#gonna go against my usual M.O. and try to write this scene first and see if i can move backward (and forward) from there

[thecodeveronica]

It turns out that sometimes all the inspiration you need to start legitimately planning a fic in earnest is imagining two of your faves knocked out and tied up while trapped in an old building and bickering with each other about how to escape

[lurafita]

King!Steve/Healer!Peter

Born from this prompt: Remember to link prompt!

There might be some grammar mistakes and typos in this, because I’m uploading this without reading it five additional times (as is my usual M.O.). But I’m a bit pressed for time right now, and if I don’t upload this now, it will probably take me a few days to do it. I hope it’s not too bad, but please point out any mistakes I have made, so that I will have an easier time to correct them later on.

FANTASY AU

I'm taking some liberties with the way the characters talk here. Usually, when you have an environment with Kingdoms and knights and the like, you expect the story to have a certain... etiquette? Or, well, a certain kind of speech. Now, writing in a foreign language is already a challenge at times, but adding a kind of formal speech that is only seen in history books and period pieces, is simply too difficult for me to even attempt. So, since I'm not writing a historic period story, but rather a fantasy one with magic and the like, I think it's okay for me to have to characters speak in a more modern way (with words like 'fuck' and 'cool' and such), even though the plot doesn't play in a modern environment.

Spideyshield; King!Steve/Healer!Peter 

The grand palace doors sprung open with an echoing bang, as first knight and commander of the Kingdom's army, Sir James Barnes, dragged his heavily  bleeding friend and King, his majesty Steve Rogers, into the entrance hall.

Two of the guards rushed forward to assist, but he paid them no mind.

“PETER!” He cast his gaze to one of the servants who was watching the scene with wide, shocked eyes. “You! Alarm the royal healer! Get Peter to the west wing immediately!”

The servant ran off to do as the knight had ordered, while the other guards helped Sir James to carry their King to the castle's healing chambers. The blond King, almost unconscious by this point (in no small part due to the head wound he had suffered), tried directing his head to look at James.

“Nooo... dn't tell Pete... he g'nna be cross wit me...”

James adjusted his hold on the slightly bigger man, which elicited a groan from the King.

“You can bet your fucking ass he is gonna be cross with you! I'M fucking cross with you! Of all the stupid, crazy shit you could have possibly pulled out of your royal ass, you go and do this!”

The guards and servants surrounding them weren't even shocked to hear Sir James speak to their King like this. The commander of the knights was one of the few who could afford such a disrespectful tone with their ruler.

The King tried to respond to his friend, but his speech was slurred so much, that the words were completely unintelligible. Thankfully they had reached the healing chambers at this point, and carefully lifted the man onto one of the beds. Just in time, it seemed, as running footsteps could be heard, preceding the royal healer who burst into the room.

The panicked light brown eyes landed on the first knight immediately.

“James! Where is-” then the younger man spotted their wounded King on the bed. “Steve!”

He rushed forward, the white robes of his profession fluttering, dainty looking hands already emitting the warm glow of healing magic.

Since the King had finally succumbed to to unconsciousness, Peter directed his question to James.

“What happened?”

Seeing the brunette's healing touch at work was always a bit of a marvel to the knight, so it took a second for him to shake off his awe and answer.

“One of my men had overheard what he believed was a gathering of slave traders in one of the empire's bars. And you know how Steve is about slavery. He insisted on investigating things himself. Only took me along because I threatened to kick his kingly ass if he didn't.”

The guards that had helped Sir James carry the King, took up a post outside the room, while two servants carried different supplies for the healer's use, as well as new clothes for the King.

“We found their lair, but as we were about to leave to come back with armed troops, one of the slavers pulled one of the children forward. They were about to...” He averted his gaze, the act too heinous for him to voice. By the look on Peter's face, he got it anyway. James cleared his throat. “I told Steve to go and bring reinforcements back with him, but stubborn fool that he is, he charged. Idiot took a blow to the head while warning me about an attack from my blind side.”

The knight shook his head ruefully as he watched the still form of his friend on the bed with fondness and guilt. Before he could spiral into self loathing, Peter's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

“You know he wouldn't want you to blame yourself for his injury. His decisions and actions are his own, as King, and as a man. Beating yourself up over it would belittle his sense of responsibility.”

James couldn't help but smile.

