fic: Your Grievance (PxP, AU, 1/4)
It’s Big Bang again! Yay! Possibly people will read this one! (Yes, it’s really early. I’m sorry, I can’t wait. Stupid insomnia. Stupid dawn.)
This is the third in a series, following On Your Behalf and If I Woke Up Next to You. There’s not as much smut as I would have liked. It does, however, feature Katy Perry in a variety of outfits, Bill Beckett wearing glasses and generally being awesome, and much less sending-of-Gabe-to-hell than the previous ones.
your grievance
by gale
SUMMARY: In which we learn that the price of vengeance is, occasionally, worse than hell itself; or: your grievance shall be avenged. Just not in the way you were thinking. [Third in a series, following On Your Behalf and If I Woke Up Next to You.]
i. be still my heart
"Eat this."
"No."
"Eat it."
"No."
"Come on! Eat iiiiiiiii--"
"Pete!" Patrick smacked his hand away. "I said no. I said no twice."
Pete put down the soup spoon and looked at him.
Patrick sighed and leaned in, taking it into his mouth for a moment. He let the flavors roll around his tongue. "Um. Maybe a little more salt?"
Pete took a taste himself, then nodded. "Salt it is. Good job on the pepper, though."
They were in Pete's new apartment--new to Patrick, anyway; Pete and Bill had been there for almost seven months now--and Pete had insisted on making dinner. Patrick wasn't sure why, since it wasn't like he had to eat, but he appreciated the gesture. On some level, anyway. The rest of him was curious as to why Pete was going to the effort.
Remembering to be human was taxing, sometimes.
--well, no, remembering to act human was taxing. Patrick, strictly speaking, wasn't human, not anymore. He was an emissary of vengeance, serving...actually, he wasn't entirely sure what he served, but it wasn't necessary for him to know, so that was all right. He did his job, he did not overstep his boundaries too much or too often, and he asked no questions.
And sometimes, like now, he snuck away for a few hours before midnight and tried to remember what he had been, once.
Even on his best days, it was difficult. The last time he had been alive, it was decades ago; another century. Things had been different. Men didn't have dinner with other men unless they were family or it was for business. They certainly didn't make each other dinner at their apartments, unless one was married and trying to set his friend up with someone his wife knew. He'd walked through the dreams and thoughts of mankind for decades, learning what angered and hurt and ruined them, but something as simple as remembering to feel temperature could almost undo him.
Speaking of which-- "Is it cold in here?"
"Not really," Pete said. "Sort of warm, actually." He unzipped his hoodie and spread it over the back of a chair. "Did you want wine with dinner?"
"If you're having some," Patrick said, "I will too." He stirred the sauce and hummed under his breath. "Bill's not joining us?"
Pete shook his head. "He's working on his thesis," he said. "He's maybe halfway done, and it's giving him rickets." He poured two glasses of wine and put one next to Patrick. "How's, um. How's work going?"
Patrick looked at him.
"I know, I know, you can't tell me," Pete said. "Not even a hint?" He held his fingers an inch apart. "Weensy little hint?"
"'Weensy' is not a unit of measurement," Patrick said. He checked the sauce again and turned off the burner. "It’s going well, I suppose. There have been others like Brendon--"
"Others?" Pete's face lit up. "They called it off?"
Patrick nodded. "A surprising number. I don't want to say it's any kind of a shift in the attitudes of mankind, but--"
"Patrick," Pete said, "please dumb it down for me."
Patrick sighed and moved the sauce away from the burner. "It's going better than I'm used to," he said. "I'm pleased, and cautiously optimistic." He reached out and take a sip of wine. It was good, he thought, though the alcohol had no effect on him at all. It was like drinking water.
"Good." Pete leaned in and kissed him. "Now grab the sauce and let's eat."
*
After dinner, Patrick found himself cleaning up. His memories of doing such a thing Before were dim at best--he was fairly certain he'd had a mother, or a sister, or possibly a dewy-eyed fiancé to do such things for him--but as soon as Pete handed him a plate, freshly rinsed, he'd stacked it in the sink, natural as anything.
Muscle memory, he decided, and didn't worry about it overmuch.
"So how was everything?" Pete asked.
Patrick shrugged. "It was fine." He glanced up and saw Pete's face, the hint of disappointment, and sighed. "I mean that literally. My taste buds aren't like yours. You *know* that."
They really weren't. His existence on the physical plane was temporary, tenuous at best. Standing here, in Pete's kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, was an act of will; his real body, the one he'd died in, had been buried long ago. It would be mostly-decomposed bones, if anything at all; most likely it was compost in a rotted-out coffin. It was easier for the Others; their bodies were designed to walk among humans and pass without comment, but garner no attention. They had taste buds--and nerve endings, and everything else. So did he, right now, but it was only temporary.
"I know," Pete said, quietly. "Sorry. I didn't mean--I'm sorry."
Patrick sighed again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to make you upset. I just. I can't appreciate everything the same way you can."
"Not yet."
"Not yet, no," Patrick agreed. "And I can't say for certain when I'll be able to. Or if. I don't know how this works, Pete."
They didn't talk about it a lot. The unspoken agreement was very simple: service until such time as twelve people chose forgiveness over vengeance. It sounded very simple, but some things never fell out of fashion, and revenge was one of them. He'd been doing this a very long time, and until recently only one had decided to let go of his pain and save his soul.
In the last two years, three others besides Brendon had done it.
Patrick wasn't letting himself be optimistic; it was too close to foolishness, in his opinion, in his situation. But sometimes, just for a few moments, he let himself hope.
"I know," Pete said. He nudged Patrick with his hip. "Come on, I'll teach you how to load a dishwasher."
*
"I can do it," Patrick said, slapping Pete's hands away. Pete laughed against the back of his neck.
"I'm sure you can," he murmured. "I just want to help."
Patrick quit messing with his belt and turned around, holding his hands up and out of Pete's way. He usually let Pete do this part; one of the first times he'd tried it, he'd just made the clothes and the body all one piece, nothing to undress. Like a child's toy. Pete would never let him hear the end of it. "You mess up one time-"
"You mess up spectacularly," Pete said, unzipping his fly. His own clothes were strewn around the bedroom. Patrick was pretty sure that was Pete's shirt on top of the ceiling fan, and his pants-
Pete slid to his knees and mouthed Patrick's stomach, hands spreading his thighs and shoving him down against the mattress. Patrick stopped worrying about clothes.
It was strange, how fast he'd adapted to sex. He didn't have muscle memory for this, for another man's hands on his skin, another man's mouth. He'd cheated and watched videos on Pete's computer, but most of those weren't really good as far as advice went. They were baffling, yes, and laughably bad, and occasionally horrifying, but not terribly good at explaining things. Experience was better.
Experience had taught him that Pete tended to laugh in bed, though not at him. Experience had made him buckle down and, grimly determined, try to give Pete a blowjob, even when the first few attempts invariably ended with Pete yelping--not with pleasure--and insisting he try again at a later date, "when my dick isn't throbbing, dude, oh my God, tomorrow you're learning about teeth."
Experience, and its lack, had made Patrick a more than willing student.
He groaned and dug his fingers into Pete's shoulders, savoring the feeling of a warm, wet mouth on his cock. The world of the living was a thousand times more vivid than the sunless lands, as its pleasures went--everything was brighter here, sharper, stronger. Pete had kissed him, in the sunless lands; kissed him and touched him, made love with him a hundred different ways. They’d all been sweet, but none as purely, blindly pleasurable as holding someone’s hand in the land of the living.
