The sun was low on the horizon. Red bled with the golden sky, bathing the valleys below with good omens for the following day.

Jared felt the warm evening breeze on the back of his neck and let the peace and tranquillity of the descending nightfall wash away the aches of the day.

It had taken nearly all afternoon to hike to the highest peak of the plateau, but the reward was more than worth the effort. To the south, the Himalayas circled like watchful sentries over the lands below. North of him was the majestic Kunlung Range. The Yarlung Tsangpo river glimmered under the setting sun, orange and gold in the fading light.

This was heaven.

This was the center of the universe.

And that was not his satellite phone buzzing noisily in his fleece pocket.

Jared sighed. Only three people had his number. Three people who would not call unless it was urgent. What use was it having an emergency phone if he never answered it?

"Hello?"

"Jared, sweetie, how are you?

Jared smiled. Sam, he could cope with. "I'm good. It is very peaceful here."

"Good. That's good. I am glad you are doing okay." He could almost taste her hesitation on the wind. "Sweetie, I don't know how to say this…but your project has been put forward for production." She trailed off. Jared froze, memories of smiles and warm kisses brushing over his skin. "Shooting starts next week."

Jared blinked, stunned. "Sam… I can't. The last thing I want to do is come back to LA." His voice broke. His project, their project...

No no, I know that, sweetheart, but production is out of town, and the studio will keep the vultures away."

Jared felt like laughing. The studio could try, for sure, but the last time Jared had been within sniffing distance of Los Angeles, there had been a media circus to end all others waiting for him outside his apartment. If word got out -and it would, he had no doubt- that Jared Padalecki was back in the US, filming, no less, it would be pandemonium.

"Sam, I thought we talked about this. You cancelled all my other commitments, why not this one?" This one above all others.

"Because the damn thing has been in Hell for three years! No one expected it to actually make it out of the basement and onto the slate."

Which was fair enough. Jared had thought he'd destroyed it along with his own career. "Sam, cancel it. Pay the fines, do what you need to do." He'd signed up when the script had been hot, and he had been hotter, and his name alone had been enough to push it past certain 'un-jumpable' hoops. The project had gone to Hell with him.

Sam sighed, then pulled out the big guns. The one thing she knew he could never resist. "Jensen would never forgive you if you backed out now."

That hurt. She'd known it would.

"I think he has more pressing things to hate me for." He said weakly, grasping at straws even as she snorted at him in disgust. "Besides, you're telling me the studio actually want me on the project?"

They'd washed their hands of him well and truly. It made no sense to bring him back. "Well someone does, not least of all Jensen. Have you even spoken to him at all?

No. Not since…just no.

Sam continued. "You're in the Trades again. People are asking, 'what happened to that Padalecki kid?' There has never been a better time to make a comeback."

"Who says I even want to come back?" Jared protested. The sun had set, leaving him in twilight, and the air turned colder by the second. "I'm good here." And he was. Here he had a purpose, a vocation that was more than talking into a camera and reading out his lines. He could finish a day satisfied.

"No, you're in hiding! There is a difference." Sam said firmly, sounding far too much like his momma. "You owe it to Jensen, and you owe it to yourself to come here and do what you always dreamed of doing. You're being given a second chance, and I'll be damned before I see you throw it away."

She hung up, not waiting for Jared's answer. She knew he would come. A part of his soul lay in that project. It there was a chance, however slim, that he could go back and make it into even a hint of what he'd once dreamed it could be…

…how could he deny himself that?

How could he deny Jensen?

_______________________________________

Sam slammed the phone down and eyed it with supreme annoyance. "You know, he's not gotten any better since he's been gone. I'd dare say he's worse." She looked up at the man sat across her desk and shook her head in disbelief. Jared Padalecki was quite probably the most bull headed man on the face of the Earth.

"Try living with him." Jensen intoned wistfully.

"Oh I don't envy you that joy." She shot Jensen a sympathetic look, and said nothing about the way he stared transfixed at the phone as if it would suddenly morph into six feet something of living, breathing Texan hunk. "Still. He'll have his ass on a plane or I'll fly out there and drag him back by those floppy bangs of his."

"He agreed then?" Jensen asked hopefully, breaking his gaze with the phone to fix Sam with a look that would have done a damn good job of inspiring peace between Russia and Georgia. Sam couldn't say no to that look. Jared sure as hell couldn't. There was not likely a man alive who could.

