Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shane's never really done this whole “human” thing before.

For example, he’s just moved into his new apartment in Los Angeles, and he does not know how to unpack boxes. Everything is too stale, and too sterile, and too alien. The light of dawn pierces his eyes. Shane blinks and squints. He misses Hell.

Living on Earth has been Not Good. Before beginning to live amongst humanity, being allegorical for a long time had been enjoyable. Hiding his true form had never been an issue. He never had to be hyper-conscious of himself, but now he has to out of necessity. As a demon of old, he was supposed to keep his identity under wraps. Humans just are to know as little as possible about what is beyond their realm, and they would probably go insane if they saw his true form. And he doesn’t want to be subjected to an exorcism or something akin to the Salem Witch Trials. His poor witch friends.

Shane stumbles around in his house. The floor is too hollow. The walls feel fragile. Everything around him is too clean. Without his wings, everything feels off. He has to get used to being bipedal. Behold, a man. He has to identify as a man.

Stretching this glamour over his true demonic form makes him feel like a balloon about to burst. He's always tense, on the lookout for something that escapes, for some demonic trait that will inevitably leak to the surface -- the dim outline of horns or the shadow of a tail -- but he never expects his scent to be the first thing he has to worry about.

Until his fellow intern points it out.

It happens on the first day on his new job at Buzzfeed. He's supposed to be working on an algorithm for some project for the distribution tools team. He's been put in a group with a vaguely familiar intern, a face he's only caught a glimpse of during the orientation programme. The two of them settle down into adjacent seats. Shane is looking down at his open keyboard, but he can feel his teammate's awkward gaze pinned to him, can almost taste the nervous energy radiating off him.

“Hello, I’m Ryan.”

“That’s great.” Shane twiddles his fingers absentmindedly.

Ryan looks quizzically at him. Realising his blunder, Shane splutters a bit and says, “I’m Shane.”

They awkwardly divert their gazes back to their computers, and a good hour passes with Shane trying to grapple with human social media.

When Shane is getting his tea in the break room, Ryan comes in to get coffee. Ryan comments, “You’re really tall.”

“Why thank you, I grew this myself.” He did not, but who was to know.

Shane observes Ryan’s demeanour. During the brief stint of humanity that he has experienced (a full week), he had learned to determine more subtle expressions and intentions, such as if one had to pee. Or if one was in need of sexual gratification. He can sense what humans feel in a vague way, but not the details of their mental states. In an attempt to dissect Ryan’s intent, Shane notices that Ryan indeed looks mildly uncomfortable standing in close proximity to him. But why?

“What’s wrong?” Shane furrows his brows.

“Do you smell fire?” Ryan looks around the office.

“What?” Shane says.

“Something smells burnt.”

“I don’t think they’re burning anything.” Did they burn things here at Buzzfeed?

“Buzzfeed is weird, dude.”

Ryan’s voice tapers off, and he looks awkwardly towards the floor. Shane’s mind starts to wander before Ryan interjects, “Have you been at a barbecue recently?”

Shane does not know what a barbecue is.

“No.”

“Have you showered recently?”

“What?”

“Showered. Like, go into a bathroom, get water, and clean yourself?”

In a fit of nervous improvisation, Shane replies, “Oh, hum, I remember that that is on my to-do list but I never got around to it.”

Ryan’s eyes crinkle up around their edges, and he bends over, wheezing. Shane almost smells Ryan’s amusement. “Ryan, are you dying?” His lungs do an odd thing.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Ryan gasps a little and replies, “No, I’m alright. But please take a shower soon, you smell like adolescent goat sweat.”

After work that day, Shane goes to the supermarket for deodorant.

It’s not that he means to stink of adolescent goat sweat, like how Ryan described it. He makes a mental note to wash his clothing. He has had showers like how any decent, privileged human being should. He’s done almost everything to a T. It’s just a little… species-specific side-effect, that makes him smell like a laboratory on fire, rotten eggs, brimstone and somebody’s dog shit being roasted.

Suffice to say, Shane is Not Having A Good Time on Earth. Like how Oscar Wilde described it.

He stands in the middle of the aisle, staring down the shelves, a little lost for choice. AXE. Gilette. Old Spice. Which one is the most effective? Slowly, with utmost care, he taps on his new cell phone and starts researching this new issue.

“Hey, Shane.”

At the sight of Ryan at the end of the once-empty aisle, he nearly vomits. Humanity is difficult.

“Yes, yes. Hello Ryan.”

“Are you okay dude? You look skittish.”

“I’m alright.”

Okay, you can do this, just ask, nothing will go wrong, nice human, good human -

“Hey, uh, could you help me with something? Which di. Deh. Diodarent? Is the strongest?”

Ryan looks at him oddly, eyes narrowing, bewilderment settling over his features before he quickly schools his face back into careful neutrality. Shane can feel the awkward confusion radiating off him. Ah. That was probably a strange question to ask. It’s not like Shane would know anything about social norms, but he’s trying.

Evidently, he’s failing. Shane flounders for a bit. Shit. Just as he had wanted to impress the guy.

Ryan points at a green container and Shane nabs it. He takes three more, for good measure, just to be safe. Dumping them in his cart, he smiles (more like grimaces but it’s the thought that counts), waves, and skedaddles. He feels like his fingers are on fire.

Speed Stick deodorant? What the hell is Speed Stick?

Chapter Text

Shane had gotten used to having Ryan around when Ryan asked him to co-host Unsolved.

It was ironic, really -- half of the damn show was about investigating the supernatural, about looking for ghosts and demons -- but he had just shrugged and agreed anyway. As part of preparations for their upcoming investigations, Ryan brought the whole crew to see Father Gary Thomas. He was a world renowned exorcist, apparently, a supposedly nice and credible guy.

And Shane fucking despises him.

Sacred Heart church is pretty; he appreciates the stained glass of Ms Mary and Baby Yeshua and the way the light colours the walls. He enjoys the general atmosphere of serenity. But this guy, the felon, the great liar, does not know jack about demons at all.

“One would be an aversion to the sacred, so a person walks in this church and can’t look at a crucifix. And their eyes are, you only see the whites of their eyes,” says Mister Thomas, his voice smooth and self-assured in the way only people who think their ignorant words are gospel can manage.

