends drove white vans, and there was no logo for a business or service--just a late-model, plain, unmarked white van.

His alarm grew as he parked, got out, and started around to retrieve his guitar and two uniformed policemen blocked his path. A man in a dark business suit stood behind them, and behind him were Josh and his parents. His mom looked like she'd been crying, his dad looked poleaxed, holding a sheet of paper in one hand.

"Mom? Dad, what's going on?"

"Jensen, you need to come with me," the stranger spoke, and Jensen didn't even spare him a glance. He attempted to go to his parents past the uniforms, but they each took him by a bicep and pushed him toward the van. He struggled, but both of them were big men, and they weren't letting go.

"What--? Let me go! What are you doing?" As they forced him implacably toward the van, he twisted in their grip, meeting his father's stricken gaze. "Dad? Dad! What's going on?"

But his father seemed struck dumb. His mom was sobbing audibly, and from the quick glimpse he'd had, Josh had a steadying arm around her, and his face wore a look of shock, too. "Somebody tell me what the hell's going on? What have I done? Where are we going? Hey!" He yanked hard, but the cops' grip never slackened. He was forced into a seat in the back of the van, a cop on either side of him, and they quickly had him belted in, even while they still had him by the biceps.

He craned forward as much as he could to see what was going on outside, and was even more confused, if a little relieved, to see Arthur Clark's Acura pull into the driveway and park directly in front of the van, blocking its exit. Jensen had known Arthur all his life. He handled the family's legal business, as well as being his dad's friend. Clark didn't speak to the family, though. He headed straight for the stranger in the suit, a folder in his hand, which he gave to the stranger. The man looked over the papers inside the folder briefly, gave a slanted look from under his brows at Clark, nodded, then walked around and got into the driver's seat, starting up the van.

"Hey! Who are you?" Jensen demanded. "What's this all about? Where are you taking me?" None of the three men answered, and Jensen struggled between the uniforms who still held him by the arms. "What the hell's going on?" He managed to duck and turn enough to see his family in the driveway as the van pulled away, all of them looking blank and stricken. Clark didn't look any more cheerful.

When he turned to face forward and attempt to figure out where they were going, he caught the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror. But the man didn't enlighten him. And the cops never spoke.

The building was nondescript, anonymous; Jensen had passed it hundreds of times and never wondered about it. There wasn't a logo or a business name anywhere he could see on the facade the van approached before it turned and entered an underground garage. They stopped at an interior door and everyone got out. Another guy got behind the wheel and drove the van away to park it while the man in the suit and the cops ushered Jensen inside the building. He clamped his lips shut, stubborn now. He wouldn't keep asking questions nobody was answering. He'd keep his eyes and ears open and try to learn what he could.

Into an elevator, up several floors, and out into a bland and unremarkable lobby. Following the man in the suit, the uniforms marched him past a reception desk manned by an equally unremarkable middle-aged woman, through a set of swinging doors and down a featureless corridor. The linoleum floor gleamed in the light from a window at the end, and blank closed doors were ranked evenly along the walls of the narrow space. It wasn't silent, but sound was muted and indistinct: voices, music--recorded music.

The man stopped at a door and opened it, the uniforms ushered Jensen inside and let him go. He turned to watch them leave the room as the man stood in the doorway. "Jensen, you're going to be with us for a few days. You should be comfortable here. Dinner will be delivered in about an hour. Your television works, it gets a small selection of channels. I suggest you relax, rest. There's a shower through there," he indicated a door and a room beyond it. "I'll see about a change of clothes for you."

"Am I under arrest? Is this--jail?"

"No, Jensen. This is just a way station. Your family's lawyer filed papers to prevent us proceeding as planned, so you're here until that's all sorted out."

"Until what's sorted out? And for how long? I have a plane to catch early in the morning--"

"You won't be on that plane, Jensen. And I imagine you won't be here for more than a week or two. Then we can move on to the next phase for you."

"I want to see my lawyer. I want to talk to my parents. You can't keep me here without telling me what I've done. I have rights--"

"You will see your lawyer tomorrow, and no doubt your parents, too." The man didn't address Jensen's rights, or his supposed crime. He merely nodded, stepped out into the corridor, and closed the door behind him, leaving Jensen alone in the strange room. Jensen automatically tried the doorknob; of course it was locked. He turned to survey his surroundings: white walls, ceiling, a white-painted narrow bed with white sheets and a blue blanket, a small table beside the bed and a straight-backed wooden chair, a lamp. The room was about ten feet wide and twelve feet deep. There was a window above the bed, with bars on it. The door opened onto a bathroom with mint-green walls, antiseptically clean, with a white toilet, wall-hung basin, and shower stall. Two white towels lay folded on the toilet lid. There was a small television bolted to the wall in the corner of the bedroom, high up near the ceiling. A remote lay on the table. No books, no magazines, no radio or iPod dock, no complimentary laptop.

