Fic: next year's words await another voice - spn_cinema (Part 1/2)

[amberdreams]

This is my take on The Fisher King for  spn_cinema
Title: next year's words await another voice
Author: amber1960
Movie Prompt: The Fisher King
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: c13k
Summary: Jared's life is shattered when his wife is brutally murdered in front of him at a romantic dinner – the horror of her senseless death, and survivor's guilt, send him over the edge. He squats in a basement, wanders the streets having visions. Jensen is a B List celebrity who becomes the unwitting cause of this tragedy. Jensen's own guilt pushes him into heavy drinking and hiding in his friend Steve's record shop. Months later the two damaged men's paths cross, and their interaction offers them both the possibility of redemption.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to tesserae_ for not only doing a sterling job of beta'ing the usual typos, errors and inconsistencies, but alos for giving me the benefit of her local knowledge.  Hopefully now I have the boys sitting on the right beaches, and the other LA scenes I describe are at least vaguely believable!
Disclaimer: These characters are not real - I have just borrowed some names and faces to populate my story.

next year's words await another voice
(The Fisher King)


Prologue – Present day, Los Angeles

Jared Padalecki dreams in red.

Carmine, ruby, alizarin and burgundy.  All the shades; but only ever red.  Terrifying and brutal; the colour of loss.

But Jared is never the one who rouses from the nightmare.  It’s Paddy who opens his eyes wondering why he always wakes up sweating, with his heart racing as if he’s run a marathon in his sleep, when all he ever remembers is the colour red.

Paddy has nightmares of his own sometimes too. He is reaching out a hand to touch the golden glow of the Grail when the Dark Knight appears, blocking his path.  Paddy usually wakes, screaming, as the black iron sword pierces his chest.

A tiny part of Paddy knows that he’s blocking something, but the rest of him doesn’t care. Because Paddy also knows whatever the something is, it’s bad.  The first thing he does on waking, whether from the black dream or the red, is check that the shrine he’s built for the Grail is still safe, because when it comes down to it, what he thinks and feels doesn’t matter as long as he is fulfilling his duty in finding the Grail and bringing it home.

Satisfied, Paddy smiles and runs dirty fingers through his tangled hair.  Perhaps today after he has looked in on the Grail, he will go on a quest.  Yes, that would be perfect.  Save a damsel in distress, or find a lost treasure to give to the poor - surely there will be some heroic act of chivalry to perform today.

He leaps from the jumbled heap of old mattresses and rags that form his bed and searches for his sword.  Time to venture forth into the world and find an adventure worthy of a Knight of the Grail.

0x0x0x0

18 months ago – Los Angeles

“Danni, do I really have to do this radio interview?  Kane’s playing at the club tonight and…”

“Jensen Ackles.  Stop your fucking whining and get your sweet ass over to LA Lights studio right now, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.  You seem to forget you are just a B list celeb, not fucking Brad Pitt.  You can’t afford to turn down any free publicity, so suck it up and smile, sugar.”

Jensen grimaced at the phone.  “I wish I was fucking Brad Pitt; he’s hot,” he muttered, but carefully shielding the mouthpiece so Danni wouldn’t hear.

Danneel Harris was the best agent he’d ever had but, shit, she was scary.  He supposed he was lucky they weren’t having this conversation face to face, as he would probably never have plucked up the nerve to protest in the first place.

So it was that half an hour later, Jensen found himself sitting his sweet ass down in a grey swivel chair in the radio studio opposite Buster Grimes, self-proclaimed snarkiest talk show host and DJ in LA.  Jensen tried to look impressed and enthused but from the expression on Buster’s face, he wasn’t doing a great job of it.

Ten minutes into the show and both Buster and Jensen were so bored with each other it was starting to show in their voices.  Time for the phone in.  Buster threw the lines open, clearly not expecting a huge influx of interest, so Jensen was quietly triumphant when his loyal fans locked up the switchboard.  He might not be a national big name in Hollywood, but there was a lot to be said for the enthusiasm with which people followed both sci fi shows and daytime soaps.

Jensen had a smile on his face as he fielded the usual questions about Eric Brady, and what it was like to work with Jessica Alba. The smile and the warm feeling of contentment lasted until an unpleasantly familiar voice came over the headset.  Aw shit. Henry Watson.

“So, Alec, what progress are you making in the plans to take down Manticore?”

