Chapter Text
“Jensen, he’s not –”
Jensen thumbed the screen of his iPhone and cut Chad off before the guy could say another word. God only knew what it would have been. For all Jensen knew, Chad might have been about to tell him that there was another...Jensen couldn’t even say the word. He twisted around in the plush, buff-colored, leather seat and hooked an arm around the top to hold himself in place.
“Go ahead, Captain” he tossed back to the pilot of the Citation II private jet he was flying. “Mr. Murray is going to be taking a different flight.” And, settling back down and clicking his seatbelt shut, Jensen smirked as he pictured Chad fuming and stranded at that little, one-strip airport. Ah well, he’d get over it. It wasn’t as though he was abandoning his manager in the middle of a jungle, for cryin’ out loud. Aeropuerto Caracas wasn’t that far from Caracas proper and if Chad wasn’t able to swing a flight out from it, he would always be able catch one from Maiquetía. The man wasn’t helpless and after what he had just dropped on Jensen, he deserved to be worse than friggin’ stranded.
Seated diagonally across from Jensen was the object of his current dilemma. The man – boy? Christ, he had to be legal, didn’t he? Or did that not matter since the work was hardly legal – had somehow managed to fold up his long, long legs and was currently nose-deep in some book that actually looked old. Its cover was worn shiny in some sections, where it had been handled over and over again. The guy absently pushed up his glasses – round, thin-wired things that were straight out of the first Indiana Jones film – as he slowly turned the page. Jensen had to admit, he was impressed by the guy’s restraint, acting so nonchalant as though he didn’t know he was sitting next to the sixteenth highest paid male actor in Hollywood. But, Chad would have only hired the best, so he really shouldn’t have doubted that.
The best.
Jensen tried to disappear into the cushy seat at that thought. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that the lanky man-child across from him was a prostitute. Dressed in baggy khakis with pockets covering about every square inch of the cotton fabric, he had on a plain t-shirt and an overshirt in olive drab. Sturdy boots and a beat-up, leather messenger bag completed the near-homeless look he was rocking. Somehow, Jensen had pictured a high-class rent boy’s clothes, even if he was playing a role, wouldn’t be so authentic. His douchebag of a manager (Jensen refused to acknowledge their fifteen year friendship even in his subconscious after this shit) had said he was a pro. But Jensen wasn’t looking for a pro. Jensen wasn’t looking for anything right now.
“A what?” he sputtered into the phone, whipping his head around, but the plane was empty save for the pilot and copilot. No Ashton Kutcher jumping out and claiming he’d been punk’d, as if that show was still in production.
“He’s a professional,” Chad spoke quietly. “I would only get you the best. I’m worried about you, man.”
For a brief second, Jensen remembered what a good friend Chad was in addition to being his manager. And then he continued to speak, reminding Jensen that Chad was also…well, Chad. “You need to hit it and quit it, my friend.”
“I do not,” Jensen hissed. Chad kept talking like Jensen hadn't said a word.
“Misha fucked you up and not in a good way.”
There was no arguing with that. Jensen had been with Misha for almost a year when their relationship went down the toilet in a spectacular fashion. When very “intimate” pictures of them together appeared on TMZ, Jensen knew there was only one person who could have supplied them to the gossip site – Misha himself. Jensen was actually more hurt by the fact that he'd been blindsided by Misha than he was by the blurry pics and explicit details that accompanied the pieces. He most definitely did not read the hundreds of inane comments for each, lurid “exclusive”. It wasn’t like the man had outed him. Jensen was one of Hollywood’s few openly bi actors who never lost his “action hero” status because of his sexuality. The betrayal was deeper. He thought Misha had been somebody who wanted Jensen for more than his “brand appeal”. He had actually begun to believe that Misha might have been “the One”.
“And your silence is a dead giveaway. You know I'm right,” Chad continued.
“That’s why I need a break, moron,” Jensen sighed.
“Dude, that’s what this guy is. He’s not the love of your life. He’s just something to relieve the pressure. And,” he rambled on, preventing Jensen from saying otherwise, “I know you haven't cleaned the pipes since the blue-eyed devil left.”
