DorkFish 3- Alls Fair in True Love and War

Tell Him Your Heart...Bring Him Home...Keep Him Safe

Monday, January 16th
12:17 P.M.
ROME

For the first time in more than two decades, snow was falling in the capital city of Italy.

They were probably alive the last time this happened, the man in black mused, watching the fat, pristine flakes race to the ground as if they were as hurried as the frustrated populace they fell upon. Chaos clogged the streets in a gridlocked crush of blaring horns and hurled insults, and he stalked faster down the sidewalk, taking sullen pleasure in his ability to outpace the cars idling alongside him.

Wise choice, leaving the Maserati back at the office, he noted, his annoyance began to temper. Walking had seemed fitting for the pilgrimage, but now that the whole goddamn city was a parking lot he was especially grateful for that decision. At last, he reached his destination and he strode through the rusting iron gates with purpose, more than ready to leave the melee behind him.

The thickening blanket of snow obscured the gravel path, where so many had walked this hallowed ground before him. The foot-worn trail still made itself manifest. He forged his way through the white-capped stones and towering hemlocks, their branches drooping with the weight of their icy burden. Every soldiering step brought him deeper within the boundaries of this sacred place, soon the showering snow muffled out the noise of the maddening crowd beyond the ancient rock walls.

He found the site without issue, following the caretaker's directions to the hilled clearing in the thick trees. Approaching the stop with the hesitant steps one reserves for visiting the dead, he read the two names etched side-by-side in the single granite stone before stopping at their feet.

The wind picked up, seeming to acknowledge his presence. He held ground against the face-numbing cold, unable to shake the feeling it was appraising him, the newcomer dressed head-to-toe in black Fioravanti, a dark silent shadow in a field of whirling white.

When the gust died down, he knew he'd passed muster, despite the heavy wet snow falling in a constant hiss around him, he removed his fedora to make a proper introduction.

"My name," he began with formal ceremony, "is Jensen Ross Ackles. I am the only son of Alan Ackles of Scotland and Donna Ferrisi of Sicily. As the chosen successor to Mark Pellegrino, I am the boss of Midtown City, and I am your son's husband."

‘Even though we haven't spoken in weeks,’ Jensen frowned as he bent to lay his modest offering at the base of the Winchester's headstone, the two red roses burst like bloodstains on the stark white snow.

He cleared his throat. Today marked the twenty-first anniversary of Jared's parent's deaths, Jensen had come here to pay his respects to them, to thank them for giving their lives to protect their only child. Now that he was here, however, it seemed there was no way to express that sentiment without it sounding self-serving and arrogant. They hadn't done it for his benefit, of course. They'd done it for Jared's, to save him from sharing this same plot of earth right along with them.

‘While that remains your theory,’ he reminded himself, ‘your husband certainly thinks there's much more to it than that.’

"Jared's convinced it was your intention to keep him out of this life you and I both know so well," Jensen found himself saying out loud. "If indeed that's the case, then I humbly ask your forgiveness."

"But I'd be willing to wager you understand the situation in which he put both of us that day," he said. "After those three days we spent together, I made him the only offer I could. While our arrangement has worked out remarkably well for all parties involved, he's become much more to me than I ever dreamed, and I hope you're as proud of him as I am."

Jensen's expression darkened.

‘No. Not for all parties involved. Not by a long shot.’

"But where our partnership seems to be the work of divine providence, our marriage is the devil's playground," he grumbled, the mere utterance of the words ignited something in his chest. It felt good to get it out there, another rust of cold wind – gentler this time – seemed to encourage him to continue.

"He's still not speaking to me, after what I said to him," he explained. "And yes, I realize I fucked up. But I just don't understand this outrageous fury."

"We're talking about someone who flat-out refused to come stay here with me in Rome, even though he's the same boy who cried in my arms while we were making love on my desk. I've added his name to every asset I own out of love just as much as necessity, but he's expressed no interest whatsoever in putting his into the trust with mine. I asked him to move in with me in Midtown, even offering up Sheridan East as a place he could raise his beloved horses, and he practically went cataleptic on me. I recently found out he was a carrier, I don't want children; I never have. I want our children – there's a difference – but he made it clear he's not having that conversation with me anytime soon.