Jensen rolled his eyes and made a slicing gesture across his throat to the bored DJ, who ignored him.  Henry Watson was a regular crackpot, always writing long emails with attachments to Jensen’s agent, the TV studios, fanzines and posting his crazy shit on the fan forums.  Watson had even sent audiotapes to the studios once, and Jensen recognised the guy’s voice instantly, which was kind of disturbing in itself. Jensen sighed.

“Hey, Henry.  Do I have to tell you again that Manticore isn’t real and that I am not Alec?

“I understand.  You can’t talk about it, Alec.  Us Transgenics have to lay low, right?  But I haven’t received any instructions from Eyes Only for weeks now and I need you to tell Max that I’ve found their new secret base…”

“Henry, you know Max isn’t real either; you really have to let this fantasy go, man.”  Jensen tried to be civil, he really did, but Henry wasn’t listening to him any more than that arrogant prick, Buster Grimes.  Jensen tuned out temporarily as Watson started babbling on about post pulse Seattle at a level of detail Jensen doubted even the Dark Angel writers ever knew, only refocusing when he realised Grimes was suddenly sitting up and taking notice.

“Wait a goddamned moment,” Grimes interrupted Watson, cutting him off mid flow. “Let me get this right.  You think this pretty boy actor sitting here in my studio is some sort of super-powered mutant hero…are you fucking insane?”

“Hey!” Jensen protested, not sure if he was more annoyed about being called pretty, or the implication that he was somewhat less than heroic.  Behind the glass Jensen could see Grimes’ producer grimacing and making throat cutting motions, but the DJ was ignoring him just as successfully as he’d been ignoring Jensen earlier.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Watson was sounding agitated, and Jensen wasn’t sure that was such a good thing. Antagonising someone who was clearly on the edge didn’t seem so smart.  Then again, Grimes wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was.

“I know you have to be wary, you don’t believe I am really an X5 like you so I will prove it to you, Alec.  Give me a mission.  Anything you want, I will do it.”

“Okay, Alec,” Grimes was grinning now, enjoying himself for the first time since Jensen walked into the studio.  It figured that an asshole like him would get his kicks from winding up a crazy stalker. “How about we find a test suitable for one of you superhuman X men?”

“We’re not X men, you dummy, we’re X5 class, made to be perfect soldiers.” Jensen couldn’t help correcting the DJ, then bit his lip as he thought he’d probably just reinforced Watson’s delusion.

“Yes, yes,” Watson was saying, sounding way too excited for comfort. “A test!  Give me a test, anything.  I’ll do anything.”

Jensen stood up, glaring at Grimes, who just shrugged with a ‘what can you do’ gesture.

“This is ridiculous. You’re one sick fuck-up. You are just encouraging this guy’s fantasies.”
He tore off his head set and flung it down. “Well you might think it’s funny teasing the mentally ill, but I don’t.  So you can stuff your interview and your pathetic show.”

The last thing Jensen heard as he stormed out of the studio was Buster Grimes laughing and Watson’s desperate shout of “I’ll prove it to you Alec, you will think I’m worthy when I take down Manticore…”

Jensen turned off his mobile and turned his music up loud as soon as he got back to his beautiful new condo in Brentwood.  He didn’t want to face Danneel’s wrath right now, and man, he knew she’d be ready to send him down in flames for walking out like that.  He’d face that shit in the morning.  Tonight he was going to chill out with some mellow tunes and a nice bottle of Shiraz.

That was the last peaceful hour Jensen could remember, because when morning came, Danneel’s call wasn’t the bawling out that he expected.

“Turn on your TV, Jensen.”

Headline news ticker-taping across the 50-inch plasma and burning into his brain.

…B list star Jensen Ackles’ stalker goes crazy in downtown LA, drives a stolen truck into the Manticore restaurant, killing three outright, and badly injuring five other diners.  A Mercy hospital spokesman said that two of the injured are in a critical condition, and one is in a medically induced coma.  The stalker, Henry Watson, spoke to his hero, Jensen Ackles, on Buster Grimes’ infamous talk show last night and the pair is on record encouraging Watson’s delusions, goading him to prove his claims to be a mutant super soldier. Neither Ackles nor Grimes was available for comment this morning…

All the blood drained from Jensen’s face.  His legs gave out and he slid to the floor as the full horror washed over him.  When he reached out, it wasn’t for the phone but for the whiskey bottle.

0x0x0x0
Present Day

“Ackles! Get your lazy drunken ass out of bed. I need you to man the counter while I go rehearse with Chris and the guys.” Steve was downstairs in the store, but his voice had no problem carrying.