"Yes," he said softly, tilting his hips. Speaking during sex was still strange to him, so he tried not to do it too much. "Pete, yes, that--keep doing that."
Pete stopped for a moment, whuffing out a laugh against his thigh. Patrick twitched. "That's what I like about you," he murmured. "You always let me know what you want."
"I'm sorry!" Patrick said, irritated. He never knew when Pete was edging into actually making fun. Not that he ever had, really, but--it was a feeling. Part of the deal with wanting to become human again, with experiencing things, was that you had to take the bad parts with the good ones.
"No, hey." Pete's eyes were very dark. He kissed Patrick's thigh, making a slow trail up with his tongue. "That wasn't a knock, okay? I'm being serious. I like that."
"...really?"
"Really really." Pete bit down a little, making a pink mark against his skin. "Do you-what do you want to do?"
It only took a second to run through the options in his head. They'd yet to attempt anything that Patrick hadn't at least wanted to try again, but he had a few favorites. "Fuck me," he said breathlessly, reaching down and touching Pete's face. "Will you? Please?"
Pete's eyes lit up. "Wait," he said, scrambling to his feet. Patrick didn't try to hide his grin. He rolled onto his back and spread his legs, stroking his thigh with one hand. He watched Pete look for whatever he needed. "Wait, just a couple seconds-"
"I'm waaaaiting," Patrick sang out. He moved his hand up and rubbed at his belly, watching Pete with hooded eyes.
"God, stop being such a whi--" Pete turned around and stopped, lubricant in one hand, mouth dropping open a little. He stared.
"Such a what?" Patrick said lightly. He stroked his cock, shuddering at the sensation, digging his toes into the sheets. "If you're not going to move fast enough, I'm just going to have to get started without you."
"Okay, that's cheating," Pete said. He crossed to the bed and kneewalked across it, settling himself between Patrick's legs. "You didn't even have sex a couple months ago--"
"I had an excellent teacher." Patrick leaned up and bit at his mouth.
"--and now you're lying on your back, looking like some of those dreams I used to have. The really inappropriate ones." Pete eased Patrick's legs further open. The lube was cold when Pete reached down to open him, but it always was, and it warmed up soon enough. Patrick let out a long breath. "What were those like for you, anyway?"
"Strange," Patrick said, shivering a little. "Pleasant. This is better." He wrapped his hand around Pete's erection and brought him closer. "Don't go slow."
Pete made a noise Patrick couldn't identify and thrust inside him to the hilt. Patrick gasped and gripped the mattress in both hands.
The sex was almost always good, a couple of non-starts notwithstanding. Patrick got that; it was designed to be pleasant, after all, to ensure that the species kept going. Even better than the sex was the way everything came down. When he was awake, Pete wasn't so different from everyone else; he kept walls up to keep from feeling too much, to keep himself sane, to not be hurt. Sex made the walls thinner, almost translucent. He could hear the undercurrent in Pete's head as he moved above and inside him: mine and yours and yes, a lot of images that went by too fast to properly track but felt, to the center of Patrick's borrowed chest, like happiness.
And then Pete's hips were snapping against his and he was panting, and it was doing something to Patrick's body, there was a technical name for it but he only knew it as oh God YES; and then Pete was still above him, shaking inside him. He wrapped a hand around Patrick's cock and rubbed the thumb along the head--and maybe Patrick had been close for longer than he'd realized, because he was biting Pete's shoulder and coming in wet, messy spurts against their stomachs.
"Love you," Pete was breathing into his skin. "Love you, Patrick, I love you so much--"
"Shhhh." Patrick licked at the bite and breathed in Pete's smell. Humans smelled so good. Even in the sunless lands, the scents were flat and still. He didn't even wince when Pete slid out of him. "You don't have to say it. You don't."
"Yes I do," and maybe Patrick had missed something, the way Pete was looking at him. "I love you. You only get to visit, and it fucking kills me-"
"Pete!" And that was sharper than he'd intended, but Pete could lose himself, sometimes, when he started with that. "I know, all right? I know all of it." He touched Pete's mouth. "Just. I want to sleep with you, before I have to go. Is that all right?"
Just that fast, it was gone. Pete curled against him. "You're mine," he murmured. "You don't have to ask."
"I kind of do," Patrick said, petting Pete's hair. "It's polite. We-Pete?"
But Pete was already dozing against his chest, come-sticky and skin prickling in the post-sex chill. Patrick sighed to himself and drew the blanket up over their shoulders.
*
Just before midnight, Patrick got out of bed and started looking for his pants. He could always vanish them and create new ones, but that sort of thing was a waste of energy, and he only had so much to spare while he was h-
From behind him, Pete said, "'s midnight already?"
Patrick stopped for a second, then bent to pick up his jeans. "Yes." He put them on and turned back towards Pete.
"Dammit." Pete sighed and sat up, bleary-eyed. "I hate this."
Sleep hadn't been the distraction he'd hoped for. Patrick cursed inside. "You say that every time, as if I'm eager to leave." His voice was sharper again. "You're not the only one unhappy about this, you know." He fumbled himself into his jeans. "You get to stay here and have a life. I get to go back for - for whatever mindless reason I was chosen-"
"Patrick-"
"-and see the same little human dramas played out over and over again, unceasing, unchanging-"
"Patrick!" Pete reached out and gave his shoulders a little shake. "I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't trying to be rude, and I didn't mean to yell."
Patrick looked at him. After a few seconds, the tension started leaching out of him. "Neither did I," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"I just." Pete started rubbing his arms; Patrick doubted he even knew he was doing it. "Every time you're here, I let myself forget you have to leave until you actually go. Then it's--it's like I'm losing you all over again."
"You're not," Patrick said. "You never lose me."
"Don't I? You leave, you go someplace I can't follow, and I don't see you for days or weeks. I'm not allowed to go near you when you're at work-"
"That's for your own safety," Patrick said. It was an old argument. To be fair, Pete had been really good about not interfering with Patrick's work since what had happened with Brendon, but that didn't stop him from doing his damnedest to pry.
"--I know that," Pete said tightly. "I just think it sucks, okay? I'm allowed to think something sucks." He wrapped the sheets tighter around his waist. He looked mulish, Patrick thought uncharitably.
"Fine," Patrick said. "Is that all?" He went back to looking for his shirt. "We have this argument every time, as you said--"
"I kissed Ashlee."
Patrick looked at him for a long time. Pete just watched him.
"And?" Patrick finally said. "Is that all?"
"Is--" Pete goggled. "Is that all? I just told you I kissed someone else."
"Yes." Patrick sat on the end of the bed, still looking at him. "Am I supposed to be angry now?" he asked, curious. "I think so. That's what usually happens, anyway."
Pete kept goggling. "You're...not angry."
"No." Patrick shrugged. "The two of you are friends. I cannot be here with you as often as either of us would like; she can. I'm kind of surprised Ashlee would want to do something like that, but I'm not angry. I'm glad she was there for you. I can't always be."
"Seriously. Not angry."
Patrick shook his head. "I would appreciate it if we had a discussion before you did anything more than kiss, if you’re planning on it. But no, I'm not angry."
