fic: Your Grievance (PxP, AU, 2/4)
Patrick fell backwards on the bed, bringing Pete down with him. "Come on," he laughed, "get them off-"
Sometimes, like now, he could let himself forget he wasn't entirely human anymore. He could stop worrying and freaking out about whether or not he was doing it right, or too hard or too fast or too--whatever, and just do it: turn off Hell Boy and just be Patrick.
"You're in a mood tonight," Pete said. He struggled free and kicked off his shoes, working on his belt. "It was the Whack-A-Mole, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yeah," Patrick said, "hitting a plastic mole with a plastic mallet gets me crazy." He struggled out of his shirt and jeans, still laughing, and snuggled back under the sheets. "Come here."
Pete knee walked back over to him. Patrick took a couple seconds to just watch him, savoring the sight. He didn't remember anything at all about being alive--though the sight of Pete, and other men, without their shirts on, took his breath away, which was a pretty strong indication--but he knew what he liked, now more than ever. He liked a strong pair of arms, ringed with tattoos; he liked muscled legs and a flat stomach and a too-big smile.
It was other things, too: he liked waking up in the dead of night, snuggled against Pete’s side and listening to the noises he made when he was asleep. He liked it when Pete futilely cursed the TiVo for taping movies he didn’t want to see and taking up space, or when he accidentally made reference to things like meeting his parents or wondering if Patrick could still find him if he got a job and moved somewhere else-little things, things that indicated he was thinking about a future. Their future.
Pete knelt on his thighs, legs akimbo. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
Patrick just smiled. "Only good things," he said, and started tugging down Pete's boxer-briefs.
*
When Patrick got back, he was headed for the cabin when someone said "How was your date?" right in his ear. It was a young voice, and remarkably cheerful.
Patrick let out a long breath. "Hello, Katy,” he said, turning around.
Katy was - technically, Patrick didn’t know who, or what, Katy was. She’d just showed up one day, walking around like she owned the place and asking a great many irritating questions, but when Patrick had worked up the nerve to ask It about her, It had just paused and said that Katy was a guest, and that she’d be visiting from time to time. Every other question Patrick had asked about her was ignored.
"How was your date?" Katy asked again. She looked...normal, really. Her hair was a little too sassy for Patrick’s tastes, like a 1940s pin-up, and she wore a pair of jeans and a checkered blouse. Her eyes gleamed vivid blue in the perpetual twilight, almost purple if he looked too long.
"It was fine," Patrick said. He started back for the cabin. He was momentarily surprised to see that It was gone, but not too much; It had other duties besides keeping an eye on him, so odds are It was doing them. "Why are you here?"
"I was bored. Thought I'd come hang out." Katy kept pace beside him. "Where's everyone else?"
"Wherever they go," Patrick said. He went up the steps and inside the cabin, headed for his room. "I don't keep an eye on them. If I summon them, they'll come."
"Oh," Katy said. She stopped in the doorway and watched Patrick sit down, waiting, in front of the computer.
Patrick resisted the urge to sigh. "Is there something you wanted?"
"Do you ever feel bad for them?" Katy asked. "The people you send to hell, I mean."
"Of course I do." Patrick didn't look up from the monitor. "That doesn't mean I can't do my job."
"But how, though?" Katy frowned. "How can you feel bad for someone and still send them to hell? I don't think I could."
Patrick thought for a few seconds. It was a fair question. "I don't know," he finally said. "It's not a matter of 'they don't deserve this'. Some of them don't. Many of them do. The only fair way to do my job is to do it every time, as long as that's what the summoner chooses, regardless of how I feel on the subject. If I don't do my job as fairly and impartially as possible, the system breaks down. There would be chaos." He shook his head. "There's enough chaos in the world of the living as it is. I don't need to add to it."
"Huh." Katy shrugged. "Wouldn't it be easier not to feel sorry for them?"
Patrick looked at him. Katy, totally guileless, looked back.
"I suppose," he said. "That doesn't mean I can do it."
"Oh." Katy was quiet for a minute. "See, because-I mean, if it was me, I wouldn't worry about them at all, you know? Having opinions just makes your job so much harder. You feel sorry for them, maybe one day you let one of them go--"
Patrick eyed her warily. "I wouldn't do that." Apart from the fact that he wasn't entirely sure he could, much less how to do it, it would jeopardize everything he was working for. He hadn't cared about anything before he'd met Pete, so he didn't have any particular sympathy or impulses to let anyone go; now that he had something to work toward, he also had more to lose.
"But you might, though," Katy said. Her purple-blue eyes caught the light and gleamed. "It'd be a lot easier if you just didn't worry about them at all. Most of them did something to deserve it, right?"
"Right," Patrick said slowly. "But not all of them. And either way, it doesn't matter; I'm still going to do my job."
Katy shrugged. "If you say so."
"Of course I say s--" Patrick looked at him, irritation flooding him. He was being questioned. Bad enough Ashlee had done it the other day--it was a moment of doubt, they all had those--but by a child? "Katy, what are you doing here?"
"Asking questions," Katy said easily. "I get bored fast." And she turned and walked around the corner, disappearing from sight.
*
Tuesday, Patrick went to Oklahoma and took a deadbeat father of six, who had a desperate fear of drowning. He'd been extremely happy to see the boat, until he'd realized where he was headed. Then the screaming had started. Patrick had done his level best to block it out.
He hadn't felt at all bad about Thursday, watching a serial rapist-and happily married father with a good job-be slowly devoured by beetles until his skin looked something like Ashlee's. Times like that soothed him, made him feel like his job was even more necessary than he knew.
Friday, he'd crouched next to the bedside of a weak, frail man and watched him forgive his brother for killing their mother years before. The brother, an unbelievable asshole who'd never been convicted even with a great deal of evidence for the prosecution, spent the whole time on the phone with the family attorney trying to figure out her will. Bob had stood there, narrow-eyed and fuming, until it had been time to go. Not even taking a rock away from the cairn beneath the tree, cherry blossoms falling lightly around him, had made Patrick feel any better about what happened.
He spent Saturday with Pete, running errands and watching terrible movies on his laptop while Pete worked on projects for school, and was comforted.
*
Sunday, Patrick didn't go out. He stayed in and watched the perpetual sunset for a long time, then took up his pencil and sketchpad and started to draw.
It was the lone indulgence Patrick had allowed himself, before Pete. He would never be a great artist, only decent at sketching, but it was soothing. He destroyed most of them, gave away a few others--Bob had one, Andy two or three. Ashlee had several, mostly of landscapes: things he'd glimpsed, among the living. He was fairly certain at least some of them were memories, but he'd successfully repressed all traces of his first life, and saw no reason to go back and re-examine them.
He glanced down at the paper. It looked to be the beginnings of a man holding a young boy's hand, only their arms and sides visible; he couldn't see their faces to tell who they were. He'd scribbled "George" beneath the man-shape, and a question mark beneath the boy. Patrick frowned. He didn't label drawings. He'd name them, on occasion, but never label them.
"Sir?"
Patrick turned. Ashlee was standing in the doorway, watching him. "Is everything all right?"