Jensen groaned, but not too loudly.  The sound of his own voice was kind of painful right now, let alone combined with all the banging and shouting his best friend and saviour Steve was doing.  He ran a hand through his hair and rolled out of bed, groping on the floor for a semi-clean t-shirt.  Engrossed in this mind-taxing task, he didn’t hear his door open, so Steve’s next remark made him jump and bang his head against the bedstead. The tap on his skull set his hangover headache ringing like a peal of church bells, and okay, perhaps he should find somewhere other than Steve’s floor to store his clothes.

“Unless you want to join us, that is,” Steve said.  Jensen didn’t miss the slightly hopeful note to the question, in spite of the distraction of the headache and nausea. “Because we could still do with a decent extra guitar and vocals…”

Jensen used the excuse of pulling on his shirt to keep his gaze from meeting Steve’s, because he knew exactly the look that would be on his best friend’s face right now.  It would be an equal mix of exasperation, sympathy and pleading, and he really couldn’t handle it.

“Nah,” Jensen said, casually dismissive.  “Who’d look after the store while you aren’t there?  You can’t trust Charlie out there on his own; you know how he scares the customers with his Justin Beiber hair and love of One Direction. Riot Records needs me here rather than messing about in your band, Carlson.”

His attempts to pull on his jeans while standing on one leg proved too arduous, and by the time he’d wriggled into them sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, Steve had gone.  Jensen grimaced, half relieved and half guilty.  He was endlessly grateful to Steve for dragging him out of a screaming funk of alcohol-soaked self-pity and giving him not only a room to crash in but also a job in Steve’s Riot Records, the world-renowned specialist music store in Venice.  The work was something that occupied his time, and took his mind off the fact that four people were dead because of him.  But that gratitude couldn’t stop the terrible lassitude that had gripped him since seeing the horror Henry Watson had wrought that night. The media had hounded him mercilessly for a week or so after the slaughter at the restaurant, and his name was plastered over the tabloids alongside Buster Grimes’.  He’d featured in news articles on TV, and even merited two page spreads in several magazines dissecting every aspect of his life and career, but it wasn’t long before someone much more famous and female than Jensen Ackles bared a breast in public and someone else announced their divorce from their wife of two months, and Jensen’s supposed transgression became ancient history.

Hollywood’s memory might be short, but Jensen couldn’t forget.

Danneel still rang him nearly every week, trying to persuade him that a comeback was just around the corner, but Jensen’s response was always the same.  It’s too soon.  His place in Brentwood stood empty, scum forming on the surface of his swimming pool, dust coating his shiny hardwood floors and marble fireplace.  He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Jensen grabbed the half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo from the floor where it had tumbled out of his hand last night.  He’d stash it under the store counter out of sight, just to help him get through what was left of the day.  He knew that Steve was aware of how much he was drinking, but Jensen still tried to hide the full bottles in different places, and disposed of the empties surreptitiously, as if the act of hiding them meant he wasn’t really dependent on the alcohol.  Even Jensen wasn’t really sure exactly how much of a sad drunk he’d become.  He was honest enough to realise that he was at least borderline alcoholic, and that drinking like this would likely kill him, but again, he couldn’t muster up enough energy to care.

He spared a quick glance around his room, wincing at its barrenness, underneath the veneer of mess.  Maybe he’d tidy it all up tomorrow.  He had a vague feeling he’d promised the same thing yesterday and the day before.  Shrugging, Jensen made his way down into the record store to see what delights dealing with Steve’s eccentric customers would bring today.

It was long after closing time; Charlie had finished locking the shutters and had left Jensen to cash up.  Jensen actually loved this time of the working day.  With most of the lights switched off the store became a magical place full of enigmatic dark corners, and he could listen to his pick of the huge eclectic collection of rare vinyl that people came from miles around to rummage through.  If his tastes ran to the most miserable songs ever written, then that was between him and the old-fashioned turntable Steve kept behind the counter.

Tonight it was Leonard Cohen, which was probably a big mistake.  But Steve had a gig across town and wouldn’t be back until the early hours, and Jensen had an aching hollow inside that Cohen made even bigger.  Right now, that pure selfish indulgence was all Jensen was looking for.