He stood in the middle of the room and tried to think through everything that had happened lately. What on earth could he have done to end up here? And why were they being so secretive? He hadn't been read his rights, he hadn't even been searched. He hadn't been formally arrested. What the hell was going on?


He was woken by the sound of the latch, and a man in street clothes entered with a tray, which he set down on the table. "You have visitors scheduled in an hour. I'll be back to take you there."

Jensen pushed up on one elbow to inventory the tray. "No coffee?" he asked, surprised and disappointed.

"No," the man said, no apology or explanation offered as he left, locking the door behind him.

Fuck, Jensen thought, reaching out for a triangle of dry toast. There wasn't even butter or jelly on the tray, and the scrambled eggs looked lonely without bacon or sausage to keep them company. He tasted the little bowl of oatmeal, but it had been cooked without fruit or spices, unlike the cinnamon and raisins or cranberries and clove his mom used, and he grimaced at the taste. There wasn't even any salt on the eggs. He ate everything, though; he was hungry. At least the orange juice had some flavor.

He showered, unwrapping a motel-sized sliver of soap, and toweling dry before putting on his clothes from yesterday again. Not too grubby, but not fresh, either. He used the travel-sized toothpaste and the new toothbrush he'd unwrapped the night before after an early night watching boring TV after a dinner as tasteless as this morning's breakfast.

He could use a shave. And a damn cup of coffee. He was more than ready to get out of this cell when the man who'd brought breakfast unlocked his door and beckoned him into the hall. Jensen followed as he was led back to the lobby, and gestured toward a doorway in a corner. He entered a smallish room, furnished with plain but comfortable-looking furniture, where his parents and Arthur Clark waited.

There was no greeting, no smile, no lift in his dad's voice as he pulled Jensen in for a hug. His mom rushed to hug him, too, her face stained with tears, fresh ones threatening. Clark stood by the armchair across from the sofa, his briefcase at his feet and a sheaf of papers on the coffee table before him. Alan Ackles put an arm around his son's shoulders and led him to an empty chair. "Sit down, son." When Jensen did, he stepped away and joined his wife on the sofa. "Arthur is here to explain everything to us, and to discuss what options we may have."

"Dad?" Jensen's sense of foreboding grew. "What's going on? Have I done something wrong?"

"Jensen," Mr. Clark forestalled his panic. "You haven't done anything wrong. But this is about you, just you, primarily, and the rest of your family only secondarily."

Whatever it was, he needed to know, right now. "Tell me."

Later, Jensen would be unable to recall the exact words that reduced his life to rubble. The essence of it was that, in sixth grade, he had been dangerously ill and confined to his bed for nearly a month with a stubborn case of pneumonia and an array of complications. The skiing trip that had been planned for his twelfth birthday had been postponed, and then cancelled. And during his absence from school and amid all the worry of illness and convalescence, one factor had been neglected. All the boys in Jensen's class had undergone routine screening, the test that identified ceiver males. Those boys positive for breeder status had been separated from the regular curriculum and placed in another designed to teach them how to manage their new way of life, to prepare them for what lay ahead. Because of Jensen's illness, he had not been tested. Because of his lengthy absence, the testing and separation of ceiver boys was long over and done by the time Jensen returned to school. And the subject had never surfaced again in the years since.

Two months ago, the band had finished arranging with promoters and club owners the chance in a lifetime tour of gigs and a trip to Europe and England. Never having been out of the country before, Jensen had to apply for a passport. With current strictures on travel, a thorough physical exam was required before a first passport could be issued. Jensen had received his passport just this week. But apparently there had been some irregularity, completely unexpected and only caught after the passport had already been issued. Clark had copies of all the test results, but the one on top of the stack was the nail in Jensen's coffin. One of the tests had been a ceiver screening, just routine, and Jensen had tested positive.

"I've already filed a stay," Clark assured them. "Fifteen days is the longest they'll grant without additional reason. It's time enough for a second opinion, which is necessary, of course. And it's also time for me to do some legal digging, to see if I can find a precedent, or some reason for setting this contract aside."

