[FIC] How to Scare a Mochrie (1/?)
Title: How to Scare a Mochrie (1/?)
Author: who_is_small
Rating: R
Main Character(s) and/or pairings: Ryan/Colin
Summary: Written on Whose-A-Thon prompt #64: Ryan is a ghost, haunting a house that Colin has just moved into.
Word Count: 1800+
A/N: Many thanks to Clayangel for the beta.
Prologue
Another man done gone.
Another man done gone.
- Yusef Komunyakaa
There once was a tall goofy ghost
Whose improv skills surpassed the most.
Except for one cat
Who refused to have that
And ate him up like a slow roast.
- Revelation of Angel Daniel
Chapter 1
At the end of the wake, when all the weeping and speeches and drinking were finally done, Ryan Stiles made a perfect ghost; long, thin body, ability to just wing it in any situation, penchant for facial expressions that would scare the crap out of anyone with a soul.
His skills were universal. He could pretend to be a ghost of an elk (making hunters shoot themselves), a were-rat (making cats shit themselves) or evil Lincoln and Roosevelt (making history teachers sheet-like white).
At first though, it took a bit of persuading.
***
The New Arrivals Office had a problem.
"Absolutely not!" screamed translucent Ryan Stiles at a bored looking angel behind the reception desk marked "SORT IT OUT, MATE: THE BOOT CAMP". "I'm dead! I've had it! I wanna rest in eternal flippin' peace goddammit!"
The angel simply pointed at the sign.
"You should have thought of that earlier, sugar-bear," he informed Ryan tersely. "Had you gotten your crap sorted out on time, I would not be forced to listen to your puerile little tantrum. Now take your schedule and sod off. "
"Just as I thought," Ryan growled. He snatched the sign off the table and tore it in into bits. "Another - fucking - Brit.”
He threw the mangled bits on the floor and stomped on them.
“Look, mate, I ain't gonna be nobody's puppet anymore. I wanna have me some peace, and I wanna have some quiet. And I earned them. So why don't ya take your posh accent and wrap it in your fucking schedule and shove them both straight up your bumhole? Jerk?"
"Too little," said the angel, smirking, "too late. You have unfinished business, Yank. Therefore," he snapped his fingers and the sign reappeared on the desk, spotless, "you are my bitch. Now take. Your. Schedule."
Ryan slammed his hands on the desk and leaned low, nose to nose, translucent green eyes to cold grey ones.
They both got slightly cross-eyed in the process, but neither of them flinched.
Without breaking the eye contact, the angel reached below the desk and drew out a sword of flames, laying the blade against Ryan's throat.
"Problem?" he asked mildly.
"I wanna speak to your supervisor," Ryan growled.
"She's busy,” the angel said.
"Hey jerk, I don't care if she's- wha?”
"Busy. B. U. S. Y. Slaving in the old salt mines. Wearing fingers to the bone. Hands FULL. Impossible as it may be to comprehend with your cretinous jello imitation of a brain, the Creator is not curious at the likes of any little shouty see-through American idiot, who thinks he has the Moon shining out of his expired arse and is actually stupid enough to try to start up some sort of bloody complaining procedure in Heaven. In Heaven. Seriously."
"No, I mean," Ryan said, "God's a chick?"
"I'll take it from here, Daniel," said a mellow voice behind them. Ryan turned around.
"Hi," said the woman with a smile. She was tall, with a nest of long dark hair. She wore a green dress, extravagant earrings and a small hat. "My name is Josie. Welkies."
Behind him, he heard the sound of a sword clattering against the floor.
***
In the end, Ryan caved in. There was not much he could do, anyway. He could not scream them both down, as they were eternally patient with him. Even Daniel actually behaved in Josie's presence.
Josie had a shockingly calming effect. Ryan vaguely suspected there might be some sort of mind-fuckery involved, but truth be told, he did not care that much. He thought he might agree with everything she said, just to make her hang around a bit longer. Her voice alone made him feel instantly better about the whole situation. She was regal and thoughtful and funny. Her eyes held a world of wisdom and sadness in their depths. She was like a goddamned Gandalf.