“How many times has he said those words to you, for you to be able to repeat them almost verbatim?”

The younger man grinned a little as well, and the magical shine around his hands diminished slowly.

“I have lost count. It is hard to argue with him.”

“Don't I know it.”

Confident that his magic had sealed the head wound, Peter let his hands hover over the rest of the King's masculine body, trying to see if there were any more injuries that needed his attention. When he found nothing of greater concern, he nodded to Steve's handmaid (an older gentleman who had waited patiently in a corner of the room), to start cleaning and changing their King. Then he turned to James.

“What about you? Here, sit down on this bed. Let me-”

The knight help up a hand.

“I'm fine, Pete. Just some bumps and scratches. Nothing worse than I get from the training session with the guards, or his royal dumbness over there. He good?”

Peter nodded.

“The injury looked more severe than it was, but head wounds always bleed a lot. He had a concussion, but my magic has taken care of that. He should sleep for a few hours, but then he will be good as new. What about the people you freed from the slavers?”

“I alerted one of the city guards we passed as I dragged Steve's ass back here, so they should be taken care of. The troops most likely took the people to the normal healers, and threw whoever had survived of the slavers to rot in the cells.”

And while compassion and kindness was as much a part of Peter's very core as his magical ability to heal, even he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the slavers. The brunette himself had been a slave, once, and witnessed first hand the cruelties of those that held people's life and freedom in their hands. He would forever be thankful for the fact that his former 'owners' hadn't done their research, when they decided to sell Peter to the newly crowned King of the Brooklyn lands. Steve had wasted no time with implementing a new law in his kingdom, one that outlawed slavery, by threat of execution. But Peter's captors hadn't known that, and they had paid for their ignorance with their lives.

King Rogers, Steve, had taken Peter and the other slaves in his group in, had made them free citizens of his kingdom, and made sure they had a home and a means to support themselves. The younger man, back then still in his last teenage years, had been so grateful, that he had revealed his healing magic to the King. The healing touch was rare, as unlike other magic, it couldn't be learned, no matter how skilled the wizard or witch who attempted it.

Steve had offered him the position of royal healer (offered. Not ordered, not demanded, not forced), and over the years, Peter's deep felt adoration for the man had grown into love.

“Maybe I should take a look still.” His voice was unsure as his eyes flickered to the bed where Steve, now cleaned of any blood and newly dressed, was resting. He felt conflicted. There might be people in the regular healers chamber that were hurt. Especially the children. Yet he didn't want to leave his King's side.

James seemingly knew what was going through the slighter man's head, as he laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I need to go down there and get the report from the guards anyway. If I see someone in need of your help, I will send for you.”

Peter brought his hand up to give the broader one on his shoulder a squeeze.

“Thank you, Bucky.” Only a handful of people were allowed to call Sir James by that nickname. Peter was proud to be one of them.

-

Steve woke to the familiar sight of the royal healing chambers (he wasn't the kind of King who could just sit on his throne and let others fight his battles, so he was very used to getting hurt), and the (just as familiar) sight of Peter having fallen asleep on a chair by his bedside. He sighed. Steve hated worrying the younger man like this, to the point where Peter fell asleep in what had to be a pretty uncomfortable position.

He quietly got out of bed, and tested his limbs. Just as usual, Peter's magic had taken care of all his aches and pains. He felt good as new. He kept his steps light and soft as he went around the bed to kneel before the sleeping healer, then carefully snaked his arms under Peter's knees and behind his shoulders and lifted him up.

Peter felt so delicate in his bigger, stronger arms. So much more lithe, when compared to the wide chest and shoulders of the blond King. It made Steve want to keep him there, cradled in the protection his muscular arms offered, shielded from everything that might harm him.

He thought about lowering Peter into the medical bed, so as not to risk waking him up (the younger man was always exhausted when he had used his powers on someone. He had said it was normal, that healing someone always took a lot of energy, as he was technically working against nature's course.)

But it felt wrong to not have the younger man close right now. Maybe it was because of the slavers they had found and fought. (Slavers. In his Kingdom. He hated the very thought of it.)

When one of the scumbags had dragged the small boy up front, and opened his trousers, he had felt so reminded of the day Peter had been brought into the Kingdom, presented to him like some plaything. Peter had been a slave, once. Had lived the life that the people he and Bucky had managed to free today had been threatened with. The memory of that fact nearly broke his heart.