Demons’ eyes turn black. And Shane, a demon of old, is in this fucking church.

He tunes out the Exorcist’s voice and lets himself drift off, until he hears the man himself say, “I would do nothing to invite them into any kind of conversation. I would do nothing to invite them to somehow show themselves, or taunt them in any way. You don’t want to create a tie with them.”

If so, Ryan's done for. Ryan, a human, has already formed quite a tie with Shane, a demon in the soul. They've settled into the routine of getting each other drinks from the break room in the mornings, asking each other for feedback on their videos, the works. Shane might even go so far as to say that they've entered friendship territory. They've even started hosting a show together, for fuck's sake!

“So, treat it like a fine art museum…” Shane replies.

He, of course, does not mean that. He would completely disregard the sanctity of the place and rip any demon-infested house apart if he had the freedom to do so off camera. At least he was being honest. Honesty is a virtue!

The interview is over soon after that. When the cameras are back in their cases and the crew is hauling all their stuff into the boot of their car, Shane finally voices his disdain for Father Thomas and his shaky-at-best knowledge of the supernatural.

“Some bits of what Father Thomas said was believable, but he doesn’t know jack shit.”

"Believable? What's that, Shane 'Ghosts-Aren't-Real' Madej? Are you admitting defeat so early into the game?" Ryan throws back at him, his grin bleeding into his haughty voice.

"No, no," retorts Shane. “I'm just saying, you know the thing about demon eyes? They don't turn white, they’re black. And an aversion to the sacred? There're demon infested churches out there! All due respect to Mister I-Know-Jesus, but some of his facts seems to be more a fragment of his holy imagination, or something.”

"Man, you've been doing a lot of research on this, big guy. How do you know all that about demons, anyways?"

"Well, you know. I've been. Doing. Uh, research. For the show. Yeah."

A beat of silence passes between them.

When Ryan tilts his head up to look at Shane, there's something swirling in the darkness of Ryan's eyes, something he can't quite place. Illuminated by sunlight, they go from the dim brown that Shane has become familiar with to almost amber. They squint.

Shit, he’d nearly outed himself.

"Well, uh. That's. Good research. But, thanks for, you know." Ryan makes a small gesture with his hands. "For this. For believing in this."

Shane's lungs do an odd thing. The odd thing. It happened so many times already that it deserved the article, the. He feels like his insides are being compressed, like how one would form a snowball.

And then suddenly, the boot of the car slams, and TJ is calling out for the two of them to get in the car, losers, we're going shopping.

Ryan turns toward the car, but before he opens the door, his face splits into another smile.

"You still admit it though! Ghosts and demons are real!"

"I did not! Slander!”

Chapter Text

Shane sees ghosts sometimes. They linger everywhere; a whisper of air in the streets, staring at him from the corners of his tiny apartment, the wispy memory of what was once flesh and blood and bone. He’s learned to live with them. They come and go, silent presences, like lost sheep.

They’re all around, but for some reason, Ryan only cares about them when they’re in spooky looking haunted houses.

(Shane suspects that it’s got more to do with the houses’ atmosphere than the supernatural itself. The stillness. The darkness. The way dust hangs mid-air, anticipatory, an invisible tableau of fear. It makes the heart frenzied, and the mind uneasy.)

Sometimes Shane will fuck with Ryan, just to see the look on his face. The wide, glassy eyes Ryan adopts when he’s afraid a little ghosty will pluck his bones right out of his skin (or strum his tendons, if Ryan is in a musical mood) pleases him to no end -- no matter what, he is still a demon -- but. Most of the time, he’ll just herd the ghosts off somewhere. Signal at them that they should shuffle away to another room. It works most of the time. He doesn’t want to do more harm than what’s necessary to keep Ryan safe.

But this one is stubborn.

They’re at the Pennhurst Asylum, investigating the comically horrific compound and learning its history. Ryan had already been freaked out as per the usual, and Shane is no stranger to his mannerisms by now. They’ve gone through 3 seasons worth of ghouls, and Shane admires Ryan’s bravery in the face of the diabolical. Perhaps the thrill of the game is to see what others couldn’t see. The elusive nature of ghosts to the human eye is what tempts Ryan to do what he does. Ryan’s an addict, and the uncertainty of the supernatural is his drug.

After investigating the bottom few floors of the asylum, Shane and Ryan prepare to investigate the third and final floor of the building that they were in. They are in the hallways preparing for individual lock-ins, of which Shane is going for first. Which leads him to his current situation.

The ghost of the moniker Bri won’t budge, no matter how hard Shane glares at it. She’s uglier than most too -- while most other ghosts look like thin wisps of energy that quiver with every breath he takes, this one looks like a fart that never stops stinking.

And farts can’t be seen, all that jazz, but this is more allegorical than anything. Like how God turned a river of water into blood. It already was, but in an allegorical sense. Senses are odd.

Anyways.

The apparition stares back at Shane, her features melting and blending together like wax. Defiant. A thin current of irrational anger runs through Shane like electricity, sparks threatening to set him on fire. This pathetic spirit wants to challenge him? He could drag her to the depths, torment her for eternity, crush her between his thumb and index finger like a little bothersome insect. She wants to scare Ryan? The bastard would have to go through this demon first.

(That was odd. He hadn’t really felt such anger toward spirits before.)

When the lock-ins begin, Shane walks into the hallways, dims his flashlight and casts his gaze upon the ghost that followed him into the hallway. She’s almost taunting him in her indifference to his power, her malicious intent. The air hangs still between them, crackling and electric, like a threat unfulfilled. The flashlight’s muted glow illuminates the space between them, leaving gentle smudges of light against the walls.

Shane turns off his camera once he’s deep enough in the compound. And then Shane begins to speak.

His voice erupts from the depths of his chest, scraping against his throat as he pushes an ancient language through this human vessel. Gurgled, rumbling hexesspill past his lips, filling the room with an oppressive, dangerous energy, making the flashlight flicker on and off. Almost vibrating with power too much for this flesh body to contain. How dare a worthless spirit challenge a demon like him? Fuck off, wimp. Ryan was his and only his to fuck with--

‘Time’s up!’ chimes Ryan from somewhere outside.