Pete just looked at him, shaking his head. "I--huh. I don't intend to, but I can't entirely say it won't happen." Patrick nodded; he'd expected as much. "I can promise that as soon as you're free of this...whatever this is, it's done. You full-time? I don't need anything else."
"Good," Patrick said. He took a breath. There were a hundred things, a thousand, that he wanted to say, but he was close to being late already; it'd have to wait. "Stay in bed." He leaned down and kissed Pete's mouth. "I'll let myself out."
"You always do," Pete muttered, and burrowed under the covers until only his head from the nose up was peeking out. He looked like a cartoon character. "Be careful. Have a good day at work. Try not to kill too many people."
"If they don't make me," Patrick agreed, and kissed him again. "Love you too."
*
He found his shoes in the living room--not surprising--and was turning to go when a sound behind him made him jump. He whipped his head around, looking for the source of it.
"Hey," Bill said. He was sitting at the kitchen table, backlit, and reading. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, the light glinting off his glasses, and gave a little wave.
Patrick hesitated a moment, then said, "Hey."
It was always a little uncomfortable around Bill. Pete remembering what had happened was one thing; that seemed, somehow, fair trade for the dreams and thinking he was slowly going mad. But his roommate remembered too, which was just odd. No one had ever come into the sunless realms before, save the damned--those who summoned him, and those he ferried away--and the mere fact that two mortals walking among the living had been there, remembered their time there, made something ancient in him shiver.
The rest of him, however, had been just 19 when he died, and was in love. And for all that, it wasn't like Bill was hard on the eyes.
"Are you--is that schoolwork?" Patrick winced. He was still finding his tongue around mortals; it tended to skitter away from him.
"Yeah," Bill said. "Research. I have a paper due in a few weeks. I like to get this kind of thing done early rather than later." He glanced up at Patrick. "Are you going?"
Patrick nodded.
"Sorry I didn't see you before," Bill said, "or say hi." He looked a little abashed. Patrick preferred to think he was a bit ashamed about the lie: Bill would much rather see Patrick's back, if he saw any part of him at all. Patrick couldn't blame him.
The easiest, and kindest, thing to do was pretend he believed it. "It's all right. There'll be other moments." He put his shoes back on and made sure they were laced. "Good ni--"
"Do you love him?" Bill asked suddenly.
Patrick blinked. "If I didn’t," he said, "it’d make everything we've been through a bit cheap."
"That--" Bill shook his head. "I know you care about him. That's obvious. I mean do you love him."
It was a fair question. Patrick thought about it for a moment.
He'd never really thought about it. Pete had been a nuisance, and then a familiar nuisance--and then he’d come to the sunless lands, under his own power or not, and tried to save the life of someone he could at most count as an acquaintance. If he'd feared for his own life or soul, he hadn't let it show; he'd been too furious at circumstances to be scared. He was passionate, if sometimes ridiculously so, and he fairly demanded the same level of passion from Patrick. He made Patrick irritated, and furious, and very occasionally angry; more often, he made Patrick happy. Nothing had made him happy in a very long time, certainly not since he'd begun his duties.
"Yes," he finally said, focusing on Bill. "I can't really explain why, but--" He frowned. "If something happened to him, I...it would be very wrong." And oh, that was close to admitting things he was all but expressly forbidden to feel-
If you accept, you must not put emotions before your duties--not anyone else's save the accuser's, and certainly not your own.
--but he was here now, and it did not affect his duties, and he wanted nothing more than to go back and sleep in Pete's bed. Saying as much was just the truth.
"It would be very wrong," he said again, and shook his head. "I--it's a poor explanation, I know."
"No." Bill's expression was unreadable. "That's a good sign. Thanks." He offered a brief smile. "Um. If you wanted, we could all go do something the next time you come by."
"I'd like that," Patrick said, and was pleasantly surprised to find he meant it.
*
He stepped through the doorway to Pete and Bill's apartment and emerged, as ever, back in the sunless lands. It was sunset there, the way it always was, and there was a shadowy shape on the front porch. Patrick most definitely didn't look directly at it as he passed by.
As he passed, It called, "It's almost midnight. You're cutting it awful close."
(That was not, strictly speaking, what it said. It did not speak a mortal tongue, or perhaps all of them. But whatever it spoke, the ear of the listener translated as their own tongue. It was also far more formal in its own speech, but Patrick thought he'd been spending too much time with Pete; sometimes, what he heard now was more colloquial.)
"I'm sorry," he said. He did not need to glance down to know he was in his work clothes again: black with occasional touches of red. He turned and went into the house, studiously not looking at the shape on the porch. He did not think it would break him, seeing Its true shape, but he would rather not risk it.
The Others were, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found. This was his duty and his alone; they would not be needed until later, if at all. Not every night was busy.
Patrick sat down before the computer and watched the screen, and waited.
A minute later, perhaps two, and the screen pinged. He sighed and reached out, looking at the name written there: ANGIE RUTHVEN.
It was going to be a long night.
*
There was little time to wait; the boy who had summoned him pulled Bob's cord within the hour, and he and the others went forth to claim Angie Ruthven. She was maybe seventeen, corn silk hair and dark green eyes, and wept as they bore her away. This did not surprise Patrick overmuch. Many of the ones they took cried, or pleaded, or threatened. They all begged for their lives back, as if he had any say in the matter whatsoever.
Times like that, he was glad he was-mostly-proscribed against speaking. Most of the guilty ones confessed when they were taken, but they still asked for leniency. The words always echoed in his head: "Why should I set you free? You have done so much harm to this one, or to so many, and you ask that I let you go? You demand it? You showed no mercy to your victims; why should I do any less for you?"
Worse yet were the times when the fairly innocent were taken. They begged for their lives back, but what was he to say to them? "I'm sorry this is happening. It's not fair. If I had any power, any say in such matters, I would let you go." How would that be a comfort? The world was unfair; even small children knew that. Hearing pity and sorrow from their escort would just increase their torment. In those instances, it was better to give them a blank slate to rail and rally against. It could, occasionally, be a comfort.
"I hate this part," he heard Ashlee mutter to Bob, as Patrick and the barge returned alone. She'd never say that to Andy, Patrick knew; Andy saw this as part of his duties under heaven, part of a greater plan none of them could ever fully understand. Some days, Patrick envied him that.
"Everyone hates this part," Bob muttered back.
"Not him. I bet he likes it-"
"I don't like or dislike anything," Patrick said, making sure his voice carried. Ashlee had the grace to wince, at least. "We're not here because we enjoy what we do. It needs to be done."
"So?" she snapped, near tears. Patrick stifled a noise. Ashlee had been dead nowhere near as long as he had; her emotions were still far closer to the surface than his own, and she voiced them with irritating regularity. He didn't know whether to chastise or admire her. "This isn't fair. This isn't justice--"
Chastise it was. "Justice?" Patrick heard himself, incredulous as anything. "Who told you we were meting out justice? Tell me that person's name, because they lied to you. We deal in vengeance, not justice. We don't ferry people to the land of the dead for judgment; we don't spirit people to Valhalla or Heaven or any of the lands under Heaven's auspices. We deal in revenge. We avenge grievances. It's not easy, and it's certainly not fair, but I didn't design the system. None of us did. But we're a part of it, and we do our jobs."
She was quiet for a long time. Patrick stepped onto the shore--he never parked the barge; it was another function of his job he had no say in, like the clothes he wore or the words he said as he bore the damned along--and started back for the farmhouse.