He’d managed to acquire another full bottle of tequila and now he pulled it out from under the counter behind the wastebasket.  He didn’t bother with a glass, just took a long swig straight from the bottle, and then sighed as the clear liquid burned its way down.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he realised the bottle was empty, but it was late.  He’d played nearly all Steve’s stock of Cohen, and that was his cue to leave.  Usually he’d crawl upstairs and collapse on his bed, but tonight he was feeling extra maudlin and somehow found himself outside, weaving his unsteady way down the slope towards the ocean and Venice Beach.  He could hear the waves crashing onto the sand, a soothing, rhythmic sound that beckoned him - a siren song promising oblivion.  He reached the beach and kicked off his shoes.  He wanted to feel the soft sand between his toes before he walked out into the sea and let the salt water swallow him up.

Instead he all he got was a hard shove between his shoulder blades, which sent him sprawling face first into the sand.  It took Jensen’s brain a few seconds to catch up, and by the time it did, Jensen was screaming with shock and pain as the hard toecap of a sturdy boot connected with his rib cage.  Another kick swiftly followed, from the other side this time, so there must be two assailants - and Jensen felt something give in his chest with the impact.  He tried desperately not to throw up while he scrabbled fruitlessly at the beach in an attempt to get away.

“Fucking drunk hobos, you’re just filth contaminating our beaches!”  The voice that came from behind him sounded young as well as insanely angry, and was accompanied by a hand that came out of nowhere to grasp him by the hair.  He regretted allowing it to grow long enough to allow the guy to yank his head back so easily. When he was working he’d always kept it short, sick of the constant comments about his pretty face that he’d suffered when he’d worn longer styles for Dark Angel, and before.  Even now, his mind shied away from thoughts of Dark Angel, afraid of the even darker places that lay down that path.  Henry Watson’s obsession had a lot to answer for.

Although that didn’t seem to be something that would trouble him for too much longer, if these two punks had their way.  The irony hadn’t escaped him that only moments before this explosion of abuse he had been considering ending it all.  Somehow the prospect of dying wasn’t very appealing now that all he could feel its reality in the icy chill of a sharp blade at his throat.  Even the fiery pain in his chest seemed to fade into insignificance as his head was pulled cruelly back, stretching his throat tight for the kiss of the knife.  Wide eyed, Jensen stared up into the shadowed face of his assassin.

Who was just a kid, maybe eighteen at the most.

“Come on, Mitch, finish him!”  This from the other kid, the one with the boots, who sounded unhealthily eager to see Jensen’s blood spill.  Probably a frigging vampire wannabe.  Jensen had just about given himself up for dead when everything got really weird.  Or was that just weirder?  Jensen couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together, what with the tequila clouding his brain and the fear freezing everything else.  Because for a brief moment before he was thrown sideways and his temple hit something very hard, he thought he heard a deep voice shout: “Unhand that fair maiden, you miscreant!”  Which couldn’t have been right, now could it?  No maidens here, sport.

Jensen landed face first in the sand for the second time that night, but this time he embraced the blackness that followed.

0x0x0x0

Paddy loved the night.  He loved the purity of the darkness arching overhead, pierced by a myriad of stars.  He loved how they formed patterns and told him stories and set him free.  Nearly every night he would go down to Venice Beach and lie naked on sand that still remembered the sun’s warmth, and fall up into the heavens.  Sometimes he would hear a late night jogger pounding along the harder sand where the beach touched the waves, or a courting couple would pass by, giggling, but otherwise it was peaceful here.  Only the sound of each wave advancing to kiss the sand, and the ever-present murmur of distant traffic disturbed the silence.

After a long, tiring and frustrating day it was one of the few things that allowed Paddy to unwind.  He was less than pleased therefore, by the shouting and groaning and loud thudding that disturbed his meditation tonight.  He sat up abruptly, the mood lost, and looked around.  The sight that greeted him raised his ire and fired his chivalric humours.  Two hooded figures were setting upon a third, which was bad enough – only churls would fight so unfairly – but then the victim’s face caught the moonlight and Paddy was lost.  The pale cheek, the sweet bow of lips reddened by a trickle of blood, the beautiful eyes wide with fear, framed with long lashes… Paddy was on his feet and running towards the fray in a flash, uncaring that he was weaponless and stark naked.