"Contract?" Jensen's father asked.

Clark nodded. "Upon status determination, the ceiver becomes the ward of the state, which contracts each breeder to a fertile male, a pere. The pere has legal custody of the ceiver from that point, until or unless he surrenders custody back to the state. If that happens, the ceiver is then contracted to a new custodial pere. We want to prevent the pere from claiming Jensen immediately, to give us time to either overturn the decision by a negative second opinion, or to fight it on legal grounds. Perhaps we can do something with the state's lapse in thorough testing. It was their error that allowed Jensen to go unscreened until now. Because of their oversight, he's had none of the preparation and training he should have had for the last dozen years. That ought to be enough to go forward with."

Jensen raised his head, wearing a dazed look. No one in the room could blame him. "Fifteen days?" he asked. "Do I have to stay here for fifteen days? And where the hell is this place, anyway?"

Clark sighed, and looked significantly toward the corners of the ceiling, toward the light fixture overhead, making sure the others noticed and caught his meaning. No doubt their conversation was being monitored. They should keep their conversation and comments circumspect.

"This is a facility the Department of Reproduction uses to temporarily house people whose cases fall outside the usually brightly defined guidelines. Ceivers involved in disputes over custody--of themselves or their children. More rarely, discipline cases, or the occasional ceiver who needs mental counseling, treatment, or both."

Jensen and his parents looked justifiably stunned.

"So what happens now?" Jensen asked.

"We have a second opinion exam scheduled for you tomorrow. It's going to be much more thorough than the one for the passport was, just to make sure there was no mistake. Meanwhile, my staff and I are devoting full time to research, in hopes of finding a precedent we can use, or some loophole in your case we can exploit to have your status as a ceiver rescinded and cancelled."

"Okay," Jensen nodded, exchanging glances with his parents, who looked more hopeful at Clark's plans. "So, can I get out of here, now?"

Clark shook his head. "I'm sorry. Apparently these cases are rare, but there are some previous ones where the individual attempted to escape the country. The Department views you as a possible flight risk, and they have the discretion to keep you in their custody until the challenge is resolved, one way or the other."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!"

"I know, Jensen, and I'm sorry. But these are the laws, and there isn't any way around them. I'll accompany you to the doctor's office tomorrow, but you'll be in the custody of two officers of the court, as you will be any time you're out of the facility.

"Your family will be allowed to visit--you have a total of two hours per day of visitation time between 9:00 AM and 7:00 PM. That can be an hour in the morning and an hour after lunch, or two hours at a time, up to you and your visitors."

Jensen still looked dazed. "Can I have some of my clothes? Books? My iPod, my laptop? Oh, and food? I haven't had any coffee this morning, and breakfast sucked."

Clark's smile flickered as he spoke to the Ackles and their son. "We can bring you clothes, and books, magazines. Your iPod should be fine. You're not allowed to communicate with anyone except visitors during visiting hours, so no phone calls unless they're to me or your family, and no Internet access."

Clark looked mildly embarrassed as he explained the dietary rules. "You're not allowed caffeine, alcohol, sugar, fatty foods, or salt. The diet you'll follow while you're here is the one you're required to follow once you're placed with your pere." At the sudden reaction of all three Ackles, Clark hastened to add, "Should that be the outcome, of course."

Jensen stared at him in disgust. "This sucks."

Jensen's mom made a clucking sound at his language. His dad grinned a little, and Clark ducked his head in agreement. "Yes, it does, and I'm sorry. I'd circumvent it if I could, but at present I don't see a way to do that."

"Okay, so we prove these guys wrong and I get to go home, right?"

"That is our hope, yes."

"You don't sound convinced, Art," Alan challenged his attorney.

Clark regarded them gravely, each in turn. "You all must understand. As far as I've been able to ascertain till now, no one has been successful at extricating a child, or one's self, from the ceiver program once his status was confirmed. My staff and I are committed to this case. We'll do absolutely everything possible. But ultimately, I'm not confident in our success."

Jensen's eyes were wide with apprehension. "Suppose we do lose. What happens then?"

"Jensen--" his mother reached out for him. He caught her hand and held it in both of his, but his gaze was fastened on the lawyer.