“If I needed to do that, I could have found someone myself. It’s not like a lot of folks would say ‘no’,” he retorted. And there was surprisingly no ego in that statement. It was a fact. At thirty-five, Jensen was in his prime. Between having to keep in top, physical shape for the many films he was involved with where he did as many of his own stunts as the insurance people would agree to, to the dozens and dozens of personal appearances he had to make while on his press junkets, there were more than enough fans who would have sold their soul to spend a night with Jensen Ackles. At over six feet of lean muscle, green eyes, a full mouth that many speculated what it was good for (which it was), he was exceptionally handsome.
“This is why you need me. You don’t pay hookers for sex, dude, you pay them to leave. You don't need another relationship right now,” his friend-cum-manager quipped, “you just need some action. Beside,” he continued airily, “this is work-related.”
“What?” Jensen sputtered. How in the world was a hooker part of his current project?
“I made sure to get someone who is into role-play,” Chad expanded.
The second his manager said “role-play”, Jensen’s very vivid imagination shot to the image of a tall, lean boy dressed in a corset and panties begging Jensen to spank him harder. Then, the naughty boy morphed into a patient on an exam table, explaining to Dr. Jensen how he had an ache between his legs and was there anything the doctor could do to relieve the pain? That quickly evolved into a harem boy on his knees before the sheikh who owned him.
He shook his head like a wet Labrador Retriever coming out of a lake with a tennis ball. “Role-play? What the hell, Chad?”
“It’s like this is work-related. The guy is totally onboard with playing a sidekick to your Indiana Jones character. He’ll be, like, your research assistant. You can stay ‘in character’,” and Jensen was clearly able to picture his blond friend making air quotes as he said that, “and still blow off some steam in the meantime. After Rio, he flies back to la la land and you can get back to filming,” he finished, clearly proud of his brand of crazy logic.
And that was the thing with Chad – it was almost logical. Jensen was knee deep in his latest film. Manuscript 512 was the working title. The project, about a quarter of the way through filming, focused on an explorer, Percy Fawcett, who got it into his head, thanks to the aforementioned manuscript, that there was a mythical city in the Amazon that he and his son were fated to become a part of. Instead, he, his son and his son’s friend would fade into the jungle in 1925 and never be seen again. It was an amazing, true story. And, in typical, Hollywood fashion, somehow Brad Pitt’s production company a little too coincidentally had the same idea and they were racing to get their own version, called The Lost City of Z, out the gate first. It wasn't the first time Jensen thought that Pitt was a backstabber. He bet Jennifer Aniston agreed with him on that one.
But they had Spielberg backing this project and Jensen believed it had genuine potential. Fawcett, who many argued was the inspiration for Indiana Jones and was the actual inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Professor Challenger from The Lost World, was an intriguing character. He wasn't in it for “fortune and glory” as Indy told his sidekick in the second film. Already a renowned explorer and well familiar with the territory, he had been caught up in the mysticism of the time and more than one person had foretold that his first-born son, Jack, was meant to be a holy figure. The city, which he believed existed because of the 18th century Portuguese manuscript the movie was named for, was supposedly populated by white “masters” that were otherworldly and he and his son were fated to become a part of their society. It was a sense of divine destiny and his inherent love of exploration that drove the man and Jensen had really started to immerse himself in the character.
An accomplished surveyor, cartographer and military man, Fawcett had years of experience under his belt when he made his doomed pilgrimage for the final time into the Amazon. Over a hundred men died trying to find him, but only his signet ring and a compass were ever recovered. Some explorers swore that local tribes told them he had been killed, murdered at the hands of violent neighbors, while others said he simply died during his quest. Bones had been discovered over the years, but time and time again, they proved not to be his. It was as if the man and his son had truly vanished. There was something inherently thrilling about an unsolved mystery in the modern age where everyone was connected via technology and Jensen had pushed hard to land the role, beating out the likes of Christian Bale and Chris Evans. When Spielberg had told him it was his, he sent Evans a bouquet of roses with the message, “Not this time, Cap.” The men’s mostly friendly rivalry was already legendary in some circles and while Jensen didn't begrudge the other man landing the role in the lucrative Marvel franchise, he wasn't above crowing just a teeny bit. This had Oscar nomination written all over it.
And he had more than thrown himself into the role. He had read everything he could get his hands on regarding Fawcett, his sons and other contemporaries of his. He had truly buried himself in the man’s history and grew short with anyone who distracted him too much. So, in Chad’s bass-ackwards fashion, hiring someone to help him stay in character made sense. Hell, knowing Chad, the man would probably write it off Jensen’s taxes. He made a mental note to personally review his 2016 returns before they were sent in as the hooker came onboard.
