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jimmyhkim21Title: Neverwood, Prologue
Pairing: ja/jp, former ja/jdm
Rating: R for language and violence
Warning: Genuine horror here. I hope.
Word Count: ~51k
Summary: Aiden Thomas Padalecki is violently and mysteriously kidnapped, leaving behind distraught parents who have no idea why their only child was taken. After months of futile investigation, the frantic father witnesses the slow but inevitable decline in the search of his only child. Half mad with grief, Jared goes to an island off the coast of Washington, holding the last clue that may help him find his son. But it is all a trap, and there’s someone crouching, waiting for him to pay back for sins not of his making.
Notes: Adapted from Peter Pan, written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
j2_everafter.
Disclaimer: 127.5% fiction.
October, 2008
San Francisco, California
Bill Tuohy sat on the plush leather sofa and rested his feet on the six-thousand dollar coffee table his wife bought on a shopping spree in Berlin. He looked at the so-called metallic work of art and thought it looked like the tables medical examiners used to rest bodies during autopsies.
What are they called? Slabs? Well, I guess that serves me right for not watching CSI like millions of my fellow Americans.
In spite of his current predicament, Bill managed to drudge up a weak laughter. It didn’t last long, though. The sound was too desperate; maybe a little crazy. Like it came up from a murky well deep inside a man who had one foot entrenched in such a horrific nightmare, the poor bastard couldn’t see his house crashing down around his head.
With shaky hands, he reached for the crystal decanter. Bill poured not one but two glasses of whisky and downed both within seconds of each other. Feeling the pleasant burn slide down his throat before nestling in his gut made the world seem a bit easier to handle.
Thus fortified, Bill reluctantly opened the unmarked envelope for the second time. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he’d been wishing since he saw it sitting on his chair nearly four hours ago, the contents hadn't changed. The stark black and white photographs with its matted look still held the same nightmarish images: of him romping in bed with a partner distinctly male and no way within the legal age of consent.
The son of a bitch set me up, Bill thought bleakly. How in hell did he know? How?
Bill tucked the pictures with its crisp images back into the manila folder. For a moment, the desperate attorney considered the option of hunting down the man responsible for his nightmares and blowing the bastard’s head off. But that wouldn’t solve the problem, would it?
Even in death, Hemley (or whatever his real name was) would retain the power to kill his marriage, destroy the fragile relationship Bill had with his only child, and ruin his legal career in a very respectable firm. And, if truth were told, it was the last one that really made Bill feel so helpless. He’d worked so hard to earn that corner office, harder than anybody else in the firm. A poor boy from South Dakota with two hundred dollars to his name and his father’s boot print on his ass, Bill Tuohy worked his way through Brandeis, then Harvard Law, earning a place in the school’s internationally recognized Law Review through sweat, tears, and aww-shuck charm that the fucking Ivy League snobs ate up. All so he could sit in a genuine leather chair, stationed behind a genuine oak desk, billing four-hundred dollars an hour to clients who were grateful to pay his fees, if only so they could brag about it to their friends.
All of that in the fucking toilet because he couldn’t keep it zipped.
Bill poured himself a third glass. After downing that in one draw, he put away the decanter. The last thing he needed was to be drunk when confronting the man who had the power to destroy him.
With steady hands Bill unfolded the note that came along with the pictures.
Bill looked at his Jaeger-LeCoultre and noted it was exactly nine. He was braced for the phone to ring, but found himself startled anyway when it did.
“Yeah?” Bill asked, his voice sounding cold and untouched by the blackmail sitting prominently in front of him.
“Have you seen the pictures?” a pleasant voice with a strange unplaceable accent drifted out.
“I did.” Bill took a deep breath. “What do you want?”
“Very simple, really. I want you to give Mr. Jared T. Padalecki a present for me.”
Bill stiffened in his seat. Jared was one of his clients, and probably the nicest one he’d ever had the pleasure of doing business with. The artist had even won over Bill's overly-critical wife who declared the man 'a true gentleman'.
