Panic! fic: Sometimes You’re Already There
Sometimes You’re Already There | PG-13 | ~ 6,000
Spencer/Jon, Brendon/Ryan-ish
Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.
A/N: So a little while ago I asked for amnesty for this Ghost Whisperer AU thing I tricked myself into writing, and most of you wouldn’t give it to me. So you only have yourselves to blame. Spencer sees dead people. Crack that gets weirdly angsty at parts. Title is from Not Going Home by The Elected. Quickly written and unbeta'd so please point out any errors!
Sometimes You’re Already There
Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.
In his real life, Spencer runs a bookshop. He employs two out of the three Alexes that hang around after school. His best friend cuts hair across the street, and brings him smoothies or coffee or snacks on all his breaks. He has an embarrassing crush on the guy who comes in once a month to pick up a copy of Country Living magazine.
On the other hand, he sees dead people.
*
At eight pm, Spencer locks up the front of the shop and wanders back towards his office. It’s more of a storage room than an office, but it’s got a desk and a file cabinet and a little fridge filled with beer. Brendon’s got his laptop open, sprawled on the low-slung couch.
“Here we go,” Brendon says. He bats at his neck with one hand, where Ryan’s poking him with a pencil. This is a sure sign that Ryan’s bored. Ryan gets bored pretty easily, for a ghost.
“Here we go,” Brendon says again, “-Ryan, quit it.” He pouts in Ryan’s general direction, since he can’t actually see him.
No, that privilege is all Spencer’s, and he’s never been able to adequately describe Ryan to anyone. He’s sort of like how a riverboat gambler might look if he suddenly decided to become a gay cowboy - pinstripe pants, hobo gloves, paisley vest, neckerchief, headband. Spencer has absolutely no idea when Ryan died. Spencer doesn’t even think Ryan knows.
“Here we go?” Spencer prompts, leaning back against his desk.
“Possibly possessed teenager living in what used to be a morgue at a funeral home,” Brendon says. “The parents made it into his bedroom, how messed up is that?”
“No,” Ryan says.
Spencer shakes his head. “No.”
Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and perches on the sofa arm next to Brendon’s head. He narrows his eyes on the computer screen and says, “All teenagers are possessed, dude, it’s a waste of time.”
“Ryan says all teenagers are possessed,” Spencer automatically translates for Brendon.
Brendon pulls a face. “Ryan can bite me.”
Spencer tells Ryan, “No,” before he can even try anything.
Ryan rolls his eyes and says, “Brendon can kiss my cold, dead ass.”
“I’m not saying that. You two need to find a way to communicate that does not involve me.”
“You need to get him a collar with a bell on it. And a chalkboard,” Brendon says. “Or, you know, he can suck my dick.”
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. He really wishes he could go back to when Brendon didn’t know about Ryan, just eleven glorious months ago.
“Oh, wait, wait, this guy-he’s got a thing with photos. Photos getting fucked up, look.” He turns the laptop so Spencer can see. He’s on a product forum for digital photography - Spencer has no idea how Brendon finds these things. A combination of random web searches and good luck. Or really bad luck, if you’re Spencer.
“What am I looking at?” Spencer asks.
“That.” Brendon jabs a finger at the screen. ‘That’ turns out to be a photo with a shadowy blob smack dab in the middle. Despite himself, Spencer’s sort of intrigued.
“Huh.”
“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Ryan says.
Spencer just gives him a look.
Ryan frowns at him. “The dude in the icon, Spence, what the fuck.”
The dude in the icon is, presumably, JWalk<3sCats, since he’s holding a kitten up to his face. He’s also, Spencer’s pretty sure, Country Living Magazine Guy. “Shit.”
Brendon grins at him. “Let’s go snoop!”
“You know snooping’s illegal, right?” Spencer says.
“Snooping is only illegal if they know you’re snooping.” He clicks over to JWalk<3sCats profile. “It says here he owns JWalk Studios, downtown Chicago, shouldn’t be that hard to find. We’re gonna be prospective clients, my dear Spence, it’ll be awesome.”
“I hope it’s fetish photography,” Ryan says.
“It’s not fetish photography,” Spencer says.
“Ryan just wants to see my naked body,” Brendon says.
Ryan snorts. “Like I haven’t already?”
“I didn’t want to know that,” Spencer says. He’s relatively certain Ryan’s seen him naked, too, but he doesn’t like to think about it. It’s too weird, especially since he’s had Ryan hanging around him since he was, like, eight.
“Know what? That Ryan watches me jerk off-oh, hey, can ghosts, you know,” Brendon makes an obscene hand gesture and Spencer covers his eyes with a palm, because he can’t believe his life.
*
Spencer has known Brendon for the better part of two years, and they really are best friends. He’s the sort of guy who gets completely under your skin - like Gabe, only more endearing. Brendon doesn’t take no for an answer, and he’s unbelievably trusting, and even without Ryan’s almost constant teasing Brendon probably still would’ve taken Spencer’s I-see-ghosts claim for the truth.
Spencer wouldn’t have said anything to Brendon about it at all except a) Brendon is his living best friend, and b) he’d had a dead dude following him around for nearly a week.
It turns out the ghost had been his downstairs neighbor, the one with the dog Brendon liked so much. Once Brendon agreed to adopt Dylan, the guy had just disappeared. Spencer’s never really sure where they go. He likes to think they drift off to a better place, but Ryan’s been there for going on fifteen years, and Spencer has a feeling he’ll never get rid of him.
So Brendon now thinks it’s awesome and fun to search out hauntings and talk to ghosts and shit. Spencer’s just really surprised neither of them have been arrested yet.
JWalk Studios is in a slightly rundown building in a slightly rundown part of town.
“Classy,” Ryan says, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
“You didn’t have to come,” Spencer says.
“Of course I did. This is the best part of my day, do you think Brendon’s going to use the Russian accent again?”
“No,” Spencer says, giving Brendon a pointed look, “Brendon is not going to use the Russian accent again.”
“Oh, come on,” Brendon says. “My accents are awesome.”
Spencer ignores that patently false claim and says, “So what’s our story?”
Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer’s. “We’re doing a photo shoot. I made an appointment and everything, it’ll be perfect.”
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “And why are we getting our pictures taken?”
“Does it matter?” Brendon shrugs. “Dude’s not gonna care, right? Oh, oh,” he waves a hand around, “we can be lovers, that’s awesome, I’m awesome.”
“We can’t be lovers,” Spencer says. He makes a face, because ew. There might have been a time when Spencer was attracted to Brendon, but that was before he’d seen him eat an entire pot of spaghettios.
“This is fantastic,” Ryan says, a little too gleefully for Spencer’s comfort.
“No,” Spencer says. “No, it’s not.”
*
Country Living Magazine Guy looks like shit.
He shakes Brendon’s hand and says, “Hey, I’m Jon,” and smiles. But it’s a weak smile, and they’re dark smudges under his eyes and his hair looks like maybe he woke up three days ago and hasn’t touched it since.
Which, okay, there’s obviously something wrong here, but he’s still supposed to be a professional, right?
He’s still hot, though. Spencer feels an embarrassing flush start up from his throat when Jon switches his attention off Brendon and onto him.
Jon cocks his head. “I know you from somewhere,” he says, then snaps his fingers a lot and says, “Wait, wait, Bookworm, right? You work the counter.”
“I, uh-”
“He owns the whole store,” Brendon says, throwing an arm over Spencer’s shoulder and squeezing. “It’s where we hang, you know, when we’re not going out and, um, holding hands and playing putt-putt.”
Brendon’s idea of dating was clearly forged in the fourth grade.
Spencer scowls and shrugs Brendon off him.
Jon quirks an eyebrow at them, but looks too tired to actually care about anything at all. “Uh, okay. Should we get started?”