Since the person in question was apparently engrossed in his book (on closer inspection, Jensen was able to make out the title – Exploration Fawcett by the man himself or, rather, a compilation of letters and other documents amassed by his surviving son Brian), Jensen decided it wouldn't hurt to take a gander at him. Apparently, he was paying for it, after all.
When he had stumbled into the private jet, and Jensen thought that “clumsiness” might have been laid on too thick, he had genuinely seemed nonplussed by the interior. The Citation II was relatively tame in the world of private jets, but the six, comfy leather seats and the burl wood trim was nothing to slouch at, either. Regardless of how well this boy was paid, he definitely widened his eyes when he saw it all. He had clutched his bag tighter, acting like he was afraid someone was going to take it from him forcefully, and hadn't taken a seat until Jensen had jutted his chin towards the five, empty spots after his. He had been about to ask if the kid (he didn't look older than twenty, with his ridiculously soft bangs and vulpine features) if he was a PA or research assistant when Chad had called. And that's when it all went south.
Jensen was starting to calm down now that they were in flight. Nothing like passing the point of no return to put things in perspective. Despite his antics, Chad really did know what he was doing. A flop as a child actor, the other man had discovered that his niche was with making deals and connections as opposed to getting people to suspend their disbelief when he was on the small screen. He and Jensen had met during an audition for a small, recurring role on a now defunct show called Smallville and they had hit it off despite their different natures. Jensen was reserved and quiet in public, often mistakenly labeled as “shy”, while the gregarious, loud mouthed Chad was often tagged “douchebag”. That wasn't necessarily a misnomer. But what a lot of people got wrong was how fucking loyal Chad was to his friends. And some of that sincerity bled through in his everyday interactions with people. And he interacted a lot. Those meetings led to connections and eventually he realized his knack was as a mover and shaker behind the camera. He didn't bemoan his fate as a failed thespian; he embraced his future as an agent and manager.
They’d been friends for fifteen years and added agent/client to their relationship in the last ten. Jensen never once regretted that decision, although he questioned it a smidgen at the moment while he eyed the man-candy across what could barely be called an aisle since there was only one seat on each side of the jet. The production company had spared no expense.
The kid had shiny, dark hair and bangs that hung just an inch too long, hiding his bespectacled, oddly tilted eyes from Jensen. It was leaps and bounds different from his own style, which he preferred to keep almost militaristically short. They were still filming segments of Fawcett’s early years, so he hadn't needed to grow it out or scruff up yet, but that was most definitely on the agenda. They did reassure him he could keep his hair its natural, dark blond, though. Whatever the kid’s name was, and Jensen was resigned to the fact that he was going to have to find out at some point (whatever you want to call me, his dirty mind supplied in what he imagined the kid’s voice sounded like), he had a pointy nose and a few beauty marks scattered about his face. From where he sat, Jensen didn't know if they were real or painted on (and the thought of this guy painting his face for Jensen did something to his libido that he hadn't expected).
Adjusting his army green pants discreetly, he was ashamed of himself. So what if the guy was a hooker? That didn't mean Jensen had to turn into a horn dog. He cursed Chad under his breath for the whole cockamamie scheme of his. So what if he hadn't bothered to look at another person for the last year? It was hard to get beyond the absolute sense of betrayal that had been Misha’s parting gift. All the while that he'd been losing himself inside the other man’s body, Misha had been plotting how to cash in on it all. Huh? It dawned on him for all his morals and what not, he'd already been with a prostitute. At least this time, he knew what he was getting into. And wasn't that just an absolute bit of mindfuckery that he was now seeing things Chad’s way?
Shaking his head, he picked up his iPad and stuck his headphones in his ears. They had a couple of hours before touching down in Rio and he had planned to brush up on his Portuguese. He held his thumb down to unlock the device and then tapped on the Rosetta Stone app. He spent all of five minute going through the lesson’s exercises before he snuck another peek at his companion. The kid was struggling to unfold and pull out the polished table that was tucked into the side of the plane. Jensen rolled his lower lip into his mouth and bit down hard. Chad must have told the kid’s “agency” his tendency to fall for klutzy, genuine types. That was the only explanation for the fact that the man-child with the pointy nose and delectable birthmark right beside it couldn't extend a tray table to save his life.
Jensen tucked his iPad by his side and reached across to help him. “Here,” he said as he expertly pulled the table out and flipped it open.