She hesitated. "I wouldn't say agreed…" Jensen's face fell. "He'll stew on it for a couple a' hours then that overdeveloped sense of guilt will kick in and he'll be on the next redeye to LAX." If guilt could drive Jared to the other side of the world, it would eventually bring him back home, one way or another.

Jensen nodded slowly. "I don't want to force him to come back…" he trailed off, his gaze hardening. "No, fuck that. I do. He never should have left in the first place."

Sam reached across the desk and patted Jensen's hand carefully. "He thought he was doing the right thing at the time." She soothed, even if she privately supported the lynching circle that had formed from the ashes of Jared's departure.

Jensen's expression curdled. "Well he sucks." He said childishly.

Sam nodded in agreement. "Maybe. But look at it this way…maybe this will give you a chance to lay some demons to rest."

Jensen looked down at the script that sat innocuously between them.

He and Jared had started working on the concept back in college. Jensen was the writer, he'd put pen to paper, but the ideas were theirs. The flesh and blood of their characters were forged from sleepless night and days fuelled only by burnt coffee and furious kisses. They had edited, re-edited, over and over, until the bones were laid bare and they had their script.

They had kept it safe, unsullied and pure as the dreams grew and Jared shot like a star to the highest realms of TV stardom, by day the gritty lead in the NBC's fast paced crime drama, and by night the idealistic creator of a whole universe of ideas. He'd trusted Jensen with it all, and between them they had created something that would take showbiz by storm.

Jared had waited for him, bidding his time killing drug barons and locking away serial killers whilst Jensen slowly moved up the ladder, gaining experience, making connections, until finally they had someone they trusted with their project.

Eric had loved it, praised it, embraced it whole heartedly, and with his backing and Jared's name on the dotted line they had finally been standing on the edge of a breakthrough…

Jensen tore his eyes away. That had been then. Before everything went skidding towards hell, the project following Jared all the way to the trash, lost in development until it surfaced three months ago, suddenly backed and stamped, ready to roll.

Jensen had been working for Eric, staying in the background, remaining an obscurity, and his reaction to the green light had been as embarrassing as it has been overwhelming.

"He's coming home." He repeated slowly. Jared would be here, with him, leaving Jensen to decide whether to murder him on sight, or kiss him.

Sam nodded. "He is indeed."

Jensen nodded slowly. "Good."

_______________________________________

Jared paced the dorm room furiously, years of meditation and practice going out the metaphorical window. "I want to see him again." He declared firmly, imagining Jensen's face, and smiling.

Jet sat cross legged on the end of Jared's cot. "Of course you do. A soul is not meant to be split into two."

Years of exposure had familiarized Jared with his friend's more quirky turns of phrase, but the idea of Jensen as a whole part of himself only brought old, painful feelings to the surface. "I never really said goodbye. We never talked about things. I owe him that."

Jet's lips tugged into a dry smile. "You left whilst he was unconscious in hospital." He reminded Jared, the words not sharp, for all their blunt truth.

Jared ignored him. "And god knows we put so much work into that script, it wouldn't be right to just abandon it. Again." He added as an afterthought.

"Who are you trying to convince, Jared?"

Jared stopped pacing long enough to shoot Jet a pained smile. "I'll have to get back to you on that one." His friend stood and stopped toe to toe with Jared. There was more than a half dozen inches between them, but Jet was by no means the lesser man. "What if I-" What if he lost it again, like he had done before? He could barely live with the knowledge of what he had done, to risk causing more damage, more pain… there had been a damn good reason why he had left in the first place.

Jet cut him off with a jerk of his hand. "You want to see him again." He reminded Jared.

"More than anything." Jared whispered. He needed to see Jensen again, just to reassure himself that he'd made the right decision.

"So go back."

Just to see. "I'll go back." Jared agreed. Just to see.

_______________________________________

"No way, no how. Nope. Never. Not if you paid me a million bucks. I would rather stew my eyeballs in hydrochloric acid than work with that hoochy skank again."

If you'd have asked Jeff first thing that morning how he thought the day would have turned out, he'd have put his money on 'average'. It was a Wednesday, the most average day of the week, the second Wednesday in May, to be exact, the most average month of the year, and all Jeff needed to really do was fit in a couple of phone calls before tee-off at two thirty.