Shane stops. The ghost disappears, slinking off somewhere to tend to her wounds, and Shane still feels the last slivers of otherworldly language thick on his tongue, clinging to the back of his throat. Fuck. He feels like he’s ablaze. The human body was not made to withstand this much power. He’s dizzy, lightheaded, feels like he’s floating behind himself, watching his body like he’s playing a video game and his body is player one. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath.

When he goes out to meet Ryan, he’s still a bit shaky, a bit far away.

“How was it?” Ryan asks.

“Not, not bad.”

Shane had recited a protection incantation to render the ghosts incapable of harming Ryan, since these ghosts, in particular, were quite malevolent. If anything happened to Ryan in his quest to document the diabolical, Shane would lose it. He would lose it, go mad, and go back to Hell in tears. No ghouls are allowed to bring Ryan harm.

“What’s wrong with your throat?”

Shane coughs. Fuck. His throat is bleeding a little. “Nothing wrong, why?”

“You sound weird.”

“Oh uh, hum, I was… speaking another language. To the ghosties?”

Ryan squints. “Aren’t you a skeptic?”

“Ah, you do realise I do this to humour you?”

Ryan’s eyes continue squinting. “Which language?”

Shane is stuck. Um. “Chinese.”

Ryan’s eyes stop squinting but he still asks, “Say something in Chinese.”

Shane doesn’t know a lick of Chinese, but his mouth opens and he spits out, “你好，我的名字是谢恩。”

Ryan nods his head in hesitant acceptance, but Shane can still sense an undercurrent of suspicion that lingers in his expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. Did you not once specifically say that you sucked at languages?”

“Um well, haha, hidden talents!” Shane is overheating. He can feel his heartbeat in his eyes.

“Ryan, you should… it’s your turn to go.”

Ryan goes.

Chapter Text

Shane hates eating.

The thing about being a demon possessing a human body is that Shane has to eat for two. It's a nuisance, really; before he got this disaster flesh form, he would only have to feed off souls and negative emotion to thrive. Now he has to eat human food as well, which takes considerably more time and ironically, energy. There are better things to do with his time, like watching movies, or reading, or learning about the human culture. Just not ingesting things.

Then again, eating is such a major part of the human culture that expressing his disdain for it would be terrible (not to mention suspicious). Additionally, his body needs sustenance, like how teachers need to feed on the happiness of their students, or else they die. Like in those early 2000s High School Movies.

And boy is he hungry.

They're on the way to the Bellaire House for their next investigation when Shane suddenly remembers that he had forgotten to break the fast. Breakfast. And that he'd only had tea for dinner the previous night. This realisation crashes into him in the form of his stomach growling viciously, the sound interrupting the comfortable silence that had settled in the car. Shane sees the edges of a smile pull at Ryan’s lips at the sound. In response, he puts on his widest grin and his best movie actress impression, complete with gestures, saying, “Ryan, dear, if we don’t have a bite in a bit, I might do a faint.”

Ryan snickers, his laughter leaking into his voice. “Speak like that again and I will leave you here to do a faint.”

Shane changes tactics, quickly abandoning his actress impression for a whine, “But, daddy! Are we there yet? I want Italian food! Spaghetti! Hawaiian pizza!”

As soon as Shane utters the word "Hawaiian", Ryan makes an indignant noise. His nose wrinkles in disgust, which makes his whole face crumple up into an oddly endearing picture of distaste.

“Hawaiian pizza! I can’t believe you would betray me like this. I thought you were a man of good taste!” Ryan shakes his head disappointedly, but a playful tone seeps into his voice anyways.

Shane raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with Hawaiian pizza? What’s wrong with Hawaiian pizza? What do you mean what’s wrong with it! There’s pineapple on the pizza! It’s an abomination to human society. What idiot decided to commit this monstrosity! I thought we had evolved as a species to develop logical thought, but, I guess not !”

“Ryan, calm thyself. You’re getting a little carried away.”

Unheeding to his pleads for mercy, Ryan carries on with his rant, gesturing wildly with one hand and steering recklessly with the other. “With great power comes great responsibility, but this Hawaiian idiot decided that with great power comes great stupidity! If I were about to be possessed by a demon, and the only way out would be to eat the stupid pizza, I would rather be possessed in a heartbeat.”

“Ryan, oh Ryan, what other vile foods do you violently object?”

Ryan sniffs, commenting rather imperiously, “I think any fusion food that’s too over the top simply shouldn’t exist.”

“Like what?”

“Some psycho on the Internet had wanted to make apple cider tater tots, and they have these things called donut burgers. Shit like that makes my blood boil.”

“Ah, a bonut?”

The two of them erupt into giggles, the atmosphere in the car lighting up with joy.

After the laughter dies down, Shane adds, “Apple taters don’t sound bad.”

“Whose side are you on?!”

Shane chuckles into his hand.

Once the crew reaches the Bellaire house, Ryan and Shane settle down in the seance room and start filming the voiceovers. When that is done, they start exploring the house. Shane remarks to Ryan that there could be more than Lyde and Edwin’s ghosts in the seance room.

Ryan says, “Holy shit, seriously, stop, Shane.”

He stops, because Shane isn’t entirely heartless and does care about Ryan’s infamous Fear Threshold. They conduct a seance with the aid of Wikihow. Holding hands with Ryan makes his lungs do the odd thing. Shane’s palms are searing hot, but he is soothed by Ryan’s cool touch.

Holding on to their equipment, they venture further into the Bellaire house. Shane call tell how much Ryan hates it here. Skittish, he jumps at any particle of dust, at any thing that creaks or moves or shifts slightly in its place. To be honest, Shane doesn’t like it here too. He knows that something was off since he stepped into the house. He is familiar with the way a demon would leave a room scorching or freezing, and in fact, this human vessel is scarily sensitive to temperature. This house feels like a bonfire, making the back of his neck crawl. He’s normally unflappable. Something odd is happening here.

An almost indiscernible sound drifts down the corridor, seeming to originate from the dusty darkness. “Weep woop!”

“Did you hear that. I got fucking chills,” says Ryan. Shane can smell Ryan’s impending panic.

Just to be a little shit, Shane comments, “It sounded like a little baby doll. Weep woop.”

Visibly panicked, Ryan tries to interact with the spirit that had caused the sound. But to no avail.

“Weep woop”, murmurs Shane once more.