“Thanks,” the kid said softly and Jensen, when he lifted his head up with the intention of brushing off the assist smoothly, found his words caught in his throat.
Now that he wasn't hunched over a book, the other guy’s face was on full display. Cleft chin and a jaw that was only starting to firm up with manhood, cupid’s bow mouth with dimples framing the corners and eyes that apparently couldn't decide what color they wanted to be so had settled on star clusters – the kid was stunning. Apparently, his sudden speechlessness wasn't too awkward, because the shaggy-haired boy pulled an iPad/keyboard combo out of his bag, snapped it open and started typing away like Jensen wasn’t even there.
Not knowing what to do, Jensen sat back and picked up his own device. He glanced down at the next lesson that he had paused, but couldn't concentrate on it. He was rather mesmerized with the way Kid’s long, slender fingers danced across the tiny keyboard and wondered what he was typing. And then he got to wondering if he was supposed to make the first move. Christ, he groaned internally, he did not do this…ever. He decided he was still going to rip Chad a new one over this fiasco when they reunited in Rio. Here he was, on the way to Rio de Janeiro for the next phase of the project, and he didn't know if he was supposed to introduce himself to the hooker next to him or not. Jamming his earbuds back in place, he tried to focus on the casual conversation playing out on the screen in front of him. Normally, Jensen could block out anything else distracting once he was focused. It was an enormously helpful skill when it came to memorizing scripts and when he got his break on Days of Our Lives, it saved his bacon more than once when he’d been hung over from partying the night before and was handed pages and pages of rewrites the morning of a taped shooting. Well, that skill had apparently left him high and dry at the moment.
When he saw Kid open the Fawcett book back up and “appear” to be cross-referencing it with something on his screen, Jensen had to know. “What’re you doing?” he grumbled.
“Hmm?” Kid mumbled without glancing up.
“What’re you working on?” Jensen repeated himself.
Kid raised his head and snapped it to one side to flip his hair out of the way of his glasses. “There’s this section here,” he tapped the open page, “where Brian Fawcett mentions a snippet from Manuscript 512 and I think he mistranslated the sentence.”
“What?” Jensen scoffed. “Let me see.” There was no way this rent boy was actually researching Fawcett.
Kid scrunched up his forehead at Jensen’s request and a kind of adorable crinkle formed between his eyebrows. But he turned his iPad around and there on his screen was a scan of Manuscript 512. “Where’s the English translation you’re using?” Jensen asked, as he flipped through the Portuguese document with his finger. Kid’s crinkle spawned clones.
“Why would I need one?” he wondered curiously.
“You read Portuguese?” Jensen was beyond surprised.
“You don’t?” Kid quipped innocently.
Jensen found himself blushing slightly. “I’m working on it,” he murmured. Trying to shift Kid’s attention from where he was lacking, Jensen pointed to some splotches on the image. “What happened there? Bad scan?”
Kid pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned closer. Jensen had a sneaking suspicion the accessory part of his act. They might be reading glasses at best, but no way did he need them to see. “Copiem worms ate that part.”
“Seriously?” Jensen remarked. “Worms?”
Kid cocked his head and gave Jensen an assessing look. “That kind of damage litters all the pages and might be part of the reason we don’t know exactly where the original city was located, if it actually existed at all.” Kid had a familiar cadence to his speech and Jensen suspected he might be a fellow native from the Lone Star state. Was that a question Jensen was allowed to ask? “I’m a bit perplexed that you didn’t know it, considering the project and all. Or that you can’t read Portuguese. But to be fair,” he continued without giving Jensen a chance to speak up in his own defense, “you kind of have to be familiar with 18th century dialect. I mean,” he added with a gentle laugh, “Harold Wilkins got the word ‘chimney’ wrong in the document’s second translation into English. He thought it meant ‘smokes’. Close, but no cigar,” he ended lamely and then ducked his head in what must have been embarrassment, if the slow, rosy flush blooming across his cheeks was anything to go by.
Jensen couldn’t stop the easy grin that spread across his face. “Jensen,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Oh,” Kid gasped, growing redder by the minute. “Jared. Jared Padalecki.” His hand was slightly larger than Jensen’s and it was an odd sensation to feel his fingers kind of swallowed up by the younger man’s grip. Not bad, but different from what he was used to.