*
No one in their right mind believes Spencer can see dead people, at least not right away. Brendon hadn’t exactly been a hard sell, but even he kind of laughed him off at first, like maybe Spencer was joking, even though the last thing Spencer would ever joke about is fucking ghosts. Spencer doesn’t mind that, though. It’s the crazies who look like they’ve been waiting their whole life for Spencer’s revelation of weirdness that bother him the most. Crystal-wielding hippie séance groupies, and the people who prey on them. Like Gabe Saporta.
“I believe I have something of yours,” Gabe says, pushing open Bookworm’s front door. The bell jingles, then jingles again when Ryan taps it with a finger. He likes to be announced.
“Charlatan,” Ryan huffs.
“I heard that,” Gabe says. He tugs on the collar of his Members Only jacket. Seeing Gabe and Ryan together is always a trip; Gabe’s 80s fitness guru style to Ryan’s-whatever.
“Fake,” Ryan says. One of his favorite pastimes, besides taunting Brendon, is following Gabe around. Gabe can hear him, but he can’t see him; it’s kind of weird. He owns Madame Gabriel’s Cave of Psychic Wonders next door, pretends to be a gypsy, and, as far as Spencer can tell, hardly ever actually talks to any dead people except Ryan.
“I’m not a fake, my friend. The spirits speak to me, they tell me secrets of the Beyond.” Gabe wiggles his fingers and grins a shark grin and Ryan’s scowl deepens.
“The spirits hate you,” Ryan says.
Spencer knows the spirits hate Gabe because he never tells the truth. The truth, Gabe always says, is never what people want to hear.
Spencer - however unwilling - caters to the dead, but Gabe caters to the living.
“Anyway,” Gabe says, leaning a hip against the front counter, “Bill’s told me you’ve been hanging around Jonny Walker.”
Spencer blinks. “What?”
“Jonny Walker. Handsome fellow, loves cats and rooster kitsch, on the short side of short.” Gabe hovers a hand around his waist, which is an exaggeration, even if Gabe himself is close to eleven feet tall.
“You know him,” Spencer says, slowly.
Gabe shrugs. “Old friend of Bill’s. Bill had an extremely messy falling out with this dude, Conrad. Walker didn’t officially choose sides, but stuck close to Conrad anyway, and then the guy up and disappears.”
“Jon?”
“Conrad,” Gabe says. He presses a finger to the side of his nose. “If you ask me, he’s dead.”
Spencer shakes his head. Something’s tormenting Jon Walker, yeah, but Spencer hadn’t found any evidence of a ghost when they’d been at his studio. A human ghost, at any rate. There’d been lots and lots of cats. All over the place.
“You’ll see, Smith, the Cobra knows all,” Gabe says, and Ryan chucks a book at his head.
*
Brendon gets weepy. Ryan finds this hysterical, so Spencer’s usually caught looking constipated, trying not to laugh along with Ryan when Brendon explains to a loved one how the ghost of their sister just wants to give them one last hug.
Seriously, Spencer’s a pretty shitty medium.
Afterwards, Brendon pokes him in the belly and calls him a shithead. Spencer can’t help it, though. He’s known Ryan for far too long.
*
Brendon says, “All right, I’ve got it.” He’s got his elbows on his knees, leaning over the laptop open on Spencer’s battered coffee table.
“Got what?”
“Clearly a venereal disease,” Ryan says. He’s looking up at the ceiling, frowning, which means he’s brooding about Brendon’s date last night.
Spencer grimaces. “Please.”
Half of Ryan’s mouth quirks up. “No, really, you should have seen the guy’s dic-”
“Not listening, not listening,” Spencer says, clapping his hands over his ears. He does a few la, la, las for good measure.
Brendon looks at him funny. “What-oh, wait, Ryan totally watched me fuck, didn’t he?”
“Not listening,” Spencer says, because at some point his brain is going to melt from all the truly gross images Ryan and Brendon have collectively put in there - he doesn’t deserve this.
“Ryan wishes he could have this sweet ass,” Brendon says, and Ryan flips him off and disappears and Spencer does not want to think about what that probably means about Ryan and his wishes. It’s fucked up, is what it is.
“I hate everyone,” Spencer says.
“That’s nice,” Brendon says. “Do you want to hear about my awesome find now?”
“If it’s about a dead person, not really.” In the olden days, back when he was in high school, ghosts came and found Spencer. And then apparently word got around that Spencer could be sort of a bitch - he’d been thirteen, what teenager wants spooks hanging around, ruining everything? - and had a bitchy ghost sidekick and the flow shrunk down to a trickle, and never picked up again, even when Spencer - allegedly - mellowed with age. If he didn’t have Brendon, he’d probably only talk to a few ghosts a year, maybe less.
Brendon ignores him and says, “There’s a dead guy still sending Twitter updates. It’s freaking people out.”
Spencer sighs and rubs his fingers over his forehead. “Could be a hack.” It probably is a hack. Most ghosts don’t know how to manipulate solid matter - Ryan’s kind of an anomaly. “Whose Twitter is it?”
Brendon beams at him. “Pete Wentz.”
*
Spencer wishes they’d never tracked down Pete Wentz’s parents, and then his friend Joe, and then Pete Wentz, because Pete Wentz is like Ryan, only he’s a fuckton more annoying.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Pete says. “I’ve got a shitload left to do, dude, my life was not meant to be like this.”
“You don’t have a life, Pete. You’re dead.” This is possibly the fifteenth time Spencer’s tried to explain this. It’s getting old.
“Exactly. Exactly, Spence, you see my problem.” He spreads his hands. “What’s Patrick going to do without my wit? My unique view of the world, my amazing dialog-”
“Fucking god, shut up,” Spencer says, because all Pete’s talked about for the past two days is his best friend Patrick and his dog.
Ryan, sitting on the front counter, swings his legs back and forth and grins. Ryan’s having a grand old time. Spencer wants to punch him.
“Um.”
Spencer jerks his head up to see Country Living Magazine Guy, Jon Walker, holding the door open - it hasn’t quite reached the bell yet. Spencer’s face flushes. He desperately wishes one of the Alexes was there, or Brendon even, because now it just looks like he’s been talking to himself.
Of course, it’s not like Jon doesn’t already think he’s crazy. Spencer doesn’t usually deal with animal ghosts, so it’s not his fault that he’d thought all the fucking cats were real. He’d said, “Cute cat,” about a little gray tabby, reaching out to pet it, and Jon had just looked at him blankly, because Spencer had been petting fucking air. Jon Walker’s apparently, like, a magnet for fuzzy incorporeal felines. Spencer’s pretty sure that’s where all the black smudges are coming from on all his photos. There’s no way he’s going to actually tell him that, though.
Pete wolf-whistles. “Hello, Mr. Adorable. Think he’d go belly-up for pets if you scratch behind his ear?”
Spencer grits his teeth and tries his best to ignore him. This is awesome. He’s got two inappropriate ghosts on his hands. He really hopes they don’t catfight over Brendon.
“No, really, it’s like he just rolled out of bed, look at that scruffy hair,” Pete says. “He’s got puppy dog eyes! I think he needs a hug, dude, you should totally volunteer for some cuddles.”
It takes all of Spencer’s willpower not to tell Pete to fuck off.
Ryan’s disappeared, but Spencer can hear him laughing.
“Hey,” Jon says, and then he smiles, and his eyes crinkle up at the edges, and something inside of Spencer just melts. Oh, this is trouble.
“Hi,” Spencer says, and, “Can I help-” just as Jon shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and says, “So, we’re having a séance next door,” and Spencer just wants to kill everyone. Or, actually, wow, that’d probably be his worst nightmare. He seriously can’t catch a break.
*
“This is stupid,” Spencer hisses in Gabe’s ear. The scent of burning incense is so strong inside the shop that Spencer has to fight off a coughing fit.
Gabe bats him away and places both his hands on the giant, brass cobra that’s coiled in the center of the table. It’s fat and squat, hood up, facing Gabe. “The Cobra, gracious and wise, will guide his spirit towards us.”
