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wellownedbkupso. back in the day (like... a few months ago?), i wrote a really, really awful mary-sue piece that had me meeting jensen ackles in paris (this was before jared got engaged and then dis-engaged) and having some kind of sex marathon weekend. yes, i know, terrible.
i haven't repented yet. i've now fleshed it into a bigger story. not that it's any better, but it's giving my brain a break from real stuff, you know? nothing like self-inserting intoporn romantic weekend-in-paris fic to make you feel better.
so here's part 1. it's not finished yet, but it'll be fun to finish.
He’s got a ball cap pulled down tight, the good ol’ boy curve shielding his eyes from anyone who could be trying to catch a glimpse of him. He’s so sick of the whole fame line that he’s been going out of his way not to get recognized. Not the beard or the scruff that usually shows up on hiatus. But he is hiding halfway across the world, with no entourage and no notice given. He’s just another American, traveling across Europe. He shifts lower in his seat, slouching to where his chiropractor would be having fits.
He’s been hearing her hum for some snatches of the trip, though, and he can’t help himself. He glances up, eyes shaded in the brim of his cap, to watch her. She’s got her iPod on, a notebook open in front of her, and she’s half turned away from him. He felt her tapping her feet along to the beat at one point before she realized how close she was to his pant leg and smiled a sheepish apology as she turned away. Sometimes he can catch what she’s humming, a few bars of something that sounds so familiar. She never keeps the melody long or loud enough for him to actually make it out for some time.
“… the baffled king composing Hallelujah…” she sings softly, and he sees a smile play around her lips as she drops the lyrics back to a soft hum. God, but it’s been forever since he heard that song! And she must be worth a little conversation if she can have that kind of taste. He pulls his sleeves down, and leans forward, tapping her briefly on her arm. She twitches, as if she’s forgotten he was even there, before she looks at him blankly.
“Do you have the time?”
Her stare remains blank before she removes one earbud. “Sorry?”
He thrills at the unaccented English for a moment. “The time. What time is it?” he repeats, smiling harmless and just out of reach.
She flips her wrist up and frowns. “Six thirty, ish. We should be in Paris in a few.” She tucks the earbud over her ear and turns back to her page, giving off the feel of incomplete dismissal. As if she's inviting him to continue talking, but doesn't really want to be bothered.
He pushes onward anyway. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He’s confident, sure he heard the unmistakable twang of a Midwesterner in there.
She shakes her head. “M’from the states. Kentucky, actually,” she mumbles, making a scribble before looking at him. "Don't suppose you're from here either."
He points to himself. “I’m a Texas boy, myself.”
She flashes him a grin. “How is it back home for y’all?”
He laughs and clasps a hand to his heart playfully. “Oh, say that again! Say ‘y’all’ again.”
She gives a quick bark of laughter and leans flirtatiously across the table. “How’s it for y’all back home, then, cowboy?” she asks, purposely drenching her voice in a Southern drawl. He laughs softly with her and follows it with a sigh. She blinks and blushes, turning her head away partly. "It's been awhile since I've been around anyone from home."
"How long's long?" he asks, annoyed that he's tripped up this early in their conversation.
"2 months?" her voice lilting the statement into a question. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, incredulous. "What?" she asks pseudo-indignantly. "It's about as long as I've ever been away. And it's not like I'm all that into the touristy social scene in Paris."
"It's nothing. I just work away from my family for longer times." Most of the year and only the holidays back in Texas, more often than not. Though it's not her business to know that after all. "Pretty girl like you not into the social scene, though? Paris is missing out on a treasure, letting you keep yourself tucked away."
She gives a little laugh and shrugs. "What can you do? Maybe I just hadn't found the right company yet." She gives him a cheeky smile before glancing out the window. "Though I can't say that just being here doesn't make up for it." She shakes her head and starts packing things away.
“If you aren’t here for the social scene,” Jensen asks, leaning forward on the table, “can I ask why you’re here? The nightlife here is most of the appeal of the city.”
She shrugs, looking too much like a native and he has to blink to keep her in perspective in his mind. “Why are you? Texas and Paris are complete opposites, I’m sure.”
“A friend told me Paris is beautiful. I had to see it for myself.” He doesn’t say that it was Jared Padalecki who said that about the city.
She makes a sound of agreement. “A girl I went to high school with said the same thing. I figure combining business with pleasure isn’t that big a deal.” The train pulls into the station and she stands. He lets his eyes travel the length of her-- the clingy blouse, the pencil skirt accentuating long legs made even longer by the skyscraper heels she's wearing. He feels guilty as he looks up, knowing that his open perusal of her could be considered sexual harrassment. She doesn't seem to notice or care, and several other men seem to be making the same appraisal of her. Suddenly, Jensen has to see her again.