He blinked, considering his answer. He'd never really stopped to consider the others, not even a little, until recently. They were, in their own way, as trapped as he was - worse, because he'd chosen them for this. He wasn't at all sure they deserved to be in hell, let alone in its service, but here they were.
"Do you like them?" he asked, curious. He put the pencil and sketchpad down.
Ashlee frowned. "Sir?"
"People. Mortals. Do you like them?"
She thought for a minute. "I don't like them or dislike them," she finally said. "They're people. That's like asking if I like--I don't know, boron or something." She paused, then added, "Boron's an element. I'm not really sure what it does, but I keep learning about it in school."
How many times had they attended school? A hundred times? A thousand? High school or college? Patrick just nodded.
Ashlee hesitated, then sat next to him. "Are you sure everything's all right, sir?"
"Why do you call me that?" Patrick asked. "Sir."
"Because--because you're in charge." She sounded baffled. "What else could I call you?"
"My name's Patrick. You could call me that."
"No I couldn't!" Now she looked honestly startled. "You're in charge. That's--you can't do that!"
"I'm not so sure." But she still looked startled. Patrick sighed. "Could you--you could call me by name when we're not in the world. When we're here."
"I could," Ashlee said slowly. She kept staring at him. "Um. Patrick."
He thought for a moment, then nodded. It sounded all right. Strange, but all right. "My thoughts drift, these days," he said. "I find myself thinking about things. Things I have no right to be wondering about."
"Like?"
"Like how humans sleep. They just--shut themselves off. For hours!" He blinked at her. "How do they do that? I don't sleep."
"Neither do I, anymore." Ashlee wrinkled her nose. "I think it's something you just...know how to do. Like breathing, or blinking."
"Breathing! I'd have to remember to breathe!" He looked at her, stricken. "And bodily functions! They go to the bathroom, and get sick--they age! We don't age!"
"No, we don't." She frowned. "Are--did you and Pete have a fight?"
"What? No." He shook his head. "I don't know why I'm thinking about all this. I told you, my mind wanders. It's very disconcerting." He smoothed out a wrinkle in his pants. "I wish it would stop."
Ashlee kept watching him. "But it's not affecting your job," she said slowly.
Patrick shook his head. "No. If it--no. I remain focused on our duty when we are summoned." The day he couldn't, he'd start to worry. Not before. "It's just strange."
Ashlee was quiet for a moment. Patrick smoothed out another wrinkle. "Is there some reason you--"
"I kissed Pete," she said quickly, not looking at him.
Patrick waited to see if she'd say anything else. Then: "Yes. And?"
She looked at him, eyes widening. "And?"
"He told me," Patrick said, "some time ago. I think he thought I'd send him to hell." That part still hurt. It was like Pete had no idea what he did, which he knew very well Pete did. "I--" He blinked at Ashlee. "Did you think I would?"
She looked embarrassed. "I--maybe a little--"
"You're thinking like a human," Patrick said coolly. He was more insulted than hurt; he'd been professional the entire time he'd been doing this, through everything, and now they thought he'd be wounded. Like a mortal. Like--like Katy. "What do I care if the two of you keep each other company? I'm not there. I can't be, all the time. You can."
"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
"Of course it does. It's only sensible. Andy and Bob keep their own counsel, and you and Pete are friends. I would have been more surprised if you hadn't done something. I’m actually a little surprised you haven’t had sex.” He shrugged. "He and I are not married, and you have no chance of becoming pregnant, so what does it matter?"
She was quiet for a long time. Patrick sighed and turned to look at her.
Ashlee's expression was unreadable. "You should speak to him about this," she finally said. "I just. I wanted to tell you before you found out some other way." She got to her feet.
"Ashlee?" Patrick asked. She turned to look at him. "When I am human again-"
"Don’t worry," she said dryly, smiling. "I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice." Her smile was impish. Not a word he’d ever used before, but it suited her. "I can do better than that." She turned and walked back outside.
Patrick shook his head. "Everyone's gone crazy," he muttered, and turned the page to start a new sketch.
*
Most of Monday, Patrick spent in the small shed out back, near the river.
It wasn't anything much to look at: four walls and a roof, a neatly-packed dirt floor. It was just large enough to hold a table filled with unlit candles, and the pond where the lit ones floated. Maintaining it, adding to it, was part of Patrick's job, but he wasn't fond of it. He never let the others come with him, let alone-
"This is like church," Pete mused, "if it was really creepy. And looked like a set design from that crappy Amityville Horror remake."
It was only years of experience that kept Patrick from dropping the still-unlit candle to the ground. "What are you doing here?" he asked, glancing over. Pete was in a hoodie and pajama pants with little turtles on them; the turtles appeared to be wearing Santa hats.
"I have no idea," Pete said. "Went to sleep, had this really confusing dream about a train going through a tunnel, and now I'm here." He was looking around. "What is this? I haven't seen it before."
Patrick blinked. Pete was always doing that: asking him the names of things that didn't have names, just functions. "It's where we keep the candles," he said.
"And the candles are-"
"Each lit candle is someone whose bargain I have fulfilled." He lit the candle in his hand, turned it so Pete could see. It was neatly etched in English; he'd seen others floating down the river occasionally, in Japanese and a few other languages. Whatever language was written there, he could read; it was, after all, part of his job. "This is a guy named Shaant. You don't know him, he's in a band.”
Patrick felt Pete's eyes on him as he crouched and carefully set the candle in the water, watched it bob there in the haloed darkness.
"And he's going to hell," Pete finally said.
Patrick sighed. "Yes," he said, and waited for the fight.
But it never came; Pete just sat next to him on the ground and looked out at the water. "It's beautiful," he said quietly. "I mean, if you can ignore why there are a bunch of candles in the water, anyway."
"I can't," Patrick said simply. He sat down next to Pete. They really were pretty, if you stopped to look at them. He wondered why he hadn’t, before now.
"Do you have to do this?" Pete glanced at him. "It's-is it a contractual thing?"
"Not really." Patrick shook his head. "I think it's more make-work than anything else. If I never lit the candle, the person would still go to hell--and if someone happened to knock one over," he added, watching Pete casually reach towards the water, "it wouldn't break the contract."
"...dammit." Pete sat back. "Can I ask what happened? With the guy, I mean. Shant."
"Shaant," Patrick corrected. "He cheated on his girlfriend. She posted naked pictures of him online. He didn’t seem to care, let alone be hurt by it, so she opted for something a little more drastic.” He shrugged. “It’s not rocket science.”
Pete snorted. "What kind of baby can't handle their ex posting naked pictures of them online? My-" He looked at Patrick. "I mean. That's awful, no, terrible, that poor thing."
"It's not for you to judge someone's reasoning," Patrick said, but he was smiling. "Do you want to see the rest of them?"
"The rest of--" Pete looked at the water, the gently floating candles. "I thought this was it."
"Uh, not really." Patrick got to his feet and took Pete's hand, helping him up. "Come on."
He led Pete around the side of the building, still holding his hand. The shack was butted up against the water, with an opening near the back to allow water in--and candles out.
"Jesus Christ," Pete said faintly. His fingers tightened around Patrick's. "This is all you?"