Paddy might be crazy, but he had kept himself fighting fit after… just after.  A knight of Camelot had the reputation of his kingdom to consider, after all.  As well as the Grail to protect when called upon.  The two cowardly assailants never knew what hit them.  Paddy dealt with the one with the knife first, twisting the weapon out of the boy’s hand and flinging it into the sea.  The boy soon followed the knife with a yell and a mighty splash, while his companion fled, squealing, abandoning his friend to his watery fate.  Paddy didn’t pay much mind to the bedraggled figure that eventually emerged from the waves to follow the squealer as fast as he could.  All Paddy’s attention was focussed on the still form huddled amongst the rocks.  He could see now that this was no maiden, though the man he’d rescued was certainly as fair as any maid.  Paddy gently turned the man over, wincing at the jagged gash that marred his forehead.  It was bleeding freely, and though the man’s eyes opened briefly, his gaze was unfocussed and wandered wildly.

“All is well, my friend, I’ve got you.” Paddy said, and thought that he must have managed to imbue his tone with enough reassurance, as the stranger’s eyes fluttered shut again with a murmur that sounded quite content.  Clearly the gods had sent Paddy a new mission, and his task was clear.  He must tend this man’s wounds and nurse him back to health.  But first, clothes.  Cracked in the head or no, Paddy understood that he was unlikely to get his charge home without incident if he was to walk through the streets in the nude.  He quickly dressed and returned to see to his new friend.

The man was solidly built, but Paddy was strong and tall, and lifted his burden easily.  Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the cavern that was Paddy’s abode, deep in the bowels of Marigold Mansions.  It was a good place to live, even though it had no windows; it was warm in winter and cool in summer, and when Paddy was thinking straight, he was enormously grateful to Will, the landlord and live in caretaker for the apartment block, for allowing Paddy to make himself a home in the basement.  When he was, as Will himself put it, away with the faeries, Paddy occasionally thought Will was a mighty yet benign dragon.

Paddy laid the unconscious man down very gently onto the colourful heap of rugs and blankets and cushions that formed his own bed, and set about mending the ragged tear in the man’s forehead with his home made suture kit.  As Paddy had suspected, the gash itself was quite small, but being a head wound, it was bleeding copiously.  The man’s designer button down and t-shirt were going to be ruined.  A couple of neat stitches and Paddy had the bleeding under control.  He worked with strong competent hands, taking off the soiled shirts and washing the man’s pale skin clean.  An action that revealed a pleasing constellation of freckles all over the man’s face and chest that Paddy found somewhat distracting.  Before he could zone out and get lost in trying to find the patterns dotted so prettily over the guy’s body, he spotted a swollen discolouration around his patient’s ribs.

A gentle prod evinced a frown and a whimper out of the man; the pain winning out over unconsciousness.  Upset and anxious, Paddy started muttering, low and fast.

“Not good, not good.  Could be broken, internal bleeding…  Broken ribs could puncture a lung, you could drown. Bruising here, and here, and here… ,”

He was babbling, he knew it but couldn’t stop himself. Even while his mouth was running on out of control, his hands were working with tender efficiency, stripping the rest of the man’s dirty clothes off and gently washing him down with a damp cloth. He was rearranging the man’s legs and covering them with a blanket when he noticed that the stranger’s eyes were open.  The man’s forehead creased up in confusion and alarm, so Paddy hastened to reassure him.

“All is well,’ he repeated, not knowing if the message had gotten through earlier.  “You are safe here from those scoundrels who assaulted you.”

“Where am I? Who’re you?”

“I’m Paddy, knight of the Grail.  This is my humble abode.  Do not fear, I will take good care of you.  What is your name, fair sir?”

“Jensen,” the man mumbled, before his eyelids, too heavy to keep open, drooped closed, and the man, Jensen, slept again.

Paddy sat back on his heels.  He knew what he needed to do.  He would fetch the Grail from its hiding place, and its magical healing power would cure all Jensen’s injuries.  He grinned.  He loved the stars and the night, but best of all he loved having a sense of purpose.

0x0x0x0

 Jensen woke up to the sensation of something hot and heavy on his chest.  Before he opened his eyes, the memories came flooding back – his drunken binge; the sheer stupidity of his suicidal urges, which almost made him groan aloud; the unprovoked beating he’d endured and then a really jumbled up set of images that centred round a very hairy, very naked Adonis coming to his rescue and then washing him like something out of the Bible.  What the fuck was that about?

As if the mere act of thinking had triggered it, Jensen became aware of the throbbing in his head.  He couldn’t be sure how much of the pain was tequila-induced and how much was due to banging his head on a rock but one thing he was certain of was that it fucking hurt like the worst hangover from Hell.