"So, what did he expect me to say, then, when he asked me who he is to me? Christ, it's always one step forward, two steps back with this man. I called Misha, my second, we thought it best to give him a week to calm down before I try to open the airwaves with him again. While that made sense to me at the time, I wonder if it made matters worse because something... happened that week."

Jensen's sudden shudder had nothing to do with the bone-chilling blast of wind that came roaring over the graveyard. "I still can't explain it, but I've accepted the fact that I can feel him. Thousands of miles across the goddamn globe and I can sense his emotions when they're at their strongest. It's only happened three times, but this last one, a week to the day after I left him to come back here..."

He'd never forget that hideous feeling of emptiness as long as he lived.

"I must have called him a dozen times that Sunday and left the same number of voicemails over the course of the following week. Nothing. Misha suffered the brunt of my frustration; although he assured me time and again he was fine, I threatened to lay him out and escort him to Rome personally if he wasn't on the line with me inside of an hour."

Jensen sighed. "He called. At the fifty-ninth minute, of course, but he called. He sounded so tired. So tired. Still so goddamn angry, I was lucky to get a sentence longer than five words out of him."

"I asked him what was wrong, what the hell I'd felt from him this time, and he told me he's having nightmares. About you. How the two of you died. Because of me and my plans to uncover any potential threats to him that may still linger here.

"So, I told him I would leave off my research if it was causing him such emotional trauma. But I made it clear that if I did, he'd never be able to come here on any kind of permanent basis.

"That didn't seem to faze him in the slightest."

Jensen felt the words tear through him like a lead shot as he ran a hand through his snow-covered hair. "What that means is he has no interest in running Refugio Italia as my right hand. What that means is he has no intention of coming to stay here, however long this CR Roma deal may take to close out. What this means, ultimately, is he doesn't want a real marriage with me, while I prepared myself as much as possible for this contingency, I can't fucking believe how much it hurts."

He hadn't realized he'd lowered his head until he felt the icy chill of snowflakes melting on the back of his neck, the frigid droplets sliding down his collar made him even angrier.

"I just don't get how it came to this," he fumed. "Our weekend was goddamn perfect up until the last thirty seconds of it, with the exception of that three-minute phone call, we haven't spoken since. I -"

A whiff of cigarette smoke floated on the winter wind, Jensen whirled around to see who had just joined him in the secluded grove of trees ringing the Winchester's plot.

Not a soul in sight.

But still, the scent grew stronger, wreathing itself around him -

His hair stood on end when he detected a fresh, pleasant perfume beneath the earthy tang of tobacco.

“My mother,” Jared had told him on St. John. “I remember the sweet scent of her lavender... we literally bathed in it nightly during our bedtime bath. As for my father...to this day I find the smell of cigarette smoke in the ice cold of winter comforting...”

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

Jensen closed his eyes as the wind strengthened, the scents intensified until he swore they must be standing right in front of him. The words... he never heard them. He just felt them, felt them appear in a place inside him where nothing had been before.

“Three things for you, Jensen Ross Ackles, boss of Midtown City, husband to our only son.

Tell him your heart.

Bring him home.

Keep him as safe, as best as you can.”

The gust dropped, taking the haunting fragrances along with it, when Jensen opened his eyes again, the red roses lay at the tips of his black Ferragamos.

Words he hadn't uttered since he was a child escaped his lips.

"Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte, Amen."

Recovering, he snapped back into action, bending to return the flowers to the base of the headstone.

"Thank you," Jensen murmured as he replaced his small offering to them. He stood to take his last look, but when he donned his fedora to leave, an idea came to him.

He reached into his pocket for his iPhone, even though it took a few tries, he managed to get his unsteady fingers to take a decent picture of John and Mary's grave.

"Thank you," he repeated with a reverent bow, then left them to their rest in the swirling snow.

****

Thursday
7:09 P.M.
Midtown City

"Don't peek, Jared."

"Misha, you've had me blindfolded since the elevator! I'm not peeking!"

He was right. It was Misha's third reminder to him in twenty seconds, Misha smiled at the sound of his pretty laughter.

He unlocked the door to Jared's apartment and paused to search his expression. On the walk down the hall he'd only dared to take him by the elbow to guide him home, but now, with him looking so happy, so excited to see Misha's Christmas present for him...