The bay outside was filled with candles, each one a pinprick of light gleaming in the dull grey as far as the eye could see. There was just enough space between each to see water, but there were never too many, never enough to crowd each other. The far shore was a gray and distant shape rather than a sight to see on its own.
"Oh, no," Patrick said. "A lot of them are mine, but most of the rest are from Japan. Sometimes you’ll see one or two from other places, but I’ve never met any of their caretakers. I've never even met Enma-san."
"Enma-san?" Pete blinked. "That's--what, Hell Girl?"
"Enma Ai," Patrick said. He didn't have to fake the reverence in his voice; how could he not be reverent, when dealing with the first of them? "She's been doing this a lot longer than I have."
"Hota--um. Someone I talked to said she'd retired," Pete said. "Or been forcibly retired, whatever."
Patrick nodded. "It's possible; it's not like we get together for lunch or anything. But I hope not. She..." He took a breath.
How could he explain this? He'd been doing this for a long time, as he counted it; time had no meaning in the sunless lands, but over a hundred years could rack up a lot of souls. He'd done the math once, and it had worked out to a bit over forty thousand people he'd ushered to hell. Enma Ai had done it for a lot longer than that, and she'd never cracked, not once. And if she had, eventually, he couldn't exactly blame her.
Not that he would ever say it out loud, of course. He wasn't stupid.
"She did her job," Patrick finally said. He looked out at the water, at each softly floating light. "It's all anyone can ask."
They sat in silence for a while. It was late, there were a hundred other things Patrick should have been doing. God only knew what kind of rest Pete was getting by being here; it certainly wasn't REM sleep. But it was nice to be sitting here, holding his lover's hand and feeling his warmth, watching something lovely that came out of something awful. Maybe this was what people did, out in the world.
"I love you," he said quietly.
Pete leaned in and kissed his mouth. "I love you too."
*
Pete disappeared a few minutes later, in the middle of a conversation. "That's not rea-" he'd said, frowning, and vanished.
Patrick wasn't surprised; the rare occasions Pete had appeared in the sunless lands, he'd gone back to the waking world just as suddenly as he appeared. He was always apologetic about it the next time Patrick saw him, even as many times as Patrick had told him it was silly to apologize for something he literally had no control over.
"He's very cute," Katy said idly, popping up behind him. "I can certainly see why you like having him around."
Patrick shifted to look at her. This time she was in a black-and-white polka dot dress and black sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. "You look nice," he said. "Though I do wonder what you're doing here, considering that it's got to be late where you're from."
She sat next to him on the riverbank. "What makes you think I'm from there?"
"Are you saying you're not?"
Katy just smiled and reached out, using one finger to push a candle away before it could bump into the shore. She was very careful not to touch the water, Patrick noticed; mortals didn't usually grasp that right away.
"A very nice boy," she murmured, "and polite besides. More polite than he used to be." Her eyes were innocent. "Unless I heard wrong, of course."
"How did you hear at all?" Patrick asked, baffled. "You've never really answered my question."
"You ask a lot of questions," Katy said. "If you want to narrow it down-"
"Who are you?" He frowned. "You can't be a mortal; mortals don't know this many things, this many of the rules, unless someone tells them. But you're not one of us; you disappear for days at a time, and I never see you here for longer than a few minutes at a time.”
Katy looked at him for a long time, then leaned in and brushed her mouth over his cheek. It wasn't a kiss, not quite.
"I'm someone who has your best interests at heart," she murmured. "I'm someone who loves you."
Then she was gone, too.
*
That night, when the waking world was starting to surge forward and begin its day, Patrick wandered the soft places.
Mortals would call it dreaming, he supposed; he experienced it more as a vivid daydream. He had them sometimes--more often when he'd found Pete, less often since. He spent most of his time peering at the waking world, now, instead of wandering off and into the soft places that existed between the two.
He was very careful. He went to the quiet places, the ones not populated by dreamers: farmland, or lost palaces and temples, exotic fairs half-remembered by children and the aged. He wandered around, taking in each sight in its turn, careful to never interact with actual dreamers.
He went to Japan first and visited a family's shrine, destroyed in a fire at least a century before. He was cordial to the small gods that lived there, as was only polite; they, in turn, were polite to him, because even the least of them knew it would be foolish to irritate the one they knew of as Jigoko Shonen.
He walked around a ren faire that had stayed one weekend in Virginia, eyeing the costumes and taking the cries of "you're dressed so strangely, visitor!" with good nature; it was, after all, part of the nature of the beast. He had cheesecake on a stick and a turkey leg, and watched a puppet show, and wished Pete was there when he caught sight of a group of men in kilts and nothing else.
Then there was the farmhouse.
It was nondescript--plain wood, room for animals out back, a well in the side yard--except for the scorch marks that marred it. It still stood, but it looked like a strong wind would make it list to one side; a firm smack, and it would collapse in a heap. Patrick frowned and took a step closer.
When he did, he saw the other buildings: a number of other farmhouses, just as small if not smaller, and a barn in the center of town. Next to the barn was the charred wreck of what might have, perhaps, been a gazebo.
Patrick looked at them for a long time, and wondered why he was shivering so much.
*
"-thing to remember is that good posture never hurt anyone, but bad posture can make your audience less interested in what you're trying to say. And what's the--"
You learn about posture in speech class? Patrick asked. The teaching assistant--the class didn't rate an actual professor, Pete had informed him solemnly one night over manicotti--was tiny and pretty, with short dark hair with bleached streaks in it. Her t-shirt was a little baggy, but her jeans were almost as tight as Pete’s own. That seems fairly pointless.
Not my idea, Pete said. He paged through his notes while Patrick peeked. Pete's handwriting was cramped, muddled. Cass isn't so bad, though. She's a junior, but you wouldn't know it to look at her.
Ohhhh, Patrick teased. Cass is a junior. I see.
Yes, she is, Pete said, and she's nice. And not my type. Don't be creepy. He started doodling in the margins of his notebook, eyes fixed ahead. You okay? You've been busy lately.
Fits and starts. You know how it works. Patrick let out a breath. Weird dreams. Or--not dreams, you know.
As long as I'm not riding a horse again, I'm all for it, Pete said. Tell me about it over dinner? I'll cook.
You always cook.
Because I have working taste buds.
Fair enough, Patrick said, smiling, and settled in to listen for the rest of the period.
*
Patrick was on his way out when Katy stepped into his path, blocking his way. "You should read this," she said seriously, and shoved a stack of index cards at him.
Patrick didn't take them; he was too startled for the grasping reflex to kick in. "I should do nothing you say," he told her. "I tend not to listen to random advice from complete strangers. Back away. Better yet, get out."
"Not until you read this," she said, mouth pinched into a little line. "It's important." And she reached out-reached out, like this was something she did every day, casually touching a dead man-and put the cards in his hand, folding his fingers over them. "Read this, and I'll leave. I promise."
"You'll leave anyway," Patrick said absently, and glanced down. The cramped handwriting was familiar, if not something he saw every day. He only saw one person actually write things down these days, and he-
He looked up at her, eyes widening. "These are Pete's notes."
"They are," Katy agreed. "I borrowed them."
"You stole them! How-what gives you the right-"
"I told you, I have your best interests at heart." Katy's eyes were soft. "Please. Just...just look at them."