"I'm sorry," Ashlee finally said. Her voice was muted. "I was thoughtless and rude, and I apologize."
Patrick nodded. He knew the truth when he heard it. "I don't like it either," he admitted. "What we do. I do think it's necessary, especially for some of them, but not always. I feel bad when we do it to innocents."
"But we still do it."
"Yes," he said. "We still do it."
Ashlee walked next to him, hands shoved deep in her pockets. "That's not fair," she said quietly.
Just as quietly, Patrick said, "No. It's not."
*
Sometime the next day, Patrick realized he was seeing the inside of one of Pete's classrooms.
It was odd, but not unheard of; Pete did his best to keep himself and his dreams away from Patrick when he was working, so now Patrick peeked through Pete’s eyes in the waking world. It could sometimes be pleasant, but he'd much rather someone had asked him before it happened. He always felt like he was spying. It had started happening more and more the last two or three months, for no particular reason Patrick could find.
Hello, he told Pete, the same as he always did. I'm here. Try to ignore me, you're in class.
Like that's gonna happen, Pete said, the same as *he* always did. Besides, it's speech. I can zone out in speech.
They make you take classes to learn how to talk? Pete knew perfectly well how to speak. Patrick’s memories of being alive were practically nonexistent, but he was fairly sure he hadn't had to learn how to talk except when he was a toddler.
No, it's--never mind, it's a graduation requirement. Pete never looked away from the front of the room, except to occasionally glance down and scribble something in his notes. How was your day?
Patrick was quiet for a long time. Finally: Did you know an Angie Ruthven?
The name's familiar, Pete admitted. I think I might've had a class with her a couple semesters ago. Wh... He was quiet for a second. This morning?
Last night, Patrick said. After I left you. I don't think he was someone she'd dated. It...it's hard to explain. It didn't feel personal enough.
Shit, Pete said, and was silent for a long time.
Patrick resisted the urge to say anything. Pete already knew he felt bad, or as close to bad as he'd let himself feel; saying something right now would most likely prompt a fight. Pete always took Patrick's job seriously, though not exactly in the way Patrick would like.
Should've been there this morning, Pete said, trying for levity. I missed you, so I-
Now you're just being mean.
Little bit. I’m really just teasing. Pete's voice was soft. I miss you.
You always miss me, Patrick murmured back. Would you be upset if I came by tonight? If you already have plans, it's not necessary-
No! Pete's eyeline changed; Patrick guessed he was sitting up straighter. But not looking around, which meant Pete was probably surprised. He certainly sounded pleased. No, that's. I'm just surprised, that's all. It's usually weeks between, not, like, a day.
Don't get used to it, Patrick said back, amused. I told Bill we all could do something together, if that's all right.
When the hell did you talk to Bill-never mind.
I-- Patrick started to answer, and then he was back in the sunless lands, looking at the wall of his room. He blinked, startled at the suddenness of the change, and resisted the urge to sigh. He'd just have to tell Pete over dinner.
*
Pizza, he supposed, counted as dinner.
"What is this again?" Patrick asked, leaning in to yell in Pete's ear.
"It's called Whack-A-Mole," Pete yelled back. "You don't think it's awesome?"
"I think it's hitting a plastic rodent with a mallet," Patrick said, a little doubtfully. He stood back and watched the kids in front of them give it a try.
They were in Chuck E. Cheese, which was apparently a children's restaurant and...amusement factory, he supposed. It was loaded with games and small, shrieking children. Patrick wasn't sure whether to be irritated or charmed; he split the difference and decided to be both.
Bill was across the room, talking to a skinny guy with short sandy hair. Patrick still wasn't great with body language, but he'd seen enough of Bill over the years, in fits and starts, to know what it looked like when he was flirting. "It was his idea," Pete had said, a little apologetic, when Bill suggested this place for dinner. Patrick wasn't sure *why* he was apologetic; apart from the screaming children, it seemed pleasant.
Also, they had a ball pit. Technically dead servant of vengeance or no, Patrick loved ball pits.
"That's the idea," Pete said. He was practically bouncing. Patrick could almost see him willing the kids in front of them to move, though that wasn't so much a psychic connection as it was knowing the way Pete thought. "You hit him and you get tickets--"
"--and you trade the tickets for prizes," Patrick said. "Yeah, I got that. It seems fairly simple."
Pete just shot him a look.
Patrick frowned. "Did I get it wrong?"
"You really have to work on this," Pete said mildly. "You sound so--so I don't know, fucking Vulcan when you're explaining stuff. This isn't Robert's Rules of Order, it's Whack-A-Mole at Chuck E. Cheese."
Patrick flushed and started to turn away. "I'm sorry," he said tightly, "if you--"
"No, hey." Pete linked their fingers together. "I'm just saying, it might be hard to transition back if you're always acting like a transfer student from Saturn or something."
Patrick was quiet for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of Pete's fingers through his. He'd thought about it in his free time, more than once: what would it be like to be human again? Would he always feel this way, like he was watching the world through faintly frosted glass?
"I don't think so," he finally said. "I hope not, anyway, but--I really don't think so. I'm already less formal than I used to be. It might be hard, on occasion." He smiled. "We really could tell people I'm a transfer student. It's not so improbable."
Pete looked at him for a minute, then tugged him forward when the kids in front of them left. "You just take the mallet," he said, "and time it so--there!" He smacked the mole; a loud thwocking sound came out of the speakers, with a little light flashing underneath it.
"This doesn't seem so hard," Patrick said. "I could--"
"I'd like you to meet my parents."
Patrick looked at him. He wondered, briefly, if Pete had sustained some kind of head injury when he wasn't looking.
"I'm not crazy," Pete added. "I just-I’m working on that stupid research project--"
"What project?"
The way Pete blinked was probably an indication that Patrick should have been listening. "For my speech class," he said, slowing his words. "The one you popped in on today? We were assigned topics. I have to do a brief overview of my family tree, going back at least three generations."
"And that...somehow made you think I should meet your parents."
"Yes." Pete didn't look away from his confused stare. "I-you're important to me. They're important to me. I'd kind of like the two important parts of my life to meet, you know? Shit, right now I'm pretty sure they think I made you up."
"I-Pete-"
Pete searched his face for a moment, then glanced down at the game. "Forget it," he said faintly, shaking his head. "Never mind. I didn't say anything, okay? We--let's just try to hit the mole."
Patrick watched Pete try to focus on hitting the plastic rodent. He was putting in more effort than was strictly necessary. Patrick's stomach, traitorous and absent thing, twisted again.
"You couldn't tell them in advance that I was coming," he finally said. "It wouldn't be fair. If something came up-"
"That--no, no problem," Pete said. His eyes were wide. "I wouldn't expect you to. It's not like you can just call in sick." He paused. "Can you?"
"I really can't," Patrick said. "If we did it, we'd just--go there, I suppose. Drive up, maybe. You'd have to drive back by yourself," he added. "I'd--"
"--yeah, yeah, turn back into a pumpkin at midnight," Pete said. He looked like he was trying very hard not to smile and failing miserably. "Same as every other date, except for the driving part." He glanced at the game, absently trying to hit the mole. "And, you know, the part where you meet my parents."
"And that part," Patrick agreed. He held out his hand. "Can I try?"
Pete, looking bemused, handed over the mallet. Patrick watched for a few seconds, timing it out, then smacked the mole when its head popped out.