"Meet me for dinner." She laughs lightly at the invitation. He continues anyway, reaching for, but not grabbing, her hand. "I miss American company. And I couldn't deprive Paris of you for an evening."
She gives him a cheeky grin. "How do I know you're not a stalker? Or that I'm not one?"
He finally takes her hand in a firm shake. "Guess we'll just have to trust each other. Like this," he says, snagging pen and paper from her and writing down the address of his hotel, his cell number and his birthday. "Call me in an hour or so and we'll decide where we want to go."
The train's emptying quickly as he hands her pen and the slip of paper back to her. She smirks and pockets it in her bag, snagging his hand, scribbling her number in his palm. "How about you call me, darlin?" She walks away before he has a chance to reply
As she walks away, he follows slowly behind, eyes unashamedly on the sway of her hips. "I'm Jensen. What's your name, darlin?" he calls after her, but never gets more than a grin as she looks back over her shoulder.
He makes it one hour before he picks up his phone to call her, despite how desperate it would make him look. He takes another hour just to tell himself that this is a good idea. That she didn't seem the type to bring paparazzi to his door or to sell his number on eBay. He thinks of calling Jared up to ask for support, but he's filming a movie. Jensen knows that this could be awful, but it's rare that he's met someone whose first words to him had nothing to do with Days of Our Lives, Dark Angel or Supernatural. He picks up the phone and dials her number, ready to see her again.
When she answers, she's kind of breathless. He imagines any number of reasons why she ran to the phone, and she doesn't disappoint.
"Sorry. Was in the shower," she says with a sheepish laugh. He sighs a little longingly at the image that evokes before coughing slightly to cover.
"Listen, I really do want to take you to dinner, darlin'. You do eat, don't you?"
She laughs lightly. "Only on Wednesdays when there's a new moon, usually," she jokes confidentially, "but I suppose I could make an exception for you, Jensen."
"Glad to be the exception to your rule. How does steak sound?"
"Sounds like you read my mind." She stays on the line just enough longer to get directions to Chez Paul, where he’s conveniently taken care of the reservations for 9 pm.
Just before he hangs up, he asks her for her name. "For the maitre d’, so he can bring you to the table."
She snorts softly. "Jess Suethor."
i haven't repented yet. i've now fleshed it into a bigger story. not that it's any better, but it's giving my brain a break from real stuff, you know? nothing like self-inserting into
so here's part 1. it's not finished yet, but it'll be fun to finish.
He’s got a ball cap pulled down tight, the good ol’ boy curve shielding his eyes from anyone who could be trying to catch a glimpse of him. He’s so sick of the whole fame line that he’s been going out of his way not to get recognized. Not the beard or the scruff that usually shows up on hiatus. But he is hiding halfway across the world, with no entourage and no notice given. He’s just another American, traveling across Europe. He shifts lower in his seat, slouching to where his chiropractor would be having fits.
He’s been hearing her hum for some snatches of the trip, though, and he can’t help himself. He glances up, eyes shaded in the brim of his cap, to watch her. She’s got her iPod on, a notebook open in front of her, and she’s half turned away from him. He felt her tapping her feet along to the beat at one point before she realized how close she was to his pant leg and smiled a sheepish apology as she turned away. Sometimes he can catch what she’s humming, a few bars of something that sounds so familiar. She never keeps the melody long or loud enough for him to actually make it out for some time.
“… the baffled king composing Hallelujah…” she sings softly, and he sees a smile play around her lips as she drops the lyrics back to a soft hum. God, but it’s been forever since he heard that song! And she must be worth a little conversation if she can have that kind of taste. He pulls his sleeves down, and leans forward, tapping her briefly on her arm. She twitches, as if she’s forgotten he was even there, before she looks at him blankly.
“Do you have the time?”
Her stare remains blank before she removes one earbud. “Sorry?”
He thrills at the unaccented English for a moment. “The time. What time is it?” he repeats, smiling harmless and just out of reach.
She flips her wrist up and frowns. “Six thirty, ish. We should be in Paris in a few.” She tucks the earbud over her ear and turns back to her page, giving off the feel of incomplete dismissal. As if she's inviting him to continue talking, but doesn't really want to be bothered.
He pushes onward anyway. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He’s confident, sure he heard the unmistakable twang of a Midwesterner in there.