So he adjusted his hold on his healer into a more secure grip, and still careful not to wake the younger man, made his way out of the room. The guards posted beside the door stood to attention as their King passed them, happy to see both their ruler and royal healer well. Steve passed a few more of his servants, guards, and even Bucky, on his way to his chambers, with his precious cargo held in his arms.

All of them had smiled and curtseyed at him, glad to see their King on his feet again, but aware to not voice their joy, as to not wake the sleeping healer. Bucky, of course, had given his friend a truly shit eating grin, while looking at Peter and wiggling his eyebrows. Naturally, Bucky knew all about Steve's feelings for their magical healer, and took great pleasure in needling Steve to make a move already.

And Steve had been thinking about doing just that more and more. His people already loved Peter, and would celebrate their union.

When he got to his room (the door having been opened for him by Phil, his handmaid, he stepped up to his big, lavishly decorated and soft bed, and oh so carefully lowered Peter down. He gently rearranged the younger man's limbs to get him under the covers, and then laid himself down beside him.

Night had already fallen, and it was dark out. While Steve didn't feel particularly tired after his healing sleep, he still didn't feel comfortable with leaving Peter's side, and relished in the chance of laying next to him.

He softly stroked two of his fingers along Peter's forehead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind the younger's ear. Peter was beautiful. His skin light and soft, slim but perfectly curved lips, little dimples that could be seen even in sleep. But he was also so much more than just a pretty face. Peter was warm, and giving, and kind, and funny. Loyal and  trusting and just too lovely for this world. How could Steve not have fallen for him?

Then Peter moved, and for a moment, Steve thought his heart was about to stop, as the brunette scooted closer, tucking his smaller body right into the King's embrace. Still deeply asleep, Peter's subconscious had likely been attracted to the source of warmth from another human body. Not that Steve minded.

He wound his arms around the healers body, pressing him a little more into his own, and thought he felt a soft sigh against his collar bone.

Then and there, while slowly being lulled to sleep by feeling the other's heartbeat against his own chest, Steve decided that he would start courting Peter officially the very next day. But right now, he would let himself bask in the scent and warmth and feeling of having his love in his arms.

The End.

[reivenesque]

Jay Halstead Whump Fic

A seemingly random series of attacks in Chicago targeting men and women of various ages, races and backgrounds ends with one of Intelligence’s own fighting for his life. His co-workers and friends; his family, are forced to confront the fact that one of them might not walk away unscathed this time around – if he manages to walk away at all.

Okay guys, the day no one (including myself) thought would ever come! I’ve finally decided to take the plunge/make the commitment and finally put this story out there for the world to see. Also seeing as I started writing this a couple of seasons ago so some characters who are deceased or have departed are not deceased or have departed in this universe.

--

Mission Objective

Chapter 1: The Case

They had three victims from three completely different backgrounds; three different ethnicities, age and gender and no matter how deep they dug through the trash the only thing they could find linking the victims to each other was the M.O and the fact that at the end of the day it just seemed to be a completely random series of attacks perpetrated by the same person for absolutely no reason.

“All victims were stabbed twice, once in the flank and once in the side. We believe he came up from behind and surprised them; the first stab wasn’t meant to kill, only to incapacitate. They also had bruising around the neck to support that theory. The second was to keep them down. Two of the three victim suffered multiple broken bones, bruises and contusions and internal damage from a beating but all three died as a result of severe blood loss. Whoever this guy is and whatever he wants from them, this guy has got some serious beef with these people.” Antonio finished his assessment and returned back to sit perched on the side of his desk.

“The only thing in common in these cases are the M.O’s,” Jay started, “The victims have nothing in common that we can find that links them to one another. Yvonne Miller: thirty-seven, mother of two. No priors, no record, nothing to indicate that she was anything other than a squeaky clean mom who does carpool on the weekdays. Hubert Harris the Third, fifty-three,” Jay placed special emphasis on the title, “Drill Sergeant in the army for over twenty years, no criminal record, no priors, not even a parking ticket. The fact that he went through life, much less the army and up to the rank of Drill Sergeant with the name Hubert Harris the Third meant that this was definitely not a guy to be messed with. And Javier Herrera, twenty-seven. Just got back from two tours overseas, spotless record on all fronts and an absolutely stand-up guy from what we gathered from the people who knew him. Had no beef with anyone. He was attacked in the alley behind his house; DOA. No witnesses in any of these cases.”