“Full. Of. Shit,” Ryan sing-songs from behind Spencer.
The only good thing about this, as far as Spencer is concerned, is Jon’s warm hand in his. Bill, Gabe’s co-conspirator and business partner of sorts, is across from them, looking sullen but determined. Pete’s sitting cross-legged on a side table filled with knick-knacks, watching them with big, fascinated eyes.
“This is awesome,” Pete says, “I’ve never been to one of these before.”
“Everyone must be quiet,” Gabe says pointedly, before clearing his throat and doing his Mekka Lekka Hi crap. Long live Jambi.
Gabe likes to keep it vague, which is why he says, “I call to the guiding souls of the dead to bring forth the spirits close to us,” and doesn’t just ask for this Conrad guy.
Bill’s grandmother shows up, like always. She looks pissed at Gabe. Like always.
And then come all the cats. Seriously, there’s a least ten of them, all shapes and sizes and colors, and one even curls up purring in Spencer’s lap.
Gabe cocks his head and asks, “Was that a meow?”
*
Spencer isn’t going to say that Tom Conrad isn’t dead. Conrad could be dead - his ghost doesn’t have to hang around. That doesn’t always happen. So Spencer isn’t going to commit to anything, but he does put out some feelers, just to see what he can find out.
His best feeler is basically Brendon.
In the meantime, though, he has got to get rid of Pete.
“Tell me what you need,” Spencer says. He’s willing to do anything to get Pete out of his hair. Pete watches him sleep, he knows he does.
Pete says, “Patrick.”
“Okay,” Spencer says. “Let’s go.”
*
Pete is the only ghost that Spencer’s met, other than Ryan, that can manipulate solid matter. Spencer’d always thought it was an age thing, but Pete’s only been dead for a couple months, so he really has no idea now. It should be helpful, at least, though he’s at a loss as to why Pete hasn’t just tried that by himself already, maybe written Patrick a note.
“I didn’t want to freak him out,” Pete says, bouncing on his heels on Patrick’s front stoop.
Spencer arches an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t think the mysteriously updating Twitter did?”
“Well, I mean,” Pete shrugs, “I didn’t want to spook him.”
“Right,” Spencer says dryly, then rings the doorbell.
Patrick Stump - aka Pattycakes, aka Lunchbox, aka Rickster, aka Stumpy Von Stumperson; Pete has a whole list of nicknames for him, it gives Spencer a headache - is little and plump-cheeked and wearing entirely too much denim.
“He’s depressed,” Pete says, frowning. “That’s his tenth grade jean jacket, the sleeves don’t even fit him anymore. I hope he doesn’t try to grow a mustache.”
Patrick pushes chunky black glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, “Yeah?”
“Trick, Tricky,” Pete says, and throws himself at Patrick and Patrick kind of stumbles backwards as Pete’s incorporeal body catches on him for a split-second before falling straight through.
“What the fuck?” Patrick says. There are dark circles under his eyes, Spencer notes, and he really, really hates this part. He should have brought Brendon.
He never knows exactly what to say, how to start the conversation, how to avoid getting a door slammed in his face. Brendon can be amazingly charming - no one ever stiffly and politely asks him to leave.
“So, uh, Pete Wentz,” Spencer says finally.
Patrick’s eyes narrow.
“Tell him I love him,” Pete says.
“He-”
“Tell him I’ll never leave him,” Pete says, waving his arms around. “Tell him forever means forever, tell him to take a shower or something and burn this jacket, geez-”
“Pete,” Spencer says, exasperated, and Patrick’s narrow stare turns slightly confused and concerned.
Patrick asks, “What’s going on?”
“Look,” Spencer says, “Pete’s still here,” and then Patrick punches him.
*
“Ow,” Spencer says, gingerly touching the tips of his fingers to the hollow of his cheek.
Brendon’s hovering over him, pushes his hand out of the way and presses an icepack to his face.
“Ow,” Spencer says again, this time from the firm cold pressure against his skin. “How come you never get punched?”
“I’m awesome,” Brendon says absently. “Now hold this still.”
“I’m really sorry about that,” Pete says to Spencer, even though he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds delighted. Tickled.
Spencer lowers the icepack and glares at him.
Pete shrugs. “I’ll take anger over the sad, tragic puppy routine,” he says. “Patrick always had an awesome temper.”
Spencer’s not impressed.
The bell at the front of the shop jingles, reminding Spencer that he has an actual business to run that has nothing to do with ghosts. He drops the icepack on the corner of his desk and says, “I’ve got customers,” and stalks huffily out of his office.
*
Spencer misses the olden days. He misses the years and years where it was just him and Ryan and the occasional lost soul. There was no Brendon and his trusty laptop. No Gabe with his scarves and turbans and color-coordinated track suits. People were intimidated by his serious scowl and his awesome hair, and now he has a beard and a crackpot reputation among the other shop owners along the strip. He doesn’t see how that’s possible, with Gabe right next door, but even the Starbucks’ counter staff whisper about him behind their hands. It’s really fucking tragic.
“I used to have a life,” Spencer says, picking at the label of his beer. “A life that did not involve reuniting loved ones with loved ones who are dead.”
“Deal with it,” Ryan says. He’s being particularly pissy tonight, but then Brendon begged off movie-watching in favor of dinner with Gabe’s friend Ryland.
“A life where I didn’t get punched by random strangers,” Spencer goes on. Patrick and Pete are a problem. He needs to figure out how to make Patrick listen, before Pete makes him an alcoholic. Ryan doesn’t like it when he drinks.
Ryan sighs. “You like it.”
“I do not,” Spencer says, affronted.
“You like it, you like helping people.” Ryan pokes his side. “You’re a squishy marshmallow inside, and it makes your heart swell, admit it. I’ve even see you tear up.”
“Once. Once, Ryan.” And it was a dead kid and her mom; he’s maybe not Brendon, but he’s not made of stone.
“If you didn’t have this, Spencer,” Ryan says, “you’d have no idea what to do with yourself.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d sell books.” He’s got a business degree. He’s got a relatively successful shop. He doesn’t need this.
Ryan plucks the bottle of beer out of Spencer’s hands and sets it aside. “Whatever,” he says. “Just watch the movie.”
*
“Holy shit,” Jon says. “Nice bruise.”
Spencer blushes. “Thanks.” He rings up the Country Living magazine and tries not to stare at the orange tabby draped across Jon’s shoulders. They’ve never shown up with Jon before, but Spencer thinks they’ve finally figured out he can see them. The tabby looks right at him, slowly blinks round, green eyes. There’s a huge blue Persian sitting perfectly still at the end of the aisle behind Jon, watching, waiting. He flicks his fluffy tail and licks his chops.
Spencer very pointedly switches his focus back to Jon.
Jon’s mouth spreads up into a grin. A grin paired with those crinkly eyes, teeth biting into his lower lip. God, he’s adorable, Pete was so right about that.
And then Brendon yells from the back, “This isn’t fair, they’re double teaming me, Spencer, make them stop,” and Jon ducks his head, palming the back of his neck.
He says, “Oh, I’ll-that reminds me. I’ve got your photos? They turned out-I mean, you’re a cute couple.”
Spencer feels like he’s swallowed an orange, and who says that anyway? Does anyone really mean that, when they say cute couple? He shakes his head, silently curses Brendon and Ryan and fucking Pete, and manages, “We’re not really dating.”
Jon keeps his head dipped, looks up at him through his lashes. “Sweet.”
Spencer nods. “Yeah,” he says, and now he’s grinning so hard his face hurts. A lot. He winces and palms his jaw.
Jon leans forward onto the counter, palms against the edge, fingers curled over. They tap a little, agitated. “So, um, Gabe says maybe you can help me out with all the cats.”
*
Patrick tries to shut the door in his face, but Spencer jams his foot in at the last second, and holy fuck that hurts.