Patrick let out a breath. "If it'll make you leave," he muttered, and glanced down at them again.
They were, in fact, Pete's index cards for his speech. The handwriting was a mess, but the idea was presented thoughtfully enough: Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, son of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz Junior, son of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. He, in turn, was the oldest son of Eva and George Wentz, late of Chicag--
Patrick blinked. "That name's familiar," he murmured, and tried to think.
Not George, so much, but hadn't he known an Eva, once? Or--not an Eva, but her maiden name, Peppar, that stood out. He'd known someone named Peppar, once, a long time ago. An older man, tall for back then, with gray hair and darker eyes, and a penchant for expensive suits and cigars-
"Phil," he said softly, hardly aware he was speaking. "Phillip Peppar."
"Phil Peppar the Pepper King," Katy murmured. "Tell me about him."
"He was-I knew him," Patrick said, staring off. He'd been young, once, his glasses the most expensive thing he owned, cheap hand-me-down suits and two parents getting on in years. He'd had a sister who died before he was born, and a brother--God, what was his name?--married with kids of his own, out in Missouri. He was assistant manager of a textile mill, and his children were named Kenneth and Sara, and his name, his name was--
"Kevin!" Patrick burst out. "His name was Kevin, and he couldn't come back to Keep's Corner because he had a family of his own."
"And you were always the good son," Katy murmured. "What did you do there? I don't think you ever told me."
He hadn't, but that made sense; he'd never told anyone. "A bank," Patrick said. "I worked in a bank."
"Did Phil work in the bank?"
"Yes-no! He was the bank manager. It was him, and me, and Mrs.-Mrs. Henrie, she was in her sixties and had never gotten married. She smelled like my grandmother. I don't think she liked me much."
Katy made a disappointed sound. "Did you get along with them?"
"It was fine," Patrick said, staring off. He hardly noticed he was still holding the index cards. "She didn't like me much, but Phillip was always asking me about Chicago. He went there sometimes, on weekends or for bank business." He frowned. "He was there a lot, come to think of it."
"He was nice?"
Patrick smiled. "Not like that. He had a string of women in the city, dancers and singers and bored housewives. I--" He flushed. "I might've had a tiny crush on him, but nothing big, nothing I ever thought would come of it. I thought maybe when I got back to the city-"
But he hadn't, had he? Something had happened.
"Something happened," Patrick said faintly.
"Yes," Katy murmured, leaning in close, "something did." She tilted her head, cupping one hand around his ear, and whispered, "He killed you."
Patrick reared back-
--and remembered.
Katy stood up straight and handed him a dark green poppet with a thin red string around its neck. She was clad in white robes now, part of him noticed, and didn't particularly care. "Find him," she whispered. "You'll know what to do."
Patrick looked at her for a moment, then at the doll, and left.
*
He was waiting in Pete's apartment when he returned home.
"Hey," Pete said, putting his messenger bag down by the door. He carried a couple of bags over to the kitchen table. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a total cocksock, and I had to get a book I reserved at the library. But I stopped by the grocery store, and they had this really nice ricotta-"
Pete really did look like Phillip, Patrick noticed; at least, around the eyes and the sly way he smiled. Why hadn't he noticed it before?
"--so it should really f--" Pete stopped, frowning, and looked up at him. "What's wrong? You look like crap."
Patrick looked at him. Pete, startled, took a step back.
"You have sinned," Patrick said, empty as the ocean. "You deserve judgment."
And they were gone.
ii. doc, there’s a hole where something was
The doorbell rang. Bill looked up from his notes and yelled, "Pete! It's for you!"
That wasn't necessarily true--it could have been one of their neighbors, or maybe Adam had decided spur-of-the-moment to show up and ask him to dinner, please *God*-but odds were, it was for Pete. Probably Patrick, but maybe takeout. Maybe Thai or that really good Mexican place a couple blocks over-
"I'll get it!" Bill yelled, getting to his feet. His thesis was one thing, but he was starving. God, dumplings sounded great right about now, he thought, opening the door--
--and almost closed it in their faces. Okay, definitely not takeout. Fuck.
"Oh, God, not you again," Bill said. He peeked around the corner, then braced himself and opened the door all the way. "You know, one more guy and you could have a wicked good Paramore cover band thing going on." He nodded at Ashlee. "Granted, your hair could be a more vibrant red--"
"Can we come in?" she asked, arms crossed over her chest. She looked mulish, but Bill was okay with that; it was a dozen times better than the last time he'd seen her this close, when she looked like the Cryptkeeper's somewhat-hot daughter. Her hood was down, her hair drawn back from her face, and something white gleamed near her hairline.
Bill looked at her for a minute, then pointed to the side of her forehead. "You have, um. Stuff showing," he said, gesturing vaguely.
"Stuff", nothing; she had skullcap showing. And now that he was looking, her fingers looked-thin. No, not thin, skeletal. Like-
Ashlee reached up to check, then jerked her hand down. She tugged her hoodie down over the offending bit and scowled at him. "Can we come in or not?" she said tightly. "We'd rather not discuss this in your hallway."
"Do you need permission to enter?" Bill said, not blinking. Like he knew. Pete was remarkably vague about this shit, and frankly, he didn't want to know.
"No, we don't need permission!" she yelled. "We're not vampires!" She kept scowling. "It's just. Nice."
"Dead people have manners. Huh. Funny, I don't remember you having manners when you kidnapped me--"
"Oh, whatever, those were extenuating circumstances."
"You stole me out of my dorm room, you harridan--"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bob sighed, and brushed past both of them. "We don't have to be nice, Bill, it's just common courtesy."
Andy followed him in, looking at the two of them like they were idiots. Ashlee kept glaring for another few seconds, then followed the two of them in. The door hadn't had time to close all the way when she demanded, "When was the last time you saw Pete?"
Bill frowned. "I don't know. A day or so. He's working on something for his speech class, and I have my thesis, so we're both keeping kind of weird hours. Why?"
"We need your help," Ashlee started, but Bob cut her off.
"Patrick needs your help," he said, "whether he knows it or not."
"Yes, and to help Patrick he has to help us," Ashlee said, "so can I talk to him? Please?"
Bob held up his hands and backed off a step. Andy didn't say anything. That didn't surprise Bill, not really; even when he'd been their "guest", Andy hadn't seemed particularly chatty.
"Something's happened," Ashlee said, shoving her hood down. Bill was relieved to see that everything was covered up again. "He-he got some bad news."
"Katy told him," Bob said, narrowing his eyes. Bill reflexively started to feel bad for Katy, whoever she was; even if Bob had been a regular human, he couldn't imagine anyone being stupid enough to get Bob mad at her. Or him. "You know she did."
"If she did," Andy said, "we'll deal with it. If we can." He shook his head and looked at Ashlee. "If he's going to help us, we might as well tell him all of it."
"Tell me all of what?" Bill said. "Where's Pete?"
The three of them exchanged a look.
"That's the problem," Bob said quietly. "We're...not entirely sure." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We don't know where Patrick is, either."
Bill shoved his glasses back up on his nose. "What do you mean, you don't know where Patrick is?"