He cracked open one eye and nearly screamed out loud when he discovered the explanation for his breathing problems wasn’t (just) the bruised, possibly broken ribs he’d incurred, but down to a rather large, golden-haired dog that was half lying across his chest, using him as a pillow.  He must have made a sound, which might just have been a whimper, because the dog lifted its head and grinned at him, tongue lolling.  Jensen grimaced as drool dripped onto his bare chest.  And that was another thing.  Just when and how had he gotten naked here?  It couldn’t be the good kind of naked, not when your only bed companion was one with four paws and a tail, and not when you tried to move your ribs creaked and hurt even worse than your head. One blessing, Jensen was fairly sure there had been no dogs involved with the whole getting naked and being washed thing.

At least the golden mutt was friendly, Jensen thought, as he gingerly eased himself up and took in his strange surroundings.  He seemed to be in a boiler room cum basement, but the strip lights he thought he remembered from his previous awakening had been switched off, so the only light was a warm glow from several large white candles that were artlessly arranged around him, creating an atmosphere that was a disturbing fusion between a harem and a shrine.  He was lying on a heap of rugs and tasselled cushions and throws that looked as though they had been liberated from a New Age store, and he half expected to see crystals and dream-catchers suspended over his head.  And maybe some wind chimes, though he guessed that would be kind of pointless indoors.  Instead of incense and crystals however, he found that he was surrounded by books and papers.  Every suitable surface had been utilised as shelving for a huge variety of volumes from battered paperbacks to expensive-looking tooled leather tomes.   Every remaining surface was heaped or covered with papers, all scribbled over with strange diagrams and words written in a bold but virtually illegible hand that Jensen guessed belonged to his rescuer, the wild hairy naked guy.

Jensen had a vague recollection of a muddled one-sided conversation.  There had been pair of wide set, earnest hazel eyes that had been accompanied by a pleasant voice that told him his rescuer was someone called Paddy, though Jensen didn’t think the guy had sounded very Irish. Which raised the question, where was this Paddy now?  He managed to get to his feet, though he had to move as slowly and carefully as a ninety year old so as not to jostle his injured ribs and set his head jangling like a bell tower in a way that was all too familiar.  At least this time he had a better excuse than tequila for his parlous state.  The dog was helpful, nudging him in an encouraging way and allowing him to lean on its broad back, just a little bit, as he steadied himself.  There was no sign of Paddy, and Jensen was starting to feel hungry.  He wondered what time it was.  He found his boxers and jeans and after much hopping around and swearing, pulled them on, but he couldn’t find his t-shirt or over shirt, which was annoying, because, you know, Versace.  He made do with an oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt, which he assumed belonged to the equally oversized Paddy.

Finally decent, Jensen made his way up the metal staircase back into the real world.  Where he was accosted simultaneously by bright sunlight and a small aggressive black guy who barked at him a whole lot more than the golden dog had.

“Hey, you!  What’re you doin’ in my basement?”  then as Jensen turned around, “Well shit, what the hell happened to you, son?”

Jensen touched his head self-consciously and hoped that he hadn’t given Paddy’s den away, though it had looked like the guy must have been living there for a while.  It seemed unlikely the owner/landlord/caretaker wouldn’t know about the unconventional lodger in his basement.

“Uh.  I got attacked down on the beach last night. I don’t remember much, but this big guy rescued me, brought me here.”

The little guy nodded, held out his hand to shake.  Jensen took it automatically.

“Will Turrell.  That big guy’d be Jared.  He does that kind of thing.  Saves people from bad shit.  He’s mad as a box of frogs, thinks he’s fighting monsters and Red Knights half the time, but his heart is big as a lion.”

“Jared?  I thought he told me his name was Paddy.”

“Yeah well, he doesn’t use his real name any more, not since the tragedy.  You probably heard about it, it was all over the news at the time.  Jared Padalecki.  He was in the Manticore restaurant when that psycho rammed it with that truck.  Jared was in a coma for weeks and when he woke up and found his wife was dead, he lost himself a bit, ended up here.”

Jensen could barely hear the words over the rushing in his ears.  His knees felt weak as jello.  Jared Padalecki.  Of course he knew the name. He remembered the face too; the young fresh-faced Doctor of Medieval Literature and his lovely wife Aishling, just as he remembered every name and every face from the macabre roll call of victims.  His victims.  His fault.  It was his fault Jared was living like some crazy hobo in the boiler room of an apartment block, running around naked rescuing strangers from real imaginary terrors.

Shit.

“Are you okay, son?  You’re looking kind of pale.”

Jensen looked down and realised he was still holding Turrell’s hand like it was some sort of lifeline. He let go with a weak smile.