“Padalecki,” Jensen drawled, “sure is a mouthful.” Apparently, Jensen was unable to get the swallowing metaphors out of his filthy mind. He blamed that on Kid’s – no, Jared’s – chosen profession. There was no way Jensen would be this fixated on sex if it weren't for that. Except that Jared was everything Jensen wanted in a potential partner. Youthful guilelessness, smart, wildly attractive without being aware of it…
Hookup, his mind corrected him in what sounded dangerously like Chad’s voice. You need a hookup, not a romance. And this is an act.
But that wasn't the way Jensen was wired. He didn't date casually. And when he had fallen for Misha, he'd fallen hard. Misha had seemed so perfect. He had been attentive, funny, very attractive and, in retrospect, too accommodating to Jensen’s work schedule and commitments. A real partner should have called him out on a few occasions, exerted his place in the relationship as an equal. But now he understood that Misha had been biding his time, gaining Jensen’s trust and all the while he had been anticipating a big payout in the end. No wonder he had been infinitely patient about everything. Their relationship had been a job to him. And one he had been very good at. Enough time had passed since their breakup that Jensen decided he wouldn't let anyone else get too close for the foreseeable future. There was no way he could absolutely trust someone to be honestly interested in him for himself. He wasn't naïve enough (not now, at any rate) to think that he could separate himself from his fame and money. That was a part of who he was. But he didn't think he was ever going to be able to trust that another person saw him, too.
A small rumble of turbulence jostled him about and he glanced out the window. Night was fast approaching, but there were some clouds along the horizon colored like angry bruises whose darkness had nothing to do with the time of day. Looking back at his companion, Jensen had to chuckle. Nothing appeared to faze him as he clicked away on the small keyboard, which looked minuscule beneath his long fingers. Jared had the hands of a pianist. Jensen guessed he had over an octave reach with them. Then he shook his head. Obviously, Chad would have given whatever agency he had hired Jared from a detailed list of what Jensen liked. And who better than his best friend to hit every one dead on? As he fidgeted in the seat (because no matter how comfortable or plush the chair, at over 6’1” tall, everything cramped up eventually), he decided to see how much of a pro Jared actually was.
“So,” he began, “do you believe there really is a lost city?”
Jared didn't look up and Jensen had to wonder if Chad had told him he liked guys who played hard to get. Probably.
He cleared his throat. “I said – ” but stopped abruptly when Jared held up the index finger of his left hand and tapped away on his keyboard with his right. There was getting into character and then there was being rude. He may have made some sort of harrumphing sound while he waited for Jared to finish writing his fake research. Almost unbidden, the thought came to him that since he was bought and paid for, shouldn't he be catering to Jensen? Didn’t that make Jared his?
“Sorry,” Jared eventually mumbled, head still hunkered over his screen. From where he was sitting, Jensen saw the screen reflected in his glasses and he had actually been typing. “Had to jot that down before I forgot.” He raised his head and there was a sheepish smirk on his face. “I swear, it's like I have ADD sometimes with the way my thoughts scatter about and I have to write them down ASAP.” He blushed again and then hastily blurted out, “I don't, though, have ADD and I wasn't mocking anyone who does. Because it's not a joke,” he added so earnestly that Jensen cracked up.
“Easy, Sasquatch. I know how to tell when someone’s joking,” he replied easily. “You didn't offend me.”
Jared had stiffened when Jensen had called him the odd nickname, but relaxed quickly enough when Jensen smiled. Jensen felt kind of bad for the name, but mollified himself with the knowledge that he was sure Jared had been called far more colorful names than that in his line of work.
Work. That's all this was to him.
That’s all he had been to Misha and the thought wasn't very comforting any longer.
“Well,” Jared began, lacing his fingers together and raising his hands above his head. He leaned away from the table and Jensen’s back flinched in sympathy as he heard the other man’s spine crack. He definitely did not let his eyes drop down to Jared’s lean stomach when his shirt hitched up from the stretch and he most definitely did not contemplate the two inch span of flesh that was revealed to him because of it. Even though he could. Even though, technically, Jared was his. And each time he thought that about the kid like that, something pleasant zinged along his nerve endings.
“It certainly makes for a nice story,” Jared continued, acting like he didn't know he was teasing Jensen with his brief flash of skin. The kid was good. “And I can see why Hollywood would eat something like this up.” How coy he was being, as though he didn't know about the film. And, briefly, Jensen wondered how much he did know. Whatever Jared did, Jensen knew without a doubt Chad would have had him sign non-disclosure agreements up the yin yang. Hell, he'd probably had to sign a stack of NDAs considering the nature of his employment and who his current employer was.