“Well the fact that their faces are pinned up on that board and their bodies lying cold in the morgue meant that they definitely had beef with someone, and I want to know who, where and why,” ordered Voight, his gravelly voice almost rumbling through the walls of the bullpen of the Intelligence headquarters of the CPD. “And I needed that information five minutes ago.”

A chorus of ‘yes, Serge’s rang up as everyone dispersed to return to their own desks.

It was a case they’d been working on ever since the discovery of the first victim, Yvonne Miller, a widowed single mother, in her apartment by her landlord almost three weeks ago. She died as a result of shock from the blood loss at the hospital later that day. The second victim died on the way to the hospital and the third was dead before the first unit was even the scene and neither CPD nor the Intelligence Unit was any close to identifying the killer. The best lead they had was a next door neighbour of the second victim hearing the sound of a male voice yelling what, according to him, sounded like Arabic, in the apartment the evening before the victim’s body was found. They’d found nothing to indicate that it was a racially motivated crime however. And there were no cameras at any of the exits or on the street and no one saw anyone coming or leaving the crime scene at any point before or after the attack, so they found themselves up against a brick wall in regards to that lead.

Essentially, they had bupkis.

So getting the call that another victim had been found beaten in his apartment later that morning did nothing to ease the tweaked up nerves of everyone working the case, only the fact that he was still alive and was on route to Med kept most of them from wanting to punch a wall.

“Troy Hargreaves,” said Will Halstead who was waiting for their arrival at the entrance of the hospital, starting his assessment without waiting for the go ahead, “Thirty-two; stabbed once in the lumbar area and once in the lower right abdomen, multiple contusions to the torso, broken ribs, ruptured spleen. He’s up in surgery as we speak. His injuries look severe but I’m optimistic about his chances. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this definitely fits the same pattern as the other victims.”

Voight scrubbed his face with his hand almost like a nervous habit, but anyone who knew him knew that Voight didn’t get nervous. Most likely it was out of frustration and anger. They weren’t any closer to catching the guy and from what little they could deduce, it didn’t seem like he was likely to stop until he got whatever it was he wanted or whoever it was he wanted.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of sitting around with my thumb up my ass watching this guy get one up on us again,” said Voight, the frustration obvious on his face, not acknowledging Olinsky coming up behind him and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

“It’s late, we’re all fired up from this asshole giving us the run around. I’ll wait for the vic to come out of surgery and update you on what I can get from him, the rest of you – go home, rest up and come back fresh faced in the morning,” said Olinsky, “Well, as fresh faced as you ugly lot can get,” he added with a wisp of a smile; his voice soft and his characteristic as of calmness extending to the rest of the team.

“Al’s right,” said Voight after a beat, exhaling tiredly. “Go home.”

“You sure, boss?” Ruzek asked, looking around at the rest of the group. It was obvious that the offer was the most tempting to him though all of them looked equally dead on their feet after almost going almost forty-eight hours without sleep trying to find the perp before he struck again only to have found themselves left in the bloodied dust trail once again.

“You gonna make me say it twice?” asked Voight with a stern look in Ruzek’s direction.

“No, boss,” said Ruzek immediately, arms raised in front of him.

“Then get the hell out of here.”

None of them struck around to be told a third time.

“I swear to god I’m gonna put two bullets right in the middle his face when we catch this bastard and then go home and sleep like a baby,” said Ruzek as he and the rest of the team made their way down the hospital corridor towards the exit.

Usually it’s be one of them – Ruzek, Kim or Atwater tasked to stay behind because they were the newer members, but Al had insisted and none of them really wanted to be alone with Voight in a closed space while he was in that particular mood.

“I definitely second the suggestion,” said Kim a little too heartily.

“Get in line,” said Hailey. The threat would have come across a lot more menacing had she not been in the middle of a yawn; her arms stretched high above her head like a cat.

“Well I for one would be happy if we managed to even catch the guy and put a stop to all this,” said Atwater. “That’d do my sleep a world of good already.”