They continue investigating the house. The Bellaire House has a manic energy about it, like a cat about to pounce on its prey in the dead of night. The house was a hot spot for spirits, the Hetheringtons' malevolent ghosts and the Native American souls trapped within its walls making for a rather unwelcoming scene. Not to mention that the house was a stop on a ley line, the subtle impressions of visiting ghouls giving the house a very confusing air; an odd cocktail of wistfulness and malicious intent and a hundred other unidentifiable human emotions assaulting Shane all at once. It was almost poetic, really, the memory of a thousand lives that were lived, and a million more that could have been.

They enter Kristen Lee’s bedroom, where the dog incident happened. Ryan gestures to Shane to settle on the bed with him, and Shane’s lungs do the odd thing again.

“You know how fucking sick it is to throw a dog across the room like that,” blurts Shane, with nothing else to say.

Why is that the first thought that comes to mind? Oh yes, panic. Meanwhile, Ryan fires up the spirit box.

Shane hates the spirit box. The fans love it, it’s like a comfort object to Ryan, and Shane wants to throw it off a building. It's meant to pick up things. Supernatural murmurings, the laboured breaths of tormented ghouls, whatever. Shane, as a demon, technically counts as supernatural.

Here's the problem: It picks up Shane's thoughts.

Buried underneath layers of static screeching (Ryan is comforted by its “purring”) and whatever the radio waves have to offer, Shane can always hear a distant, thrumming mumble, an echo of whatever goes on in his mind. It’s always a struggle to keep it buried under there.

And Ryan, his idiot Ryan, wants to communicate with demons. Oh, the irony.

It’s not like Shane can’t talk to the demons for Ryan. He’s been talking to them since he was born. But, he would rather keep his demonic nature a secret. Conveying things through thought was much easier before the spirit box, but here he was. Although he can't telepathically tell his fellow demons to fuck off without the spirit box picking it up, he still has an actual voice to openly broadcast his disdain for them.

Shane grumbles internally at his conundrum as Ryan clears his throat to speak.

“Is there anything in this room with us?” Ryan’s fragile voice quivers oddly, like feathers being buffeted by wind.

Shane’s mind wanders.

“Woah, he’s hot.” Though the thought is half-buried under electronic distortion and static, Shane can still detect it.

Oh boy. So that was where his treacherous brain was going. Fuck.

Luckily, the spirit box crackles just enough to cover up the traitorous notion and Ryan doesn't pick up on it. Shane listens as Ryan continues to attempt communicating to these ghouls, and he examines his physical state.

“Dude, dude, listen to what it’s saying.”

“It’s not saying anything, it’s making odd noises of which you are trying to fit into discernible language! The ghosts aren’t speaking to you, tiny bastard.” A cheeky smile splits Shane’s face into two as he revels in Ryan’s boneless panic.

God, Shane is hungry. And tired, especially dealing with Ryan’s bullshit. When was the last time he ate?

The backstabbing, trouble-making spirit box spits out the very clear word of “spaghetti”.

Ryan starts giggling. Oh well. Just to scare Ryan a bit, he adds, “Tell us your name.”

He added mentally for the spirit box to pick up, “Apple tater.”

They both burst out laughing. Ryan’s laugh is more of a wheeze than anything, making his face light up. Shane has often only started laughing just because Ryan was wheezing in amusement to himself. It was like catching a virus that made his vision a shade brighter, his skin a tad chillier.

Ryan manages to ask through his giggles, “Do you like food that much?”

“Bonut,” the spirit box spits out. Suddenly, Ryan stills.

Shane feels himself halt, like his lungs had been burnt to a crisp.

“What was that?” Ryan turns slowly towards Shane, who was still sprawled out on the bed like the tableau of nonchalance that he should have been.

“Shane, did you hear that?” Ryan whispers.

“Nope, I didn’t hear that,” says Shane. He did indeed hear that. Shane’s mind kicks into overdrive, and his palms feel like slabs of meat being grilled. His insides start scrambling, like that one time he saw Rie scramble eggs. Whisky swishy hiss, there go his guts.

“Ryan, I think we’re going off track? We should be asking what’s in this house, right? Ryan, we should ask.” Ryan shoots Shane a questioning look, as though he was suspecting Shane of hiding something, of lying about something. Ryan squints, before clearing his throat once more.

“Last chance: who is in this house?”

Shane’s mind wails a little. Oh darn, he had nearly exposed himself. The spirit box echoes his yell of frustration, and he adds hastily, “That just sounded like a wailing.”

The spirit box spits out another fragment of speech. This isn’t one of his mental diarrhoeas anymore, thank fuck; it’s just a random radio station.

Thankfully, Ryan turns off the spirit box. Shane heaves a sigh of deep relief, but his worry is escalating. This is an especially close shave, considering how much thought was reflected by the spirit box this time. And how familiar its words were to himself and Ryan, those words, that couldn’t be simply explained as a ghost speaking to them. The spirit box had picked up an inside joke, something that only Ryan and Shane are privy to, and had broadcast it to their ears. Even their innocent banter and shared moments pose a threat to Shane's secret now. The realisation hurts him more than it has any right to.

Tip-toeing around Ryan suffocates him, makes him feel like he’s being thrown into molten lava and the magma is entering his lungs. Sooner or later, he’ll drown with his white-hot lies.

They leave the bedroom and continue investigating the Bellaire house. Shane is on edge the whole time, focusing more on not letting his glamour down and exposing himself than enjoying the investigation itself.

How long more can he keep up this charade? How long more can he afford to conceal his nature? Ryan was witty, and sunny, and smart, and observant. Everything that Shane found endearing, and yet put his secret in greater danger than ever. If Ryan found out. When Ryan finds out. What will happen to him? How will Ryan react? Shane can imagine the fear in Ryan’s eyes, glassy and vacant. He can almost hear how Ryan’s soul will recoil from him, shrinking away in fright. Can smell his terror, taste his disgust. Ryan would treat him like how ghouls do. He would go from hanging off his arm, smiling lopsidedly at his terrible puns, to staring at him warily from the corners of rooms, slinking past him, a whisper of fabric. He can’t tell Ryan, can’t let Ryan find out, or it’ll rip him apart.

He’s tired of hiding, but he has to hide.