"If you are confirmed as a ceiver, the contract will be enforced. You'll be put into the custody of the man who has been chosen as your pere. You will become a member of his household, and will abide by his decisions as to where you live, how often you see your family, which of your friends you can spend time with. You will be accompanied at all times outside the house, either by your pere or by a licensed chaperone. In effect, your autonomy and rights as a citizen are surrendered to your pere. He will father the children you bear."

TWO

Jared tipped the messenger and hurried back inside, eagerly ripping open the envelope as he made his way to the desk in his study. He spilled out the contents and fanned them across the shining mahogany surface. His ceiver. He finally had photographic proof the man existed, and he was stunning! From the written description Jared had gotten earlier he knew that Jensen was tall, over six feet, but still shorter than Jared's 6'5. Height, weight, hair color--light brown, eye color--green. The facts he'd been given were just words. The photographs were color candids, taken at a picnic, and the sun struck glints in Jensen's hair and lit up his eyes as though he carried the light source behind them. A fine dusting of freckles was apparent in a couple of the closeups, and the imagined taste of them, of Jensen's skin, made Jared's mouth water. Jensen was broad shouldered, trim waisted, with a flat stomach and slightly bowed legs, and Jared thought he'd never seen a more attractive man. He couldn't wait to meet him. To hear that laugh for himself, to see those eyes light up for him.

Jared couldn't wait to be a father. His family was almost as excited as he that he'd had the luck to have a ceiver contracted to him while he was so young, though it wasn't really a surprise, given the family's proven fertility. Jared had two siblings, almost unheard of these days, and his elder brother and his wife had already produced two daughters. Jensen's bio said he had two siblings as well; Repro had very high expectations for their union. It was important to all of his family that Jared carry on the family line, and he and Jensen were going to make some amazingly pretty babies.

His face fell, and his eagerness dimmed just a little. The weeks' delay in Jensen's being welcomed to Jared's household was reportedly due to a cascade of unfortunate circumstances, beginning with the lack of Jensen's identification and confirmation as a ceiver in adolescence. He had never known of his status, had never been educated in his own anatomy and his destined purpose, nor had he been trained in any of the things ceivers needed to know to become good mates, to conceive quickly, carry and deliver with as few complications as possible, let alone in child care and rearing.

First there had been the two weeks' stay while lawyers for the Ackles and the Department of Reproduction fought and debated over who was at fault for the oversight and whether or not Jensen could be assigned as a ceiver if he had not been raised as one and had never received the training. Evidently the Ackles and Jensen himself had fought desperately to avoid his assignment, but to no avail. Nature had decided his role, and the law upheld her decision.

It had been decided, however, that to thrust Jensen into his new role completely unprepared was a probable disaster in the making. So an additional two weeks were set aside as a time for him to learn about his responsibilities, and to prepare to live and serve as a ceiver. He had been lodged at the Ceiver Home, where ceivers were housed between contracts. If a ceiver's pere died, or tired of and surrendered him, he lived at the Ceiver Home until he was reassigned. Jensen had been isolated there from his family and friends, leaving his old life behind to concentrate on learning as much as he could about the new one, before coming home to Jared.

Once Jensen arrived, there would be a month's seclusion, where he would not be allowed to see his family or his friends, all his attention and concentration to be focused on Jared, and on building a strong and lasting relationship that would, gods willing, be a stable, welcoming home for their children. Jared had the month's customary leave from work, and his family and friends expected not to hear from him for that first month. But Jensen's arrival date was still twelve days away. Jared's own attorneys had not been authorized to present him with the background information on Jensen until the state had ruled in his and Repro's favor, and it had taken them a day longer to round up the photos. There was another packet coming, the enclosed letter read, including childhood snapshots, school portraits, and information on Jensen's interests and pursuits.

Evidently he had attended college, gotten a degree, and been employed with his father's advertising firm for more than a year. Jensen had played guitar and sung, solo, and with a group of friends from high school through college and after, and he had taken an extended vacation to join them on a tour of England and Europe, touring and playing for three weeks. It was the required screening for his passport that had detected his ceiver status.

Jared's stomach sank as he read. God. Jensen must be devastated. His whole life, everything he'd believed about himself utterly wiped away, all his plans destroyed, his future completely rewritten, and nothing he could do to save any of it. Jensen had gone from a responsible, independent individual about to launch a new career performing music to someone who was now a ward of the state. He would be assigned to a strange home, under the care of a stranger. No longer allowed to make decisions about his own life, but living at the whim and direction of his pere, and of the state. Fuck. Adjustment to such a change in expectations had to be difficult at twelve, but there was a support system and a well-designed, thought-out, and implemented program to reaccustom ceivers to their lives as they matured through adolescence, emerging as adults ready to fulfill their biological roles.