Beside him, Pete said solemnly, "Oh pitiful soul, lost in the darkness--"
Patrick burst out laughing. Pete grinned.
*
part ii
This is the third in a series, following On Your Behalf and If I Woke Up Next to You. There’s not as much smut as I would have liked. It does, however, feature Katy Perry in a variety of outfits, Bill Beckett wearing glasses and generally being awesome, and much less sending-of-Gabe-to-hell than the previous ones.
your grievance
by gale
SUMMARY: In which we learn that the price of vengeance is, occasionally, worse than hell itself; or: your grievance shall be avenged. Just not in the way you were thinking. [Third in a series, following On Your Behalf and If I Woke Up Next to You.]
i. be still my heart
"Eat this."
"No."
"Eat it."
"No."
"Come on! Eat iiiiiiiii--"
"Pete!" Patrick smacked his hand away. "I said no. I said no twice."
Pete put down the soup spoon and looked at him.
Patrick sighed and leaned in, taking it into his mouth for a moment. He let the flavors roll around his tongue. "Um. Maybe a little more salt?"
Pete took a taste himself, then nodded. "Salt it is. Good job on the pepper, though."
They were in Pete's new apartment--new to Patrick, anyway; Pete and Bill had been there for almost seven months now--and Pete had insisted on making dinner. Patrick wasn't sure why, since it wasn't like he had to eat, but he appreciated the gesture. On some level, anyway. The rest of him was curious as to why Pete was going to the effort.
Remembering to be human was taxing, sometimes.
--well, no, remembering to act human was taxing. Patrick, strictly speaking, wasn't human, not anymore. He was an emissary of vengeance, serving...actually, he wasn't entirely sure what he served, but it wasn't necessary for him to know, so that was all right. He did his job, he did not overstep his boundaries too much or too often, and he asked no questions.
And sometimes, like now, he snuck away for a few hours before midnight and tried to remember what he had been, once.
Even on his best days, it was difficult. The last time he had been alive, it was decades ago; another century. Things had been different. Men didn't have dinner with other men unless they were family or it was for business. They certainly didn't make each other dinner at their apartments, unless one was married and trying to set his friend up with someone his wife knew. He'd walked through the dreams and thoughts of mankind for decades, learning what angered and hurt and ruined them, but something as simple as remembering to feel temperature could almost undo him.
Speaking of which-- "Is it cold in here?"
"Not really," Pete said. "Sort of warm, actually." He unzipped his hoodie and spread it over the back of a chair. "Did you want wine with dinner?"
"If you're having some," Patrick said, "I will too." He stirred the sauce and hummed under his breath. "Bill's not joining us?"
Pete shook his head. "He's working on his thesis," he said. "He's maybe halfway done, and it's giving him rickets." He poured two glasses of wine and put one next to Patrick. "How's, um. How's work going?"
Patrick looked at him.
"I know, I know, you can't tell me," Pete said. "Not even a hint?" He held his fingers an inch apart. "Weensy little hint?"
"'Weensy' is not a unit of measurement," Patrick said. He checked the sauce again and turned off the burner. "It’s going well, I suppose. There have been others like Brendon--"
"Others?" Pete's face lit up. "They called it off?"
Patrick nodded. "A surprising number. I don't want to say it's any kind of a shift in the attitudes of mankind, but--"
"Patrick," Pete said, "please dumb it down for me."
Patrick sighed and moved the sauce away from the burner. "It's going better than I'm used to," he said. "I'm pleased, and cautiously optimistic." He reached out and take a sip of wine. It was good, he thought, though the alcohol had no effect on him at all. It was like drinking water.
"Good." Pete leaned in and kissed him. "Now grab the sauce and let's eat."
*
After dinner, Patrick found himself cleaning up. His memories of doing such a thing Before were dim at best--he was fairly certain he'd had a mother, or a sister, or possibly a dewy-eyed fiancé to do such things for him--but as soon as Pete handed him a plate, freshly rinsed, he'd stacked it in the sink, natural as anything.
Muscle memory, he decided, and didn't worry about it overmuch.
"So how was everything?" Pete asked.
Patrick shrugged. "It was fine." He glanced up and saw Pete's face, the hint of disappointment, and sighed. "I mean that literally. My taste buds aren't like yours. You *know* that."
They really weren't. His existence on the physical plane was temporary, tenuous at best. Standing here, in Pete's kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, was an act of will; his real body, the one he'd died in, had been buried long ago. It would be mostly-decomposed bones, if anything at all; most likely it was compost in a rotted-out coffin. It was easier for the Others; their bodies were designed to walk among humans and pass without comment, but garner no attention. They had taste buds--and nerve endings, and everything else. So did he, right now, but it was only temporary.
"I know," Pete said, quietly. "Sorry. I didn't mean--I'm sorry."
Patrick sighed again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to make you upset. I just. I can't appreciate everything the same way you can."
"Not yet."
"Not yet, no," Patrick agreed. "And I can't say for certain when I'll be able to. Or if. I don't know how this works, Pete."
They didn't talk about it a lot. The unspoken agreement was very simple: service until such time as twelve people chose forgiveness over vengeance. It sounded very simple, but some things never fell out of fashion, and revenge was one of them. He'd been doing this a very long time, and until recently only one had decided to let go of his pain and save his soul.
In the last two years, three others besides Brendon had done it.
Patrick wasn't letting himself be optimistic; it was too close to foolishness, in his opinion, in his situation. But sometimes, just for a few moments, he let himself hope.
"I know," Pete said. He nudged Patrick with his hip. "Come on, I'll teach you how to load a dishwasher."
*
"I can do it," Patrick said, slapping Pete's hands away. Pete laughed against the back of his neck.
"I'm sure you can," he murmured. "I just want to help."
Patrick quit messing with his belt and turned around, holding his hands up and out of Pete's way. He usually let Pete do this part; one of the first times he'd tried it, he'd just made the clothes and the body all one piece, nothing to undress. Like a child's toy. Pete would never let him hear the end of it. "You mess up one time-"
"You mess up spectacularly," Pete said, unzipping his fly. His own clothes were strewn around the bedroom. Patrick was pretty sure that was Pete's shirt on top of the ceiling fan, and his pants-
Pete slid to his knees and mouthed Patrick's stomach, hands spreading his thighs and shoving him down against the mattress. Patrick stopped worrying about clothes.
It was strange, how fast he'd adapted to sex. He didn't have muscle memory for this, for another man's hands on his skin, another man's mouth. He'd cheated and watched videos on Pete's computer, but most of those weren't really good as far as advice went. They were baffling, yes, and laughably bad, and occasionally horrifying, but not terribly good at explaining things. Experience was better.
Experience had taught him that Pete tended to laugh in bed, though not at him. Experience had made him buckle down and, grimly determined, try to give Pete a blowjob, even when the first few attempts invariably ended with Pete yelping--not with pleasure--and insisting he try again at a later date, "when my dick isn't throbbing, dude, oh my God, tomorrow you're learning about teeth."
Experience, and its lack, had made Patrick a more than willing student.
He groaned and dug his fingers into Pete's shoulders, savoring the feeling of a warm, wet mouth on his cock. The world of the living was a thousand times more vivid than the sunless lands, as its pleasures went--everything was brighter here, sharper, stronger. Pete had kissed him, in the sunless lands; kissed him and touched him, made love with him a hundred different ways. They’d all been sweet, but none as purely, blindly pleasurable as holding someone’s hand in the land of the living.