Once the panicked adrenaline left his systems, he realises that he still hadn’t had food yet. When the overnight stay commences, Shane asks Ryan for pizza. Ryan squints at him once more, before acquiescing to his request. They eat, they laugh, and they settle down for the night. Shane thinks about the fragility of this moment, the fissures worming their way into the joy they share. Ryan has cleared out a small place for himself in Shane's chest, has filled up some void that he was never aware of before they met, and the very thought of that space going empty makes him ache bone-deep. Keeping his secret hidden suffocates him, but revealing it would leave scorch marks that would never heal. His heart feels like it’s being electrocuted.

Shane closes his eyes and dreams of burning.

Chapter Text

Shane doesn't exercise. It's not something he thinks about, or finds a need to do -- sure, maybe his fleshbag taffy accident body would function slightly better if he took up consistent exercise, but it's not worth the amount of energy and time required. Said energy and time is better spent at home, binge-watching random YouTube videos for hours on end.

And besides, he's inhumanly strong.

This manifested in many small ways before other people started to notice. He climbed stairs suspiciously easily. He held a styrofoam cup too hard during a bit and it broke in his grip, sending tea splashing to the ground. Pencils crumbled in his grip, wooden splinters threatening to pierce his palms.

But one day, a coworker asked him to help her carry a sofa from one of the studios to the carpark (she needed it for a video, she said). He took the suggestion in a literal sense, and hauled it over his shoulder. And suddenly, people were gaping at him effortlessly carrying this dangerously heavy object, and Shane had always known that humans were pathetically weak as compared to demons but it’s only then that it really hit him.

“Shane, how the hell are you just carrying that?”

Awkwardly, Shane replied, “Oh, hum, maybe I’m secretly a robot. Or a machine!”

He earned the nickname Sofa Machine™ for a week, and then it was promptly forgotten. From then on, Shane worked hard to hide this strength, only using it in desperate times.

He’s pretty sure this counts as a desperate time.

The Ghoul Boys revisit the Winchester house for the new season of Unsolved. It's a nice throwback to the earlier seasons, when they were just getting started, when Shane was still struggling to fit in, grappling with human customs and culture and feelings. He's gotten the hang of some things now, like showering daily and movie references and eating. He's grown. The sight of the house alone sends a small wave of nostalgia bursting through him.

Ryan is afraid as always, but the fear that radiates from him doesn't burn as sharply into Shane's skin as it did the last time they were here. Maybe it's familiarity, the knowledge that they've been here before and come out unscathed, that gives Ryan the confidence boost. He even makes a joke about the house, finding two doors of different sizes and naming them the ‘Shane door’ and the ‘Ryan door’ accordingly. His courage is contagious. Despite the dim, fuzzy outlines of ghouls slinking against the dark backdrop of night-drenched walls, Shane grins and insists that the only thing haunting the house is Ryan’s imagination.

They finally approach the infamous Door to Nowhere, a door that leads straight out of the house from the second floor. Ryan insists that they visit it themselves, to “truly experience the terror of the house”. The crew leaves to film more B-roll for the house.

“One of the uh… Greater novelties of this home if you want to call it that,” says Ryan, a thinly veiled mixture of fear and anticipation leaking into his voice. “Except this novelty could kill you, so!”

He walks closer and closer to the edge till he's standing in the doorway, leaning dangerously out of the house. And all of a sudden Shane sees a dim smudge in the corner of his eye, darting around in the darkness. Something cold slithers across his skin, sending goosebumps crashing across his body in waves.

“Shane? Is it just me or is it much colder now?”

The spirit rushes toward the both of them and with a cry, Ryan isn’t in the doorframe anymore.

Ryan isn’t--

“Shane! Help me! Fuck, please, no no no oh my god!”

Shane's heartbeat thunders in his ears as he rushes toward the edge, only to see Ryan hanging off the edge precariously, his eyes darting everywhere in a desperate plea that Shane can barely understand and his clammy fingers are slipping off and there's all that camera gear weighing him down, oh fuck, this definitely counts as a desperate time, and in a blind panic, Shane drops to his knees and grabs one of Ryan’s forearms, using his demonic strength to yank him back up.

Another cry, and the two of them tumble back into the house, Shane landing on his behind with an oof.

There’s a hiss from beside him, which is quickly cut off. For a while, Shane can only lie there, trying to snatch the air back into his empty lungs.

A tiny, pained gasp from beside him startles Shane out of his mental haze.

The moonlight coming in from the open door casts rugged shadows over the plain of Ryan's cringing face. He's curled up like a wounded animal on the floor, unmoving, making almost unnoticeable pained sounds whenever he moves. It’s a concerning picture. Especially concerning, considering the pain that Ryan’s radiating, pain that echoes faintly in Shane’s bones, sharp and piercing.

“Hey, Ryan? You good?”

Ryan shifts his head a little, letting out a watery laugh. “Yeah, I’m-- I’m good.” His voice breaks halfway through.

No, no. Something is obviously a bit not good. Very not good. The floorboards creak gently under Shane's weight as he scoots closer, till he's sitting so close to Ryan that he can feel Ryan's hot, erratic breath through the fabric of his pants. What's wrong? Why won’t Ryan tell him?

“Hey, Ryan, breathe. Okay? Tell me where it hurts.”

“It’s, ahh, my shoulder hurts like a fucking bitch.” Ryan takes a shuddering breath, his chest heaving with it. “But. It’s fine.”

“Can you sit up?”

Ryan, cradling his left arm with his right, struggles to sit up. The light from outside glints off the tear tracks that trail off his face sideways, shadows going from rugged to almost soft as they pool around the edges of his face. Shane’s hands automatically fly to Ryan’s shoulders to steady him, but as soon as his palm makes contact with Ryan’s left shoulder, he yelps in pain, face crumpling like a piece of paper.

His shoulder looks wrong. His shoulder looks square .

Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

Okay, no. Shane can handle this. This is fine. He’s seen stock photos of people with their arms in slings before, he knows how to handle this situation. It’s great. Everything’s perfect. Gently, he removes the camera equipment from Ryan’s chest and places it on the floor. He takes off his jacket and ever so gently wraps Ryan’s arm in the thick black fabric, tying the sleeves behind Ryan’s neck to make a makeshift sling. It’s a surprisingly tender moment, Ryan’s head almost in Shane’s chest as Shane fumbles awkwardly with the fabric, the two of them only accompanied by the sound of an occasional car rushing past on a nearby road. It’s almost nice, except Ryan is still making little ‘ah’s of discomfort, a reminder of the predicament they’re in.