“What do you want me to give him? Bill asked tersely. “Because I’m not about to do something that could get him and his family hurt or worse.”
“Nothing of the sort,” the voice soothed. “It’s something that belongs to him, an … heirloom of sorts.”
“What kind of an heirloom?" Bill asked, his mind’s eye painting horrible pictures of some mechanical device designed to kill or maim people at a certain juncture in time.
“A statue of a tiger,” was the prompt reply. “Not that you can refuse me, but that’s all it is. It’ll be delivered to your office by private courier tomorrow morning at eight.”
“And how in hell am I suppose to give it to him?” Bill asked sharply. “He’s my client, not my friend.”
“Oh, you don’t know? Mr. Padalecki won the prestigious Hurst Award for Best Design this year.”
Once again, Bill felt the sense of unreality drift over him. He was very familiar with that particular boon and the nomination for the goddamn thing was scheduled two months away, never mind the announcement of the winner.
Who in hell is this guy? What does he want with Padalecki?
“Mr. Tuohy, are you there?”
“Yes,” Bill whispered, hating the fact that his voice sounded so feeble and beaten. “I’m still here.”
“Oh, good. I see you’re finally understanding the kind of man I am. I don’t think we have anything further to discuss, and since you’re going to do what I ask, I wish you a nice evening and a fantastic Thanksgiving.
"Good night.”
Bill pulled out the decanter. He wasn’t going home tonight. No way, not after having a conversation like that – he had absolutely no desire to pollute his home with even the thoughts he had while talking to Hemley.
Asa put the receiver back into its cradle, grinning widely – a look, if seen by a normal person, would send that very human being into spasms of shock before propelling him screaming out of the room and away from Asa. But he would catch up with them, oh yes. Later, in their dreams and there he would torment them with his hellish smile. And, maybe, a wave or two from his deformed hands.
His smile grew at the thought. He stood up, struggling to gain his balance before being able to take a step. White flakes drifted down but he took no notice of them. Asa had long ago been inured of those little white (sometimes red) skinfall. He had to if he wanted to keep his sanity.
Whether he succeeded or not could be debatable, but Asa didn’t think there was anyone who would dare, or even cared enough, to tell him the truth. His money, his position on the island, and the progression of his disease would guarantee that he always had the last word.
With shaky legs, Asa made his way to the fireplace mantle. Weaving around various antique furniture, most of which would fetch him a pretty sum if he ever thought to sell them.
Not that he would, of course. Asa had discriminating taste. And money.
What he didn’t have was time. Maybe a year? Probably less.
All of which meant Jared. T. Padalecki had to get his present soon. Asa looked at the statue and once more admired its beauty.
Blood rose, he thought. What an apt name for such a thing.
The figure was not even a foot long, and it was only seven inches at the tallest point. The statue was of a tiger at rest, and yet the cock of its head clearly conveyed the idea that the creature's attention was still riveted to its surroundings. That it’d be ready to pounce if something worthwhile came along.
Padalecki will love it, Asa predicted. He’ll proudly display it in his home where his friends, his various lovers, and his son … his beloved six-year-old Aiden could get their hands on it. To touch. To stroke.
To marvel.
And I’ll finally get to share my curse with the bastard who managed to get away from this hell, leaving me to shoulder the blame.
More white flakes fell like snow, but Asa ignored them. Then, some peppered with red came down. He ignored them too.
With a contented sigh, Asa left the ballroom where a dance hadn’t been held in over seventy years. And whose walls were devoid of mirrors that were the height of fashion when the mansion was initially built. In fact, there wasn’t a mirror in the entire house and all the windows were made of special material that ensured hardly a reflection.
Not that Asa missed seeing his face. Oh no, he didn’t miss that at all. Not for sixty-seven years.
Part I
Pairing: ja/jp, former ja/jdm
Rating: R for language and violence
Warning: Genuine horror here. I hope.