“Sorry about calling you son, but you never told me your name.”

“Oh yes, right, I’m Je… Ack…,” Jensen swallowed his words before they could expose his guilt, and settled on his old college nickname. “Jack.  It’s Jack.  Look, I have to go, can you tell Jar… I mean Paddy; can you tell him I’ll come back?  I want to thank him for what he did last night.”

“Sure thing, Jack, I’ll tell him.  But you can probably find him yourself if you want.  He usually spends all his spare time helping out at the Redwings Animal Hospital off Sepulveda Boulevard. I expect he’s there now.”

Jensen glanced at his watch and winced.  Steve was going to kill him.

“Thanks, but I should get to work, I’m already late.  Good to meet you, Will.”

“You too, Jack.  Paddy needs all the friends he can get.”

Jensen swallowed hard as he walked away. He didn’t think Jared Padalecki would appreciate making a friend of the man responsible for his grief, but maybe, just maybe, this was Jensen’s chance to make up for what he did, in some small way.

0x0x0x0

“Fucking hell, where have you been, you asshole?”  Steve barely glanced up from the computer screen when Jensen made his way through Riot Records into the back office where Steve was updating his bête noir, the new stocktaking database.  Steve’ fingers jabbed at the keyboard like it had offended him in some way.  It always amazed Jensen how his irascible best friend had managed to get through his college dissertations using such an awkward two fingered typing style, breaking plastic keys off as he went. He tried and failed to tune out the sound of Steve berating him to the backdrop of thudding fingers.

“You know I worry when you stop out all night.  Did you get laid?  Please tell me you at least got … Shit, Jen!”

Jensen tried a grin and failed miserably.  He knew he must look rough, but Steve’ reaction at seeing his face indicated Jensen had probably underestimated just how bad.  Steve was on his feet and pushing Jensen into a chair before he’d had a chance to say he was fine; and really, he was kind of thankful. He didn’t want to pretend today.  He wasn’t fine.  His ribs ached, his head ached and both of those were eclipsed by the ache in his heart - and wasn’t that just the most ridiculous cliché he’d ever heard?

“What was that song, Total Eclipse of the Heart?  Who did that one?”

“Christ, Jensen.  I know you’re in a bad way when you start thinking about 1980s Bonnie Tyler songs.  What the fuck happened?  Who did this?” Steve poked at Jensen’s neatly stitched forehead and Jensen flinched, which set his ribs shouting about their pain, and he could feel the blood drain out of his face.  Steve noticed.  Of course he did.  That man’s blue eyes could see into any guy’s soul, and Steve had always been able to see right through Jensen.

“Where else are you hurt?  Show me.”

Jensen reluctantly lifted the hem of his borrowed shirt and winced again at Steve’s low whistle.  His skin goose bumped as Steve’s fingers ghosted over his ribs, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruising.  When Steve spoke again his tone made Jensen shiver more than any touch.  He was almost glad he couldn’t really answer the question.

“Who did this to you?”

“Two vigilantes, said they were cleaning up Venice Beach or something. One of them was just a kid.”

“Why would they pick on you?”  Steve frowned.

“I guess because I was so drunk, I don’t know, Carly.  You tell me.  Whatever.  They were going to beat the shit out of me, until a stranger rushed in and saved me.”  Jensen swallowed, part of him reluctant to say it out loud. You’re such a fucking coward, Ackles.

“Steve, it was Jared Padalecki who fought them off.  He took me home, I don’t remember that bit, I was out of it by then, but he stitched me up.  When I woke up this afternoon he wasn’t there, so I’m gonna have to go back and thank him properly.”

Steve stared.  “Wait.  Padalecki?  Wasn’t that the name of …?”

“He was one of Watson’s victims, yeah.  He was the one in a coma for several weeks.  His wife died.  Steve, he doesn’t seem to remember any of it.  He doesn’t even go by Jared Padalecki anymore, just calls himself Paddy.  I not sure he even remembers his own name.  I…I think I can help him.”

“Jen,” Steve began, but Jensen didn’t want to hear Steve say he shouldn’t do it; shouldn’t get involved with one of his victims; that he didn’t deserve this chance at redemption.

“You should see how he’s living, Steve.  In this kind of nest he’s built for himself in some boiler room, thinking he’s a knight of the Holy Grail on a fucking quest or something.  The dude was a college professor, man.  It’s just not right.”