Emboldened, Misha took him by the hands to lead him inside. Misha watched with increasing elation as Jared's face glowed warmer. His long, slim fingers curled over his, allowing himself a split second to close his eyes in bliss.

Whether Jared realized it or not, it was the first time Misha had touched him since The Incident.

‘No,’ Misha snapped. ‘I refuse to waste this moment dwelling on those dark times.’

Like how many voicemails he'd left Jared during that week he'd holed himself up in Jensen's house.

How he had looked when Misha went to visit him the night he finally came home.

The way he had eyed him the whole time they were alone.

Fences began mending, though, two days later, once Jensen issued his ultimatum for the silent treatment he'd been giving him. Misha had been across town when he'd gotten the call from the boss, by the time he had reached Jared, damn little of that allotted hour remained to plan what the hell he would tell his exasperated husband. Jared had come up with the story of the nightmares on his own just to explain his absence and his distance, but it ended up doing much, much more than that.

Jared had gotten himself out of ever going to stay in Rome with him.

Misha had been so proud and Jared's smile that day was the first real one he'd given Misha in weeks.

Regardless of that small win, however, Jared told him that he wasn't coming to Origami River anymore except for Saturday morning practice with the rest of the roster.

He'd said the noise of the gunfire posed too much of a risk to the baby's developing ears, insisted he didn't need so much training after all the progress he had made. Although his targets proved him right week after week, Misha knew he'd done it to end their daily road trips in the Charger and limit time alone at the range.

Without a reason to see each other every day anymore, they'd started eating their dinners separately, too. Out went their nightcaps, along with Misha's security sweeps of his apartment. He would go a week without seeing Jared – except, of course, when he watched him leave for work every morning via the surveillance monitors installed on the wall of his apartment.

Misha thus had occasion to notice that the casual trousers in Jared's career wardrobe were riding a bit higher on his legs, and he was in equal parts worried and glad to see it. They not only showed that he would soon need better fitting clothes, but also revealed he no longer wore a certain bracelet around his ankle.

As Jared's pregnancy progressed, his clothing options dwindled. Purchasing new clothes meant broadcasting to the Regional, Refugio, the Syndicate, the whole damn City that he was expecting, precipitating his obstinate refusal to acquire more accommodating provisions until absolutely necessary. Jared had made tightening waistbands work with less-restricting shirts and sweaters that still looked trimly professional untucked, but soon enough that camouflaging tactic had stopped cutting it.

Misha had pulled him aside after his second Saturday practice and insisted on taking him shopping for an official paternity wardrobe. Jared had objected, of course, saying he intended to divulge his little secret to some trusted girlfriend at work and then hit the shops with her. Misha had sensed his stalling, but rather than call him on it, he had tried a different tactic by offering to use his credit card instead of Jared's.

"I know you want to put this off as long as you can, Jared," he had said. "You'd keep this baby all to yourself forever if you could. But you need to do this sooner rather than later, and it's safer this way. I mean, you realize Jensen's monitoring all of your finances, right?"

His little lie worked like magic, Jared had agreed after that line, with the caveat Misha let him repay him in small, husband-proof denominations of cash. He had accepted Jared's condition, for a few precious hours it was like old times with Jared beside him in his car, their conversations centered on a baby's bright future.

Even though Jared had stopped sharing any details of his pregnancy with him.

Misha knew he had had a doctor's appointment scheduled on the day he'd come back from Sheridan East. He knew because Jared had asked him before The Incident to go with him. But during that whole week he had been at Jensen's house, he had never once called to confirm the invite. Misha never brought it up, either – as a rule, he never brought up anything from that hellish week – and waited.

And waited some more, because that appointment came and went without a single update from Jared. So, he did the only thing he could do. While Jared kept him in the dark, he kept reading up on weekly baby development milestones, so he would know what Jared should be experiencing and what his doctor would be looking for on his next checkup – which would be the big one.

Jared's twenty-week survey, where the docs would examine the baby crown-to-toes via ultrasound for any anomalies, defects, and issues.

He waited two weeks for the invite that would never come.