"Patrick's-gone somewhere," Ashlee said. She looked uncomfortable. "And we're pretty sure he has Pete with him."
*
part iii
Sometimes, like now, he could let himself forget he wasn't entirely human anymore. He could stop worrying and freaking out about whether or not he was doing it right, or too hard or too fast or too--whatever, and just do it: turn off Hell Boy and just be Patrick.
"You're in a mood tonight," Pete said. He struggled free and kicked off his shoes, working on his belt. "It was the Whack-A-Mole, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yeah," Patrick said, "hitting a plastic mole with a plastic mallet gets me crazy." He struggled out of his shirt and jeans, still laughing, and snuggled back under the sheets. "Come here."
Pete knee walked back over to him. Patrick took a couple seconds to just watch him, savoring the sight. He didn't remember anything at all about being alive--though the sight of Pete, and other men, without their shirts on, took his breath away, which was a pretty strong indication--but he knew what he liked, now more than ever. He liked a strong pair of arms, ringed with tattoos; he liked muscled legs and a flat stomach and a too-big smile.
It was other things, too: he liked waking up in the dead of night, snuggled against Pete’s side and listening to the noises he made when he was asleep. He liked it when Pete futilely cursed the TiVo for taping movies he didn’t want to see and taking up space, or when he accidentally made reference to things like meeting his parents or wondering if Patrick could still find him if he got a job and moved somewhere else-little things, things that indicated he was thinking about a future. Their future.
Pete knelt on his thighs, legs akimbo. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
Patrick just smiled. "Only good things," he said, and started tugging down Pete's boxer-briefs.
*
When Patrick got back, he was headed for the cabin when someone said "How was your date?" right in his ear. It was a young voice, and remarkably cheerful.
Patrick let out a long breath. "Hello, Katy,” he said, turning around.
Katy was - technically, Patrick didn’t know who, or what, Katy was. She’d just showed up one day, walking around like she owned the place and asking a great many irritating questions, but when Patrick had worked up the nerve to ask It about her, It had just paused and said that Katy was a guest, and that she’d be visiting from time to time. Every other question Patrick had asked about her was ignored.
"How was your date?" Katy asked again. She looked...normal, really. Her hair was a little too sassy for Patrick’s tastes, like a 1940s pin-up, and she wore a pair of jeans and a checkered blouse. Her eyes gleamed vivid blue in the perpetual twilight, almost purple if he looked too long.
"It was fine," Patrick said. He started back for the cabin. He was momentarily surprised to see that It was gone, but not too much; It had other duties besides keeping an eye on him, so odds are It was doing them. "Why are you here?"
"I was bored. Thought I'd come hang out." Katy kept pace beside him. "Where's everyone else?"
"Wherever they go," Patrick said. He went up the steps and inside the cabin, headed for his room. "I don't keep an eye on them. If I summon them, they'll come."
"Oh," Katy said. She stopped in the doorway and watched Patrick sit down, waiting, in front of the computer.
Patrick resisted the urge to sigh. "Is there something you wanted?"
"Do you ever feel bad for them?" Katy asked. "The people you send to hell, I mean."
"Of course I do." Patrick didn't look up from the monitor. "That doesn't mean I can't do my job."
"But how, though?" Katy frowned. "How can you feel bad for someone and still send them to hell? I don't think I could."
Patrick thought for a few seconds. It was a fair question. "I don't know," he finally said. "It's not a matter of 'they don't deserve this'. Some of them don't. Many of them do. The only fair way to do my job is to do it every time, as long as that's what the summoner chooses, regardless of how I feel on the subject. If I don't do my job as fairly and impartially as possible, the system breaks down. There would be chaos." He shook his head. "There's enough chaos in the world of the living as it is. I don't need to add to it."
"Huh." Katy shrugged. "Wouldn't it be easier not to feel sorry for them?"
Patrick looked at him. Katy, totally guileless, looked back.
"I suppose," he said. "That doesn't mean I can do it."
"Oh." Katy was quiet for a minute. "See, because-I mean, if it was me, I wouldn't worry about them at all, you know? Having opinions just makes your job so much harder. You feel sorry for them, maybe one day you let one of them go--"
Patrick eyed her warily. "I wouldn't do that." Apart from the fact that he wasn't entirely sure he could, much less how to do it, it would jeopardize everything he was working for. He hadn't cared about anything before he'd met Pete, so he didn't have any particular sympathy or impulses to let anyone go; now that he had something to work toward, he also had more to lose.
"But you might, though," Katy said. Her purple-blue eyes caught the light and gleamed. "It'd be a lot easier if you just didn't worry about them at all. Most of them did something to deserve it, right?"
"Right," Patrick said slowly. "But not all of them. And either way, it doesn't matter; I'm still going to do my job."
Katy shrugged. "If you say so."
"Of course I say s--" Patrick looked at him, irritation flooding him. He was being questioned. Bad enough Ashlee had done it the other day--it was a moment of doubt, they all had those--but by a child? "Katy, what are you doing here?"
"Asking questions," Katy said easily. "I get bored fast." And she turned and walked around the corner, disappearing from sight.
*
Tuesday, Patrick went to Oklahoma and took a deadbeat father of six, who had a desperate fear of drowning. He'd been extremely happy to see the boat, until he'd realized where he was headed. Then the screaming had started. Patrick had done his level best to block it out.
He hadn't felt at all bad about Thursday, watching a serial rapist-and happily married father with a good job-be slowly devoured by beetles until his skin looked something like Ashlee's. Times like that soothed him, made him feel like his job was even more necessary than he knew.
Friday, he'd crouched next to the bedside of a weak, frail man and watched him forgive his brother for killing their mother years before. The brother, an unbelievable asshole who'd never been convicted even with a great deal of evidence for the prosecution, spent the whole time on the phone with the family attorney trying to figure out her will. Bob had stood there, narrow-eyed and fuming, until it had been time to go. Not even taking a rock away from the cairn beneath the tree, cherry blossoms falling lightly around him, had made Patrick feel any better about what happened.
He spent Saturday with Pete, running errands and watching terrible movies on his laptop while Pete worked on projects for school, and was comforted.
*
Sunday, Patrick didn't go out. He stayed in and watched the perpetual sunset for a long time, then took up his pencil and sketchpad and started to draw.
It was the lone indulgence Patrick had allowed himself, before Pete. He would never be a great artist, only decent at sketching, but it was soothing. He destroyed most of them, gave away a few others--Bob had one, Andy two or three. Ashlee had several, mostly of landscapes: things he'd glimpsed, among the living. He was fairly certain at least some of them were memories, but he'd successfully repressed all traces of his first life, and saw no reason to go back and re-examine them.
He glanced down at the paper. It looked to be the beginnings of a man holding a young boy's hand, only their arms and sides visible; he couldn't see their faces to tell who they were. He'd scribbled "George" beneath the man-shape, and a question mark beneath the boy. Patrick frowned. He didn't label drawings. He'd name them, on occasion, but never label them.
"Sir?"
Patrick turned. Ashlee was standing in the doorway, watching him. "Is everything all right?"
He blinked, considering his answer. He'd never really stopped to consider the others, not even a little, until recently. They were, in their own way, as trapped as he was - worse, because he'd chosen them for this. He wasn't at all sure they deserved to be in hell, let alone in its service, but here they were.