To be ripped away from his life with his family, his friends, the career he'd begun to build, his autonomy and independence at twenty-four? It didn't bear contemplation. Jared had no idea how to help Jensen cope with the changes in his life. He looked through the photographs again. He was already half in love with the man in the pictures, and he wanted him here, where he could touch and smell and taste and make urgent, passionate love to him. He had a terrible, unavoidable feeling that Jensen was regarding his future with Jared with dread and horror. And the worst thing of all? Jensen was straight.

THREE

"Do you know why we are called ceivers?" Randy asked the man following him down the corridor. He had met Jensen at the gates, taken custody of him from his family's attorney, had seen his hand come up reflexively in response to Randy's own outstretched for a welcoming handshake. And he'd seen the alarm and terror in Jensen's eyes at the solid-sounding chunk as the gate closed behind him. Not allowing him time to dwell, Randy had carefully hung an arm about Jensen's shoulders, propelling him into the reception area and down the hall toward the room that would be his for the next two weeks. Though shorter by two or three inches than the new ceiver, Randy was in his late thirties, and feeling a little parental toward the younger man. He had been selected for this difficult task because of his empathy, combined with the emotional strength developed by raising kids of his own. Sometimes you had to be tough, for them, even though what you wanted to do was gather them in and rock them through the hurt and the trauma. Jensen would not be helped by Randy being soft with him now.

"Jensen?" he prompted a response to his question.

The younger man swallowed, his gaze flickered to Randy's face and away again without settling or meeting his eyes. "No." He answered hoarsely.

"We are receivers of our peres' affection and care, of their caresses and their love, of their semen as the spark of the life we carry inside us. And we are the conceivers of their children. We carry and bear and nurture the next generation for them, and for the world."

Jensen looked pale as milk, and Randy could see the sweat beading his hairline and dampening his collar. He said nothing.

"It's an ability granted to only a few. We're treasured and cared for and respected, Jensen. It's a life of service, true, but it's also one of great joy, one of great pride, and full of love." Randy keyed open the door and reached for Jensen's right hand. He pressed the pad of his index finger against the receptor; now it was keyed to Jensen and would open at his touch. Of course Randy and most of the staff had access, too, but it might give Jensen some small illusion of privacy to think he could lock his door. He wrapped an arm around the young man's shoulders again and ushered him inside.

* * *
 

Orientation didn't matter as much when the ceiver started training at twelve. Before any actual realization of his sex drive toward girls, the ceiver's attention was redirected to his purpose. Taking care of their bodies involved a whole new type of exercise aimed at flexibility and stamina, rather than the strength and power of traditional sports. Dietary changes, changes in personal hygiene, all were geared toward the ceiver adapting to the new role he was born to fill. Classes in anatomy, the way their bodies had developed differently, adapted to bearing children. The changes in their bodies they could look forward to as each stage of pregnancy was reached, bringing them closer to delivery, all generated excitement and anticipation of when those things would happen to them. And childcare classes, from delivery through infancy and childhood right through adolescence, absorbed their attention and focused it on the families they would have. There were separate classes on raising daughters, sons, and ceivers, as each had specialized needs. Each ceiver was encouraged to devote his time, attention, and focus to the best nurturing he could provide for each of the children he would have.

As they grew older, the focus turned more to the relationship ceivers would have with their peres. With solid foundation training on pregnancy and childcare, their sexual inclinations were already focused on being penetrated and impregnated by another male. Any desires they might have had for sex with a woman would almost always be modified into fellow-feeling, a desire for friendship with those who shared the role of bearer and rearer of children. Impulses might linger, but they would have little ground on which to grow, and little time or attention to develop, in the ceiver's larger concerns and demands on his time. Sexual beings as adolescents are, the ceivers' expectation of being the passive, or at least the receptive, partner in whatever relationships they would have, made them eager for the experience, ready to submit to the pere each was assigned to and begin their lives as ceivers. Most of them were assigned and contracted at eighteen, even seventeen if deemed physically and emotionally mature.

For someone aged twenty-four, who had gone through his adolescence focused on girls and sports, then college and career and probably eventual marriage--

The lump in Jared's throat wouldn't be swallowed. This was not going to be the simple, joyous occasion that he had looked forward to, not at all.