“Shit,” he says, eyes watering.
Patrick swings the door wider, but only, it looks like, to gather more force for another slam, and Spencer yelps, “Wait, wait, just hear me out. Please,” because he thinks maybe little bits of his bones are broken.
“Why?” Patrick says.
Spencer takes a deep breath and says, “I know. I know it sucks, it fucking sucks, I get that, but I’m not lying.”
Pete’s subdued today, kicking at pebbles along the walk behind Spencer. Patrick’s eyes unfocus, slipping past Spencer, like maybe he can sense something in the scuffing stone, the skitter of dry leaves, that isn’t just the wind.
Patrick looks tired.
“It was an accident,” Pete says softly from beside him.
“He says it was an accident.”
Patrick’s eyes snap to his. “It wasn’t a fucking accident,” he says, sharp.
“It was,” Pete insists. “I wasn’t thinking right, I wasn’t-I wasn’t thinking ahead, I wasn’t thinking at all. It was an accident.”
“He wasn’t thinking,” Spencer says. “He wasn’t thinking about it being death.”
Pete wraps his arms around his middle. “I wanted everything to just-go away for a while. A day, an hour, a fucking minute, I didn’t want anything to matter anymore.”
Spencer isn’t much of a toucher, but he reaches out to curl a hand around Patrick’s arm; this is how Brendon does it. He says, “He wanted the world to stop, he just never thought it actually would.”
Patrick blinks, fighting tears. “That’s stupid. That’s fucking stupid, Pete,” he yells, and Pete curls tighter into himself, says a quiet, “I know.”
Patrick swipes at his eyes, says angrily, “Where is he? Not that I fucking believe you, but if he’s here, where is he?”
“Uh.” This is where the solid matter thing comes in. He looks at Pete and silently reminds Pete to concentrate, because Ryan says the bigger the object is, the harder it is to really touch, hold on to. “He’s here,” he says, and then Pete moves forward and very carefully folds Patrick up into a hug.
Spencer turns his head and looks away.
*
Ryan had been right. Ryan had been fucking spot on. This, whatever this is. It makes him miserable and twists him up inside. It drives him crazy, but Patrick’s crying and laughing at the same time, slumped down nearly boneless on his front stoop, and Pete has his face buried in Patrick’s neck, fingers tight in his shirt, and Spencer’s sitting in his car, watching, and it’s like he’s found this momentary peace, this deep well of satisfaction and, fuck yeah, his eyes are tearing up a little. This is what he was born to do, and he loves it.
*
Jon’s apartment is worse than his studio.
“Are any of these real?” Spencer asks. There are three cats on the kitchen table, one on top of the refrigerator, two sprawled across the couch, one perched on top of the TV. He can hear some meowing from the hallway, too.
“Two are,” Jon says. He rocks back on his heels, and he’s only half-smiling. He’d told Spencer that he really can’t see or hear them, but he can sense them, and it’s kind of fucking up his life. “And I’ve only had one cat before Clover and Dylan, so I don’t know where they’re all coming from.”
Spencer doesn’t even try to pick out the live ones; they all look the same to him. He’s also not sure how he can actually help. He’s really never dealt with animals before. He fidgets on his feet and stares around the room.
Jon moves closer to him and knocks their shoulders together. “You really can’t see Tom, right?” he says.
Spencer shakes his head. “I haven’t.” He hasn’t, but Brendon hasn’t had any luck tracking him down, either, so.
“Right.” Jon bobs his head. “Right, okay, the cats.”
Spencer gives him a sheepish grin. “I’m not really sure how much help I can be.” Cats are stubborn and independent when they’re alive.
“Dude, anything, I can’t sleep anymore, they’re driving me crazy.”
“Well. What do you do with Clover and Dylan?” Spencer asks.
Jon looks at him blankly.
“When you want them to leave or move or-” He cuts off at Jon’s expression. “You don’t do anything at all.” Spencer can see this. Jon’s a pushover for fuzzy animals, they walk all over him.
A brown, white and gray tabby winds itself around Spencer’s ankles, and Spencer figures that’s exactly why they’re all here.
“They want attention,” Spencer says. He kicks his leg out a little; he can’t touch the little cat, but it doesn’t seem to like the change in the air - it gives him a baleful look, then saunters away, tail up. “And you let them do whatever they want.”
“I can’t actually see them,” Jon points out.
Spencer shrugs. “Maybe you just need a bigger place.”
Jon laughs and says, “Okay,” and, “I’ll think about it,” and Spencer can’t help grinning back at him, blushing, half in embarrassment over the whole situation - does Jon really believe that Spencer can see all these freaking cats?
And then Jon says, “You know, I’m-I really want to kiss you now.”
“Uh.” That pretty much caught Spencer completely by surprise. “All right?”
“Good. Good, so.” Jon catches Spencer’s arm, tugs him around so they’re facing each other, and Spencer doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, it’s not like he’s never done this before.
Spencer’s got a few inches on him, so Jon has to lean up, and Spencer has to duck, and it’s pretty perfect when Spencer’s mouth catches Jon’s chapped lips - when Jon makes this little sound in the back of his throat and shifts his weight against Spencer’s chest.
“The cats listen to you, right?” Jon says against his mouth. He’s got his hands up under Spencer’s shirt, palms flat along his back.
Spencer swallows and thinks about the little brown, gray and white cat and he says, “I’m not sure they even like me.” He grips Jon’s hips, tries to move even closer.
Jon groans and tips his forehead onto Spencer’s shoulder. He says, “You’ll have to hang around more, then,” words muffled by Spencer’s shirt.
Spencer thinks that’s a fine idea. Right exactly then he wants to practice shooing them out of Jon’s bedroom. That is an awesomely fine idea. He’s going to tell Jon that. Or maybe just show him.
*
Jon turns up at Bookworm three days later with Conrad at his elbow; Spencer recognizes him from the photos in Jon’s apartment. Conrad is scruffy-cheeked and unsmiling, and Spencer has a split-second of panic that Conrad’s ghost has finally manifested itself, finally gotten around to haunting Jon, but then Jon introduces him with this goofy, happy grin, and something in Spencer’s chest loosens.
He’d been dreading it, he realizes. There’s perverse satisfaction in what he does, yeah, but he hadn’t wanted that for Jon. Conrad looks vaguely pissed, worn out, like he doesn’t want to be so close to Bill, but this is still so much better.
Spencer doesn’t ask Jon if Conrad’s told him where he’s been all these months. It’s none of his business, first of all, but mostly Spencer doesn’t really think it matters.
*
What strikes Spencer as weird, after all this, after witnessing Pete and Patrick’s reunion, is that Ryan doesn’t touch Brendon. Pencil jabs, pranks, wordless taunting, but no actual touching. And Ryan can do it, does do it with Spencer. Ryan’s never been super demonstrative, but he pokes Spencer and pats him and occasionally loosens up enough for a hug. It’s odd and suspicious, and Spencer doesn’t want to ask Ryan why, because he’s pretty sure he already knows. There’s nothing he can do about that.
“I kind of miss Pete,” Spencer says.
Ryan looks at him incredulously.
“What?” he says, defensive. He knows it’s weird, but he does miss Pete. Maybe not a lot, or all the time. Just-sometimes. When Ryan gets quiet, and Brendon doesn’t find anything new.
“Bingo.” Brendon looks up from his computer screen. He grins - still completely oblivious to the mustache Ryan had sharpied on his face when he’d fallen asleep on the couch earlier; it’s kind of hilarious - and says, “I’ve got the magic touch, dude.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve me getting sucker punched, kicked or spat on,” Spencer says. The spitting is new. This is why he doesn’t like little kids.
Brendon says, earnestly nodding, “I make no promises.”
Spencer sighs. One of these days they’re going to end up captives in a crazy person’s basement. Or in jail. “Fine.” It’s not like he was really going to say no, anyway.