She sounds just like my Ma, thought Ryan dreamily, listening to her gentle, soothing voice. His head filled with half-remembered sounds and smells of a summer morning, him as a kid in flannel PJs, blinking in a kitchen dappled with sunshine. Hands of his Ma ruffling his hair, lifting him up into a chair, to oh! warm cookies on the table. He smiled. Maybe it will all turn out alright.
The arsehole (Daniel - and what other name could any bane of his existence have, sneered Ryan in his head) was temporarily pretending to be a good boy. He mostly shut up - hale-fucking-lujah - only occasionally chiming in with a comment.
They both got a bit of a nasty shock at one point, though.
"Excellent!” said Josie, having explained the basic concept of How to be a Ghost 101 and handing the schedule to Ryan with a smile. "And our Dan here will guide you as your coach.” She raised an eyebrow. They both sagged back and nodded. She patted their heads. "Have fun," she added and was off.
There was a pause.
"One day," said Daniel in a weary sort of voice, "I will find out how she does it. And then I'll find a way to turn it off so that it doesn't work on me." He looked at Ryan. "Come on, Alice," he said. "School's up."
***
The classes were certainly interesting.
Ryan learned how to melt into the sunlight, how to catch a ride on a moonbeam, how to make fun of the witches (carefully), how to manipulate small, then larger objects.
He listened to tales about small creatures who don't belong to Heaven or Hell and skulk around on Earth in shadows, bent on screwing people over for a laugh, and how to beat them at their own game. He was told how to deal with other ghosts, how to handle fairies and negotiate with protective brownies. He learned about the emperor moths, who flock around victims in the last few days before murder.
He learned how to melt the tissue of his own face, to show ghostly skeletal bone and teeth underneath.
He had classes in Moaning, Jumping out of Unexpected Places and Victorian Lingo. The last one threatened to give Daniel apoplexy, as Ryan felt for some reason compelled to combine it with a lame Italian accent.
"Da beeerdie of a daaaawna siiingeth," Ryan drawled, waving his arms dramatically, "all night-a long-a."
"Give me strength." Daniel gritted his teeth. "What does Italy have to do with bloody Shakespeare? Are you actually retarded?"
"Hey, it sounds better that way. And Romeo was an Italian, no?"
"This is HAMLET."
"I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth," quoted Ryan, "guess it's 'cause I work with a fucker who's a jerk from birth."
"Shut up. You want to let out some energy? Fine. Double telekinesis, seeing as you suck at it, and you can build a statue of me out of small rocks with your mind. And it will be a flattering one, or you start again. I have time. Whole eternity, in fact."
"God, I hate you," said Ryan.
"She knows," said the angel, conjuring up a pile of rocks with a wave of his wing. "Why do you think she made us work together? That's her all over. So." He smiled nastily. "I am here to help you. Grinding your face in the dirt is my bonus. Get over it, you sorry bastard."
Ryan voiced a string of theories regarding the angel's parentage, intelligence and personal hygiene.
"Oh, and one more thing," said the angel. "As your coach, I make the rules. And the first of them is: No more cursing for you, honey cake. Here." He summoned a roll of parchment from thin air and flicked it open. "This is a list of insults you are allowed to use."
Ryan narrowed his eyes.
"Or what?"
"Or," said the angel, "you will be forced to speak solely in verse thereafter."
"Fuck that. And while we are at the subject," added Ryan, "fuck you. With a sand wedge. Sideways."
Sweet tinkling of a bell was heard.
"Thyself I'd slander; passion bids me so,
Yet fiendishly I'm hindered by new pledge;
A List, which serves each curse to disallow.
And also, I don't have any sand wedge. :o(
-the Hell was that?!" said Ryan.
"That," said angel Daniel, "was iambic pentameter, my poor loser."
"Holy fuck."
The tinkling was heard again.
"The air grows chilly
If I won’t pay attention
My ass will be owned."
"…and this was a 5-7-5 haiku. Rather piss-poor attempt, but you have correctly made the traditional allusion to the season of the year."