"Do you like them?" he asked, curious. He put the pencil and sketchpad down.
Ashlee frowned. "Sir?"
"People. Mortals. Do you like them?"
She thought for a minute. "I don't like them or dislike them," she finally said. "They're people. That's like asking if I like--I don't know, boron or something." She paused, then added, "Boron's an element. I'm not really sure what it does, but I keep learning about it in school."
How many times had they attended school? A hundred times? A thousand? High school or college? Patrick just nodded.
Ashlee hesitated, then sat next to him. "Are you sure everything's all right, sir?"
"Why do you call me that?" Patrick asked. "Sir."
"Because--because you're in charge." She sounded baffled. "What else could I call you?"
"My name's Patrick. You could call me that."
"No I couldn't!" Now she looked honestly startled. "You're in charge. That's--you can't do that!"
"I'm not so sure." But she still looked startled. Patrick sighed. "Could you--you could call me by name when we're not in the world. When we're here."
"I could," Ashlee said slowly. She kept staring at him. "Um. Patrick."
He thought for a moment, then nodded. It sounded all right. Strange, but all right. "My thoughts drift, these days," he said. "I find myself thinking about things. Things I have no right to be wondering about."
"Like?"
"Like how humans sleep. They just--shut themselves off. For hours!" He blinked at her. "How do they do that? I don't sleep."
"Neither do I, anymore." Ashlee wrinkled her nose. "I think it's something you just...know how to do. Like breathing, or blinking."
"Breathing! I'd have to remember to breathe!" He looked at her, stricken. "And bodily functions! They go to the bathroom, and get sick--they age! We don't age!"
"No, we don't." She frowned. "Are--did you and Pete have a fight?"
"What? No." He shook his head. "I don't know why I'm thinking about all this. I told you, my mind wanders. It's very disconcerting." He smoothed out a wrinkle in his pants. "I wish it would stop."
Ashlee kept watching him. "But it's not affecting your job," she said slowly.
Patrick shook his head. "No. If it--no. I remain focused on our duty when we are summoned." The day he couldn't, he'd start to worry. Not before. "It's just strange."
Ashlee was quiet for a moment. Patrick smoothed out another wrinkle. "Is there some reason you--"
"I kissed Pete," she said quickly, not looking at him.
Patrick waited to see if she'd say anything else. Then: "Yes. And?"
She looked at him, eyes widening. "And?"
"He told me," Patrick said, "some time ago. I think he thought I'd send him to hell." That part still hurt. It was like Pete had no idea what he did, which he knew very well Pete did. "I--" He blinked at Ashlee. "Did you think I would?"
She looked embarrassed. "I--maybe a little--"
"You're thinking like a human," Patrick said coolly. He was more insulted than hurt; he'd been professional the entire time he'd been doing this, through everything, and now they thought he'd be wounded. Like a mortal. Like--like Katy. "What do I care if the two of you keep each other company? I'm not there. I can't be, all the time. You can."
"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
"Of course it does. It's only sensible. Andy and Bob keep their own counsel, and you and Pete are friends. I would have been more surprised if you hadn't done something. I’m actually a little surprised you haven’t had sex.” He shrugged. "He and I are not married, and you have no chance of becoming pregnant, so what does it matter?"
She was quiet for a long time. Patrick sighed and turned to look at her.
Ashlee's expression was unreadable. "You should speak to him about this," she finally said. "I just. I wanted to tell you before you found out some other way." She got to her feet.
"Ashlee?" Patrick asked. She turned to look at him. "When I am human again-"
"Don’t worry," she said dryly, smiling. "I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice." Her smile was impish. Not a word he’d ever used before, but it suited her. "I can do better than that." She turned and walked back outside.
Patrick shook his head. "Everyone's gone crazy," he muttered, and turned the page to start a new sketch.
*
Most of Monday, Patrick spent in the small shed out back, near the river.
It wasn't anything much to look at: four walls and a roof, a neatly-packed dirt floor. It was just large enough to hold a table filled with unlit candles, and the pond where the lit ones floated. Maintaining it, adding to it, was part of Patrick's job, but he wasn't fond of it. He never let the others come with him, let alone-
"This is like church," Pete mused, "if it was really creepy. And looked like a set design from that crappy Amityville Horror remake."
It was only years of experience that kept Patrick from dropping the still-unlit candle to the ground. "What are you doing here?" he asked, glancing over. Pete was in a hoodie and pajama pants with little turtles on them; the turtles appeared to be wearing Santa hats.
"I have no idea," Pete said. "Went to sleep, had this really confusing dream about a train going through a tunnel, and now I'm here." He was looking around. "What is this? I haven't seen it before."
Patrick blinked. Pete was always doing that: asking him the names of things that didn't have names, just functions. "It's where we keep the candles," he said.
"And the candles are-"
"Each lit candle is someone whose bargain I have fulfilled." He lit the candle in his hand, turned it so Pete could see. It was neatly etched in English; he'd seen others floating down the river occasionally, in Japanese and a few other languages. Whatever language was written there, he could read; it was, after all, part of his job. "This is a guy named Shaant. You don't know him, he's in a band.”
Patrick felt Pete's eyes on him as he crouched and carefully set the candle in the water, watched it bob there in the haloed darkness.
"And he's going to hell," Pete finally said.
Patrick sighed. "Yes," he said, and waited for the fight.
But it never came; Pete just sat next to him on the ground and looked out at the water. "It's beautiful," he said quietly. "I mean, if you can ignore why there are a bunch of candles in the water, anyway."
"I can't," Patrick said simply. He sat down next to Pete. They really were pretty, if you stopped to look at them. He wondered why he hadn’t, before now.
"Do you have to do this?" Pete glanced at him. "It's-is it a contractual thing?"
"Not really." Patrick shook his head. "I think it's more make-work than anything else. If I never lit the candle, the person would still go to hell--and if someone happened to knock one over," he added, watching Pete casually reach towards the water, "it wouldn't break the contract."
"...dammit." Pete sat back. "Can I ask what happened? With the guy, I mean. Shant."
"Shaant," Patrick corrected. "He cheated on his girlfriend. She posted naked pictures of him online. He didn’t seem to care, let alone be hurt by it, so she opted for something a little more drastic.” He shrugged. “It’s not rocket science.”
Pete snorted. "What kind of baby can't handle their ex posting naked pictures of them online? My-" He looked at Patrick. "I mean. That's awful, no, terrible, that poor thing."
"It's not for you to judge someone's reasoning," Patrick said, but he was smiling. "Do you want to see the rest of them?"
"The rest of--" Pete looked at the water, the gently floating candles. "I thought this was it."
"Uh, not really." Patrick got to his feet and took Pete's hand, helping him up. "Come on."
He led Pete around the side of the building, still holding his hand. The shack was butted up against the water, with an opening near the back to allow water in--and candles out.
"Jesus Christ," Pete said faintly. His fingers tightened around Patrick's. "This is all you?"
The bay outside was filled with candles, each one a pinprick of light gleaming in the dull grey as far as the eye could see. There was just enough space between each to see water, but there were never too many, never enough to crowd each other. The far shore was a gray and distant shape rather than a sight to see on its own.