When Jared didn’t leave for work on the morning of his latest doctor's visit, Misha had phoned him to check in. Jared told him that he had called out because he just wanted the day off, but his voice rang with such nervous agitation that he knew that he had taken the time away from his desk simply because he couldn't concentrate on anything else but the ultrasound. Misha had told him to call if he needed anything, but when it came time to hang up and he still hadn't extended an invitation, Misha swallowed the bitter pill and didn't say a word about his decision to go alone.

Instead, Misha went out and bought him a baby blanket. The second Jared came back from his visit, Misha marched over to his apartment, gave it to him and asked point-blank if everything was okay.

That was two weeks ago, it was the official resurrection of their relationship.

The look on Jared's face at that moment had made all the angst Misha had suffered worth it. He'd been so good, on his best behavior. Gauging Jared's moods and his needs, reading when to come to him and when to stay back. Never touching him. Never arguing with him. Giving him whatever he needed from him and nothing more.

While Jared told him the story of what it was like to see his tiny baby onscreen, to watch it move in real time, to see and hear that strong, healthy little heart beating like a hummingbird inside him, everything seemed to snap back into place.

"Seemed" wasn't enough for him, though. He had to know, once he'd finished his recount of the sonogram, Misha had gone out on a limb and brought up the long-avoided subject of converting his office into a nursery. When Jared just nodded and grabbed his calendar – without any objections, restrictions, or clarification – he knew for certain all of his handy work had paid off.

After making plans to work on it the following week, they'd spent all last Saturday together sketching, coming up with a theme, ruminating on paint colors, browsing the web for furnishings, and drafting a list of what he liked.

"So, when do we get to make out your registry?" he'd asked that night, letting Jared see the eager sparkle in his light blue eyes as he sipped at his glass of The Dalmore.

"WE?" Jared smiled at him over his steaming cup of chamomile. "Sorry, Misha, But I can't see you browsing the shelves of Babies ‘R’ Us with a bar code zapper."

"I don't know whether to feel insulted or relieved," Misha had said, then basked in the glory of Jared's answering laughter.

"Fine you can come," he had ceded. "You really were fabulous when we hit all those boutiques for maternity clothes, so if you'd like to help me with this project, too, you've earned your stripes."

After learning his lesson that the way to this man's heart was literally through his belly, Misha was back. They were back. Misha had supported him as best he could during his exile, now, at twenty-two weeks tomorrow on Christmas Day, Jared was right back where Misha needed him again. Trusting him, holding on to him now as he led him blind through the apartment, through his pregnancy, through his life, sharing it all with him again.

Misha took a deep breath.

If they could make it through that thick slice of hell, then they'd make it through his terrifying plan for Jared.

And for him.

That usurping son of a bitch who's had it coming to him for the last three years.

‘Jared couldn't have given me a better Christmas present,’ Misha thought as he brought Jared to stand in front of the gift he had gotten for him, Misha smiled in pure satisfaction.

Misha bent down to pull out the small oblong bench and then gently guided Jared to a seat, the supple leather giving a soft exhale beneath him.

"Okay, Strega," he said, placing his hands on Jared's shoulders. "Go ahead."

Jared reached up to remove the black silk tie Misha had employed as a blindfold, but he only got it so far as his forehead, leaving him looking like a wide-eyed Rambo as he gaped at the Kurzweil digital piano in front of him.

"Oh, Misha," he breathed, reaching out to touch it with hesitation as if the instrument might vaporize once his fingers made contact with the ebony frame. "You got me a CUP-2."

Misha slipped the black tie from Jared's head and wrung it anxiously in his hands. "I remember you'd once said that you'd like to start playing again. Like you used to when you were a little boy, with your mother."

"I can't believe you remembered that," he marveled. "God, I haven't touched a piano in years, not since I had access to one at Cornell."

"Do you like it?"

Jared stood and whirled so fast he'd have upset the bench if Misha weren't standing right behind it. "I love it," Jared gushed, then he grabbed Misha in a sudden bear hug. "Thank you."

Moved, Misha pressed a chaste kiss on the crown of his auburn head. "My pleasure," he murmured into Jared's hair, then he released him before his imagination could entertain other, more pleasurable ideas.