"You evil posh twerp
did the migrating geese take
your brain out to lunch?"
"Hmm." Daniel looked at the parchment and crossed out 'twerp'. "This list needs a little more editing, methinks."
"No, no," said Ryan hastily. "Leave it. You gotta lemme work with something, man. I'll behave." He grabbed the parchment. "Fool, birdbrain, dork, coot, boob. Boob?? Oh God, these insults pack no punch at all. Clod, buffoon. Oh Josie have mercy on me. Nincompoop. Oh for fu-- moth-- godd- bloomin' heck!!"
"Hehe."
"Let me strongly urge you to depart and have intimate fun with yourself," said Ryan, "you kook."
The angel looked smug.
***
And so it went. They managed not to kill each other, but only just.
Then came field exercises on Earth, mainly consisting of terrifying various poor fuckers who needed to rethink some stuff, and crapping their pants was apparently just the right impulse to make them more enthusiastic about it.
Still, Ryan didn't know what else was expected of him. He found it difficult to concentrate on his past life. Every time his thoughts strayed that way, he got an ache inside, tasting of copper and longing, and he got the feeling that a whole deep red cavern of it is just-just reaching for him, and he shied clumsily away like a horse on thin ice.
"Why am I even here?" he asked Daniel once.
The angel shrugged.
"Unfinished business," he said. "You should know yourself. It must be some pretty heavy stuff, if it brought you here. Not everyone has the kind of passion required to cross the border, you know."
"The border?"
"Yup," said Daniel and changed the subject.
And then one day, Josie appeared with an assignment.
Ryan tried not to look too happy to see her again, while Daniel all but flopped belly up at her feet, begging to be scratched.
Josie was impressed with Ryan's results and thanked him for his help. He was ready, she said, ready for the big one. The instructions were to land at the subject's house and use the most effective haunting techniques. For how long? As long as necessary. What was the goal? He would know when he reached it. Who's the guy?
She handed him a slip of paper and then held him, gasping, as the deep red cavern suddenly ripped through and the heartache flooded in, blinding him, roaring in his head and chest and throat.
Colin Mochrie.
TBC
Author: who_is_small
Rating: R
Main Character(s) and/or pairings: Ryan/Colin
Summary: Written on Whose-A-Thon prompt #64: Ryan is a ghost, haunting a house that Colin has just moved into.
Word Count: 1800+
A/N: Many thanks to Clayangel for the beta.
Prologue
Another man done gone.
Another man done gone.
- Yusef Komunyakaa
There once was a tall goofy ghost
Whose improv skills surpassed the most.
Except for one cat
Who refused to have that
And ate him up like a slow roast.
- Revelation of Angel Daniel
Chapter 1
At the end of the wake, when all the weeping and speeches and drinking were finally done, Ryan Stiles made a perfect ghost; long, thin body, ability to just wing it in any situation, penchant for facial expressions that would scare the crap out of anyone with a soul.
His skills were universal. He could pretend to be a ghost of an elk (making hunters shoot themselves), a were-rat (making cats shit themselves) or evil Lincoln and Roosevelt (making history teachers sheet-like white).
At first though, it took a bit of persuading.
***
The New Arrivals Office had a problem.
"Absolutely not!" screamed translucent Ryan Stiles at a bored looking angel behind the reception desk marked "SORT IT OUT, MATE: THE BOOT CAMP". "I'm dead! I've had it! I wanna rest in eternal flippin' peace goddammit!"
The angel simply pointed at the sign.
"You should have thought of that earlier, sugar-bear," he informed Ryan tersely. "Had you gotten your crap sorted out on time, I would not be forced to listen to your puerile little tantrum. Now take your schedule and sod off. "
"Just as I thought," Ryan growled. He snatched the sign off the table and tore it in into bits. "Another - fucking - Brit.”
He threw the mangled bits on the floor and stomped on them.
“Look, mate, I ain't gonna be nobody's puppet anymore. I wanna have me some peace, and I wanna have some quiet. And I earned them. So why don't ya take your posh accent and wrap it in your fucking schedule and shove them both straight up your bumhole? Jerk?"