Word Count: ~51k
Summary: Aiden Thomas Padalecki is violently and mysteriously kidnapped, leaving behind distraught parents who have no idea why their only child was taken. After months of futile investigation, the frantic father witnesses the slow but inevitable decline in the search of his only child. Half mad with grief, Jared goes to an island off the coast of Washington, holding the last clue that may help him find his son. But it is all a trap, and there’s someone crouching, waiting for him to pay back for sins not of his making.
Notes: Adapted from Peter Pan, written for
j2_everafter.Disclaimer: 127.5% fiction.
October, 2008
San Francisco, California
Bill Tuohy sat on the plush leather sofa and rested his feet on the six-thousand dollar coffee table his wife bought on a shopping spree in Berlin. He looked at the so-called metallic work of art and thought it looked like the tables medical examiners used to rest bodies during autopsies.
What are they called? Slabs? Well, I guess that serves me right for not watching CSI like millions of my fellow Americans.
In spite of his current predicament, Bill managed to drudge up a weak laughter. It didn’t last long, though. The sound was too desperate; maybe a little crazy. Like it came up from a murky well deep inside a man who had one foot entrenched in such a horrific nightmare, the poor bastard couldn’t see his house crashing down around his head.
With shaky hands, he reached for the crystal decanter. Bill poured not one but two glasses of whisky and downed both within seconds of each other. Feeling the pleasant burn slide down his throat before nestling in his gut made the world seem a bit easier to handle.
Thus fortified, Bill reluctantly opened the unmarked envelope for the second time. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he’d been wishing since he saw it sitting on his chair nearly four hours ago, the contents hadn't changed. The stark black and white photographs with its matted look still held the same nightmarish images: of him romping in bed with a partner distinctly male and no way within the legal age of consent.
The son of a bitch set me up, Bill thought bleakly. How in hell did he know? How?
Bill tucked the pictures with its crisp images back into the manila folder. For a moment, the desperate attorney considered the option of hunting down the man responsible for his nightmares and blowing the bastard’s head off. But that wouldn’t solve the problem, would it?
Even in death, Hemley (or whatever his real name was) would retain the power to kill his marriage, destroy the fragile relationship Bill had with his only child, and ruin his legal career in a very respectable firm. And, if truth were told, it was the last one that really made Bill feel so helpless. He’d worked so hard to earn that corner office, harder than anybody else in the firm. A poor boy from South Dakota with two hundred dollars to his name and his father’s boot print on his ass, Bill Tuohy worked his way through Brandeis, then Harvard Law, earning a place in the school’s internationally recognized Law Review through sweat, tears, and aww-shuck charm that the fucking Ivy League snobs ate up. All so he could sit in a genuine leather chair, stationed behind a genuine oak desk, billing four-hundred dollars an hour to clients who were grateful to pay his fees, if only so they could brag about it to their friends.
All of that in the fucking toilet because he couldn’t keep it zipped.
Bill poured himself a third glass. After downing that in one draw, he put away the decanter. The last thing he needed was to be drunk when confronting the man who had the power to destroy him.
With steady hands Bill unfolded the note that came along with the pictures.
As you can see your private life isn’t so private. I wonder what your clients and your tennis club partners would think of you if they saw these wonderful black and whites.
By the way, the boy you were fucking – he looks a lot like your son.
You’d probably want to look into that.
Be in your office this Tuesday, at nine, if you want to save your marriage, your career, and your reputation.
After all, do you really want to prove your father right? That you were good for nothing piece of shit?
I think not.
Bill looked at his Jaeger-LeCoultre and noted it was exactly nine. He was braced for the phone to ring, but found himself startled anyway when it did.
“Yeah?” Bill asked, his voice sounding cold and untouched by the blackmail sitting prominently in front of him.
“Have you seen the pictures?” a pleasant voice with a strange unplaceable accent drifted out.
“I did.” Bill took a deep breath. “What do you want?”
“Very simple, really. I want you to give Mr. Jared T. Padalecki a present for me.”