* * *

Jared parked the car in the graveled lot. A solid masonry wall surrounded the place, the only entry offered by a heavy wooden gate. He pulled the cord on the iron bell, and a moment later the gate was opened by a man in a dress.

Well no, it wasn't a dress. It appeared to be a pair of loose drawstring-type pants and a long tunic, and over that a sort of long vest. The outfit, plus the interior of the raked gravel courtyard with its spaced islands of plantings and rocks and boulders, gave off an Asian feel, intended, Jared supposed, to impart serenity and calmness.

It wasn't working. Jared's stomach was doing barrel rolls. "I'm Jared Padalecki," he told the man. "I'm here to pick up--"

"--Jensen, yes." The man nodded. "I'm Randy. He's ready, just through here," and stepped toward the building. "This way."

Jared followed Randy into the reception area of the building and down one of the corridors that led deeper into the interior.

"He's already signed out and ready to go. You may take as long as you like, you won't be disturbed. If you want refreshments, there's a bell on the table inside. If there's a problem, or if you have a question, ring the bell and someone will come. If everything is satisfactory, Jensen has no luggage, so when you're ready you both can just go." Randy finished speaking as they stopped before a closed door. "He's expecting you. Go right in." Randy opened the door and stepped away, leaving Jared to enter alone, without even an introduction to ease the way. Jared made another mental note about current wisdom on the care and feeding of ceivers.

* * *

At the rattle of the door latch, Jensen looked up. And up, at the man who entered the room. Taller than Jensen, he was young--near Jensen's age. He smiled and introduced himself. "Jensen? Hi, I'm Jared. Are you ready to go?"

Jensen wasn't, gods knew he wasn't. But he stood on shaking legs and let Jared usher him out with a gentle hand at his back. Neither of them spoke, and there appeared to be no one about for Jensen to say goodbye to. Just as well. He hadn't gotten to know anyone well enough to want to say goodbye, even if his voice would work right now. They passed through the wooden gate, and as it closed behind them Jensen was swept with a wave of terror. The compound, while a strange place of transition for him, was nonetheless a sort of haven from the rest of the world, and it was closed to him now. He was at the mercy of the man beside him, who remote-keyed the doors of the SUV. Jensen found himself somehow grateful he didn't open Jensen's door for him.


Simply stunning, even more so in person. By force of will Jared kept himself from staring at the man he was taking into his care. Masked and concealed in the folds of the tunic and loose pants, the trembling of Jensen's body was betrayed by the edge of a sleeve, the cuff of the pants. Jensen made the clothing look good, but Jared couldn't wait to see that ass in a pair of jeans. Or naked in his bed. He shook off the thought and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Hi, I'm Jared. Are you ready to go?"

Jensen stood. Jared watched him lock his knees to keep from swaying in fright and apprehension. He put a gentle hand to Jensen's shoulder to steer him out the door and down the corridor. The sooner he had Jensen out of here, the better, for him, for Jensen, and for whatever sort of relationship they were going to be able to build together.

As they drove away from the compound, he didn't try to make conversation. That would come later. Jensen appeared somewhat dazed, and Jared would be surprised if he wasn't. Time to start easing Jensen back into reality.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "We'll have dinner later, at the house. But if you're hungry now, we could stop somewhere. Did they feed you lunch?"

Jensen shook his head, and took a little effort to find his voice. It was the first time Jared had heard him speak, and he liked it. "Couldn't--didn't feel like eating." He shot Jared a sideways look. "'m not really hungry."

Jared didn't push it. "Dinner later, then. You let me know if you get hungry before then."

He indicated the sound system. "Feel free to play something you like. We can argue about it if I hate it," he grinned. Jensen didn't smile in response, but Jared thought he could detect a slight relaxing of the tension that gripped the man as Jensen reached for the controls. He settled for country rock, and quirked an eyebrow at Jared, who nodded. "Yeah. That'll do."

Jensen settled back in his seat, and Jared was gratified to note Jensen's fingers tapping out the rhythm on the leather of the seat. Ten minutes later they pulled into the garage. Jared led Jensen into the house, through the kitchen, the entry hall past the dining and living rooms and up the stairs. Jensen followed him down the hall to the open door giving onto a guest bedroom. A soft-sided suitcase lay on the bed.

"You're in here for now. I had somebody send over some of your clothes. Why don't you get out of those?" Jared kept the sneer out of his voice with an effort. "I feel like playing some basketball. There's a court out back. See if you've got shorts and shoes and stuff."