Jay had many things to add to the conversation but the strength to say none of them. He was tired, physically and mentally so he just opted for an amused chuckle from where he was walking just a few steps behind the rest of the team

“How about a drink at Molly’s before we turn in?” suggested Ruzek once conversation had begun tapering off. “God knows we could all use a stiff one– or five.”

Atwater was immediately down for the plan though Hailey and Kim both seemed equally undecided.

Jay however wasn’t in the mood for the drink or the company. He was too wired from the lack of sleep and too much caffeine and quite frankly too pissed to be good company. Something about the case, especially the fact that two of the victims were Vets, just struck a chord in him. He always felt a strange sort of camaraderie, whether they were the victims or the perps, when it came to people who’d served. He imagined the victims being someone he knew, someone he served with – a brother. At the same time, the person who’d committed the crime could have just as easily been someone he knew or someone he served with.

Hell, it could have just as easily been him.

If it hadn’t been for Mouse being there for him – if there hadn’t been the thought in the back of his mind when he was at his lowest that he was just as much Mouse’s crutch as he was his; if it hadn’t been for the police force giving him an outlet to channel his silent rage and his trauma and anxiety, he could have just as easily turned out to be one of the people he put away.

Sure he had Will and maybe his dad to some extent, but they didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. They weren’t there. They didn’t experience what he experienced. They didn’t see what he saw. They didn’t feel what he felt: the fear and helplessness and shame.  

And they definitely couldn’t deal with it – deal with him, the way Mouse had been able to – by just being there, but just understanding without having to be explained; by knowing without having to be told.

Will had the natural instinct to want to fix everything; to find a source of the ailment and apply a treatment and a cure – that’s what made him such a good doctor.

But Jay didn’t need a doctor, he needed a brother and that was something Will was unable to be to him at the time. Their relationship had improved much since then, but still when situations like this arose, the absence of Mouse felt so much more apparent.

Jay knew he wasn’t going to be such good company – he could already feel like anxiety levels getting progressively higher the longer he remained in the vicinity of the hospital. Hospitals all smelled the same and had the same kind of aura pulsating off it. It didn’t matter if it was on home soil or in some run down building in another third world country – it always smelled the same and at that point Jay just wanted to be home.

“Nah, guys,” said Jay. “I think I’m gonna turn in early.”

“You sure, Jay?” asked Ruzek. “You’re gonna miss out. Atwater’s paying. This phenomenon only happens once in a blue moon,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Pigs might even fly!”

Atwater scoffed. “Yeah, Jay. I’ll be doing the paying with money from Ruzek’s pocket. You won’t want to miss the spectacle. I don’t think anyone but flies have ever seen the inside of his raggedy ass wallet.”

“I’ll have you know, Atwater, that I was voted ‘most generous’ by the whole sophomore girls swim team for two years in a row.”

“Yeah,” said Atwater, completely deadpan. “I’m sure teenage you was definitely generous with something.”

“Hey!” objected Ruzek, mock offended.

“Anyway,” said Jay, cutting into the conversation, “Based on this conversation alone I’m sure it’s gonna be a hoot and a half, but I think I’ll pass, You guys have fun though,” he said, which in Jay-speak meant that the conversation was done.

The girls had opted to join in for ‘just one drink’ which was usually code for ‘more than one drink’, but once Jay decided on a course of action, it was very hard to change his mind.

“You’re seriously no fun, Halstead,” said Ruzek teasingly at his retreating back.

“I’m loads of fun,” said Jay from over his shoulder, “Just with better company than you.”

Ruzek’s response was a hearty laugh topped off with a middle finger salute but Jay had already stepped around the corner and out of sight and didn’t see. He felt no need to turn back for a second look at his team; he’d see their ugly mugs in the morning anyway.

He took a detour to find Will on his way out – which was ironically easier in theory than in reality, especially considering it was his brother’s place of work – to take a rain check on their bi-annual game night get together. They hadn’t had one in a while, what with the influx of work on both their parts, and despite their insistence on not cancelling this time no matter what, Jay really just wasn’t in the mood or the headspace to want to be around anyone.

Jay wondered whether they should just cancel it all together because making plans was never something that aligned with their day jobs.

Fortunately Will wasn’t too disappointed by the cancellation, mainly because he’d been on the same train of through, only slightly more hesitant about it. He’d just come off a double shift and like Jay was planning on spending the night in the company of his own bed, which was a completely acceptable reason in Jay’s book.