Shane makes quick work of their filming gear, grabbing all of it in his right arm and Ryan in his left before rushing out of the house. Fuck. Fuck, where’s the nearest medic? Screw that fucking ghost, he promised himself that no ghouls are allowed to bring Ryan harm , fuck. It makes something twist in his chest,  and his lungs feel like they are being wrung out like a wet dishrag. The crew, upon seeing Ryan cradling his arm and Shane’s frantic expression, stops examining a chair and hurriedly follows them out of the house. When they reach the cars, he dumps everything in the back seat of their vehicle and pulls up a Google Map for O’Connor Hospital. Ryan gets into the shotgun seat, and Shane drives.

Halfway through the ride, a voice drifts from his right.

“How the fuck are you so strong?”

Shane doesn’t have an excuse.

Chapter Text

Ryan is in the hospital.

Shane thinks, not for the first time, that humans are way too fragile. Their bodies are lined with tendons that stretch taut like bowstrings before they snap, arteries so effortlessly punctured, bones shattering with a simple twist. They are too malleable, and the emergency room was a testament to their temporary lives. Too many ghosts were here, indistinct shapes milling to and fro, occasionally settling down into a stiff hospital chair.

His heart burns as he waits for Ryan in the hospital. The crew left an hour after Ryan had been admitted into the exam room, taking the car with them. Everything passes in a blur, registration, triage, all of it blending into the feeling of hospital air just on this side of too warm, with the distant echo of Ryan’s pain. Shane can’t follow Ryan into the treatment room, leaving him alone to wade through the thick treacle of his thoughts. All is quiet in the waiting area.

Ryan walks out with a nurse, his left arm in a sling. Shane scrambles to his feet.

“How is he? What’s happened? Is Ryan going to be okay?”

“Sir, your boyfriend has a dislocated shoulder. Remind him to take his prescribed meds, ice his shoulder, and schedule a physio appointment at a hospital near his home. He has the required referral letter.”

The nurse spins on her heel and walks back into the treatment room, shoes click-clacking against the floor. Shane splutters a little, blushing faintly, but ultimately says nothing.

They hail a taxi. The muted sound of the radio serves as a backdrop to the silence that hangs heavy between them. Shane leans his head against the window and watches the world rush by, an odd mixture of anticipation and fear settling into his gut. His hair is wet with perspiration, his hands red-hot, the taxi stifling with its stale air.

They reach Ryan’s apartment. As Ryan fishes his keys out of his pocket and passes them to Shane, he brings up the topic, a carefully neutral tone to his voice.

"So, you’ve heard of demons."

“We literally actively seek them out, so I’d think so, yeah.”

The key jangles as it turns in the lock, and the door creaks slightly on its hinges as it swings open.

The usual cheerful lilt to Ryan's voice isn't there, dampened by a carefully constructed nonchalance that sends unpleasant heat rushing through Shane's veins. “Are you a demon?”

"Demons are not real, Ryan." Shane's voice sounds paper-thin to his own ears. "You know this. We've had this conversation before."

"First of all, shut the fuck up. They're real!” The familiar defensive enthusiasm is back, an anchor of normalcy, bringing Shane a small measure of comfort. “Second, I've gathered proof, and all of it points to you being a demon."

"You're going to start saying I'm an alien next!"

"Well, I've gathered proof to back up my theory!"

They step into the place. Shane locks the door while Ryan reaches out to flick the light switch on with his good arm, illuminating his disaster of an apartment. Ryan lives in a constant state of disarray, clothes haphazardly strewn in a kaleidoscope of colour and his guitar in the corner. The air is too heavy and too warm.

“Your eyes gave it away, initially.”

Shane snaps out of his daze. “Can you even see my eyes from down there?” says Shane, his voice brittle and nervous.

Dread laps at Shane’s tail like a flame, apprehension making its new home in his lungs. Sure, he’s okay with always being hyper-aware of how he presents himself, he’s used to the constant drain that comes with concealing his demonic traits, he’s fine with having a tight hold on his glamour. But having someone actually know about his true nature is downright terrifying. He's fucked, he's so fucked. Shane hasn't been dropping that many hints, has he? Was he that obvious? Fuck, now that he thinks about it, with Ryan's absurd thought processes, Shane wouldn't be surprised if Ryan had actually pieced together all his slip-ups and found out the truth. Ryan, you absolute mother fuck.

“You’re deflecting.” Ryan sets his piercing gaze right on Shane’s face, scrutinising. It sends a fresh wave of panic slamming into Shane, sending little fissures racing across his already cracking mask of denial. Oh god, why can't they abandon the issue at hand? Go back to how things were? Leave this to rot in the back of his consciousness?

“Am I?”

"Stop joking around, I swear to god."

"Swearing to god seems like a pretty bad move to make in front of me, your demon suspect number one--"

“When are you gonna stop digressing and address the elephant in the room? You've had your fun, joking about my height and fuckin' dancing circles around the topic. You’re lucky that I can’t murk you. Sit down.”

Shane hesitates for a moment before walking over, the creaking of the couch as he settles down beside Ryan. Silence ensues. He can hear Ryan’s heartbeat. Shane doesn’t turn to look up at Ryan, his gaze instead pinned to the empty wall in front of them.

“So, I’ve been piecing the signs together for ages. Since day one, actually.”

Shane’s vocal cords feel stiff like uncooked pasta. “Uh, hah, what did you gather?”

Ryan doesn’t answer. He lopes away to another room in search of something. Shane can only sit, waiting, heart fluttering with trepidation, fingers clenching the fabric of the worn sofa he’s seated on.

“So, big guy!” The shorter man returns, a huge ring file tucked under his uninjured arm and a manila folder in his hand. Despite the tension brewing between the two of them, he looks faintly proud of his work. “I investigated this, BFU style.”

Shane laughs awkwardly at the absurdity of the situation. “With all due respect here, Ryan, isn’t this a little much?”

Ryan squints at him. Shane, chagrined, shuts up. The weight of Ryan settling onto the couch soothes a bit of Shane's scorching anxiety, but the worst of it still sits in his stomach like a stone. The sight and sound of the familiar manila folder being flipped open make Shane feel like he's being dissected, just another mystery to be spread out and speculated upon. Ryan begins to read its contents, voice purposeful.