"Here," Misha added, as he reached down to hand him a small basket on the floor beside the piano. "I went ahead and picked up some sheet music for you. I know it's been a while since you played, plus we've got a little guy on the way who'll want to learn someday, too."

Speechless, Jared rifled through the basket to find some of his favorites – Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Coldplay, John Lennon, and his beloved Nina – interspersed among several children's practice books, namely Mary Had a Little Lamb, Ode to Joy, Fur Elise, and Pachelbel's Canon in C.

"Merry Christmas, Bella Strega," Misha said, he gladly accepted another hug from Jared, grateful for another chance to rock the man he loved in his arms, to hold him close enough that his swelling belly nestled up against his hips.

A sharp knock on the door made them both jump.

The second-in-command of Midtown City's most powerful crime Syndicate seized his boss' pregnant husband by the arms and pushed him away from him until he could see his face.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Misha demanded.

Jared shook his head, his muscles tensing beneath Misha's fingers.

"Did he mention any surprises?"

Jared shook his head again, his increasing anxiety making his body clench tighter.

"Did he so much as hint that he might show up here, Jared?"

"No, Misha," he whispered, now trembling visibly. "What are we -"

Another insistent pound on his door.

"Get behind me," he ordered, in one smooth motion he turned from Jared and cleared his Para-Ordnance from its holster.

"NO!" Jared gasped, "I won't let you kill him!"

"Oh, yes you will!" Misha growled back. "You'll see how fast your tune changes when he draws on one of us first. Now I said get behind me, meaning right fucking now."

"No!" Jared hissed. "He might be a cheating son of a bitch, but I don't want him dead!"

‘Because you're still in love with him!’ Misha nearly shouted, yet somehow, he managed to keep his furious counsel.

"Fine," Misha snapped, he holstered the pistol, so Jared could see him do it before he turned away from him again. Misha reached back to take his hand in his, pulled him in close behind him, together they crept toward the door.

When they got close enough he jerked his head in the direction of the entry.

"Say something," Misha mouthed to him.

Jared swallowed. "Hello?" he called "Who is it?"

"It's Noel, Mr. Padalecki," came the muffled reply.

"Thank fucking Christ," he breathed, Misha watched the tension melt from Jared's limbs as he moved around him to open the door.

"Hi Noel," Jared said in greeting to the affable gent who ran his building's concierge desk during the night shift. "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you."

"To you as well," Noel smiled, he acknowledged Misha with a polite nod. "FedEx just brought in the last delivery and the mother lode included something for you. I just need your signature here."

"Thanks for bringing it up, Noel, I appreciate it," Jared grinned as he signed off on his sheet, then traded him for the letter-sized package he held. "How many more do you have to deliver?"

"About another twenty," he chuckled. "All Amazon and Apple and L.L. Bean for those last-minute presents. Yours is the only one that looks even remotely business related."

Jared glanced at the return address on the envelope and grit his teeth to keep the smile plastered to his face. "Quite. Well, Noel, I'll let you get back to it. Thanks again."

"My pleasure, Mr. Padalecki," he replied. "Have a great night."

"You too," Jared replied and leaned his back against the closed door.

Misha knew the answer before he asked the question. "Is that from him?"

Jared nodded, he saw the envelope begin to tremble in Jared's shaking fingers.

"It could be worse, Jared. Count your blessings it's not the man himself."

"Like he cares enough to leave his precious fucking deal for me," he spat. "We should have known better than to work ourselves up for nothing."

Misha couldn't take his eyes off him. Despite the bitter anger in Jared's voice, his face was crumbling as he stared at the package in his hands.

"What's the matter, then?" Misha demanded.

Jared looked at him then, pain etched into his features.

"What the hell else would he send me in a FedEx flat, Misha?" he said. "He wants a divorce for Christmas."

"And divest himself of his most lucrative acquisition to date? You'll never get off that easy." He scoffed. "But even if he were to serve you papers, you said you wanted to run from him at your first opportunity. Wouldn't a divorce be the ideal solution to your problem? It's just what you wanted, handed over to you on a silver platter."