They shared a hug and a casual insult before Jay finally stepped out of the hospital, into his truck and drove out of the parking lot with a roar of the exhaust.

Nothing else of importance happened the rest of the day.

tbc.

[anarchetypalarchive]

waiting here for catastrophe

aka that buzz.feed unsolved serial killer!shane fic i only mentioned writing to like two people, no one is here for this but i’m posting it anyway pairing: lowkey shane/ryan rating: probably T? maybe M? there’s a severed head involved but no graphic descriptions of violence content: mentions of murder, like i said there’s an instance of a severed head, this gets a lot more comedic than you’d expect, shane eats cocoa puffs  on ao3 excerpt:

“Ryan.” Shane breaks off and sits down again, slides his chair closer to Ryan’s, stares him down. “God, fuck, look at me, okay, I did this. I did this, this is my case, this is mine, everything you’re talking about—”

Ryan can’t help it: he laughs. It comes out a little anxiously, but it’s a laugh all the same, because Shane can’t really expect him to buy into this, right?

And Shane looks—well, murderous is either the wrong word or the right one. “I’m not kidding.”

“You really want me to believe—”

“You entertain all possible theories, right?” Shane says, exasperated and angry, and Ryan notices it’s the first time he’s ever said that seriously. “That’s what this stupid show is—that’s what you do. So entertain this one.”

All at once, it stops being funny. Something the size of a golf ball seems to lodge itself high in Ryan’s throat. He realizes it’s alarm, fear, a caged bird thrashing against the bars inside himself. He’s waiting for Shane to break, to burst into laughter, to say it’s all a stupid joke, but it doesn’t happen.

“What the fuck,” he croaks out.

“I thought it’d be cool to do an episode on an ongoing case,” says Ryan, and that’s more or less where everything goes to shit.

He doesn’t realize it immediately, but there’s something to be said about the zero-to-sixty shift in Shane’s body language between him saying, “Yeah, cool, lemme see,” and looking at the small case file Ryan has started to compile.

Because Shane goes from calm and amused to— Ryan’s not exactly sure how to explain it. It’s like Shane closes off and fires up at the same time, a deer caught in the headlights trying to figure out its Hail Mary pass.

And, “sure,” says Shane, but in the three second he spends flipping through the articles Ryan printed out, it’s not like he would’ve had any real time to figure out what the case was even about.

What the case is about is a string of murders in California over the past several months.

Ryan remembers hearing about a few of them, the way they’d been presented as separate homicides committed by separate people—there’d been no connection between the victims, no similarities in the M.O., no solid motivation, and only after a while had the murders been tentatively linked.

Like somebody was killing for the hell of it, for curiosity’s sake, for the thrill. Like it wasn’t for the why?

It was for the why not?

Shane looks at the case file and shoves it back at Ryan and Ryan doesn’t see him for almost two days. Given that they sit next to each other at work, that should be...indicative of something. Should be suspicious.

But in Ryan’s defense, Shane’s— Shane’s kind of a weird dude, and that’s an opinion Ryan holds very fondly, okay; the guy’s quirky in a way that’s appealing somehow, and when it comes down to it that means Ryan just...doesn’t think about the whole thing too much.

He just develops the case and gets ready to record the show.

——

When Shane shows up to film the video, it’s like the incident from earlier that week never happened. Shane’s relaxed, bickers with Ryan a little in happy, gentle antagonism, and once Ryan sets the camera to record they settle into their usual seats on set with a familiar confidence.

Ryan clears his throat and takes on his Case File Voice, and he’s so focused on setting the scenes and exploring the theories that it takes a while for him to notice how stiff Shane is next to him.

“Detective Robert Young posits that this is in fact the work of a single killer, one that is unsatisfied in their field of work and is seeking ‘feral, violent pleasures,’ someone who is inexperienced and using this period to experiment, to discover an M.O. that suits their desires and needs as a neophyte in this—”

Shane shoves the table back a few inches in a single motion and Ryan starts.

“What the hell?”

“Shut up.”

Ryan shifts back, turns to look at him. This isn’t like Shane interrupting Ryan mid-sentence to add comedic relief or some off-the-cuff banter; this is real, this is—gonna have to be edited out, basically.

“Shane?”