“He was sort of the original Indiana Jones,” Jensen prodded him.
“Oh, man, don’t you get tired of hearing that?” Jared moaned and Jensen was surprised by his reaction. “I cannot tell you how many times I heard that reference in class. Like any of the profs ever actually looked as good as Harrison Ford, either.” He chuckled and then gulped, flitting his eyes from side to side, like revealing his sexuality had been a terrible faux pas. But Jensen decided to play along. Maybe role-playing wasn't such a bad idea after all.
“That’s true,” Jensen said easily. “I know I certainly never had any teachers that looked that hot.” And he saw the way Jared’s shoulders lowered slightly in relaxation. It was a nice touch.
“To be honest, I sort of swore off movies because of that. People don't seem to get that actual history is so much more interesting than what the movies focus on. Or just get plain wrong,” he snorted.
“Get wrong?” Jensen asked, trying to hide his irritation. He knew he did the best he could in researching any role he took that was based on a real person. Sure, screenwriters sometimes played up certain elements of a story to make it more exciting, but he couldn't come up with a single incidence where a project he was attached to got it “plain wrong”.
“Like Fawcett,” Jared continued nonchalantly. “Sure, he probably was the inspiration for Harrison Ford’s character and he was the inspiration for Conan Doyle’s cranky prof in The Lost World. But people made him out to be bigger than he was, like he was on some sort of spiritual odyssey.”
Jensen started to grind his teeth and he knew his jaw muscle was twitching. “You don't think what he was doing was noble? Trying to find the mythical city he called 'Z' and bringing that enlightenment back to the world?”
The plane lurched suddenly and Jared actually turned a shade of green that was decidedly unbecoming. He shifted uneasily in his seat, but Jensen was not about to let him off the hook over a touch of airsickness. “Well?” he demanded.
Swallowing hard, Jared folded his iPad and keyboard together and slipped them into his bag. “The man was a great surveyor,” Jared admitted grudgingly. “The work he did for the Royal Geographical Society in mapping a disputed region between Brazil and Bolivia is still respected today. Some of his work is better than our best GPS equipment.”
Jensen sat straighter and allowed himself a smile as though it was him Jared was discussing. And, considering how much of himself he put into his work, it kind of was.
“But I think he fell for the idea of 'Z' or El Dorado or Atlantis or ‘insert fanciful name here’ that we ascribe to a ‘perfect city’.”
“And there’s something wrong with wanting to discover a ‘perfect city’?” Jensen demanded defensively.
“Hey,” he replied and raised his hands defensively, “I wouldn't be here if the thrill of rediscovery wasn't intoxicating.” And the pink tip of his tongue peeked out between his straight, white teeth. Jensen was momentarily distracted from his irritation by the erotic gesture. “But, primarily, I’m here to keep things in perspective.”
“Perspective, huh?” Jensen mumbled and decided a drink was in order. He got up, swaying slightly with the plane’s temporarily uneven motion, and headed for the well-stocked bar between the cabin and cockpit. “Want anything?” he tossed over his shoulder as he rolled open the glossy, cabinet door.
Jared lowered his head, letting his bangs fall into his face and Jensen had a ridiculous urge to brush back those chocolate strands. “No, thank you,” he demurred and the gentle submission twisted him up. He was seriously going to hurt Chad when they met up in Rio for leaving him stuck with this delectable boy. Or possibly give him a raise.
When Jensen settled himself with a bourbon neat, he sipped slowly and made a “go on” motion with his free hand.
“I believe Fawcett believed in the city,” Jared continued, somewhat chagrined. Maybe he thought he'd overplayed his hand with his client, Jensen considered, and was trying to dial his faked enthusiasm down a notch.
“That seems a no brainier, considering he took his son and his son’s best friend into the jungle, on their own, to find it. Seems to me that’s risking an awful lot,” Jensen added with a tip of his head.
“True, but he had a vested interest in finding the city of zed,” and Jensen smiled at Jared’s correct usage of the name. Only Americans pronounced it “zee”, when Fawcett himself, being British, would have said “zed”.
“To prove that Manuscript 512 was right,” Jensen agreed.