Spencer/Jon, Brendon/Ryan-ish
Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.
A/N: So a little while ago I asked for amnesty for this Ghost Whisperer AU thing I tricked myself into writing, and most of you wouldn’t give it to me. So you only have yourselves to blame. Spencer sees dead people. Crack that gets weirdly angsty at parts. Title is from Not Going Home by The Elected. Quickly written and unbeta'd so please point out any errors!
Sometimes You’re Already There
Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.
In his real life, Spencer runs a bookshop. He employs two out of the three Alexes that hang around after school. His best friend cuts hair across the street, and brings him smoothies or coffee or snacks on all his breaks. He has an embarrassing crush on the guy who comes in once a month to pick up a copy of Country Living magazine.
On the other hand, he sees dead people.
*
At eight pm, Spencer locks up the front of the shop and wanders back towards his office. It’s more of a storage room than an office, but it’s got a desk and a file cabinet and a little fridge filled with beer. Brendon’s got his laptop open, sprawled on the low-slung couch.
“Here we go,” Brendon says. He bats at his neck with one hand, where Ryan’s poking him with a pencil. This is a sure sign that Ryan’s bored. Ryan gets bored pretty easily, for a ghost.
“Here we go,” Brendon says again, “-Ryan, quit it.” He pouts in Ryan’s general direction, since he can’t actually see him.
No, that privilege is all Spencer’s, and he’s never been able to adequately describe Ryan to anyone. He’s sort of like how a riverboat gambler might look if he suddenly decided to become a gay cowboy - pinstripe pants, hobo gloves, paisley vest, neckerchief, headband. Spencer has absolutely no idea when Ryan died. Spencer doesn’t even think Ryan knows.
“Here we go?” Spencer prompts, leaning back against his desk.
“Possibly possessed teenager living in what used to be a morgue at a funeral home,” Brendon says. “The parents made it into his bedroom, how messed up is that?”
“No,” Ryan says.
Spencer shakes his head. “No.”
Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and perches on the sofa arm next to Brendon’s head. He narrows his eyes on the computer screen and says, “All teenagers are possessed, dude, it’s a waste of time.”
“Ryan says all teenagers are possessed,” Spencer automatically translates for Brendon.
Brendon pulls a face. “Ryan can bite me.”
Spencer tells Ryan, “No,” before he can even try anything.
Ryan rolls his eyes and says, “Brendon can kiss my cold, dead ass.”
“I’m not saying that. You two need to find a way to communicate that does not involve me.”
“You need to get him a collar with a bell on it. And a chalkboard,” Brendon says. “Or, you know, he can suck my dick.”
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. He really wishes he could go back to when Brendon didn’t know about Ryan, just eleven glorious months ago.
“Oh, wait, wait, this guy-he’s got a thing with photos. Photos getting fucked up, look.” He turns the laptop so Spencer can see. He’s on a product forum for digital photography - Spencer has no idea how Brendon finds these things. A combination of random web searches and good luck. Or really bad luck, if you’re Spencer.
“What am I looking at?” Spencer asks.
“That.” Brendon jabs a finger at the screen. ‘That’ turns out to be a photo with a shadowy blob smack dab in the middle. Despite himself, Spencer’s sort of intrigued.
“Huh.”
“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Ryan says.
Spencer just gives him a look.
Ryan frowns at him. “The dude in the icon, Spence, what the fuck.”
The dude in the icon is, presumably, JWalk<3sCats, since he’s holding a kitten up to his face. He’s also, Spencer’s pretty sure, Country Living Magazine Guy. “Shit.”
Brendon grins at him. “Let’s go snoop!”
“You know snooping’s illegal, right?” Spencer says.
“Snooping is only illegal if they know you’re snooping.” He clicks over to JWalk<3sCats profile. “It says here he owns JWalk Studios, downtown Chicago, shouldn’t be that hard to find. We’re gonna be prospective clients, my dear Spence, it’ll be awesome.”
“I hope it’s fetish photography,” Ryan says.
“It’s not fetish photography,” Spencer says.
“Ryan just wants to see my naked body,” Brendon says.
Ryan snorts. “Like I haven’t already?”
“I didn’t want to know that,” Spencer says. He’s relatively certain Ryan’s seen him naked, too, but he doesn’t like to think about it. It’s too weird, especially since he’s had Ryan hanging around him since he was, like, eight.
“Know what? That Ryan watches me jerk off-oh, hey, can ghosts, you know,” Brendon makes an obscene hand gesture and Spencer covers his eyes with a palm, because he can’t believe his life.
*
Spencer has known Brendon for the better part of two years, and they really are best friends. He’s the sort of guy who gets completely under your skin - like Gabe, only more endearing. Brendon doesn’t take no for an answer, and he’s unbelievably trusting, and even without Ryan’s almost constant teasing Brendon probably still would’ve taken Spencer’s I-see-ghosts claim for the truth.
Spencer wouldn’t have said anything to Brendon about it at all except a) Brendon is his living best friend, and b) he’d had a dead dude following him around for nearly a week.
It turns out the ghost had been his downstairs neighbor, the one with the dog Brendon liked so much. Once Brendon agreed to adopt Dylan, the guy had just disappeared. Spencer’s never really sure where they go. He likes to think they drift off to a better place, but Ryan’s been there for going on fifteen years, and Spencer has a feeling he’ll never get rid of him.
So Brendon now thinks it’s awesome and fun to search out hauntings and talk to ghosts and shit. Spencer’s just really surprised neither of them have been arrested yet.
JWalk Studios is in a slightly rundown building in a slightly rundown part of town.
“Classy,” Ryan says, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
“You didn’t have to come,” Spencer says.
“Of course I did. This is the best part of my day, do you think Brendon’s going to use the Russian accent again?”
“No,” Spencer says, giving Brendon a pointed look, “Brendon is not going to use the Russian accent again.”
“Oh, come on,” Brendon says. “My accents are awesome.”
Spencer ignores that patently false claim and says, “So what’s our story?”
Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer’s. “We’re doing a photo shoot. I made an appointment and everything, it’ll be perfect.”
Spencer arches an eyebrow. “And why are we getting our pictures taken?”
“Does it matter?” Brendon shrugs. “Dude’s not gonna care, right? Oh, oh,” he waves a hand around, “we can be lovers, that’s awesome, I’m awesome.”
“We can’t be lovers,” Spencer says. He makes a face, because ew. There might have been a time when Spencer was attracted to Brendon, but that was before he’d seen him eat an entire pot of spaghettios.
“This is fantastic,” Ryan says, a little too gleefully for Spencer’s comfort.
“No,” Spencer says. “No, it’s not.”
*
Country Living Magazine Guy looks like shit.
He shakes Brendon’s hand and says, “Hey, I’m Jon,” and smiles. But it’s a weak smile, and they’re dark smudges under his eyes and his hair looks like maybe he woke up three days ago and hasn’t touched it since.
Which, okay, there’s obviously something wrong here, but he’s still supposed to be a professional, right?
He’s still hot, though. Spencer feels an embarrassing flush start up from his throat when Jon switches his attention off Brendon and onto him.
Jon cocks his head. “I know you from somewhere,” he says, then snaps his fingers a lot and says, “Wait, wait, Bookworm, right? You work the counter.”
“I, uh-”
“He owns the whole store,” Brendon says, throwing an arm over Spencer’s shoulder and squeezing. “It’s where we hang, you know, when we’re not going out and, um, holding hands and playing putt-putt.”
Brendon’s idea of dating was clearly forged in the fourth grade.
Spencer scowls and shrugs Brendon off him.
Jon quirks an eyebrow at them, but looks too tired to actually care about anything at all. “Uh, okay. Should we get started?”