“A neophyte,” Shane echoes, laughing, shaking his head. “God, I thought I could get through this without opening my stupid mouth—”

Ryan is staring. “What are you talking about?”

Shane looks at him. Seems to deliberate. “I’m not inexperienced.”

“What?”

“I’m not—” He stands up abruptly, walks around the table to pick up the camera and cut the recording. “I know what I’m doing, okay, I put a lot of thought into this.”

“What?”

“Goddammit.” Shane slams the camera down on the table, then shuts his eyes and takes a breath. He shakes his head again. “I— Nothing. Nothing, never mind.”

“No, no, what the hell are you talking about?” Ryan presses, equal parts bewildered and tentatively amused. “Are you okay? Is this some kind of... Are you trying to do some kind of bit? You have to warn me—”

“Ryan.” Shane breaks off and sits down again, slides his chair closer to Ryan’s, stares him down. “God, fuck, look at me, okay, I did this. I did this, this is my case, this is mine, everything you’re talking about—”

Ryan can’t help it: he laughs. It comes out a little anxiously, but it’s a laugh all the same, because Shane can’t really expect him to buy into this, right?

And Shane looks—well, murderous is either the wrong word or the right one. “I’m not kidding.”

“You really want me to believe—”

“You entertain all possible theories, right?” Shane says, exasperated and angry, and Ryan notices it’s the first time he’s ever said that seriously. “That’s what this stupid show is—that’s what you do. So entertain this one.”

All at once, it stops being funny. Something the size of a golf ball seems to lodge itself high in Ryan’s throat. He realizes it’s alarm, fear, a caged bird thrashing against the bars inside himself. He’s waiting for Shane to break, to burst into laughter, to say it’s all a stupid joke, but it doesn’t happen.

“What the fuck,” he croaks out.

“Ryan,” Shane says warningly.

“What the fuck, Shane, you’re not serious, tell me you’re not being fucking serious right now.” Except he is, obviously he is, and Ryan’s entertaining the theory unwillingly, watching all the evidence slide perfectly into place behind his eyes. His muscles go tight, coiled, like he’s deep in the heart of another haunted place and finally ready to run the hell out.

“Calm down.” Shane seems to see the realization on Ryan’s face—the fear, too.

“I’m calm,” Ryan snaps, because what the hell else can he say?

Shane raises a single dubious eyebrow at him.

Ryan rubs at his eyes, a headache starting to form behind them. “Okay, I’m not, but I feel like I’m allowed a small amount of freakout time, you know, considering the circumstances, considering you’re telling me you’re a fucking—”

“You need to calm down,” Shane says, expression smooth and unreadable, “or you might end up forcing me to do something I don’t want to do.”

Fear spikes again, sharp and cold. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

Shane’s expression doesn’t change. “It means you need to take a deep breath and calm down for me, Ryan.”

Ryan doesn’t realize he’s obeying until he sees the faintest hint of a satisfied smile on Shane’s face.

“There we go,” Shane says. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Shane tells him, and Ryan wonders how he knew the question had been sitting on his tongue.

But the thing is—Ryan’s not really sure he believes him.

“Why would you,” Ryan starts. Shakes his head. Takes another few deep breaths. “Why would you tell me this if you’re not gonna— Why’d you tell me.”

Shane looks at him for a moment, like he’s considering his answer. “Because I care what you think of me.”

That’s...not exactly what Ryan expected to hear. “What?”

“I’m not a neophyte,” Shane says, and this time he looks stubborn. “I’m not some reckless idiot killing for shits and giggles, you know, it’s hurtful to have your hard work put down like that.” Yeah, okay, he’s definitely pouting.

“This is so fucking surreal,” Ryan says, mostly to himself.

“Especially by your best friend.”

“No.” Ryan puts his hands up. “No, no, you don’t get to call me your friend after murdering, what, four people, okay, do not connect us, I am not your friend—”

“Lover?”

“Shane.”

“Five.”

Ryan blinks. “What?”

“Five people.” Shane shrugs when Ryan stares at him. “They haven’t found the fifth one yet, I don’t think.”

“Oh my god.”

“Also, I feel like telling the serial killer sitting next to you that you refuse to be friends is kind of— I mean, talk about having no sense of self-preservation—”

“You said you weren’t gonna hurt me!”

“And I’m not. Because we’re friends.”