"Yes," he said softly, tilting his hips. Speaking during sex was still strange to him, so he tried not to do it too much. "Pete, yes, that--keep doing that."
Pete stopped for a moment, whuffing out a laugh against his thigh. Patrick twitched. "That's what I like about you," he murmured. "You always let me know what you want."
"I'm sorry!" Patrick said, irritated. He never knew when Pete was edging into actually making fun. Not that he ever had, really, but--it was a feeling. Part of the deal with wanting to become human again, with experiencing things, was that you had to take the bad parts with the good ones.
"No, hey." Pete's eyes were very dark. He kissed Patrick's thigh, making a slow trail up with his tongue. "That wasn't a knock, okay? I'm being serious. I like that."
"...really?"
"Really really." Pete bit down a little, making a pink mark against his skin. "Do you-what do you want to do?"
It only took a second to run through the options in his head. They'd yet to attempt anything that Patrick hadn't at least wanted to try again, but he had a few favorites. "Fuck me," he said breathlessly, reaching down and touching Pete's face. "Will you? Please?"
Pete's eyes lit up. "Wait," he said, scrambling to his feet. Patrick didn't try to hide his grin. He rolled onto his back and spread his legs, stroking his thigh with one hand. He watched Pete look for whatever he needed. "Wait, just a couple seconds-"
"I'm waaaaiting," Patrick sang out. He moved his hand up and rubbed at his belly, watching Pete with hooded eyes.
"God, stop being such a whi--" Pete turned around and stopped, lubricant in one hand, mouth dropping open a little. He stared.
"Such a what?" Patrick said lightly. He stroked his cock, shuddering at the sensation, digging his toes into the sheets. "If you're not going to move fast enough, I'm just going to have to get started without you."
"Okay, that's cheating," Pete said. He crossed to the bed and kneewalked across it, settling himself between Patrick's legs. "You didn't even have sex a couple months ago--"
"I had an excellent teacher." Patrick leaned up and bit at his mouth.
"--and now you're lying on your back, looking like some of those dreams I used to have. The really inappropriate ones." Pete eased Patrick's legs further open. The lube was cold when Pete reached down to open him, but it always was, and it warmed up soon enough. Patrick let out a long breath. "What were those like for you, anyway?"
"Strange," Patrick said, shivering a little. "Pleasant. This is better." He wrapped his hand around Pete's erection and brought him closer. "Don't go slow."
Pete made a noise Patrick couldn't identify and thrust inside him to the hilt. Patrick gasped and gripped the mattress in both hands.
The sex was almost always good, a couple of non-starts notwithstanding. Patrick got that; it was designed to be pleasant, after all, to ensure that the species kept going. Even better than the sex was the way everything came down. When he was awake, Pete wasn't so different from everyone else; he kept walls up to keep from feeling too much, to keep himself sane, to not be hurt. Sex made the walls thinner, almost translucent. He could hear the undercurrent in Pete's head as he moved above and inside him: mine and yours and yes, a lot of images that went by too fast to properly track but felt, to the center of Patrick's borrowed chest, like happiness.
And then Pete's hips were snapping against his and he was panting, and it was doing something to Patrick's body, there was a technical name for it but he only knew it as oh God YES; and then Pete was still above him, shaking inside him. He wrapped a hand around Patrick's cock and rubbed the thumb along the head--and maybe Patrick had been close for longer than he'd realized, because he was biting Pete's shoulder and coming in wet, messy spurts against their stomachs.
"Love you," Pete was breathing into his skin. "Love you, Patrick, I love you so much--"
"Shhhh." Patrick licked at the bite and breathed in Pete's smell. Humans smelled so good. Even in the sunless lands, the scents were flat and still. He didn't even wince when Pete slid out of him. "You don't have to say it. You don't."
"Yes I do," and maybe Patrick had missed something, the way Pete was looking at him. "I love you. You only get to visit, and it fucking kills me-"
"Pete!" And that was sharper than he'd intended, but Pete could lose himself, sometimes, when he started with that. "I know, all right? I know all of it." He touched Pete's mouth. "Just. I want to sleep with you, before I have to go. Is that all right?"
Just that fast, it was gone. Pete curled against him. "You're mine," he murmured. "You don't have to ask."
"I kind of do," Patrick said, petting Pete's hair. "It's polite. We-Pete?"
But Pete was already dozing against his chest, come-sticky and skin prickling in the post-sex chill. Patrick sighed to himself and drew the blanket up over their shoulders.
*
Just before midnight, Patrick got out of bed and started looking for his pants. He could always vanish them and create new ones, but that sort of thing was a waste of energy, and he only had so much to spare while he was h-
From behind him, Pete said, "'s midnight already?"
Patrick stopped for a second, then bent to pick up his jeans. "Yes." He put them on and turned back towards Pete.
"Dammit." Pete sighed and sat up, bleary-eyed. "I hate this."
Sleep hadn't been the distraction he'd hoped for. Patrick cursed inside. "You say that every time, as if I'm eager to leave." His voice was sharper again. "You're not the only one unhappy about this, you know." He fumbled himself into his jeans. "You get to stay here and have a life. I get to go back for - for whatever mindless reason I was chosen-"
"Patrick-"
"-and see the same little human dramas played out over and over again, unceasing, unchanging-"
"Patrick!" Pete reached out and gave his shoulders a little shake. "I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't trying to be rude, and I didn't mean to yell."
Patrick looked at him. After a few seconds, the tension started leaching out of him. "Neither did I," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"I just." Pete started rubbing his arms; Patrick doubted he even knew he was doing it. "Every time you're here, I let myself forget you have to leave until you actually go. Then it's--it's like I'm losing you all over again."
"You're not," Patrick said. "You never lose me."
"Don't I? You leave, you go someplace I can't follow, and I don't see you for days or weeks. I'm not allowed to go near you when you're at work-"
"That's for your own safety," Patrick said. It was an old argument. To be fair, Pete had been really good about not interfering with Patrick's work since what had happened with Brendon, but that didn't stop him from doing his damnedest to pry.
"--I know that," Pete said tightly. "I just think it sucks, okay? I'm allowed to think something sucks." He wrapped the sheets tighter around his waist. He looked mulish, Patrick thought uncharitably.
"Fine," Patrick said. "Is that all?" He went back to looking for his shirt. "We have this argument every time, as you said--"
"I kissed Ashlee."
Patrick looked at him for a long time. Pete just watched him.
"And?" Patrick finally said. "Is that all?"
"Is--" Pete goggled. "Is that all? I just told you I kissed someone else."
"Yes." Patrick sat on the end of the bed, still looking at him. "Am I supposed to be angry now?" he asked, curious. "I think so. That's what usually happens, anyway."
Pete kept goggling. "You're...not angry."
"No." Patrick shrugged. "The two of you are friends. I cannot be here with you as often as either of us would like; she can. I'm kind of surprised Ashlee would want to do something like that, but I'm not angry. I'm glad she was there for you. I can't always be."
"Seriously. Not angry."
Patrick shook his head. "I would appreciate it if we had a discussion before you did anything more than kiss, if you’re planning on it. But no, I'm not angry."
Pete just looked at him, shaking his head. "I--huh. I don't intend to, but I can't entirely say it won't happen." Patrick nodded; he'd expected as much. "I can promise that as soon as you're free of this...whatever this is, it's done. You full-time? I don't need anything else."