Bill stiffened in his seat. Jared was one of his clients, and probably the nicest one he’d ever had the pleasure of doing business with. The artist had even won over Bill's overly-critical wife who declared the man 'a true gentleman'.
“What do you want me to give him? Bill asked tersely. “Because I’m not about to do something that could get him and his family hurt or worse.”
“Nothing of the sort,” the voice soothed. “It’s something that belongs to him, an … heirloom of sorts.”
“What kind of an heirloom?" Bill asked, his mind’s eye painting horrible pictures of some mechanical device designed to kill or maim people at a certain juncture in time.
“A statue of a tiger,” was the prompt reply. “Not that you can refuse me, but that’s all it is. It’ll be delivered to your office by private courier tomorrow morning at eight.”
“And how in hell am I suppose to give it to him?” Bill asked sharply. “He’s my client, not my friend.”
“Oh, you don’t know? Mr. Padalecki won the prestigious Hurst Award for Best Design this year.”
Once again, Bill felt the sense of unreality drift over him. He was very familiar with that particular boon and the nomination for the goddamn thing was scheduled two months away, never mind the announcement of the winner.
Who in hell is this guy? What does he want with Padalecki?
“Mr. Tuohy, are you there?”
“Yes,” Bill whispered, hating the fact that his voice sounded so feeble and beaten. “I’m still here.”
“Oh, good. I see you’re finally understanding the kind of man I am. I don’t think we have anything further to discuss, and since you’re going to do what I ask, I wish you a nice evening and a fantastic Thanksgiving.
"Good night.”
Bill pulled out the decanter. He wasn’t going home tonight. No way, not after having a conversation like that – he had absolutely no desire to pollute his home with even the thoughts he had while talking to Hemley.
Asa put the receiver back into its cradle, grinning widely – a look, if seen by a normal person, would send that very human being into spasms of shock before propelling him screaming out of the room and away from Asa. But he would catch up with them, oh yes. Later, in their dreams and there he would torment them with his hellish smile. And, maybe, a wave or two from his deformed hands.
His smile grew at the thought. He stood up, struggling to gain his balance before being able to take a step. White flakes drifted down but he took no notice of them. Asa had long ago been inured of those little white (sometimes red) skinfall. He had to if he wanted to keep his sanity.
Whether he succeeded or not could be debatable, but Asa didn’t think there was anyone who would dare, or even cared enough, to tell him the truth. His money, his position on the island, and the progression of his disease would guarantee that he always had the last word.
With shaky legs, Asa made his way to the fireplace mantle. Weaving around various antique furniture, most of which would fetch him a pretty sum if he ever thought to sell them.
Not that he would, of course. Asa had discriminating taste. And money.
What he didn’t have was time. Maybe a year? Probably less.
All of which meant Jared. T. Padalecki had to get his present soon. Asa looked at the statue and once more admired its beauty.
Blood rose, he thought. What an apt name for such a thing.
The figure was not even a foot long, and it was only seven inches at the tallest point. The statue was of a tiger at rest, and yet the cock of its head clearly conveyed the idea that the creature's attention was still riveted to its surroundings. That it’d be ready to pounce if something worthwhile came along.
Padalecki will love it, Asa predicted. He’ll proudly display it in his home where his friends, his various lovers, and his son … his beloved six-year-old Aiden could get their hands on it. To touch. To stroke.
To marvel.
And I’ll finally get to share my curse with the bastard who managed to get away from this hell, leaving me to shoulder the blame.
More white flakes fell like snow, but Asa ignored them. Then, some peppered with red came down. He ignored them too.
With a contented sigh, Asa left the ballroom where a dance hadn’t been held in over seventy years. And whose walls were devoid of mirrors that were the height of fashion when the mansion was initially built. In fact, there wasn’t a mirror in the entire house and all the windows were made of special material that ensured hardly a reflection.
Not that Asa missed seeing his face. Oh no, he didn’t miss that at all. Not for sixty-seven years.
Part I
