And then, there's a bearded fetus.

Title: Face the Stars
Rating: R
Authors: nilchance and beanside
Disclaimer: Never happened. Fiction.
A/N: Many thanks to the awesome topaz119 for: 1. her awesome beta skills, and 2. for not only betaing, but pulling the characterization up to a new level. This follows after the snippet on nilchance's journal: Counting the Signs



Alaska, to put it mildly, sucked. Christian looked at the pile of papers on his desk, then up at the young man before him. "Yes, Masa?"

"Your next appointment is here, Mr. Kane." The boy didn't bother to make his tone at all conciliatory. Honorably discharged from the Japanese Air Self Defense Force due to a broken wrist that hadn't set well, he'd been appointed as Jeff's liaison to the military. He wasn't particularly thrilled with the appointment.

"Which one is next?" Christian asked, giving up on finding his schedule in the sea of papers his life had become. Tom had quickly hired him on at the Agency as a "consultant," which didn't seem to be anything more than dealing with all the shit paperwork and intel Tom didn't want to touch. Add to that was the background checks for their security and Jeff's staff and it was a nightmare.

"The political advisor," Masa murmured. "A Mr. Murray."

"Oh. Send him in, I guess."

The young blond who walked in--well, more like strutted in, Christian amended--set his hackles on end. "Nice to meet you," he said politely, offering his hand.

"Yeah, charmed, I'm sure," Murray muttered, ignoring it in favor of slumping into one of the leather chairs.

"Okay," Christian said, eyes narrowed.

"Look. You've got my resume. I'm the best in the business. I got my bachelors from Toronto U, my masters from Harvard at Melbourne, and my doctorate at Oxford. Youngest graduate in forty years. You're not hiring me for my sterling personality, you're hiring someone who can get the job done."

"And you can?" Christian looked skeptically at the scruffy young man in the battered leather jacket and jeans.

"I can."

"You know that if you take this job, you're putting your name on a death warrant." Christian decided that he kind of hated the little bastard.

"I know. But I also know that when President Dean is reinstated, the ones who made it happen will go down in history. I want that, and I can make it happen."

The sad thing, Christian thought, was that the little shit was right. He really was the best. And more, he had the kind of contacts Jeff would need. "Fine. Go meet with President Dean. If he agrees, you've got the job, Mr. Murray."

"That's Doctor Murray." he said cockily. "But hey, you can call me Chad." He wandered out, smirking at Kane's obvious annoyance.

"How 'bout I call you assmunch?" Christian muttered.

Without slowing down, Chad glanced back. "No thanks, I prefer pussy."

And then the little bastard was gone. Christian considered calling Jeff to warn him about what was coming at him, but sheer entertainment value made him put the phone down. Jeff could use some good old fashioned aggravation.

Masa stuck his head back in. "Your next appointment is at security. He should be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you."

"Sir, can I ask you a question?" Without waiting for Christian to reply, Masa plowed forward. "Why are you only showing the president's speech on allied channels? Why not beam it directly into the US?"

"We'd love to, but they've got a secure system. We've had our tech guy working on it, but he says it's got some level of encryption that is almost uncrackable. The backdoor that the programmers left open was shut down long ago. We just can't get access."

"I could."

"What?" Christian leaned forward. "How?"

Masa smiled. "They might call it the Seraph network, but it's still carried on old Prometheus satellites. My father was one of the designers. He left a hardware back door, a frequency that the Prometheus will always accept. It was his little joke."

"I love your father right now, Masa. How long would it take for you to get in?"

"I just need a transmitter, sir."

"Call me Kane. Don't suppose you'd be interested in a new job?"

"I could possibly be persuaded, Kane, sir. I was actually born in the United States, you know. My family saw the writing on the wall, and left just before the Asian Registry was enacted."

"I see. Any other talent I should know about?"

"I can fly anything that takes to the air," Masa said, beaming.