Jensen stared, both at the comfortable looking but anonymous, obviously unoccupied room, the bed, and at the familiar bag. He walked over and zipped it open, finding his sneakers, socks, and underwear. He touched the latter with a fingertip and was embarrassed to feel himself close to tears. "Jeans," he got control of his voice. "I don't see any shorts."

Jared nodded. "Hold up," he said, "Be right back." Jensen nodded, and began removing things from the case and sorting them in piles on the bed.

"Here." A wad of fabric hit Jensen in the back, and he turned to pick a pair of cargoes up off the floor. "They may be a little long, but they should fit okay. Better than playing in jeans. Get changed. I'ma kick your ass," Jared taunted with a dimpled grin and left. Jensen could hear drawers opening and closing in a nearby room. He stood for a moment staring at his familiar things, then in a rush he tore off the vest and tunic, dropped the hated pants and drop-kicked the whole bundle into a far corner of the room. He grabbed boxer briefs and tugged them on, and the cargoes over them, fumbled in the pockets of the bag till he found socks. He threw the slippers into the corner with the tunic and pants, and got his sneakers on fast. He yanked his Led Zeppelin tee off the top of the folded stack and pulled it on. He caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror. The man there looked awfully familiar, and there was an anticipatory grin on his face.

He spun quickly toward the door, and a sensation he'd only lately had to begin getting accustomed to stopped him. Jensen really wanted to play basketball, he wanted to do something normal. More, he wanted to play up to his best game, which he couldn't do with his present handicap. He wasn't supposed to, it was one of the new rules--but he'd deal with the consequences later. Jensen quickly went into the en-suite bath, dealt with the problem, and was out again and down the stairs in moments.

Jared was waiting in the dining room off the kitchen. He opened the slider and beckoned Jensen out into the back yard. There was a pool, a not inconsiderable expanse of grass, and a basketball goal and quarter court. Neat, well-kept, nothing really ostentatious, just solidly upper middle-class suburbia. He gasped a bit when the ball Jared threw caught him in the stomach. "Oh, it's on, Stretch."

FOUR

Two hours later, both men were flushed and sweaty and breathless from effort and laughter. It hadn't taken long for Jensen's natural competitiveness to overcome the awkwardness of his circumstances. He forgot that Jared was anything more than a new acquaintance, as they fought for possession of the ball, tried increasingly sneaky tricks to steal and trip and impede each other's access to the goal, called each other out on questionable moves, and tried to top the last one. Shoulders, hips, arms, legs, both men were all-in, using every advantage, and learning the other's body language, how to predict what the other would do, beginning to read facial expression and voice inflection as well as the words, to appreciate the other's quick wit, knack for diversion and distraction, and provoking much laughter.

Jared called a halt, and strode off down the length of the house toward a closed door where the building angled in an L to shield the pool from the neighbors' view, calling Jensen after him. "Show you something," he explained. The door was unlocked, and gave onto a small hall. To the left was a large bathroom with three shower stalls, to the right a kitchenette with a full-sized fridge. Jared reached in and snagged two water bottles, tossing one to Jensen as he led into the main room beyond. One wall of mirrors reflected light from high windows on the opposite wall, and the large room held a weight bench with a rack of weights, a treadmill, a resistance machine, and racks of free weights. There was a stationary bike, and a big flatscreen TV on the end wall with game systems on a rack below it. As Jensen surveyed the equipment, Jared pointed out another door. "That leads to the garage, and into the house. Feel free to use this room anytime."

Jensen took another long pull at his water and nodded. "Thanks." And then he had to push. "And the garage? You got room for my truck?"

"Jensen."

He refused to meet Jared's gaze. "'Cause if not, I can just park it in the driveway. If, you know, it's not going to bring down the tone of the neighborhood." He was desperately reaching for humor, knowing what the laws dictated, and still hoping Jared wasn't going to hold him to that.

Jared sighed, and refused to argue. "We can negotiate later on, maybe. You can drive one of mine when we go out, once you've settled in."

Jensen blinked, absorbing his new reality. He wouldn't be driving his own vehicle, because he wasn't allowed to go anywhere outside the house without Jared or an official chaperone. Not allowed.

"Hey," Jared swatted his shoulder and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "What do you want on your pizza?"

"No anchovies," Jensen responded on automatic. Pizza wasn't high on his list at the moment. He wandered over to the games to see what was there while Jared's voice ran on in the background, ordering toppings and discussing delivery. Jensen, very busy not thinking about anything, was surprised to hear him at his shoulder.