"Oh, no," Patrick said. "A lot of them are mine, but most of the rest are from Japan. Sometimes you’ll see one or two from other places, but I’ve never met any of their caretakers. I've never even met Enma-san."
"Enma-san?" Pete blinked. "That's--what, Hell Girl?"
"Enma Ai," Patrick said. He didn't have to fake the reverence in his voice; how could he not be reverent, when dealing with the first of them? "She's been doing this a lot longer than I have."
"Hota--um. Someone I talked to said she'd retired," Pete said. "Or been forcibly retired, whatever."
Patrick nodded. "It's possible; it's not like we get together for lunch or anything. But I hope not. She..." He took a breath.
How could he explain this? He'd been doing this for a long time, as he counted it; time had no meaning in the sunless lands, but over a hundred years could rack up a lot of souls. He'd done the math once, and it had worked out to a bit over forty thousand people he'd ushered to hell. Enma Ai had done it for a lot longer than that, and she'd never cracked, not once. And if she had, eventually, he couldn't exactly blame her.
Not that he would ever say it out loud, of course. He wasn't stupid.
"She did her job," Patrick finally said. He looked out at the water, at each softly floating light. "It's all anyone can ask."
They sat in silence for a while. It was late, there were a hundred other things Patrick should have been doing. God only knew what kind of rest Pete was getting by being here; it certainly wasn't REM sleep. But it was nice to be sitting here, holding his lover's hand and feeling his warmth, watching something lovely that came out of something awful. Maybe this was what people did, out in the world.
"I love you," he said quietly.
Pete leaned in and kissed his mouth. "I love you too."
*
Pete disappeared a few minutes later, in the middle of a conversation. "That's not rea-" he'd said, frowning, and vanished.
Patrick wasn't surprised; the rare occasions Pete had appeared in the sunless lands, he'd gone back to the waking world just as suddenly as he appeared. He was always apologetic about it the next time Patrick saw him, even as many times as Patrick had told him it was silly to apologize for something he literally had no control over.
"He's very cute," Katy said idly, popping up behind him. "I can certainly see why you like having him around."
Patrick shifted to look at her. This time she was in a black-and-white polka dot dress and black sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. "You look nice," he said. "Though I do wonder what you're doing here, considering that it's got to be late where you're from."
She sat next to him on the riverbank. "What makes you think I'm from there?"
"Are you saying you're not?"
Katy just smiled and reached out, using one finger to push a candle away before it could bump into the shore. She was very careful not to touch the water, Patrick noticed; mortals didn't usually grasp that right away.
"A very nice boy," she murmured, "and polite besides. More polite than he used to be." Her eyes were innocent. "Unless I heard wrong, of course."
"How did you hear at all?" Patrick asked, baffled. "You've never really answered my question."
"You ask a lot of questions," Katy said. "If you want to narrow it down-"
"Who are you?" He frowned. "You can't be a mortal; mortals don't know this many things, this many of the rules, unless someone tells them. But you're not one of us; you disappear for days at a time, and I never see you here for longer than a few minutes at a time.”
Katy looked at him for a long time, then leaned in and brushed her mouth over his cheek. It wasn't a kiss, not quite.
"I'm someone who has your best interests at heart," she murmured. "I'm someone who loves you."
Then she was gone, too.
*
That night, when the waking world was starting to surge forward and begin its day, Patrick wandered the soft places.
Mortals would call it dreaming, he supposed; he experienced it more as a vivid daydream. He had them sometimes--more often when he'd found Pete, less often since. He spent most of his time peering at the waking world, now, instead of wandering off and into the soft places that existed between the two.
He was very careful. He went to the quiet places, the ones not populated by dreamers: farmland, or lost palaces and temples, exotic fairs half-remembered by children and the aged. He wandered around, taking in each sight in its turn, careful to never interact with actual dreamers.
He went to Japan first and visited a family's shrine, destroyed in a fire at least a century before. He was cordial to the small gods that lived there, as was only polite; they, in turn, were polite to him, because even the least of them knew it would be foolish to irritate the one they knew of as Jigoko Shonen.
He walked around a ren faire that had stayed one weekend in Virginia, eyeing the costumes and taking the cries of "you're dressed so strangely, visitor!" with good nature; it was, after all, part of the nature of the beast. He had cheesecake on a stick and a turkey leg, and watched a puppet show, and wished Pete was there when he caught sight of a group of men in kilts and nothing else.
Then there was the farmhouse.
It was nondescript--plain wood, room for animals out back, a well in the side yard--except for the scorch marks that marred it. It still stood, but it looked like a strong wind would make it list to one side; a firm smack, and it would collapse in a heap. Patrick frowned and took a step closer.
When he did, he saw the other buildings: a number of other farmhouses, just as small if not smaller, and a barn in the center of town. Next to the barn was the charred wreck of what might have, perhaps, been a gazebo.
Patrick looked at them for a long time, and wondered why he was shivering so much.
*
"-thing to remember is that good posture never hurt anyone, but bad posture can make your audience less interested in what you're trying to say. And what's the--"
You learn about posture in speech class? Patrick asked. The teaching assistant--the class didn't rate an actual professor, Pete had informed him solemnly one night over manicotti--was tiny and pretty, with short dark hair with bleached streaks in it. Her t-shirt was a little baggy, but her jeans were almost as tight as Pete’s own. That seems fairly pointless.
Not my idea, Pete said. He paged through his notes while Patrick peeked. Pete's handwriting was cramped, muddled. Cass isn't so bad, though. She's a junior, but you wouldn't know it to look at her.
Ohhhh, Patrick teased. Cass is a junior. I see.
Yes, she is, Pete said, and she's nice. And not my type. Don't be creepy. He started doodling in the margins of his notebook, eyes fixed ahead. You okay? You've been busy lately.
Fits and starts. You know how it works. Patrick let out a breath. Weird dreams. Or--not dreams, you know.
As long as I'm not riding a horse again, I'm all for it, Pete said. Tell me about it over dinner? I'll cook.
You always cook.
Because I have working taste buds.
Fair enough, Patrick said, smiling, and settled in to listen for the rest of the period.
*
Patrick was on his way out when Katy stepped into his path, blocking his way. "You should read this," she said seriously, and shoved a stack of index cards at him.
Patrick didn't take them; he was too startled for the grasping reflex to kick in. "I should do nothing you say," he told her. "I tend not to listen to random advice from complete strangers. Back away. Better yet, get out."
"Not until you read this," she said, mouth pinched into a little line. "It's important." And she reached out-reached out, like this was something she did every day, casually touching a dead man-and put the cards in his hand, folding his fingers over them. "Read this, and I'll leave. I promise."
"You'll leave anyway," Patrick said absently, and glanced down. The cramped handwriting was familiar, if not something he saw every day. He only saw one person actually write things down these days, and he-
He looked up at her, eyes widening. "These are Pete's notes."
"They are," Katy agreed. "I borrowed them."
"You stole them! How-what gives you the right-"
"I told you, I have your best interests at heart." Katy's eyes were soft. "Please. Just...just look at them."
Patrick let out a breath. "If it'll make you leave," he muttered, and glanced down at them again.