"Good," Patrick said. He took a breath. There were a hundred things, a thousand, that he wanted to say, but he was close to being late already; it'd have to wait. "Stay in bed." He leaned down and kissed Pete's mouth. "I'll let myself out."
"You always do," Pete muttered, and burrowed under the covers until only his head from the nose up was peeking out. He looked like a cartoon character. "Be careful. Have a good day at work. Try not to kill too many people."
"If they don't make me," Patrick agreed, and kissed him again. "Love you too."
*
He found his shoes in the living room--not surprising--and was turning to go when a sound behind him made him jump. He whipped his head around, looking for the source of it.
"Hey," Bill said. He was sitting at the kitchen table, backlit, and reading. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, the light glinting off his glasses, and gave a little wave.
Patrick hesitated a moment, then said, "Hey."
It was always a little uncomfortable around Bill. Pete remembering what had happened was one thing; that seemed, somehow, fair trade for the dreams and thinking he was slowly going mad. But his roommate remembered too, which was just odd. No one had ever come into the sunless realms before, save the damned--those who summoned him, and those he ferried away--and the mere fact that two mortals walking among the living had been there, remembered their time there, made something ancient in him shiver.
The rest of him, however, had been just 19 when he died, and was in love. And for all that, it wasn't like Bill was hard on the eyes.
"Are you--is that schoolwork?" Patrick winced. He was still finding his tongue around mortals; it tended to skitter away from him.
"Yeah," Bill said. "Research. I have a paper due in a few weeks. I like to get this kind of thing done early rather than later." He glanced up at Patrick. "Are you going?"
Patrick nodded.
"Sorry I didn't see you before," Bill said, "or say hi." He looked a little abashed. Patrick preferred to think he was a bit ashamed about the lie: Bill would much rather see Patrick's back, if he saw any part of him at all. Patrick couldn't blame him.
The easiest, and kindest, thing to do was pretend he believed it. "It's all right. There'll be other moments." He put his shoes back on and made sure they were laced. "Good ni--"
"Do you love him?" Bill asked suddenly.
Patrick blinked. "If I didn’t," he said, "it’d make everything we've been through a bit cheap."
"That--" Bill shook his head. "I know you care about him. That's obvious. I mean do you love him."
It was a fair question. Patrick thought about it for a moment.
He'd never really thought about it. Pete had been a nuisance, and then a familiar nuisance--and then he’d come to the sunless lands, under his own power or not, and tried to save the life of someone he could at most count as an acquaintance. If he'd feared for his own life or soul, he hadn't let it show; he'd been too furious at circumstances to be scared. He was passionate, if sometimes ridiculously so, and he fairly demanded the same level of passion from Patrick. He made Patrick irritated, and furious, and very occasionally angry; more often, he made Patrick happy. Nothing had made him happy in a very long time, certainly not since he'd begun his duties.
"Yes," he finally said, focusing on Bill. "I can't really explain why, but--" He frowned. "If something happened to him, I...it would be very wrong." And oh, that was close to admitting things he was all but expressly forbidden to feel-
If you accept, you must not put emotions before your duties--not anyone else's save the accuser's, and certainly not your own.
--but he was here now, and it did not affect his duties, and he wanted nothing more than to go back and sleep in Pete's bed. Saying as much was just the truth.
"It would be very wrong," he said again, and shook his head. "I--it's a poor explanation, I know."
"No." Bill's expression was unreadable. "That's a good sign. Thanks." He offered a brief smile. "Um. If you wanted, we could all go do something the next time you come by."
"I'd like that," Patrick said, and was pleasantly surprised to find he meant it.
*
He stepped through the doorway to Pete and Bill's apartment and emerged, as ever, back in the sunless lands. It was sunset there, the way it always was, and there was a shadowy shape on the front porch. Patrick most definitely didn't look directly at it as he passed by.
As he passed, It called, "It's almost midnight. You're cutting it awful close."
(That was not, strictly speaking, what it said. It did not speak a mortal tongue, or perhaps all of them. But whatever it spoke, the ear of the listener translated as their own tongue. It was also far more formal in its own speech, but Patrick thought he'd been spending too much time with Pete; sometimes, what he heard now was more colloquial.)
"I'm sorry," he said. He did not need to glance down to know he was in his work clothes again: black with occasional touches of red. He turned and went into the house, studiously not looking at the shape on the porch. He did not think it would break him, seeing Its true shape, but he would rather not risk it.
The Others were, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found. This was his duty and his alone; they would not be needed until later, if at all. Not every night was busy.
Patrick sat down before the computer and watched the screen, and waited.
A minute later, perhaps two, and the screen pinged. He sighed and reached out, looking at the name written there: ANGIE RUTHVEN.
It was going to be a long night.
*
There was little time to wait; the boy who had summoned him pulled Bob's cord within the hour, and he and the others went forth to claim Angie Ruthven. She was maybe seventeen, corn silk hair and dark green eyes, and wept as they bore her away. This did not surprise Patrick overmuch. Many of the ones they took cried, or pleaded, or threatened. They all begged for their lives back, as if he had any say in the matter whatsoever.
Times like that, he was glad he was-mostly-proscribed against speaking. Most of the guilty ones confessed when they were taken, but they still asked for leniency. The words always echoed in his head: "Why should I set you free? You have done so much harm to this one, or to so many, and you ask that I let you go? You demand it? You showed no mercy to your victims; why should I do any less for you?"
Worse yet were the times when the fairly innocent were taken. They begged for their lives back, but what was he to say to them? "I'm sorry this is happening. It's not fair. If I had any power, any say in such matters, I would let you go." How would that be a comfort? The world was unfair; even small children knew that. Hearing pity and sorrow from their escort would just increase their torment. In those instances, it was better to give them a blank slate to rail and rally against. It could, occasionally, be a comfort.
"I hate this part," he heard Ashlee mutter to Bob, as Patrick and the barge returned alone. She'd never say that to Andy, Patrick knew; Andy saw this as part of his duties under heaven, part of a greater plan none of them could ever fully understand. Some days, Patrick envied him that.
"Everyone hates this part," Bob muttered back.
"Not him. I bet he likes it-"
"I don't like or dislike anything," Patrick said, making sure his voice carried. Ashlee had the grace to wince, at least. "We're not here because we enjoy what we do. It needs to be done."
"So?" she snapped, near tears. Patrick stifled a noise. Ashlee had been dead nowhere near as long as he had; her emotions were still far closer to the surface than his own, and she voiced them with irritating regularity. He didn't know whether to chastise or admire her. "This isn't fair. This isn't justice--"
Chastise it was. "Justice?" Patrick heard himself, incredulous as anything. "Who told you we were meting out justice? Tell me that person's name, because they lied to you. We deal in vengeance, not justice. We don't ferry people to the land of the dead for judgment; we don't spirit people to Valhalla or Heaven or any of the lands under Heaven's auspices. We deal in revenge. We avenge grievances. It's not easy, and it's certainly not fair, but I didn't design the system. None of us did. But we're a part of it, and we do our jobs."
She was quiet for a long time. Patrick stepped onto the shore--he never parked the barge; it was another function of his job he had no say in, like the clothes he wore or the words he said as he bore the damned along--and started back for the farmhouse.
"I'm sorry," Ashlee finally said. Her voice was muted. "I was thoughtless and rude, and I apologize."