*
No one in their right mind believes Spencer can see dead people, at least not right away. Brendon hadn’t exactly been a hard sell, but even he kind of laughed him off at first, like maybe Spencer was joking, even though the last thing Spencer would ever joke about is fucking ghosts. Spencer doesn’t mind that, though. It’s the crazies who look like they’ve been waiting their whole life for Spencer’s revelation of weirdness that bother him the most. Crystal-wielding hippie séance groupies, and the people who prey on them. Like Gabe Saporta.
“I believe I have something of yours,” Gabe says, pushing open Bookworm’s front door. The bell jingles, then jingles again when Ryan taps it with a finger. He likes to be announced.
“Charlatan,” Ryan huffs.
“I heard that,” Gabe says. He tugs on the collar of his Members Only jacket. Seeing Gabe and Ryan together is always a trip; Gabe’s 80s fitness guru style to Ryan’s-whatever.
“Fake,” Ryan says. One of his favorite pastimes, besides taunting Brendon, is following Gabe around. Gabe can hear him, but he can’t see him; it’s kind of weird. He owns Madame Gabriel’s Cave of Psychic Wonders next door, pretends to be a gypsy, and, as far as Spencer can tell, hardly ever actually talks to any dead people except Ryan.
“I’m not a fake, my friend. The spirits speak to me, they tell me secrets of the Beyond.” Gabe wiggles his fingers and grins a shark grin and Ryan’s scowl deepens.
“The spirits hate you,” Ryan says.
Spencer knows the spirits hate Gabe because he never tells the truth. The truth, Gabe always says, is never what people want to hear.
Spencer - however unwilling - caters to the dead, but Gabe caters to the living.
“Anyway,” Gabe says, leaning a hip against the front counter, “Bill’s told me you’ve been hanging around Jonny Walker.”
Spencer blinks. “What?”
“Jonny Walker. Handsome fellow, loves cats and rooster kitsch, on the short side of short.” Gabe hovers a hand around his waist, which is an exaggeration, even if Gabe himself is close to eleven feet tall.
“You know him,” Spencer says, slowly.
Gabe shrugs. “Old friend of Bill’s. Bill had an extremely messy falling out with this dude, Conrad. Walker didn’t officially choose sides, but stuck close to Conrad anyway, and then the guy up and disappears.”
“Jon?”
“Conrad,” Gabe says. He presses a finger to the side of his nose. “If you ask me, he’s dead.”
Spencer shakes his head. Something’s tormenting Jon Walker, yeah, but Spencer hadn’t found any evidence of a ghost when they’d been at his studio. A human ghost, at any rate. There’d been lots and lots of cats. All over the place.
“You’ll see, Smith, the Cobra knows all,” Gabe says, and Ryan chucks a book at his head.
*
Brendon gets weepy. Ryan finds this hysterical, so Spencer’s usually caught looking constipated, trying not to laugh along with Ryan when Brendon explains to a loved one how the ghost of their sister just wants to give them one last hug.
Seriously, Spencer’s a pretty shitty medium.
Afterwards, Brendon pokes him in the belly and calls him a shithead. Spencer can’t help it, though. He’s known Ryan for far too long.
*
Brendon says, “All right, I’ve got it.” He’s got his elbows on his knees, leaning over the laptop open on Spencer’s battered coffee table.
“Got what?”
“Clearly a venereal disease,” Ryan says. He’s looking up at the ceiling, frowning, which means he’s brooding about Brendon’s date last night.
Spencer grimaces. “Please.”
Half of Ryan’s mouth quirks up. “No, really, you should have seen the guy’s dic-”
“Not listening, not listening,” Spencer says, clapping his hands over his ears. He does a few la, la, las for good measure.
Brendon looks at him funny. “What-oh, wait, Ryan totally watched me fuck, didn’t he?”
“Not listening,” Spencer says, because at some point his brain is going to melt from all the truly gross images Ryan and Brendon have collectively put in there - he doesn’t deserve this.
“Ryan wishes he could have this sweet ass,” Brendon says, and Ryan flips him off and disappears and Spencer does not want to think about what that probably means about Ryan and his wishes. It’s fucked up, is what it is.
“I hate everyone,” Spencer says.
“That’s nice,” Brendon says. “Do you want to hear about my awesome find now?”
“If it’s about a dead person, not really.” In the olden days, back when he was in high school, ghosts came and found Spencer. And then apparently word got around that Spencer could be sort of a bitch - he’d been thirteen, what teenager wants spooks hanging around, ruining everything? - and had a bitchy ghost sidekick and the flow shrunk down to a trickle, and never picked up again, even when Spencer - allegedly - mellowed with age. If he didn’t have Brendon, he’d probably only talk to a few ghosts a year, maybe less.
Brendon ignores him and says, “There’s a dead guy still sending Twitter updates. It’s freaking people out.”
Spencer sighs and rubs his fingers over his forehead. “Could be a hack.” It probably is a hack. Most ghosts don’t know how to manipulate solid matter - Ryan’s kind of an anomaly. “Whose Twitter is it?”
Brendon beams at him. “Pete Wentz.”
*
Spencer wishes they’d never tracked down Pete Wentz’s parents, and then his friend Joe, and then Pete Wentz, because Pete Wentz is like Ryan, only he’s a fuckton more annoying.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Pete says. “I’ve got a shitload left to do, dude, my life was not meant to be like this.”
“You don’t have a life, Pete. You’re dead.” This is possibly the fifteenth time Spencer’s tried to explain this. It’s getting old.
“Exactly. Exactly, Spence, you see my problem.” He spreads his hands. “What’s Patrick going to do without my wit? My unique view of the world, my amazing dialog-”
“Fucking god, shut up,” Spencer says, because all Pete’s talked about for the past two days is his best friend Patrick and his dog.
Ryan, sitting on the front counter, swings his legs back and forth and grins. Ryan’s having a grand old time. Spencer wants to punch him.
“Um.”
Spencer jerks his head up to see Country Living Magazine Guy, Jon Walker, holding the door open - it hasn’t quite reached the bell yet. Spencer’s face flushes. He desperately wishes one of the Alexes was there, or Brendon even, because now it just looks like he’s been talking to himself.
Of course, it’s not like Jon doesn’t already think he’s crazy. Spencer doesn’t usually deal with animal ghosts, so it’s not his fault that he’d thought all the fucking cats were real. He’d said, “Cute cat,” about a little gray tabby, reaching out to pet it, and Jon had just looked at him blankly, because Spencer had been petting fucking air. Jon Walker’s apparently, like, a magnet for fuzzy incorporeal felines. Spencer’s pretty sure that’s where all the black smudges are coming from on all his photos. There’s no way he’s going to actually tell him that, though.
Pete wolf-whistles. “Hello, Mr. Adorable. Think he’d go belly-up for pets if you scratch behind his ear?”
Spencer grits his teeth and tries his best to ignore him. This is awesome. He’s got two inappropriate ghosts on his hands. He really hopes they don’t catfight over Brendon.
“No, really, it’s like he just rolled out of bed, look at that scruffy hair,” Pete says. “He’s got puppy dog eyes! I think he needs a hug, dude, you should totally volunteer for some cuddles.”
It takes all of Spencer’s willpower not to tell Pete to fuck off.
Ryan’s disappeared, but Spencer can hear him laughing.
“Hey,” Jon says, and then he smiles, and his eyes crinkle up at the edges, and something inside of Spencer just melts. Oh, this is trouble.
“Hi,” Spencer says, and, “Can I help-” just as Jon shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and says, “So, we’re having a séance next door,” and Spencer just wants to kill everyone. Or, actually, wow, that’d probably be his worst nightmare. He seriously can’t catch a break.
*
“This is stupid,” Spencer hisses in Gabe’s ear. The scent of burning incense is so strong inside the shop that Spencer has to fight off a coughing fit.
Gabe bats him away and places both his hands on the giant, brass cobra that’s coiled in the center of the table. It’s fat and squat, hood up, facing Gabe. “The Cobra, gracious and wise, will guide his spirit towards us.”