They were, in fact, Pete's index cards for his speech. The handwriting was a mess, but the idea was presented thoughtfully enough: Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, son of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz Junior, son of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. He, in turn, was the oldest son of Eva and George Wentz, late of Chicag--
Patrick blinked. "That name's familiar," he murmured, and tried to think.
Not George, so much, but hadn't he known an Eva, once? Or--not an Eva, but her maiden name, Peppar, that stood out. He'd known someone named Peppar, once, a long time ago. An older man, tall for back then, with gray hair and darker eyes, and a penchant for expensive suits and cigars-
"Phil," he said softly, hardly aware he was speaking. "Phillip Peppar."
"Phil Peppar the Pepper King," Katy murmured. "Tell me about him."
"He was-I knew him," Patrick said, staring off. He'd been young, once, his glasses the most expensive thing he owned, cheap hand-me-down suits and two parents getting on in years. He'd had a sister who died before he was born, and a brother--God, what was his name?--married with kids of his own, out in Missouri. He was assistant manager of a textile mill, and his children were named Kenneth and Sara, and his name, his name was--
"Kevin!" Patrick burst out. "His name was Kevin, and he couldn't come back to Keep's Corner because he had a family of his own."
"And you were always the good son," Katy murmured. "What did you do there? I don't think you ever told me."
He hadn't, but that made sense; he'd never told anyone. "A bank," Patrick said. "I worked in a bank."
"Did Phil work in the bank?"
"Yes-no! He was the bank manager. It was him, and me, and Mrs.-Mrs. Henrie, she was in her sixties and had never gotten married. She smelled like my grandmother. I don't think she liked me much."
Katy made a disappointed sound. "Did you get along with them?"
"It was fine," Patrick said, staring off. He hardly noticed he was still holding the index cards. "She didn't like me much, but Phillip was always asking me about Chicago. He went there sometimes, on weekends or for bank business." He frowned. "He was there a lot, come to think of it."
"He was nice?"
Patrick smiled. "Not like that. He had a string of women in the city, dancers and singers and bored housewives. I--" He flushed. "I might've had a tiny crush on him, but nothing big, nothing I ever thought would come of it. I thought maybe when I got back to the city-"
But he hadn't, had he? Something had happened.
"Something happened," Patrick said faintly.
"Yes," Katy murmured, leaning in close, "something did." She tilted her head, cupping one hand around his ear, and whispered, "He killed you."
Patrick reared back-
--and remembered.
Katy stood up straight and handed him a dark green poppet with a thin red string around its neck. She was clad in white robes now, part of him noticed, and didn't particularly care. "Find him," she whispered. "You'll know what to do."
Patrick looked at her for a moment, then at the doll, and left.
*
He was waiting in Pete's apartment when he returned home.
"Hey," Pete said, putting his messenger bag down by the door. He carried a couple of bags over to the kitchen table. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a total cocksock, and I had to get a book I reserved at the library. But I stopped by the grocery store, and they had this really nice ricotta-"
Pete really did look like Phillip, Patrick noticed; at least, around the eyes and the sly way he smiled. Why hadn't he noticed it before?
"--so it should really f--" Pete stopped, frowning, and looked up at him. "What's wrong? You look like crap."
Patrick looked at him. Pete, startled, took a step back.
"You have sinned," Patrick said, empty as the ocean. "You deserve judgment."
And they were gone.
ii. doc, there’s a hole where something was
The doorbell rang. Bill looked up from his notes and yelled, "Pete! It's for you!"
That wasn't necessarily true--it could have been one of their neighbors, or maybe Adam had decided spur-of-the-moment to show up and ask him to dinner, please *God*-but odds were, it was for Pete. Probably Patrick, but maybe takeout. Maybe Thai or that really good Mexican place a couple blocks over-
"I'll get it!" Bill yelled, getting to his feet. His thesis was one thing, but he was starving. God, dumplings sounded great right about now, he thought, opening the door--
--and almost closed it in their faces. Okay, definitely not takeout. Fuck.
"Oh, God, not you again," Bill said. He peeked around the corner, then braced himself and opened the door all the way. "You know, one more guy and you could have a wicked good Paramore cover band thing going on." He nodded at Ashlee. "Granted, your hair could be a more vibrant red--"
"Can we come in?" she asked, arms crossed over her chest. She looked mulish, but Bill was okay with that; it was a dozen times better than the last time he'd seen her this close, when she looked like the Cryptkeeper's somewhat-hot daughter. Her hood was down, her hair drawn back from her face, and something white gleamed near her hairline.
Bill looked at her for a minute, then pointed to the side of her forehead. "You have, um. Stuff showing," he said, gesturing vaguely.
"Stuff", nothing; she had skullcap showing. And now that he was looking, her fingers looked-thin. No, not thin, skeletal. Like-
Ashlee reached up to check, then jerked her hand down. She tugged her hoodie down over the offending bit and scowled at him. "Can we come in or not?" she said tightly. "We'd rather not discuss this in your hallway."
"Do you need permission to enter?" Bill said, not blinking. Like he knew. Pete was remarkably vague about this shit, and frankly, he didn't want to know.
"No, we don't need permission!" she yelled. "We're not vampires!" She kept scowling. "It's just. Nice."
"Dead people have manners. Huh. Funny, I don't remember you having manners when you kidnapped me--"
"Oh, whatever, those were extenuating circumstances."
"You stole me out of my dorm room, you harridan--"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bob sighed, and brushed past both of them. "We don't have to be nice, Bill, it's just common courtesy."
Andy followed him in, looking at the two of them like they were idiots. Ashlee kept glaring for another few seconds, then followed the two of them in. The door hadn't had time to close all the way when she demanded, "When was the last time you saw Pete?"
Bill frowned. "I don't know. A day or so. He's working on something for his speech class, and I have my thesis, so we're both keeping kind of weird hours. Why?"
"We need your help," Ashlee started, but Bob cut her off.
"Patrick needs your help," he said, "whether he knows it or not."
"Yes, and to help Patrick he has to help us," Ashlee said, "so can I talk to him? Please?"
Bob held up his hands and backed off a step. Andy didn't say anything. That didn't surprise Bill, not really; even when he'd been their "guest", Andy hadn't seemed particularly chatty.
"Something's happened," Ashlee said, shoving her hood down. Bill was relieved to see that everything was covered up again. "He-he got some bad news."
"Katy told him," Bob said, narrowing his eyes. Bill reflexively started to feel bad for Katy, whoever she was; even if Bob had been a regular human, he couldn't imagine anyone being stupid enough to get Bob mad at her. Or him. "You know she did."
"If she did," Andy said, "we'll deal with it. If we can." He shook his head and looked at Ashlee. "If he's going to help us, we might as well tell him all of it."
"Tell me all of what?" Bill said. "Where's Pete?"
The three of them exchanged a look.
"That's the problem," Bob said quietly. "We're...not entirely sure." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We don't know where Patrick is, either."
Bill shoved his glasses back up on his nose. "What do you mean, you don't know where Patrick is?"
"Patrick's-gone somewhere," Ashlee said. She looked uncomfortable. "And we're pretty sure he has Pete with him."
*
part iii