“So. At first glance, you look like a normal guy, right? All long limbs and... pretty eyelashes. You first appear to be a guy that gets affected by the cold quite easily, since you wear lots of layers. You also appeared to be a guy that isn’t caught up with the times, since you didn’t grasp even the most common pop culture references that I made when I first met you. You also had a very unnatural accent. But I just chalked your sensitivity to the cold and lack of pop culture knowledge up to you being from a warmer place and disinterest in pop culture respectively. For the accent, it wasn't anything I'd ever heard before, but you could've just been from somewhere I'd never been to. Whatever. I don’t know the life you used to live.”

Shane twiddles his fingers. Ryan is taking this extremely seriously. 

“But then on the day we first sat beside each other, I smelled something odd. I thought that maybe Buzzfeed was burning things, experimenting for a video. So I checked the schedules. No one was burning anything. Or eating anything odd. Or experimenting. So I thought, maybe someone had gone to a barbecue, because something smelled burnt. I’d even subtly checked everyone’s shoes, because it also smelt like dog poop. But it wasn’t. At this point, I knew something was off. And when you sat down next to me, I smelled the odd smell so intensely I almost died. So I was convinced that this smell was from you, which was proven by the smell intensifying when you stood close to me. So. Theory 1, you work in a chem lab. Theory 2, you hadn’t taken a shower.

“I didn't have a Theory 3 back then, so I just let these incidents I mentioned slip out of my mind. But after I came to the conclusion that you were, in fact, a demon, I realised that these incidents fit in nicely with this theory, which made this the most compelling explanation for these happenings.”

Shane sees Ryan struggle to flip a page that had gotten stuck. He licked his finger and helped flip the page. Ryan nods to himself and continues.

“The next day at the supermarket. This was interesting. You, first of all, pronounced ‘deodorant’ really weirdly, as if you were reading it for the first time. That’s not right, is it? You’re a fully grown man, you should have had some experience with this before. But that’s just a small detail. See, you… you still smell. Sure, deodorant works. But I go over to your apartment. And the house smells of sulphur and burnt dog poop. Which, as you may recall, is exactly what Anneliese Michel smelt like. So there.

“Subsequently, I asked you to join me on Unsolved. You’re a self-proclaimed sceptic, right. But sometimes, the way you spoke about ghouls just didn’t tally up. Sometimes, you speak of them as if you believe they were real. Although, you did mention that you only did that to humour me. But the Father Thomas incident? Remember that, when we went to Sacred Heart?”

Shane nods. He can see where this is going.

“When you told me about the inconsistencies in Father Thomas’ advice and descriptions, I was impressed. A bit suspicious, actually. If you didn't believe that demons were real, then why did you know all that information? For the other cases, you just sit there and make your usual infuriating jokes and historical references. You obviously don’t do much research on those. Then why would you research on demons that one time? Theory 1, you actually bothered to research. Which was unlikely, because you’re an unrelenting sceptic and you’ve never felt pressured to believe. Theory 2, you’ve seen a demon before. But you’re a sceptic. So Theory 3, god, the more I get into this the dumber it sounds, but you know that much about demons because you might be one. Because if you’d simply done research on this, you wouldn’t have said it with such familiarity or conviction to challenge a supposed expert.

“And something else I noticed when you talked to Father Thomas. I only noticed this detail when I looked back at the footage, a few months after I’d started tracing the case with red string. You never look at Father Thomas in the eyes. Never.”

Shane lowers his gaze to pick at his nails. “You said that my eyes gave it away, initially?”

“Yeah, they did. You can’t look at anything holy. Yeah sure, you say demons can infest churches. But you gave yourself away. You can’t look at crosses, you never say the Lord’s Prayer, and you never touched Father Thomas other than the mandatory handshake. And your eyes sometimes look dead. This was the first clue that led me to think that you were a demon. Everything else came in after this.”

“Let’s move on. At Pennhurst. Your camera was turned off, but you forgot your audio recorder. I did not hear you speak Chinese to the spirits at all. You spoke Enochian, which I identified after extensive YouTube searches. It’s the language of the holy and unholy, right? You were telling a ghost to fuck off.”

Shane splutters. “How... how did you translate that?”

“Got Father Thomas to check.”

Shane mumbles, “Fuck Father Thomas. Fuck that guy.”

Ryan lets out a big, wheezing laugh that lights up his whole face. Just as it’s always been. Shane thinks he can get lost in Ryan's laugh lines, the hearty chuckle easing some of his crushing worries.

“Okay. You were careless. Anyways. Your Chinese isn’t bad. But you never mentioned that you could speak it. And a sign of being possessed by a demon is knowledge of previously unknown languages. As far as I know, the human Shane Madej took 4 years of German that he didn’t get anything out of.

“But here’s the most interesting incident. At the Bellaire House. On the way there, we talked about... bonuts and apple taters. And I knew you were hungry. So, when the spirit box spat out the words “apple tater” and “bonut”, I knew something was up. Why would the spirits know what we were talking about, if they weren’t us? I certainly wasn’t thinking about food or the jokes we made on the way there. I was scared shitless. You, on the other hand, laugh in the face of the unknown. So, who else could it have been?”

Shane sighs, takes his glasses off, drags his hand down his face wearily and says, “I joke around because I’m more powerful than these spirits. I’m a demon of old, Ryan. I have accumulated power so vast that I could smite a ghost with a snap of my fingers. It’s less about laughing in the face of the unknown. It’s more so about laughing in the face of things that won’t antagonise me, because I’m too powerful to be worth the trouble.”

Ryan chokes. He makes a few attempts at starting a new sentence, starting and stopping and giving an awkward, strangled chuckle, before running his hand through his hair with his good arm and clearing his throat.

“That’s... that’s something. Um. Okay, cool. Moving on. Right.”

Shane lifts an eyebrow in question, and Ryan looks down, straightening the papers in his lap. His face shifts with some unidentifiable emotion.

“Right, well. Okay. Something else, Shane. You’re scarily strong. You always try not to show it. But the way that you carry things was always with an ease that not many humans have. You’re never out of breath after climbing stairs. Really, the best proof I had was when you yanked me up from the Door to Nowhere.”