“Full. Of. Shit,” Ryan sing-songs from behind Spencer.
The only good thing about this, as far as Spencer is concerned, is Jon’s warm hand in his. Bill, Gabe’s co-conspirator and business partner of sorts, is across from them, looking sullen but determined. Pete’s sitting cross-legged on a side table filled with knick-knacks, watching them with big, fascinated eyes.
“This is awesome,” Pete says, “I’ve never been to one of these before.”
“Everyone must be quiet,” Gabe says pointedly, before clearing his throat and doing his Mekka Lekka Hi crap. Long live Jambi.
Gabe likes to keep it vague, which is why he says, “I call to the guiding souls of the dead to bring forth the spirits close to us,” and doesn’t just ask for this Conrad guy.
Bill’s grandmother shows up, like always. She looks pissed at Gabe. Like always.
And then come all the cats. Seriously, there’s a least ten of them, all shapes and sizes and colors, and one even curls up purring in Spencer’s lap.
Gabe cocks his head and asks, “Was that a meow?”
*
Spencer isn’t going to say that Tom Conrad isn’t dead. Conrad could be dead - his ghost doesn’t have to hang around. That doesn’t always happen. So Spencer isn’t going to commit to anything, but he does put out some feelers, just to see what he can find out.
His best feeler is basically Brendon.
In the meantime, though, he has got to get rid of Pete.
“Tell me what you need,” Spencer says. He’s willing to do anything to get Pete out of his hair. Pete watches him sleep, he knows he does.
Pete says, “Patrick.”
“Okay,” Spencer says. “Let’s go.”
*
Pete is the only ghost that Spencer’s met, other than Ryan, that can manipulate solid matter. Spencer’d always thought it was an age thing, but Pete’s only been dead for a couple months, so he really has no idea now. It should be helpful, at least, though he’s at a loss as to why Pete hasn’t just tried that by himself already, maybe written Patrick a note.
“I didn’t want to freak him out,” Pete says, bouncing on his heels on Patrick’s front stoop.
Spencer arches an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t think the mysteriously updating Twitter did?”
“Well, I mean,” Pete shrugs, “I didn’t want to spook him.”
“Right,” Spencer says dryly, then rings the doorbell.
Patrick Stump - aka Pattycakes, aka Lunchbox, aka Rickster, aka Stumpy Von Stumperson; Pete has a whole list of nicknames for him, it gives Spencer a headache - is little and plump-cheeked and wearing entirely too much denim.
“He’s depressed,” Pete says, frowning. “That’s his tenth grade jean jacket, the sleeves don’t even fit him anymore. I hope he doesn’t try to grow a mustache.”
Patrick pushes chunky black glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, “Yeah?”
“Trick, Tricky,” Pete says, and throws himself at Patrick and Patrick kind of stumbles backwards as Pete’s incorporeal body catches on him for a split-second before falling straight through.
“What the fuck?” Patrick says. There are dark circles under his eyes, Spencer notes, and he really, really hates this part. He should have brought Brendon.
He never knows exactly what to say, how to start the conversation, how to avoid getting a door slammed in his face. Brendon can be amazingly charming - no one ever stiffly and politely asks him to leave.
“So, uh, Pete Wentz,” Spencer says finally.
Patrick’s eyes narrow.
“Tell him I love him,” Pete says.
“He-”
“Tell him I’ll never leave him,” Pete says, waving his arms around. “Tell him forever means forever, tell him to take a shower or something and burn this jacket, geez-”
“Pete,” Spencer says, exasperated, and Patrick’s narrow stare turns slightly confused and concerned.
Patrick asks, “What’s going on?”
“Look,” Spencer says, “Pete’s still here,” and then Patrick punches him.
*
“Ow,” Spencer says, gingerly touching the tips of his fingers to the hollow of his cheek.
Brendon’s hovering over him, pushes his hand out of the way and presses an icepack to his face.
“Ow,” Spencer says again, this time from the firm cold pressure against his skin. “How come you never get punched?”
“I’m awesome,” Brendon says absently. “Now hold this still.”
“I’m really sorry about that,” Pete says to Spencer, even though he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds delighted. Tickled.
Spencer lowers the icepack and glares at him.
Pete shrugs. “I’ll take anger over the sad, tragic puppy routine,” he says. “Patrick always had an awesome temper.”
Spencer’s not impressed.
The bell at the front of the shop jingles, reminding Spencer that he has an actual business to run that has nothing to do with ghosts. He drops the icepack on the corner of his desk and says, “I’ve got customers,” and stalks huffily out of his office.
*
Spencer misses the olden days. He misses the years and years where it was just him and Ryan and the occasional lost soul. There was no Brendon and his trusty laptop. No Gabe with his scarves and turbans and color-coordinated track suits. People were intimidated by his serious scowl and his awesome hair, and now he has a beard and a crackpot reputation among the other shop owners along the strip. He doesn’t see how that’s possible, with Gabe right next door, but even the Starbucks’ counter staff whisper about him behind their hands. It’s really fucking tragic.
“I used to have a life,” Spencer says, picking at the label of his beer. “A life that did not involve reuniting loved ones with loved ones who are dead.”
“Deal with it,” Ryan says. He’s being particularly pissy tonight, but then Brendon begged off movie-watching in favor of dinner with Gabe’s friend Ryland.
“A life where I didn’t get punched by random strangers,” Spencer goes on. Patrick and Pete are a problem. He needs to figure out how to make Patrick listen, before Pete makes him an alcoholic. Ryan doesn’t like it when he drinks.
Ryan sighs. “You like it.”
“I do not,” Spencer says, affronted.
“You like it, you like helping people.” Ryan pokes his side. “You’re a squishy marshmallow inside, and it makes your heart swell, admit it. I’ve even see you tear up.”
“Once. Once, Ryan.” And it was a dead kid and her mom; he’s maybe not Brendon, but he’s not made of stone.
“If you didn’t have this, Spencer,” Ryan says, “you’d have no idea what to do with yourself.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d sell books.” He’s got a business degree. He’s got a relatively successful shop. He doesn’t need this.
Ryan plucks the bottle of beer out of Spencer’s hands and sets it aside. “Whatever,” he says. “Just watch the movie.”
*
“Holy shit,” Jon says. “Nice bruise.”
Spencer blushes. “Thanks.” He rings up the Country Living magazine and tries not to stare at the orange tabby draped across Jon’s shoulders. They’ve never shown up with Jon before, but Spencer thinks they’ve finally figured out he can see them. The tabby looks right at him, slowly blinks round, green eyes. There’s a huge blue Persian sitting perfectly still at the end of the aisle behind Jon, watching, waiting. He flicks his fluffy tail and licks his chops.
Spencer very pointedly switches his focus back to Jon.
Jon’s mouth spreads up into a grin. A grin paired with those crinkly eyes, teeth biting into his lower lip. God, he’s adorable, Pete was so right about that.
And then Brendon yells from the back, “This isn’t fair, they’re double teaming me, Spencer, make them stop,” and Jon ducks his head, palming the back of his neck.
He says, “Oh, I’ll-that reminds me. I’ve got your photos? They turned out-I mean, you’re a cute couple.”
Spencer feels like he’s swallowed an orange, and who says that anyway? Does anyone really mean that, when they say cute couple? He shakes his head, silently curses Brendon and Ryan and fucking Pete, and manages, “We’re not really dating.”
Jon keeps his head dipped, looks up at him through his lashes. “Sweet.”
Spencer nods. “Yeah,” he says, and now he’s grinning so hard his face hurts. A lot. He winces and palms his jaw.
Jon leans forward onto the counter, palms against the edge, fingers curled over. They tap a little, agitated. “So, um, Gabe says maybe you can help me out with all the cats.”
*
Patrick tries to shut the door in his face, but Spencer jams his foot in at the last second, and holy fuck that hurts.