"Oh, you'll do." A few minutes later, their new tech-geek and pilot of Air Force One headed off to begin beaming Jeff's speech onto American televisions--and to request a new secretary for Christian.

"Hey, Chris, you got a minute?" Jared ducked his head in.

Jared. Yeah. Speaking of complications. They had stayed for years in comfortable, professional distance; Christian had been the director of the Agency, and that had permeated every layer of their interaction. Even when Christian had spent hours with Jeff getting Jared through the bad nights, trying to talk him down, there had been a layer of separation. Even when Christian was shot and Jeff wouldn't leave the hospital room, because he was a sentimental idiot and it wasn't like Christian hadn't told him twenty million times he'd take a bullet for him before the opportunity came up, Jared had been an agent first, a friend second.

Now Jared was Jeff's husband, the First Husband, and Christian wasn't his director anymore. Worse, Jared had seen Christian with Jensen, too vulnerable, too naked. This new ground was shaky. Christian didn't like it.

"Sure," he said, moving files from his seat to his desk. His ribs twinged, and it must've shown on his face, because suddenly Jared was there taking the files from his hands. Christian stepped back, bemused, and watched Jared. "Um. Thanks. I've got an appointment, but since it's for your bodyguards, you're welcome to sit in."

"Cool." Sitting on the edge of the seat, Jared folded his hands in his lap. He fairly vibrated, the way he did when he was about to blurt out a theory or a brilliant question. "I was wondering... couldyoutellmeaboutMorgan?"

"What?" Christian tried to puzzle out the rush of words, doubly glad he had skipped the painkillers Dr. Feelgood McCoy had shoved at him this morning. He didn't need the fog. "What about Morgan?"

With a sigh, Jared repeated, "Could you tell me more about Jeff's grandmother? Please?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he should've known Jared would do this.

"What do you want to know?" Lowering himself into a chair, Christian said, "I mean, that covers a lot of ground."

"I don't know!" Jared raked his hand through his hair. "I just... there's so much that I don't get. I'm left out of this giant part of Jeff's life. It feels like there's this ghost in the middle of the room, and it feels like she's still pulling everyone's strings, steering so much of what's going on, and Jensen won't tell me, and Jeff can't tell me, and they both told me to talk to you--"

"Breathe," Christian reminded him. He had expected as much from Jensen, but Jeff? Traitorous bastard. "Okay. You're right."

"I'm right?"

"You deserve to know. I'll tell you what I can." After getting drunk. Thoroughly, riotously drunk. Maybe then he could say Nikki's name without choking on it. "Sometime tonight."

Jaw setting a little, Jared warned, "Don't try to dodge me."

Christian laughed, a sharpness to the sound that made Jared sit up straighter. "I'm not doing this at work, Jared. Do you think for one goddamn second that I want to talk about fourteen years on my knees, let alone here? It'll wait until tonight."

Jared looked at him, head tipped to the side, considering. It was too soft a look; Christian didn't want it, but that didn't stop Jared from giving it to him. Same goddamn softness that got Jared caught in US custody, same softness that had kept him bringing slaves across the border.

The same softness that meant Christian's little brother had been curled up on Jared's lap and sleeping when Christian wasn't sure Jensen could ever trust any of them again.

"You weren't ever rehabbed," Jared said. "Were you?"

Christian waved him off and grabbed the first file off his desk. "I've already picked a few candidates. Gina Torres you know, and Sam Feldman. Carlson. But Zoe's out of the country, so we had to recruit a few spares to interview."

"Nice segue," Jared said. "I guess you didn't have time to sit down with a therapist. Were you like Jensen?"

"Fuck off, Padalecki. I'm not telling you twice." Fllipping open the file, Christian turned it around so Jared could see. "Or is it Dean? You keeping your maiden name?"

Rolling his eyes, Jared said, "Yeah, I'm striking against the patriarchy. I'll let it drop for now. Who's the candidate?"

Someone in the doorway cleared his throat.