"I never said running was what I wanted!" he snapped. "You know damn well all I ever wanted was him. But the whole time I sat here fantasizing about a real marriage to him, while I dreamed of telling him the news of our baby, he was heating up the sheets with women and other men. And now this? Now that I've done my job for him, he wants a divorce? Just toss me aside like so much trash now that he's done with me? It's an insult to injury!"

Misha rolled his eyes. "Come on, Strega. Stop torturing yourself and open the goddamn thing."

Taking a deep breath, Jared tore the pull string along the length of the package and retrieved a small white envelope from its depths, his name written in a bold familiar hand across the front.

"Well then," Jared said for talking's sake, trying to restore his calm as he slid a quaking finger beneath the flap, "at least it's not divorce papers."

The opened rectangular aperture revealed the tops of snow-covered trees, evidence of the wintery Christmas card within. He pulled it out -

And couldn't process the battery of emotions that broadsided him.

Ignoring them all, he opened the card. A smaller envelope fell to the floor at his feet, but he disregarded it in favor of the handwritten novel on the thick paper he held in his hands.

Winchester,

You may not remember telling me about this,
but your mother was the inspiration behind
my gift to you. While you know it's not my
particular cup of tea, on my honor I will be
there to share it with you, and I look forward
to an enlightening experience.
I expect you'll have a mixed reaction upon
receipt of this unorthodox holiday card, as
would I, if I were in your shoes. I will
explain in full detail when the situation
warrants it, but trust me when I tell you that
when I paid my respects to your parents on
Monday, I learned beyond the shadow of a
doubt that they miss you as much as I do.

Please, Carissima, reconsider my research into
your past so that you can come home to your
future. To Italy. To me. They want it for
you, I want for us, and I hope you're
invested enough in our marriage that you'll
at least entertain rethinking your decision.

Since Christmas already came for me in July
this year, Mr. Ackles, that's all I ask of
you.

Yours always
J

Already teetering on the edge of emotional overload, Jared snatched up the smaller rectangular envelope from the floor and opened it to find two tickets.

La Traviata at the Met.

Saturday, May 1st, 8:00 p.m., Parterre Box 29, seats 1 and 2.

Last performance of the season, best seats in the goddamn house.

Twenty days after his due date.

The picture, the message, the gift... Jared didn't know where to begin tackling the implications and ramifications of it all. He closed his eyes and thudded the back of his head against the door...

Only to have the overwhelming memory of another time he'd been up against this door send him sinking down to the floor.

"I can't handle this," he whispered, at the complete and utter loss.

Misha was standing over him in an instant. "Give it to me," he ordered.

Jared handed the card and its contents up to him.

Eyeing him like a hawk for his reaction, he watched his forehead crease in confusion as he merely glanced at the picture of the cemetery on the front, then he swore he saw sweat break out across Misha's brow as he read the missive inside.

The furrow in his forehead deepened. "What the hell is he talking about?" he murmured, when he flipped to the picture on the front again he paled, recognizing the headstone now for what it was. He went back to reading his husband's epistle, by the time he reached the end he'd turned his own unearthly shade of white.

He took an obligatory peek at the tickets, handed it all back to Jared with dismissive efficiently and then sank down beside him.

"Talk to me, Strega," he said into the grave silence that followed.

Jared wiped his hands down his face. "I don't even know where to start."

"Do it anyway."

Jared gave up trying to sort through his emotional detritus and just started from the beginning. "I'm touched he went to visit my parents, Misha. He must have remembered what I told him in St. John, that they were killed on the Solstice. Twenty-one years ago, Monday. He was there for the anniversary, and I guess he wants me to know that. Why, I don't know, but it's pretty goddamn macabre to put a photo of it on a Christmas card.

"And what the fuck is he talking about, they miss me as much as he does? I don't know which concept is the bigger shocker, them or him."

"Please, Jared," Misha interjected. "He obviously misses you – he wants his business partner back."

"Partner," he scoffed. "If that's all I've ever been to him, what's with the last two paragraphs? That's what I don't get. Why does he go out of his way to make me feel like I'm so much more to him than that? Dammit, he hates the opera! But I told him in St. John La Traviata was my mother's favorite and he remembered that. I told him in December it's the only opera I actually like, and he got us tickets to go. And not just tickets, but tickets. These are incredible."

"Pocket change," Misha sneered. "They probably set him back fifteen hundred bucks but that's nothing for guys likes us."