So naturally, at a quarter past eight he already had four missed calls on his cell, a dozen more waiting for him at the office. Katie ran in with coffee and a bagel, a pile of hastily gathered slips of paper under her arm, and backed away slowly when the phone began buzzing incessantly on Jeff's desk.

He needed to stop giving people his internal number.

"Chad, do me a favor. Back up, slow down, and explain what in the holy hell you are talking about." Jeff pinched his nose and watched his average day head down the drain. Chad Michael Murray might not be the most demanding name on his books, but when the kid hit that level of freak out, it usually took all of Jeff's skills as a negotiator to calm him down.

He could hear cars honking from Chad's end of the line. It sounded like he was moving through heavy traffic. He was due in LA in thirteen hours time, and by god, if the little shit missed his flight because he was too busy bitching, there would be merry hell to pay.

"I'm not working with her!" Chad repeated vehemently. "She is a lying, scheming, self absorbed, narcissistic whore who belongs in the seventh terrace of purgatory with all the other lying, scheming, self absorbed, narcissistic whores." He broke off panting, righteous indignation heavy in every nuance of his voice.

Jeff sat down in his chair and slowly counted to ten. "Come now, Chad, is that anyway to talk about your wife?"

"I was drunk, I was lonely, and she has a rack to die for. No jury in the world would expect me to actually see her again!"

It was so sad, it was almost funny. "No jury, perhaps, but in the eyes of God and all the cute, winged little cherubs, you and Sophia are legally married."

Chad snorted. "Well no offence to the big guy, but if he had to live with her, he'd be on my side."

"I'm sure." Jeff said dryly.

"I mean it JD, I ain't working with her. Either she goes, or I do."

Jeff's mind was wandering the grassy greens of the country golf course. The sun was on his face, and there were strict rules about bugging players with your precocious little tantrums. "Chad, you signed the contract for twenty two episodes. She signed the contract for twenty two episodes-"

"Yes, but-"

"Hush." Jeff snapped. "Since neither of you have rights to negotiate your costars, you can suck it up and try and behave like a responsible adult."

"But-"

"Or you can back out, lose the best role you've had in five years, and get your ass- and by association mine- sued by the nice folks at NBC, who incidentally didn't want to hire you in the first place!" That was an ego blow. Chad would either cuss him out, or cry.

Or laugh. You never really knew with Chad.

Instead there was silence. Then finally, "Fine. But don't expect me to be nice to her."

Jeff sighed. "You'll be civil and you'll like it. Now get your ass on that plane. I will see you tonight."

He could see Chad's mocking salute. "Yes sir!"

Jeff hung up and shuddered. "Actors." There was a rap on his office door, and he grunted.

Jensen peered inside, his lips pulled into a small smile. "Rough morning?"

Glaring at his phone, Jeff beckoned Jensen inside, pulling him into a rough hug. "You don't know the half of it. Fucking actors."

Jensen's smile twitched. He sank down into one of the plush leather armchairs opposite Jeff's desk and arched his fingers together, brow furrowed in concentration. "How is it going?"

Jeff shook his head. "Honestly? It's a joke. We've got your boy, which is going to be good for shits and giggles alone." Jensen scowled at the reference. "The ever so delightful Chad Michael Murray and his wife Sophia- who are more likely to spend the shoot trying to kill one another than do any actual work- that insane motherfucker Rosenbaum, a very pretty but highly neurotic twiglet by the name of Kristin Bell and Tom four-under-par Welling. Add to the fact that you have Carlson as lead producer and Kane in the director's seat, and I'd say you have one god almighty clusterfuck in the making."

Jensen shook his head and laughed quietly. "And here was me thinking that someone was smiling down on me."

"Hell no." Jeff scowled. "This is just another, more colorful form of torture. Believe me, you'll be crawling back to Kripke begging for your old job."

"I doubt it." Jensen shook his head, a small, sad smile on his face.

Jeff's expression softened. "Look sweetheart, I know this project means the world to you…and to Jared…but you realize it is going to be a nightmare, right?"

"It's prime time television, JD. What do you expect?" Jensen pointed out reasonably.

The phone rang again, and Jeff reached for the bottle of scotch he kept under his desk.

"I should have stuck to infomercials." He muttered grumpily, ignoring Jensen's knowing smile and pouring himself three fingers. To hell with the fact that it was not even nine. If he was going to survive to even see production, he'd need a hell of a lot more than alcohol, that was for sure.

Read the sequel No such thing as 'plausible deniability'