“C’mon. Manuscript 512 was a group of adventurers’ attempt to get financial backing for another treasure hunt. A city with stone arches and whatnot? They were just playing up on Greek ruins and other symbols in our collective memories.”
“What do you mean?” Jensen asked, leaning forward. He was genuinely curious what Jared’s “research” had led him to.
“Common misconceptions most people have about archaeology – all ruins are made up of stones and rocks. You know that,” he tilted his head encouragingly. “Rock in that quantity is simply not found in the Mato Grosso. That region is earth and trees and living things. If there is a city there, it’s not made out of stone. At least, not in the quantity they described.”
Jensen pushed up his lower lip in agreement, nodding his head slowly. He could see the sense in that. “So they exaggerated,” he admitted.
Jared snorted and flopped back against his seat. “That's for sure. All you have to do is look at who lived in the magical city to know it was too ‘good’ to be true.”
Jensen winced at the burn of the whiskey. He held onto the glass, not trusting the growing dips the plane was making. They must have been near those storm clouds he'd spotted earlier.
“How convenient for all the Europeans interested in the perfect city that it was populated by ‘white Indians’. Doesn't that reek of white entitlement? Why wasn't the city full of the local tribes?” He regarded Jensen with such earnestness that Jensen wanted to have a good answer for him, but he came up empty-handed. Thinking back, it was kind of ridiculous to think that it had to be white people who had built the magnificent city in the jungle.
“But you can’t deny the personal risk that Fawcett took to search for the place. And I'm sure he would have reported back honestly if he'd found only local people there.”
“The same guy who swore he shot a sixty-two foot anaconda and never submitted any proof? The same guy who wrote his reports back to the RGS like they were movie scripts?” And now Jared had to be needling Jensen intentionally. Why he wanted him riled up, Jensen had no idea. But it was working.
“Sometimes you have to embellish the facts to make sure people stay interested and stay willing to fund the search,” Jensen griped.
“Exactly,” Jared boomed, slapping his hand down on his table. “And there you have your explanation why the Portuguese explorers wrote Manuscript 512 the way they did.” He smiled widely and his dimples carved parentheses around his mouth.
Jensen snapped his mouth shut and fumed for a minute. Jared got him with that one. “Ok, say that you’re right,” and he didn't miss the snarky way the kid grinned, “Fawcett still bought into it as much as the next guy.”
Jared bounced back against the seat again. If they had been on a commercial flight, he would have been that annoying child that rocked their seat back into your knees again and again and made you spill your meal all over your lap. “Of course he did. He had a vested interest in proving it was real.”
“How so?” Jensen asked, draining his glass. He was going to need another drink at this rate. The kid was getting under his skin.
“I'm sure you know how Fawcett swallowed hook, line and sinker the spiritualism of the day.” Jensen nodded, because he did. “He practically ate up the stuff that Madame Blavatsky spewed over the last decade or so of her life about the mysterious ‘masters’ who knew everything and possessed a variety of powers like clairvoyance, telepathy and…” He trailed off, snapping his fingers in a rapid manner, “clairaudience.”
“Clairaudience?” Jensen had no idea what that was.
“Hearing the paranormal,” Jared said offhandedly. “He had multiple ‘mystics’ tell him his son was going to be a spiritual leader of great importance. So of course he was going to drag the new messiah to the Promised Land. But look at his group,” Jared called after him as Jensen got up to get another drink.
“What do you mean?” Jensen responded and held up a miniature bottle of Wild Turkey, which Jared shook his head in the negative to. Jensen slipped it into his pocket and grabbed another. He had a feeling he was going to need it with this guy.
“Mr. Ackles,” the captain interrupted, leaning around to address him. “You and your guest might consider buckling up. This storm is too wide to fly around. We’re going to have to go through it.”
“No problem,” he agreed and went back to his seat. “Buckle up,” he told Jared although he failed to do so himself.
“You buckle up,” Jared dared him.
“Brat,” he accused him good-naturedly. “Now what about his party? He only had his son and his son’s friend.”
“Exactly,” Jared agreed, slapping his hand against the table again. “And he kept a lot of his notes in code. What does that tell you?”
Jensen pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side. “He didn't want anyone else to beat him there.”
Jared smiled and Jensen was sure he had somehow walked into Jared’s verbal trap. “And why wouldn't he have wanted everyone to know, if it was so important? Why wouldn't he have wanted more help to find such an amazing place if it was all to benefit mankind?”
Jensen inhaled sharply. “He wanted to keep it for himself.”