"But that's the point!" Jared cried. "Don't you get it? This is a fucking date. Us, Lincoln Center, in full view of Midtown's Who's Who. This would be our first public appearance together as a couple. Is he nuts? Does he want the world to figure us out? If Murray finds out we're married, the Syndicate loses its propagandist. But he doesn't seem to care about that anymore. What he seems to care about is us.

"All he wants to know is there are no lingering threats in Italy to the Last Winchester, so I can come out there to Rome to be with him. The Jensen I first met would have done the research without regard to my wishes, but the Jensen I'm married to is asking me for my permission. He's already told me that he wants me to run the Italian arm of Refugio with him if this CR Roma merger pushes through. The Jensen that kidnapped me in July would have ordered me to take the office, but the Jensen I fell in love with is leaving the decision to me."

Jared sighed as he stared at the photo of his parents' snow-covered grave. "You know, he's always said I'm wrong about my parents. He says they saved me because they wanted to save me, not necessarily because they wanted to keep me out of the mob. I don't know how he knows it, but he said my parents want this for me. He said he wants this for us. Not him. Us. Honestly, I'm not sure what I want as far as my place in Syndicate goes. But he's not asking me to make the decision now. He's only asking me if I'm 'invested enough in our marriage' to let him get the answers he needs so we can at least be together in the interim.

"Christmas in July, that's what he called me in this letter. Mr. Ackles, that’s what he's started to call me. I've never told you, but he dropped that title on me three times while we were together in December. That's why I almost told him about the baby in the Bentley. That's why it hurt me so much when he called me his partner when he left me. That's why the Danneel Harris affair hit me so hard. That's why finding his stash of bracelets fucking destroyed me.

"So, what am I supposed to do with this, Misha? You know him better than anyone else does; you tell me if this is the proof I've been waiting for. I know what he's done behind my back. I know he has women and other men. But it sounds to me like I'm the one he wants. It sounds -"

"Jared, stop!" Misha barked. "Are you listening to yourself? The last time I checked, you were looking for ways to disappear off the face of this planet so you'd never have to see the cheating bastard again. So you could keep yourself and the baby safe from his far-reaching influence. What are you gonna do if he does finish the research into your past and gives you the green light to go out there? Show up on his doorstep at six months' pregnant and hope for a goddamn pardon? Have you lost your mind?"

"My parents didn't run," Jared retorted. "They didn't want that kind of life for their child and neither do I."

"I don't think you realize you don't have much of a choice anymore!"

"Oh really? This coming from the same guy who told me running was a horrible idea? No. I don't have to run, because I've got a better way to beat him. Because if I'm wrong and he tries to hurt me or my baby, I'll turn State's evidence. I swear I'll take down his whole fucking show."

"The hell you will." Misha was glad he had his arms crossed so Jared couldn't see his hands balling into fists under his clenching biceps. "You'd be selfish enough take the rest of us down with you? Me? Ben? Welling? Mulligan? Calvert? Linburg? What about Moh? And do you really think Murray would escape the nuclear fallout? No, Jared, and don't you ever fucking forget it. But you know what? None of this matter anyway. It will never get that far, I can promise you."

"How can you promise anything?" Jared demanded. "Who are you to -"

"Because I know what will happen to you," he answered, his voice dead calm. "If you go to him now after what you've been keeping from him...honey, you won't make it back to the States to turn yourself over as evidence."

Misha watched Jared's mouth drop open. "Yeah, exactly. Now that I have your full attention, let me tell you precisely what's going on here, Jared. You two haven't spoken in weeks. He knows you're still pissed about what he said to you. He's going to lay it on thick because he's trying to start over with you, but not for the reason you think. He's looking to build an empire in your father's city; you think the name Winchester won't bring him instant street cred? But it won't do him any good if you're dead, so he needs to make sure there aren't any henchmen waiting for you in the shadows.