At this, Ryan winces slightly, and Shane is reminded of his own heartbeat rushing in his ears and the sight of Ryan's clammy hands slowly slipping off the ledge. He can taste the residual fear of the incident radiating from Ryan's body and decides he feels the same.

“And, I have to say, thank you. My shoulder is dislocated because of your devilish strength, but that’s better than falling to my death and haunting the Winchester Mansion forever.”

Shane twiddles his thumbs, a stone falling into the well of his heart. “Well. It’s nothing.”

“Anyways, abnormal strength is a sign of being a demon or being possessed by one. And you can’t deny this strength, Shane. You managed to lift me from the ledge I was clinging onto and throw me back into the house. I’m a fully grown man. You barely work out. Something else has to be at play.

“So there, I laid it out for you. You, Shane Alexander Madej, are a demon. Am I right? The last point of discussion here is for you to admit to me that you are. And then the case can be solved.”

Ryan flips the binder and folder shut with an air of finality, the heavy thump of paper sending a fresh wave of hopelessness slamming into Shane. Shane sighs, puts his hands to his face, and sighs again.

Hindsight is always sparklingly clear. There was no point continuing to hide in the face of such compelling proof. Shane realises how truly careless he has been. So much for getting used to human things, and growth, and learning how to hide his true nature. He both admires and despises Ryan’s powers of observation. He is Sherlock Holmes. Shane is his Watson.

How does Ryan see him now? Perhaps he was but a case for Ryan to solve, just another mystery to pick apart. Shane's on a dissecting table and Ryan's sharp gaze is the scalpel. He feels gutted; Ryan's cut him open, fished out his secrets, and put them in a manila folder. Shane Alexander Madej, Ryan's greatest achievement. What more had he to do than to hide, and what more is he now than a solved mystery? What would Ryan do now? Parade him all over the Internet, claim that he, Ryan Steven Bergara, has a live testimony of a demon from Hell?

Or maybe he's the direct opposite. Instead of parading Shane around, maybe Ryan would cower from him instead, surround himself with holy water, salt, sage. He and Ryan had such a strong bond together, spent so much time together that people had started referring to them as a singular entity -- Ryan and Shane, never one without the other. What would happen to them now? Would Ryan flinch at his every touch, reel back like he had been scalded? Would their friendship burn to ash?

There's a ball of something in Shane's throat, a strange amalgamation of hesitation and fear and maybe the concept of tears, but he swallows around it and says, “You’re right, Ryan. I am a demon boy. You’ve guessed it.” His judgement day is today after all.

“So you admit it.”

“Well.” Shane laughs, a humourless, bitter thing. “A sweeping victory for the Boogaras, I suppose.”

Ryan awkwardly scoots closer to pat Shane, his palm almost ice cold and making Shane’s skin tingle where it lays on his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

Anxiety and hurt and whatever he had been holding inside him for so long burns in his chest now, brighter than ever before, searing hot as it spreads through his body and leaves him aching. It's like someone's forced the sun down his throat. How does Ryan do this all the time? Is this what he feels between calling out for ghouls and waiting for a response?

Shane forces out under his breath, “Ryan, do you still care?”

Ryan flinches. “What, what do you mean, care? How could I not care?”

Shane's gaze is pinned to the fumbling fingers in his lap, hunched over slightly on himself.

“Like, do you, do you care. About me.”

Shane takes a shaky, burning breath. His questions spill from his lips like bile, a tangled knot of words and emotions that had been festering in him like a disease. “Ryan, how do you see me, am I a case to you? Are you scared? Do you want to throw holy water at me? What am I to you?” He draws his knees up to his chest, shrinks down into a ball, and continues, words collapsing out of his mouth uncontrollably, an avalanche. “Ryan, if you’re scared, why are you still here? Why are we still talking? Aren’t you terrified of demons, what do you want from me.

“God help me, don’t go. If you want to go, so be it but God, please don’t leave me.”

Shane’s voice is reduced to a pathetic whimper. It's vulnerable and raw in a way he's never been before, and he trembles with the intensity of it.

There’s a sharp intake of breath to Shane’s left, the memory of it polluting the air. The tense silence lapses over the two of them again, the shadow of fluttering moths dancing to the rhythm of Shane’s racing heartbeat. He’s a demon of old, he can destroy spirits with a snap of his fingers, he could pick Ryan apart molecule by molecule if he so pleased. But simple human emotion has led him to this -- all power over himself he has given to Ryan, and it’s up to Ryan to decide whether he’s going to cool the aching burn of Shane’s heart or leave it to rot in a case for all to see.

He can taste more than hear Ryan’s voice that quivers like the wisps of ghosts, “Shane, I’m not scared. Or proud. Well, I am a bit scared and a bit proud, but that doesn’t mean you’re any less of a friend to me. You’re... you’re my best friend. You’re not simply a case, not a mystery to solve. You’re my partner, in crime. You mean all that and so much more to me.”

Shane wills his body to still. “Ryan, I...”

Ryan seems to understand. He lays a hand on Shane’s shoulder, and the cold seeps through his flesh like a cooling salve. Ryan always ran cooler than Shane. Shane’s lungs do the odd thing.

“I’m not leaving, Shane. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shane breathes out. He doesn’t dare to believe what he’s heard.

They sit there in silence. Shane still feels on the verge of combusting, but Ryan’s a steady soothing presence by his side. Slowly, Shane‘s urge to vomit passes.

Shane had stared at the inky black of his fear and stood eye to eye with the unknown. He had been terrified, and broken, and weary, but it had blinked first. Ryan was still here after all. Ryan, his co-host, his friend, his Sherlock.

Still, Ryan could always leave Shane in the dust. Throw him out like an old case file, like a used match. Nothing more. Shane has never avoided throwing out the garbage. Why would Ryan be any different?

Shane can only hope that whatever happens now, Ryan will still be by his side, snow-soft and comforting and familiar as home. The boys, ice and fire, Shane and Ryan, Ryan and Shane.

For the first time in a long time, the burning from deep within him empties from his bones. Shane feels hollowed out and fragile, but clean, like a new house ready to be lived in, a fresh start, a second chance.

Shane’s eyes close to blink, and he wakes to see Ryan’s sleeping form illuminated by the cold light of dawn.