She shakes her head. “M’from the states. Kentucky, actually,” she mumbles, making a scribble before looking at him. "Don't suppose you're from here either."
He points to himself. “I’m a Texas boy, myself.”
She flashes him a grin. “How is it back home for y’all?”
He laughs and clasps a hand to his heart playfully. “Oh, say that again! Say ‘y’all’ again.”
She gives a quick bark of laughter and leans flirtatiously across the table. “How’s it for y’all back home, then, cowboy?” she asks, purposely drenching her voice in a Southern drawl. He laughs softly with her and follows it with a sigh. She blinks and blushes, turning her head away partly. "It's been awhile since I've been around anyone from home."
"How long's long?" he asks, annoyed that he's tripped up this early in their conversation.
"2 months?" her voice lilting the statement into a question. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, incredulous. "What?" she asks pseudo-indignantly. "It's about as long as I've ever been away. And it's not like I'm all that into the touristy social scene in Paris."
"It's nothing. I just work away from my family for longer times." Most of the year and only the holidays back in Texas, more often than not. Though it's not her business to know that after all. "Pretty girl like you not into the social scene, though? Paris is missing out on a treasure, letting you keep yourself tucked away."
She gives a little laugh and shrugs. "What can you do? Maybe I just hadn't found the right company yet." She gives him a cheeky smile before glancing out the window. "Though I can't say that just being here doesn't make up for it." She shakes her head and starts packing things away.
“If you aren’t here for the social scene,” Jensen asks, leaning forward on the table, “can I ask why you’re here? The nightlife here is most of the appeal of the city.”
She shrugs, looking too much like a native and he has to blink to keep her in perspective in his mind. “Why are you? Texas and Paris are complete opposites, I’m sure.”
“A friend told me Paris is beautiful. I had to see it for myself.” He doesn’t say that it was Jared Padalecki who said that about the city.
She makes a sound of agreement. “A girl I went to high school with said the same thing. I figure combining business with pleasure isn’t that big a deal.” The train pulls into the station and she stands. He lets his eyes travel the length of her-- the clingy blouse, the pencil skirt accentuating long legs made even longer by the skyscraper heels she's wearing. He feels guilty as he looks up, knowing that his open perusal of her could be considered sexual harrassment. She doesn't seem to notice or care, and several other men seem to be making the same appraisal of her. Suddenly, Jensen has to see her again.
"Meet me for dinner." She laughs lightly at the invitation. He continues anyway, reaching for, but not grabbing, her hand. "I miss American company. And I couldn't deprive Paris of you for an evening."
She gives him a cheeky grin. "How do I know you're not a stalker? Or that I'm not one?"
He finally takes her hand in a firm shake. "Guess we'll just have to trust each other. Like this," he says, snagging pen and paper from her and writing down the address of his hotel, his cell number and his birthday. "Call me in an hour or so and we'll decide where we want to go."
The train's emptying quickly as he hands her pen and the slip of paper back to her. She smirks and pockets it in her bag, snagging his hand, scribbling her number in his palm. "How about you call me, darlin?" She walks away before he has a chance to reply
As she walks away, he follows slowly behind, eyes unashamedly on the sway of her hips. "I'm Jensen. What's your name, darlin?" he calls after her, but never gets more than a grin as she looks back over her shoulder.
He makes it one hour before he picks up his phone to call her, despite how desperate it would make him look. He takes another hour just to tell himself that this is a good idea. That she didn't seem the type to bring paparazzi to his door or to sell his number on eBay. He thinks of calling Jared up to ask for support, but he's filming a movie. Jensen knows that this could be awful, but it's rare that he's met someone whose first words to him had nothing to do with Days of Our Lives, Dark Angel or Supernatural. He picks up the phone and dials her number, ready to see her again.
When she answers, she's kind of breathless. He imagines any number of reasons why she ran to the phone, and she doesn't disappoint.
"Sorry. Was in the shower," she says with a sheepish laugh. He sighs a little longingly at the image that evokes before coughing slightly to cover.
"Listen, I really do want to take you to dinner, darlin'. You do eat, don't you?"
She laughs lightly. "Only on Wednesdays when there's a new moon, usually," she jokes confidentially, "but I suppose I could make an exception for you, Jensen."
"Glad to be the exception to your rule. How does steak sound?"
"Sounds like you read my mind." She stays on the line just enough longer to get directions to Chez Paul, where he’s conveniently taken care of the reservations for 9 pm.
Just before he hangs up, he asks her for her name. "For the maitre d’, so he can bring you to the table."
She snorts softly. "Jess Suethor."