"You said it yourself, Bella. You know he has other men and women. What does he need you for, then, except PR? It's why he married you, isn’t it? Why do you think he's taking you to the opera? Why not capitalize on the stunt he pulled at Pileggi's ball? Why not project the image that you two may be romantically involved? It means you can kiss your job at the Regional good-bye, but he doesn't care. What he cares about is a new piece of propaganda. Can't you just see the headline now? Pulitzer Prize Nominee Jared T. Padalecki Ends Lifetime Crusade Against Organized Crime Because He's Fucking Alleged Syndicate Boss Jensen R. Ackles. Pretty good, if you ask me."

A tear slid down Jared's cheek. "You think that's all this is?"

Misha shifted to face him so that he could wipe the droplet away with his thumb. "Like I told you before in November, Jared. Never underestimate the man we work for."

"So, what do I do?"

"You know what to do. You tell him the nightmares are back and they're worse. You tell him he can't dig into your past so you have to stay here. And then we go on with our plan. I'm still working on how to make us disappear, but like I said, it's going to take time for me to do it right. The more I look into it, the more I think it's going to have to wait until after we have the baby."

Jared nodded, heartbreak written across his beautiful face.

"Strega," Misha whispered as he placed his hand on Jared's belly. "I know how badly you've wanted to tell him you're carrying his baby. I know how deeply you've loved him. I know how you've hoped for proof that he loves you in return, but instead, you learn time and again how expertly he's played you. I know your heart's broken and you want to end this on your terms, but you've never wanted revenge. You're a nobler soul than I am, Jared, which is exactly why you won't turn yourself over to the Feds. You just want to cut your losses, without causing any more damage to yourself or anyone else around you.

"And yes, I know running from him was your idea and I fought you on it, but over the last six weeks, I've come to realize you're right. We've backed ourselves into this corner and there really isn't another viable option. But don't think of it as running, Bella. Think of it as a fresh start, for both of us."

"Misha," Jared shook his head, another tear racing down his cheek. "I can't -"

"My brave Bella," he murmured as he moved his other hand to rest on the small of Jared's back so that he now supported his swollen womb between both his strong hands. "I know I'm not the one you want beside you. I know you're tired of this game. I know you're scared -"

"Scared?" he said. "Misha, I’m terrified."

"I know, sweetheart," Misha soothed. "Believe me, I know. But I'll make sure we have the means to get somewhere safe. I can't promise where or what kind of a life it will be, but I know we'll make the most of it. I just need you to take heart and trust me, for only a few more months. Can you do that for me, Strega? For all three of us?"

Jared opened his mouth to answer when movement under Misha's palm made them both gasp.

"Oh My God!" Jared cried, his eyes sparkling like diamonds in the sunshine. "Did you feel that?"

"Holy shit, yes." His face split in an elated grin. "Holy fucking shit, yes!"

Jared pressed his hands atop of Misha's. "She must know the sound of your voice, Misha. Doc told me I'd be able to feel her soon, that she'd start reacting to the things she's hearing, seeing, and tasting in there, now she knows the sound of your voice!"

"She?" Misha raised an eyebrow.

Jared rolled his eyes. "You know I've decided not to find out the sex. But calling her a "she" - or a "he" since you're so damn sure I'm having a boy - is much nicer than calling her an "it". Don't you think?"

He laughed and addressed Jared's stomach directly. "Don't listen to him, baby. I really don't care which one you are; I just want you to move for me again."

They waited together for a breathless second, their heartbeats seeming to suspend.

"Come on, baby," Misha murmured, giving Jared's bump a slow, swirling rub of affection, they both smiled like fools at each other when they felt another flutter against his hand.

"God, this is incredible," Misha breathed, triggering a third lusty quiver.

"See? It happens when you talk quietly like that. She's moving for you."

"I like to think he's moving for us, but thank you, Strega. For giving this to me."

Jared's maternal glow dimmed at his words like sunlight eclipsing behind a cloud, Misha watched a haunting sadness fill his eyes as he looked at him.

"Misha," Jared said, that hazel gaze of his seemed to search his very soul. "Why aren't you seeing anyone? Why are you wasting your time here with me?"

Misha worked to keep the emotion off his face. "Time spent with you is never wasted, Jared," he reminded him in a reverent whisper. "But I know what you're really asking me, and yes, Jared. Someday I will have a lovely wife or husband, and I will give him or her a child of my own.

"Until then, though," he winked, giving Jared two playful pats on both his belly and the small of his back, "I literally have my hands full."