Patrick nodded. He knew the truth when he heard it. "I don't like it either," he admitted. "What we do. I do think it's necessary, especially for some of them, but not always. I feel bad when we do it to innocents."
"But we still do it."
"Yes," he said. "We still do it."
Ashlee walked next to him, hands shoved deep in her pockets. "That's not fair," she said quietly.
Just as quietly, Patrick said, "No. It's not."
*
Sometime the next day, Patrick realized he was seeing the inside of one of Pete's classrooms.
It was odd, but not unheard of; Pete did his best to keep himself and his dreams away from Patrick when he was working, so now Patrick peeked through Pete’s eyes in the waking world. It could sometimes be pleasant, but he'd much rather someone had asked him before it happened. He always felt like he was spying. It had started happening more and more the last two or three months, for no particular reason Patrick could find.
Hello, he told Pete, the same as he always did. I'm here. Try to ignore me, you're in class.
Like that's gonna happen, Pete said, the same as *he* always did. Besides, it's speech. I can zone out in speech.
They make you take classes to learn how to talk? Pete knew perfectly well how to speak. Patrick’s memories of being alive were practically nonexistent, but he was fairly sure he hadn't had to learn how to talk except when he was a toddler.
No, it's--never mind, it's a graduation requirement. Pete never looked away from the front of the room, except to occasionally glance down and scribble something in his notes. How was your day?
Patrick was quiet for a long time. Finally: Did you know an Angie Ruthven?
The name's familiar, Pete admitted. I think I might've had a class with her a couple semesters ago. Wh... He was quiet for a second. This morning?
Last night, Patrick said. After I left you. I don't think he was someone she'd dated. It...it's hard to explain. It didn't feel personal enough.
Shit, Pete said, and was silent for a long time.
Patrick resisted the urge to say anything. Pete already knew he felt bad, or as close to bad as he'd let himself feel; saying something right now would most likely prompt a fight. Pete always took Patrick's job seriously, though not exactly in the way Patrick would like.
Should've been there this morning, Pete said, trying for levity. I missed you, so I-
Now you're just being mean.
Little bit. I’m really just teasing. Pete's voice was soft. I miss you.
You always miss me, Patrick murmured back. Would you be upset if I came by tonight? If you already have plans, it's not necessary-
No! Pete's eyeline changed; Patrick guessed he was sitting up straighter. But not looking around, which meant Pete was probably surprised. He certainly sounded pleased. No, that's. I'm just surprised, that's all. It's usually weeks between, not, like, a day.
Don't get used to it, Patrick said back, amused. I told Bill we all could do something together, if that's all right.
When the hell did you talk to Bill-never mind.
I-- Patrick started to answer, and then he was back in the sunless lands, looking at the wall of his room. He blinked, startled at the suddenness of the change, and resisted the urge to sigh. He'd just have to tell Pete over dinner.
*
Pizza, he supposed, counted as dinner.
"What is this again?" Patrick asked, leaning in to yell in Pete's ear.
"It's called Whack-A-Mole," Pete yelled back. "You don't think it's awesome?"
"I think it's hitting a plastic rodent with a mallet," Patrick said, a little doubtfully. He stood back and watched the kids in front of them give it a try.
They were in Chuck E. Cheese, which was apparently a children's restaurant and...amusement factory, he supposed. It was loaded with games and small, shrieking children. Patrick wasn't sure whether to be irritated or charmed; he split the difference and decided to be both.
Bill was across the room, talking to a skinny guy with short sandy hair. Patrick still wasn't great with body language, but he'd seen enough of Bill over the years, in fits and starts, to know what it looked like when he was flirting. "It was his idea," Pete had said, a little apologetic, when Bill suggested this place for dinner. Patrick wasn't sure *why* he was apologetic; apart from the screaming children, it seemed pleasant.
Also, they had a ball pit. Technically dead servant of vengeance or no, Patrick loved ball pits.
"That's the idea," Pete said. He was practically bouncing. Patrick could almost see him willing the kids in front of them to move, though that wasn't so much a psychic connection as it was knowing the way Pete thought. "You hit him and you get tickets--"
"--and you trade the tickets for prizes," Patrick said. "Yeah, I got that. It seems fairly simple."
Pete just shot him a look.
Patrick frowned. "Did I get it wrong?"
"You really have to work on this," Pete said mildly. "You sound so--so I don't know, fucking Vulcan when you're explaining stuff. This isn't Robert's Rules of Order, it's Whack-A-Mole at Chuck E. Cheese."
Patrick flushed and started to turn away. "I'm sorry," he said tightly, "if you--"
"No, hey." Pete linked their fingers together. "I'm just saying, it might be hard to transition back if you're always acting like a transfer student from Saturn or something."
Patrick was quiet for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of Pete's fingers through his. He'd thought about it in his free time, more than once: what would it be like to be human again? Would he always feel this way, like he was watching the world through faintly frosted glass?
"I don't think so," he finally said. "I hope not, anyway, but--I really don't think so. I'm already less formal than I used to be. It might be hard, on occasion." He smiled. "We really could tell people I'm a transfer student. It's not so improbable."
Pete looked at him for a minute, then tugged him forward when the kids in front of them left. "You just take the mallet," he said, "and time it so--there!" He smacked the mole; a loud thwocking sound came out of the speakers, with a little light flashing underneath it.
"This doesn't seem so hard," Patrick said. "I could--"
"I'd like you to meet my parents."
Patrick looked at him. He wondered, briefly, if Pete had sustained some kind of head injury when he wasn't looking.
"I'm not crazy," Pete added. "I just-I’m working on that stupid research project--"
"What project?"
The way Pete blinked was probably an indication that Patrick should have been listening. "For my speech class," he said, slowing his words. "The one you popped in on today? We were assigned topics. I have to do a brief overview of my family tree, going back at least three generations."
"And that...somehow made you think I should meet your parents."
"Yes." Pete didn't look away from his confused stare. "I-you're important to me. They're important to me. I'd kind of like the two important parts of my life to meet, you know? Shit, right now I'm pretty sure they think I made you up."
"I-Pete-"
Pete searched his face for a moment, then glanced down at the game. "Forget it," he said faintly, shaking his head. "Never mind. I didn't say anything, okay? We--let's just try to hit the mole."
Patrick watched Pete try to focus on hitting the plastic rodent. He was putting in more effort than was strictly necessary. Patrick's stomach, traitorous and absent thing, twisted again.
"You couldn't tell them in advance that I was coming," he finally said. "It wouldn't be fair. If something came up-"
"That--no, no problem," Pete said. His eyes were wide. "I wouldn't expect you to. It's not like you can just call in sick." He paused. "Can you?"
"I really can't," Patrick said. "If we did it, we'd just--go there, I suppose. Drive up, maybe. You'd have to drive back by yourself," he added. "I'd--"
"--yeah, yeah, turn back into a pumpkin at midnight," Pete said. He looked like he was trying very hard not to smile and failing miserably. "Same as every other date, except for the driving part." He glanced at the game, absently trying to hit the mole. "And, you know, the part where you meet my parents."
"And that part," Patrick agreed. He held out his hand. "Can I try?"
Pete, looking bemused, handed over the mallet. Patrick watched for a few seconds, timing it out, then smacked the mole when its head popped out.
Beside him, Pete said solemnly, "Oh pitiful soul, lost in the darkness--"
Patrick burst out laughing. Pete grinned.
*
part ii