"Too little," said the angel, smirking, "too late. You have unfinished business, Yank. Therefore," he snapped his fingers and the sign reappeared on the desk, spotless, "you are my bitch. Now take. Your. Schedule."
Ryan slammed his hands on the desk and leaned low, nose to nose, translucent green eyes to cold grey ones.
They both got slightly cross-eyed in the process, but neither of them flinched.
Without breaking the eye contact, the angel reached below the desk and drew out a sword of flames, laying the blade against Ryan's throat.
"Problem?" he asked mildly.
"I wanna speak to your supervisor," Ryan growled.
"She's busy,” the angel said.
"Hey jerk, I don't care if she's- wha?”
"Busy. B. U. S. Y. Slaving in the old salt mines. Wearing fingers to the bone. Hands FULL. Impossible as it may be to comprehend with your cretinous jello imitation of a brain, the Creator is not curious at the likes of any little shouty see-through American idiot, who thinks he has the Moon shining out of his expired arse and is actually stupid enough to try to start up some sort of bloody complaining procedure in Heaven. In Heaven. Seriously."
"No, I mean," Ryan said, "God's a chick?"
"I'll take it from here, Daniel," said a mellow voice behind them. Ryan turned around.
"Hi," said the woman with a smile. She was tall, with a nest of long dark hair. She wore a green dress, extravagant earrings and a small hat. "My name is Josie. Welkies."
Behind him, he heard the sound of a sword clattering against the floor.
***
In the end, Ryan caved in. There was not much he could do, anyway. He could not scream them both down, as they were eternally patient with him. Even Daniel actually behaved in Josie's presence.
Josie had a shockingly calming effect. Ryan vaguely suspected there might be some sort of mind-fuckery involved, but truth be told, he did not care that much. He thought he might agree with everything she said, just to make her hang around a bit longer. Her voice alone made him feel instantly better about the whole situation. She was regal and thoughtful and funny. Her eyes held a world of wisdom and sadness in their depths. She was like a goddamned Gandalf.
She sounds just like my Ma, thought Ryan dreamily, listening to her gentle, soothing voice. His head filled with half-remembered sounds and smells of a summer morning, him as a kid in flannel PJs, blinking in a kitchen dappled with sunshine. Hands of his Ma ruffling his hair, lifting him up into a chair, to oh! warm cookies on the table. He smiled. Maybe it will all turn out alright.
The arsehole (Daniel - and what other name could any bane of his existence have, sneered Ryan in his head) was temporarily pretending to be a good boy. He mostly shut up - hale-fucking-lujah - only occasionally chiming in with a comment.
They both got a bit of a nasty shock at one point, though.
"Excellent!” said Josie, having explained the basic concept of How to be a Ghost 101 and handing the schedule to Ryan with a smile. "And our Dan here will guide you as your coach.” She raised an eyebrow. They both sagged back and nodded. She patted their heads. "Have fun," she added and was off.
There was a pause.
"One day," said Daniel in a weary sort of voice, "I will find out how she does it. And then I'll find a way to turn it off so that it doesn't work on me." He looked at Ryan. "Come on, Alice," he said. "School's up."
***
The classes were certainly interesting.
Ryan learned how to melt into the sunlight, how to catch a ride on a moonbeam, how to make fun of the witches (carefully), how to manipulate small, then larger objects.
He listened to tales about small creatures who don't belong to Heaven or Hell and skulk around on Earth in shadows, bent on screwing people over for a laugh, and how to beat them at their own game. He was told how to deal with other ghosts, how to handle fairies and negotiate with protective brownies. He learned about the emperor moths, who flock around victims in the last few days before murder.
He learned how to melt the tissue of his own face, to show ghostly skeletal bone and teeth underneath.
He had classes in Moaning, Jumping out of Unexpected Places and Victorian Lingo. The last one threatened to give Daniel apoplexy, as Ryan felt for some reason compelled to combine it with a lame Italian accent.
"Da beeerdie of a daaaawna siiingeth," Ryan drawled, waving his arms dramatically, "all night-a long-a."