"Half an hour. I've got time to kick your ass at least once more before it gets here." He shoved Jensen toward the door. "Move it, Ackles."


The sun had set and the light was going. The outside lights had kicked on to illuminate the court and hoop when Marta beckoned from the house. "Pizza's here." Jensen had fought Jared's every move, even harder than in their initial game, and had given as good as he'd gotten. Their score was tied. Both of them were sweat-soaked, lungs working like bellows, feeling loose and happy and good. And hungry, Jensen realized as his stomach rumbled at the mention of the word "pizza."

Jared scooped a couple of folded towels off a chair where Marta had left them and flung one at Jensen. "Good game, man. Not bad for a shrimp."

"I'm not a shrimp, you goddam yeti," Jensen scowled for effect as he swabbed the wet off his face and the back of his neck. "You're just abnormally tall."

Grinning, Jared hotly denied the "abnormal" part of the accusation and preceded Jensen into the house, both of them trash talking as the scent of pepperoni and tomato drew them toward the kitchen. Jared washed up briefly at the sink and stepped aside to let Jensen do the same, diving into the fridge and coming up with two beers in one hand. Marta had set two places at the breakfast bar, and Jared plunked a bottle down by each plate, popping the cap off his own.

Jensen, already seated, kept his hands on his thighs and just looked at the bottle. "Jared," he hesitated over what to say next.

"My house, my rules, Jensen," Jared said quietly, meeting Jensen's eyes and then occupying himself with the pizza box. "I don't think we need to worry about things like diet right now, do you?" He levered a huge slice of meat-lovers' dripping with cheese onto Jensen's plate. Jensen picked up the beer, popped the top, and downed half of it in one long draught.


The conversation never picked up again, but occupied with eating, the silence was surprisingly companionable. Jared fetched them both a second beer, which they took into the living room. There was another flatscreen TV, not as gigantic as the one in the gym, and a DVR and a large built in bookcase full of DVDs. Jensen took a casual look at some of the titles as they talked about movies they'd both seen, or one had and recommended or panned it to the other. Jared booted up the TV and the DVR and went through his regular shows he recorded to watch later, and Jensen nodded. Most of them were his favorites, too. As the evening wound down, full and more relaxed than Jensen had been in weeks, he found himself yawning. When he realized, all the relaxation fell away, and he stiffened in apprehension of what would probably come next.

"I put you in the best guest room," Jared was watching him, and his voice was even and unremarkable. "I'll give you the grand tour tomorrow, and if there's a room you like better, we'll move you in."

Jensen's eyebrows rose in surprise and query, and Jared continued. "I'd like you to have a room of your own: a study, or a den. I've sent for your things--your books, your music. Any art you'd like to hang on the walls, any furniture you're fond of. I'd like to incorporate your things into the whole house, but for now I figure one room at least should feel familiar for you.

"I expect us to share a bedroom soon, but I'd like you to still keep a place for yourself, if you want it. And until you feel comfortable sharing with me, that's where you'll sleep. Is that okay?"

Jensen nodded slowly. It was far more than he had been given to expect.

Jared smiled at him, stood, and took his hand and pulled Jensen to his feet, clapping him twice on the shoulder. "Okay then, time for bed. You look like you're just about out on your feet." He turned Jensen toward the stairs and gave him a little shove. "I'll see you in the morning."

Jensen's eyes almost flooded, his relief and gratitude nearly overwhelmed him. He nodded, and started toward the stairs. "G'night, Jared."

"Jensen." He stopped and waited for the other shoe. "Leave the plug out." He did turn to look at Jared then. "Unless...you want to wear it--"

He shook his head sharply and got out the word, "No."

"Okay. We'll, uh. We'll talk about this stuff tomorrow. Some of it."

Jensen cut a sideways look at him, but Jared wasn't looking at Jensen. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. "I'm new to all this, too," he reminded his ceiver."But--look. I don't have an enema rig. I can get one if you really need it--"

Jensen blushed bright red, but he shook his head, unable to meet Jared's gaze.

Jared nodded. "Okay, we'll talk about that, too. If--well, there's laxatives in the medicine cabinet if you need something." Jared was blushing too, now. "Just so you know."

Jensen nodded again, a tight little acknowledgement, and managed a single word. "'Night," before he hurried toward and up the stairs as though pursued by a bear.

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