Ryan shakes his head slowly. “How do you know I’m not going to go to the police?” he says before he can stop himself.

Shane shrugs. “Because you’re still sitting here talking to me.”

“But— Later, anytime, I could—”

“Will you?” Shane is looking at him, unblinking, calm.

And—

“...No,” Ryan realizes, almost whispering it. “No, I won’t.”

Shane smiles.

——

Things almost...go back to normal, after.

Well, mostly things do.

Sometimes they don’t.

The most unmanly shriek Ryan’s ever uttered, surprisingly, doesn’t happen at a haunted location.

It happens in his apartment, moments after rolling out of bed and shuffling his way into his living room, debating whether or not to brave the rare pouring rain outside to go get a workout in.

So Ryan shuffles into his living room on a Saturday morning and shrieks like a two year old, and then he’s scrambling for his phone after doing a brief ‘what the fuck’ dance that mostly consists of turning in different directions in place and wringing his hands and cursing Shane Madej to holy hell.

Heading back into his bedroom to grab his phone just seems like a better course of action than continuing to stare at the fucking severed head currently sitting on his coffee table.

WHY, is all he can text Shane at first.

The response comes within seconds and is so contrived-innocent that Ryan wants to punch his wall. Why what?

The HEAD, Shane, Ryan types out furiously. The HEAD in my LIVING ROOM. The SEVERED HEAD on my COFFEE TABLE.

Why do you assume I had anything to do with that?

Ryan groans and slowly makes his way back into his living room. He peers at the head again with a cringe. It’s bloated, the hair matted with blood—he can’t even make out any defining features. God. He’s gonna barf. He’s definitely gonna barf. I have to call the police, he sends.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” comes a voice from his fucking kitchen, and, okay, that’s the most unmanly shriek Ryan’s ever uttered.

“Why are you in my house?!” Ryan demands as he skids into his kitchen in socked feet, maybe a little dramatically.

“I’m waiting out the rain,” Shane says, sitting at Ryan’s kitchen table, eating Ryan’s fucking cereal, looking entirely unbothered. “I don’t have an umbrella, and I figured you wouldn’t want me taking yours. You don’t want me to catch a cold or something, do you, Ryan?”

There’s a headache starting to pulse faintly behind Ryan’s eyes.

“Get it out of here,” he says, instead of punching Shane in his stupid, inappropriately chill face.

“You could say thank you, you know.”

Ryan stares at him incredulously. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, shut up, you know I didn’t mean— Why the hell should I be thanking you?”

Shane gestures towards the living room. “I did what you said.”

“What?”

Shane sighs heavily, like it’s Ryan who’s being the ridiculous one here. “Last week you went on that date with what’s-his-face, right—”

Ryan looks back towards the living room in horror. “Oh my god.”

“—and the next day at work you were talking about what an asshole he was, and I said, hey, you want me to kill him for you? and you laughed and said, yeah, go ahead.”

“I thought you were joking!”

Shane blinks at him, raises an eyebrow. “You thought— Ryan, I kill people. You know that.”

“Okay, look, just, goddammit, get it out of here before I end up arrested!”

“I’m the one who killed him.”

“I’d be...implicated, okay, I’m involved now—”

“Well, technically, you’ve been involved ever since you made the decision not to turn me in, so—”

“Get it out of my house, Shane—”

“It’s a gift,” Shane says, looking offended. “I did this for you.”

“If you want to get me a gift, get me, fuckin’, I don’t know, flowers, don’t break into my apartment and leave a head in my living room!”

“You gave me a spare key like three months ago,” Shane says, and then, “you want me to buy you flowers?”

“Why is that what you’re focusing on?!”

“That wasn’t a no,” Shane says, looking infuriatingly smug as he goes to take another bite of cereal.

Ryan storms over and snatches the bowl out from under him, ignoring Shane’s subsequent hurt expression.

“I wasn’t finished!”

“You don’t get to break into my house—”

“I had a key.”

“—leave a fucking head on my coffee table—”

“I put a tarp underneath it.”

“—and then eat my fucking Cocoa Puffs!”

“You were out of eggs.”

Ryan sets the bowl down, buries his face in his hands, and yells muffedly. When he stops yelling, he realizes Shane is laughing.

“What,” Ryan snaps.

Shane gestures at the bowl, still snorting. “Cereal killer,” he says.