"Give me strength." Daniel gritted his teeth. "What does Italy have to do with bloody Shakespeare? Are you actually retarded?"
"Hey, it sounds better that way. And Romeo was an Italian, no?"
"This is HAMLET."
"I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth," quoted Ryan, "guess it's 'cause I work with a fucker who's a jerk from birth."
"Shut up. You want to let out some energy? Fine. Double telekinesis, seeing as you suck at it, and you can build a statue of me out of small rocks with your mind. And it will be a flattering one, or you start again. I have time. Whole eternity, in fact."
"God, I hate you," said Ryan.
"She knows," said the angel, conjuring up a pile of rocks with a wave of his wing. "Why do you think she made us work together? That's her all over. So." He smiled nastily. "I am here to help you. Grinding your face in the dirt is my bonus. Get over it, you sorry bastard."
Ryan voiced a string of theories regarding the angel's parentage, intelligence and personal hygiene.
"Oh, and one more thing," said the angel. "As your coach, I make the rules. And the first of them is: No more cursing for you, honey cake. Here." He summoned a roll of parchment from thin air and flicked it open. "This is a list of insults you are allowed to use."
Ryan narrowed his eyes.
"Or what?"
"Or," said the angel, "you will be forced to speak solely in verse thereafter."
"Fuck that. And while we are at the subject," added Ryan, "fuck you. With a sand wedge. Sideways."
Sweet tinkling of a bell was heard.
"Thyself I'd slander; passion bids me so,
Yet fiendishly I'm hindered by new pledge;
A List, which serves each curse to disallow.
And also, I don't have any sand wedge. :o(
-the Hell was that?!" said Ryan.
"That," said angel Daniel, "was iambic pentameter, my poor loser."
"Holy fuck."
The tinkling was heard again.
"The air grows chilly
If I won’t pay attention
My ass will be owned."
"…and this was a 5-7-5 haiku. Rather piss-poor attempt, but you have correctly made the traditional allusion to the season of the year."
"You evil posh twerp
did the migrating geese take
your brain out to lunch?"
"Hmm." Daniel looked at the parchment and crossed out 'twerp'. "This list needs a little more editing, methinks."
"No, no," said Ryan hastily. "Leave it. You gotta lemme work with something, man. I'll behave." He grabbed the parchment. "Fool, birdbrain, dork, coot, boob. Boob?? Oh God, these insults pack no punch at all. Clod, buffoon. Oh Josie have mercy on me. Nincompoop. Oh for fu-- moth-- godd- bloomin' heck!!"
"Hehe."
"Let me strongly urge you to depart and have intimate fun with yourself," said Ryan, "you kook."
The angel looked smug.
***
And so it went. They managed not to kill each other, but only just.
Then came field exercises on Earth, mainly consisting of terrifying various poor fuckers who needed to rethink some stuff, and crapping their pants was apparently just the right impulse to make them more enthusiastic about it.
Still, Ryan didn't know what else was expected of him. He found it difficult to concentrate on his past life. Every time his thoughts strayed that way, he got an ache inside, tasting of copper and longing, and he got the feeling that a whole deep red cavern of it is just-just reaching for him, and he shied clumsily away like a horse on thin ice.
"Why am I even here?" he asked Daniel once.
The angel shrugged.
"Unfinished business," he said. "You should know yourself. It must be some pretty heavy stuff, if it brought you here. Not everyone has the kind of passion required to cross the border, you know."
"The border?"
"Yup," said Daniel and changed the subject.
And then one day, Josie appeared with an assignment.
Ryan tried not to look too happy to see her again, while Daniel all but flopped belly up at her feet, begging to be scratched.
Josie was impressed with Ryan's results and thanked him for his help. He was ready, she said, ready for the big one. The instructions were to land at the subject's house and use the most effective haunting techniques. For how long? As long as necessary. What was the goal? He would know when he reached it. Who's the guy?
She handed him a slip of paper and then held him, gasping, as the deep red cavern suddenly ripped through and the heartache flooded in, blinding him, roaring in his head and chest and throat.
Colin Mochrie.
TBC