In retrospect, Christian wasn't sure which of them cleared leather first, but suddenly the long lean man in the door of Christian's makeshift office was staring down two gun barrels. To his credit, the man didn't look put off by it, just amused.

Then again, that wasn't so much a credit as a sign that the guy needed a good ass-kicking.

"Hi," the man said. His voice was like a few miles of bad road, whiskey and smoke. Good bodyguard voice; Christian had known agents to fake that kind of badass growl, particularly the ones with something to prove. "Are you Christian Kane?"

Grudgingly, Christian lowered his weapon. Jared followed his lead, glancing over to be sure of what Christian was doing; it was nice to see. Setting the weapon down within reach, Christian said, "I'm Kane."

The man waited a moment, maybe for some kind of greeting, then nodded. "Charmed. I'm Jason."

Jason Momoa, the Mujina, the faceless ghost. Looking at him, Christian wasn't sure how the hell Momoa 'faded into the shadows', because he was huge-- broad, tall, radiating out from the doorway. He wasn't non-descript; his face was handsome, and he was wearing dreadlocks and jeans in a military base full of uniforms. You couldn't miss him, and you sure as hell couldn't forget him.

Christian didn't like him. Waste of a goddamn interview hour.

"I don't give a fuck who you are," Christian said. "You're late. Sit down."

"Mm. Talk to the guards. They didn't want to let me through." Momoa lowered himself into a chair, nodding politely to Jared. "Mr. Padalecki."

Jared nodded back, leaning against the wall behind Christian's desk, arms folded.

"So, you have a decent resume," Christian said grudgingly, shooting a dirty look at Jared when he snickered.

"Thank you, sir," Momoa said.

"But there's a gap here. What were you doing between the work as a member of the Oceania Special Ops and your time working for the Cuban Prime Minister?"

Without blinking, Momoa lifted his arm, pulling his sleeve back to show a slave tattoo. "I was sent on a mission to retrieve an asset who had been compromised. It turned out to be a trap. Asset was dead. When the king chose not to negotiate for us, we were sold off."

"I'm sorry," Christian murmured. Dammit. That had really been the only thing he'd found that he could bitch about on the resume. And he might be an ass, but he wasn't a big enough ass to complain about the time a man spent in slavery. "You've been rehabbed?"

"By the Slave Recovery Project in New Florida. I can provide documentation if you'd like."

Waving that off, Christian said, "Not necessary. Why are you interested in this position?"

"Because I'd like to help liberate the United States. I'd like to act as a member of the Secret Service." Momoa smiled. "And because I've aspired to work with Christian Kane since finishing rehab."

Great. A suck-up. A sidelong glance at Jared confirmed that the bastard was grinning. Picking up a pen, Christian pointed it at Momoa's face. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not interested in having my ego fed."

Momoa raised his eyebrows, looking innocent. "I'll bear that in mind, but I don't see where it applies here."

"And I'm sure as hell not interested in a bodyguard with a savior complex." Christian waited for a protest, but the guy just took it and looked mildly back at him. It was like chewing out a wall. With a sigh, Christian put the pen down. "Look, Mr. Momoa-"

"Jason, please."

"I appreciate the drive to strike back at the US. It's brought me-" Damn, he kept forgetting that he had stepped down as director of the Agency. Christian cleared his throat and corrected himself. "Excuse me. Had brought me my best field agents and workers. But a bodyguard can't bring that to the job. It's their duty to remain emotionally uninvolved."

"Were you?" Momoa asked.

Out of the corner of his vision, Christian saw Jared bristle. He raised his hand to quell Jared and met Jason's eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You acted as Jeff Morgan's-"

"President Dean's."

"-Sole bodyguard from 2078 until last week. You served Morgan Coulson from the age of 4." He tilted his head. "Were you emotionally uninvolved?"

Christian leaned back in his chair, assessing Momoa from a new angle. "I was his only option."

"You kept him alive. You took a bullet for him three years ago." Momoa shrugged. "I'm not sure where emotional involvement has proved to be a problem."