Jared only cocked an eyebrow, but remained silent.
“Sonofabitch,” he growled and dragged his hand down his mouth. He hadn't looked at it that way. And while Jensen was mulling over that angle and trying to see how it might change his interpretation of Percy Fawcett, another thought came to mind.
“How do you know all this?” he exhaled. This went way beyond what any hooker would do for a job. He was a little awestruck.
Like you know how prostitutes work, his inner voice snarked. And how many have you ever hired? A big, fat zero.
Jared’s forehead did that crinkle thing again. “Because it's my job,” he replied matter-of-factly. “And I'm very good at my job.” He licked his lips and Jensen couldn't help but to track the movement of the tip of his tongue as he did so. The swipe made his lips glossy with spit and very distracting.
Jensen shook his head and sat back, unaware that he had been creeping closer. Jared was a prostitute. As that settled in his mind, his awe faded and left a bitter taste in his mouth instead. Clearly, this kid could be so much more and just didn't see it. “How long have you been at it?” He wanted to know and he didn't.
“Eight years, give or take,” Jared said after some mental calculations.
“You’ve been doing this for eight years?” Jensen squawked. “You got into it when you were what? Twenty? Twenty-one?”
He hoped.
Jared laughed, free and easy. “Try sixteen.”
And Jensen felt sick to his stomach, which had nothing to do with the turbulence that was rocking the plane nonstop. He was angry at Jared and angry for him, images of a young teen having to make his way through the world like that flashing through his brain. He rubbed the back of his neck roughly. It wasn't a faceless teen that made his guts twist. It was the thought of a younger Jared having to do that, because he couldn't believe anyone ever chose that life willingly.
“Are you okay?” the younger man asked. The naked concern on his face was too much to take. Jensen surged forward across the nonexistent aisle and pressed his lips against those candy-pink ones he'd been dying to taste for the last half hour. Jared gasped, but didn’t pull away. Jensen threaded his fingers through the soft strands of Jared’s long hair and held him in place. Nudging the younger man’s lower lip open, Jensen licked inside, tasting something sweet, but he swirled his tongue deeper, determined to discover what Jared’s flavor was. He was startled to find himself pushed back suddenly.
“Wha?” he slurred.
“What?” Jared gasped at the same time, fingers trailing uncertainly over his swollen, lower lip. Despite the unexpected rejection, Jensen was proud of the fact he had marked Jared like that.
Before either man could say more, the plane dropped suddenly and Jensen was sure his stomach had swooped into his mouth. Lightning flashed bright enough near his window that he had to squint against the light.
“Strap yourselves in,” the copilot called back to them and Jensen scrambled to find his belt. Jared, however, had decided to try and fold the table back up at that moment. And he was as successful doing that as he was taking it out. For whatever crazy reason, maybe the whole “return your tray tables to the upright and locked position” spiel, the kid was fussing with that when he should have been belting himself in.
“Jared,” Jensen snapped, but the younger man didn’t pay attention to him at all.
Forgetting his own belt, Jensen leaned across and batted Jared’s hands away. The turbulence had gotten so bad that it was like being on a rickety rollercoaster. He was having about as much luck as Jared was under those conditions. Just as he slammed it back into its slot, the interior lights began to flicker and then sputtered out. Jensen twisted around to ask what was happening, but the sight of both pilots struggling with the controls was too intimidating. The jet suddenly dipped to the right and Jensen was tossed back to his side of the plane. Jared landed across the seat opposite him and despite the buzzing of some alarm up front, Jensen heard the thud the younger man’s head made when it connected with the side of the seat. The kid slumped, obviously dazed, and flopped bonelessly as the aircraft continued to drop and rise like a ship lost at sea with only the sporadic bursts of light from the storm to illuminate the interior.
“Jared,” Jensen called out. He was about to yell for one of the pilots when another flash momentarily blinded him and the plane began a crazy drop, like it was falling from the sky.
“Mayday, mayday,” one of the pilots cried into his radio. “This is flight –”
Ignoring everything else, Jensen somehow wrestled Jared’s lax body into the seat opposite him and fumbled to strap him in. There was another crash of lightning and for one perfect moment, the plane’s left wing was outlined in a blue corona like St. Elmo’s Fire. Jensen, hands still holding onto Jared’s belt, was mesmerized by the sight.
Then the plane cracked open and he was sucked into a howling, black void.