“Shit,” he says, eyes watering.
Patrick swings the door wider, but only, it looks like, to gather more force for another slam, and Spencer yelps, “Wait, wait, just hear me out. Please,” because he thinks maybe little bits of his bones are broken.
“Why?” Patrick says.
Spencer takes a deep breath and says, “I know. I know it sucks, it fucking sucks, I get that, but I’m not lying.”
Pete’s subdued today, kicking at pebbles along the walk behind Spencer. Patrick’s eyes unfocus, slipping past Spencer, like maybe he can sense something in the scuffing stone, the skitter of dry leaves, that isn’t just the wind.
Patrick looks tired.
“It was an accident,” Pete says softly from beside him.
“He says it was an accident.”
Patrick’s eyes snap to his. “It wasn’t a fucking accident,” he says, sharp.
“It was,” Pete insists. “I wasn’t thinking right, I wasn’t-I wasn’t thinking ahead, I wasn’t thinking at all. It was an accident.”
“He wasn’t thinking,” Spencer says. “He wasn’t thinking about it being death.”
Pete wraps his arms around his middle. “I wanted everything to just-go away for a while. A day, an hour, a fucking minute, I didn’t want anything to matter anymore.”
Spencer isn’t much of a toucher, but he reaches out to curl a hand around Patrick’s arm; this is how Brendon does it. He says, “He wanted the world to stop, he just never thought it actually would.”
Patrick blinks, fighting tears. “That’s stupid. That’s fucking stupid, Pete,” he yells, and Pete curls tighter into himself, says a quiet, “I know.”
Patrick swipes at his eyes, says angrily, “Where is he? Not that I fucking believe you, but if he’s here, where is he?”
“Uh.” This is where the solid matter thing comes in. He looks at Pete and silently reminds Pete to concentrate, because Ryan says the bigger the object is, the harder it is to really touch, hold on to. “He’s here,” he says, and then Pete moves forward and very carefully folds Patrick up into a hug.
Spencer turns his head and looks away.
*
Ryan had been right. Ryan had been fucking spot on. This, whatever this is. It makes him miserable and twists him up inside. It drives him crazy, but Patrick’s crying and laughing at the same time, slumped down nearly boneless on his front stoop, and Pete has his face buried in Patrick’s neck, fingers tight in his shirt, and Spencer’s sitting in his car, watching, and it’s like he’s found this momentary peace, this deep well of satisfaction and, fuck yeah, his eyes are tearing up a little. This is what he was born to do, and he loves it.
*
Jon’s apartment is worse than his studio.
“Are any of these real?” Spencer asks. There are three cats on the kitchen table, one on top of the refrigerator, two sprawled across the couch, one perched on top of the TV. He can hear some meowing from the hallway, too.
“Two are,” Jon says. He rocks back on his heels, and he’s only half-smiling. He’d told Spencer that he really can’t see or hear them, but he can sense them, and it’s kind of fucking up his life. “And I’ve only had one cat before Clover and Dylan, so I don’t know where they’re all coming from.”
Spencer doesn’t even try to pick out the live ones; they all look the same to him. He’s also not sure how he can actually help. He’s really never dealt with animals before. He fidgets on his feet and stares around the room.
Jon moves closer to him and knocks their shoulders together. “You really can’t see Tom, right?” he says.
Spencer shakes his head. “I haven’t.” He hasn’t, but Brendon hasn’t had any luck tracking him down, either, so.
“Right.” Jon bobs his head. “Right, okay, the cats.”
Spencer gives him a sheepish grin. “I’m not really sure how much help I can be.” Cats are stubborn and independent when they’re alive.
“Dude, anything, I can’t sleep anymore, they’re driving me crazy.”
“Well. What do you do with Clover and Dylan?” Spencer asks.
Jon looks at him blankly.
“When you want them to leave or move or-” He cuts off at Jon’s expression. “You don’t do anything at all.” Spencer can see this. Jon’s a pushover for fuzzy animals, they walk all over him.
A brown, white and gray tabby winds itself around Spencer’s ankles, and Spencer figures that’s exactly why they’re all here.
“They want attention,” Spencer says. He kicks his leg out a little; he can’t touch the little cat, but it doesn’t seem to like the change in the air - it gives him a baleful look, then saunters away, tail up. “And you let them do whatever they want.”
“I can’t actually see them,” Jon points out.
Spencer shrugs. “Maybe you just need a bigger place.”
Jon laughs and says, “Okay,” and, “I’ll think about it,” and Spencer can’t help grinning back at him, blushing, half in embarrassment over the whole situation - does Jon really believe that Spencer can see all these freaking cats?
And then Jon says, “You know, I’m-I really want to kiss you now.”
“Uh.” That pretty much caught Spencer completely by surprise. “All right?”
“Good. Good, so.” Jon catches Spencer’s arm, tugs him around so they’re facing each other, and Spencer doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, it’s not like he’s never done this before.
Spencer’s got a few inches on him, so Jon has to lean up, and Spencer has to duck, and it’s pretty perfect when Spencer’s mouth catches Jon’s chapped lips - when Jon makes this little sound in the back of his throat and shifts his weight against Spencer’s chest.
“The cats listen to you, right?” Jon says against his mouth. He’s got his hands up under Spencer’s shirt, palms flat along his back.
Spencer swallows and thinks about the little brown, gray and white cat and he says, “I’m not sure they even like me.” He grips Jon’s hips, tries to move even closer.
Jon groans and tips his forehead onto Spencer’s shoulder. He says, “You’ll have to hang around more, then,” words muffled by Spencer’s shirt.
Spencer thinks that’s a fine idea. Right exactly then he wants to practice shooing them out of Jon’s bedroom. That is an awesomely fine idea. He’s going to tell Jon that. Or maybe just show him.
*
Jon turns up at Bookworm three days later with Conrad at his elbow; Spencer recognizes him from the photos in Jon’s apartment. Conrad is scruffy-cheeked and unsmiling, and Spencer has a split-second of panic that Conrad’s ghost has finally manifested itself, finally gotten around to haunting Jon, but then Jon introduces him with this goofy, happy grin, and something in Spencer’s chest loosens.
He’d been dreading it, he realizes. There’s perverse satisfaction in what he does, yeah, but he hadn’t wanted that for Jon. Conrad looks vaguely pissed, worn out, like he doesn’t want to be so close to Bill, but this is still so much better.
Spencer doesn’t ask Jon if Conrad’s told him where he’s been all these months. It’s none of his business, first of all, but mostly Spencer doesn’t really think it matters.
*
What strikes Spencer as weird, after all this, after witnessing Pete and Patrick’s reunion, is that Ryan doesn’t touch Brendon. Pencil jabs, pranks, wordless taunting, but no actual touching. And Ryan can do it, does do it with Spencer. Ryan’s never been super demonstrative, but he pokes Spencer and pats him and occasionally loosens up enough for a hug. It’s odd and suspicious, and Spencer doesn’t want to ask Ryan why, because he’s pretty sure he already knows. There’s nothing he can do about that.
“I kind of miss Pete,” Spencer says.
Ryan looks at him incredulously.
“What?” he says, defensive. He knows it’s weird, but he does miss Pete. Maybe not a lot, or all the time. Just-sometimes. When Ryan gets quiet, and Brendon doesn’t find anything new.
“Bingo.” Brendon looks up from his computer screen. He grins - still completely oblivious to the mustache Ryan had sharpied on his face when he’d fallen asleep on the couch earlier; it’s kind of hilarious - and says, “I’ve got the magic touch, dude.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve me getting sucker punched, kicked or spat on,” Spencer says. The spitting is new. This is why he doesn’t like little kids.
Brendon says, earnestly nodding, “I make no promises.”
Spencer sighs. One of these days they’re going to end up captives in a crazy person’s basement. Or in jail. “Fine.” It’s not like he was really going to say no, anyway.