"Am I supposed to be impressed that you did research?"

"No. Though you may be concerned." Momoa shifted, reaching under his jacket to pull out a manila folder. He set it on the desk between them. "I was contacted to kill President Dean."

All the air jerked out of the room. Christian sat very still, ears ringing, and could've kicked himself for his shock. Of course there were hits being ordered; of course people wanted Jeff dead. But enough attempts had been made to find a halfway honest man among the scatter, and that meant a lot of offers were out there. He flipped open the dossier, and the first picture was of Jeff. He'd expected that. He wasn't prepared to see Jared's face there, or Jensen, looking too skinny and smiling his tentative smile.

"By who?" Jared asked. He sounded eerily calm for someone who'd been reminded that their husband had a death threat over his head.

Shaking his head, Momoa said, "Third party contract. I can tell you my contact, but you won't find him."

Christian tore his attention away from the dossier, fixing Momoa with the stare that had terrified warlords. "You've assassinated someone before?"

Momoa gave him a crooked smile. "Haven't you?"

Of course he had. They all had, except maybe Jared. They'd have to let him do the next one. Didn't want him to feel left out, after all.

It had been a shock, after a few months with Jeff to come out of the market that Jeff had sent him to, and find Jeff shooting an assassin in the back of the head at close range. No fear, no remorse. Christian kind of thought that might have been the day he fell just a little in love with Jeff.

"That's neither here nor there," Christian said. "We don't need an assassin. We need a bodyguard."

"Seems to me that you might be needing both."

"Seems to me that it's not your call."

Momoa leaned forward. His voice was even, no flare of temper, as he said, "I'm a damn good bodyguard. You've seen the resume. If you don't hire me, you're a fool, and I never thought Christian Kane was a fool. But hey, your loss." He stood. "It was nice meeting you. And you, Mr. Padalecki."

"Momoa." Christian said it like a whipcrack and got a half-lidded look in response. "I didn't say the interview was over. I'll tell you what. You can beat me, you get the job."

"Beat you?" Momoa's eyes narrowed. "At what?"

"Pin me."

Jared made a noise, and Christian shushed him. His ribs were tender, but they wouldn't keep him from kicking this cocky sonofabitch's ass.

Momoa looked him over as Christian came to his feet. The look was slow, considering, and maybe, Christian thought, just a little approving? Jesus. One more reason for a beatdown; if Momoa was stupid enough to be attracted to him, he had no business covering Jeff.

When Momoa came to his feet, Christian found himself at eye level with the Hawaiian tattoo on his throat. Goddamn it, another one who made him feel like he belonged in the Lollipop Guild.

Without giving a signal that the fight was on, Christian dropped, leg lashing in a quick sweep that made Momoa stumble back, arms pinwheeling. Before he could find his balance, Christian sprung, hitting the other man low and wrapping his arms around his thighs. They went down together, and Christian was moving before they hit the floor, reaching for Momoa's wrist, planning to drag it up and immobilize him.

It didn't quite work that way. Truth be told, Christian wasn't sure how it had worked. One minute, he could taste victory. The next, the world upended, and his face was in the carpet with strong arms holding him immobile.

Even after years of freedom, there was still that choking moment of panic. He struggled, throwing more effort behind it than he should've, but Momoa held firm. Ruthless, too.

"One," he said. His voice was warm on the nape of Christian's neck. Christian's hair had come loose from its bonds, sliding down around his face to blind him. Fear gave way to a slow, rising heat, his body's reminder that he hadn't gotten laid in the two years since Sandy. "Two. Three. So where's my locker, boss?"

Christian growled into the carpet and twisted, trying to lash out. Momoa rode it out, balanced over Christian's center of gravity. Christian wasn't getting up, he fucking knew it, but...

"Let him up."

There was a sound, the click of a safety being pulled, then a harsh intake of breath. Jared said, his voice thrumming with tension, "Jensen."