He looked up, surprised at Steve’s silence, to find his friend contemplating him with a thoughtful rather than disapproving expression.  Steve threw both hands up.

“What?  It’s just that I haven’t seen you this animated about anything for a long time.  I guess that has to be a good thing, right?  So you go and play at psychiatry or whatever it is you are planning with your new friend.  Just.  Be careful, okay?  For both your sakes.”

0x0x0x0

Jensen didn’t really have a plan when he swung by the Redwings Animal Shelter a couple of days later.  The girl in reception, a petite brunette whose name badge declared her to be Genevieve, was initially wary when Jensen asked to see Paddy, but she melted as soon as he told her the reason for his visit.

“Oh my god!  You’re Paddy’s fair maiden!”  Genevieve squealed with every evidence of delight, oblivious to the way Jensen blushed then frowned.  He was thirty-one years old and did not look like a girl.  “Jack, isn’t it?  He’s been moping about like a wet weekend for the last two days, since you disappeared on him.  I think he was starting to believe some evil witch had magicked you away or something. He was really worried about you, said you’d been at death’s door, it must have been pretty terrible getting attacked like that, how awful!  That’s a nasty bruise you have there on your head, isn’t it?  Thank god you’ve turned up, as I don’t think I could have taken his pining much longer.”

Jensen felt a bit exhausted by the time she finally paused for breath.  He’d started wondering if she was powered by extra long-life batteries.

“So why are you still standing there like a lemon?  Come on, I’ll take you to see Paddy.  He’s out in the yard, exercising some of the dogs.”

Great, Jensen thought.  More dogs.  But he kept quiet and followed Genevieve through the clinically bright corridors out the back of the building.  He probably couldn’t have gotten a word in anyhow, as she kept up a constant stream of information, telling him more than he’d ever wanted to know about the history of Redwings, the practically sainted Bernie who founded the place and tried to keep it running on a shoestring and donations, its no kill policy, how hard it was to find adopters for the older animals, what great work Paddy did helping to socialise the dogs that had been abused and so on.  Jensen honestly thought she might spontaneously combust she talked so fast.  He had to admit though, she was kind of cute, and her information overload meant he didn’t have time to feel nervous before he was out in the sunlight again, and Jared was there.

That curly-haired golden mutt, the same one that had frightened the shit out of him in Paddy’s den, was running around barking while Paddy flung a Frisbee for it, and Paddy was laughing.  Head thrown back, shaggy hair blown back off his bearded face, eyes shining with delight.  Jensen could see it then, the resemblance to the man Paddy had been before the trauma, the bright young man with the promising academic career, who Jensen had only seen in photographs.  He wanted so badly to be the one to give Jared back his real self.  To make amends.

Jensen stepped out into the light, and Jared looked across and saw him.

If Jensen had thought Paddy looked happy before, he was wrong.  This was what happy looked like, as Jared dropped the Frisbee and literally sprinted across the packed earth to envelop Jensen in a huge hug.  It was simultaneously marvellous and terrifying, and after two seconds, unfortunately painful as Jensen’s cracked ribs protested.  Luckily for him, Genevieve was sharper than she’d appeared to be and was busy tugging at Jared’s elbow, which was as high as she could reach on the giant man.

“Paddy, don’t squeeze too tight, he’s got broken ribs, remember?”

Jared, no, this was definitely Paddy, immediately released Jensen and leapt back, full of stammered apologies.  Jensen doubted that Jared would have stammered.  It made Jensen’s chest ache worse than the broken ribs.  He would put this right.  He had to.

“Jensen! You found me!”  Jared grabbed his hand and dragged him into the yard, where the golden dog was sitting patiently with the blue Frisbee in its mouth.  A couple of other dogs were racing around, playing their own game of tag or whatever, content to amuse themselves.

‘This is the Grail,” Jared said, bending down to ruffle the gold dog’s woolly head.  Jensen stared.  This was Paddy’s Holy Grail?  That was kind of unexpected.

“He’s very well behaved,” Jensen said, unable to think of anything else more interesting to say.   Dogs really weren’t Jensen’s thing.  The Grail wagged its tail at him in apparent recognition, but its concentration never wavered from watching Paddy.

“He’s a she.”  Jared laughed, grabbed the Frisbee and flung it, grinning as the Grail dashed off and caught it in mid air.  Jensen had to admit, he was impressed with her speed and agility. And he understood her too, because he was also finding it hard to pay much attention to anything else with Paddy there.  Which was super disturbing.

0x0x0x0

Go to Part 2