Aw, Jesus fuck Christian thought. Jensen had pulled a gun, walked right in and thought Christian was being attacked. As much as Christian was glad to see Jen draw a hard line between kin and outsiders, it was a clusterfuck in the making.

Forcing his body to relax, Christian said, "Stand down, Jen."

"It's okay." Jensen sounded dispassionate, everything stripped from his voice. "I've got the angle. You won't get hit. Might get messy, though. Sorry."

From the way he was tilted forward, Christian thought Jensen was pressing the barrel against Momoa's head. Momoa could've whipped around and taken Jensen out at that range, underfed and tired as Jensen was. But instead, he was still as deep water, his hands resting on Christian's arms. "Hi," he said, "you must be Christian's brother. Jensen, right?"

"I'm not talking to you," Jensen informed him. "Christian?"

"Don't shoot him," Christian said. "Put the gun away and let him up."

There was a long moment where Jensen seemed to consider shooting him anyway. Then he sighed, and the safety clicked back on. The pressure in the room deflated. Momoa shifted, and Christian thought wildly, I'll kill you if you fucking touch him.

Momoa took no counterstrike, just twisted in place. When Christian raised his head, Momoa was looking at Jensen and continuing their conversation like it hadn't been interrupted by attempted homicide. "I'm Jason Momoa. I'll be one of your bodyguards. It's nice to meet you."

Jensen squinted at him, then at Christian. "Are you okay?"

"Keen. Where the hell did you get a gun?"

Jensen shrugged, a stubborn look setting in. "The third guard, Aiko. She needs to be more careful about falling asleep on duty."

"I'll let her know." Christian pointed at the desk. "Give Jared the gun and go, little brother."

"Fine. I have cookies in the oven anyway." Jensen started to give Jared the gun, then paused. If Christian had been trained by anyone less than Morgan, he would've missed the edge in Jensen's voice when he asked, "Was that dysfunctional enough for you?"

It wasn't really a question, so Christian didn't answer. He watched Jensen hand the gun over and disappear into the hall, and made a mental note to ream Aiko. They were goddamn lucky Jensen hadn't decided to eat a bullet instead of trying to protect Christian's life.

The shrinks and Jeff's optimism were wrong. There wasn't enough rehab or therapy in the world to fix Jensen. It was putting a bandaid over a bullet wound. Christian would know.

Letting out a long, slow breath, Jared looked after Jensen, then at Christian. "I'm gonna go check on him."

Christian nodded a thank you, then craned his head back. "You can get up now."

"Duly noted." Jason shifted and rose, looking aggravatingly graceful. He offered Christian a hand up, which Christian smacked away. "What kind of cookies?"

"Chocolate chip oatmeal. I got him a cookbook, and he's been on a baking marathon." Christian rolled over onto his back and sat up, grimacing as his ribs burned. "He'd be one of your principals."

"Figured as much." Jason shook his head. "He's damned young."

"Theoretically." Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Christian got to his feet and started towards his desk. He wasn't limping, damn it, just walking slowly. "He's unrehabbed. Sorry."

"Don't be. He came in to find a stranger pinning his brother to the floor. He reacted appropriately."

"Most people would've taken him out."

"I'm not most people. You need some help?" Jason gestured at his ribs. "Maybe some ice?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. Jason had pinned him; he'd offered a chance, however slim, to track down whoever contracted for Jeff's death; and he hadn't hit Jensen, not even after Jensen threatened his life. Hell, he'd taken it in stride. He was perfect. Too fucking perfect. It made Christian uneasy.

"You've got the job," Christian said, lowering himself into his chair. "Quit sucking up. Ms. Parks'll help you fill out the paperwork and explain any big words. Dismissed."

Jason snapped him a sarcastic salute before he left. Oddly, it made Christian feel a little better.

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment as he evaluated the pain. Throbbing, not sharp. Not much worse with breathing. Good. Just more bruising.

He needed to be on his game. This was a clusterfuck as it was. Too many people, too many countries who had a stake on both sides of the fence.

If they survived this, it would be a miracle.