Chapter Text
Five days later, and Spooker still won’t talk to him. Ghost wants to respect it, would probably be relieved in any other circumstance, but he needs Toast out as fast as possible, feels the time ticking by like sandpaper against his skin. The only way to do that is to plow through the boundary over and over, making an ass of himself in the process. It doesn’t help how obviously distressed he is- he stumbles over his words, fights against the urge to box Spooker in so he can’t walk off mid sentence for the hundredth time. He’s cracking under the pressure. The other Hunter’s gossip has only gotten worse. They shy away from him like he’s a dangerous thing, a wild animal waiting to snap. He can’t help but agree when he catches sight of his reflection- dark circles around half crazed bloodshot eyes, worn mismatched clothes, stained and fraying. His hair sticks up at odd angles no matter how hard he tries to finger comb it into order. He wouldn’t want to talk to himself either.
That doesn’t stop it from being necessary. With the deadline closing in, he pulls out the big guns.
Annie agrees easily, he suspects just because she finds it funny to see him beg for her help again so soon. Ghost chews his nail beds raw, ignores her blatant staring. A knock at the door cuts through the air, and she flashes a performative smug smile at him, calling, “Come in!”
A mop of curly ginger hair and nervous green eyes peers inside. Huh. Spooker isn’t wearing that godawful pink beanie. Ghost has never seen him without it. His hair is doubled in volume, which might be part of the reason he wears it. It certainly isn’t for fashion.
“Ma’am? You said you needed to see me?-“ Ghost catches the exact moment Spooker sees him- tentative smile dropping off his face, brow furrowed. He sends a glance towards Annie, and replaces it with the worst fake smile Ghost has ever seen. And he thought that first overexcited grin looked painful. Ghost sends him an awkward wave and immediately regrets it.
”Fred. Would you mind taking a seat?” Annie says pleasantly, like she somehow doesn’t notice the tension. Ghost gives Spooker a look, wonders how much of her act he’s falling for.
The cheap cushion squeaks when Spooker sits next to him, a little too close. Ghost hunches his shoulders, pulls his elbows in, legs tucked under his chair, minimizing the chance of accidentally touching. He doubts Spooker doesn’t notice, but he can’t bring himself to care about being rude. That ship has long since sailed.
”Now, I know you boys have been struggling to get along since I placed you two together.” Her voice takes on the distinctly condescending tone of a school counselor forcing a student to play nice with their bully. (No, that isn’t a weirdly specific comparison. The fact that he has experience with that exact situation is entirely irrelevant.)
When it becomes clear that she expects a response, the silence stretching on a little too far, Spooker gives her one. “Uh. Yeah.”
She smiles serenely, as if that wasn’t awkward as all hell. Not like Ghost would’ve done better, but still. “I’m sure you can imagine how inconvenient that is for me. I paired you two for a reason, after all.”
”And what’s that?” Ghost says- it’s never made sense to him, even less with how adamant she is about keeping them together after all that’s happened. Anyone else would be a better fit.
Annie turns to him, projecting annoyance at being interrupted. ”I guessed you’d work well together, is all. Fred has a lot of potential- I thought our best worker would be able to bring that out.”
Liar. He’d call her out directly, if they didn’t have company. She wouldn’t tolerate him undermining her bullshit authority infront of Spooker. She knows exactly why Ghost is an awful fit for training a newbie, especially on his own.
”Well, uh,” Spooker says, “We aren’t. We’ve had.. disagreements, every time we talked.”
Damn, he really wants to get out of this. Ghost doesn’t blame him- well, maybe a little. Wounds what’s left of his pride, if nothing else.
She just keeps on smiling. She’s not beating the vampire allegations. “That’s nothing you can’t move on from! You just need to try. I know Johnathon here agrees with me, isn’t that right?”
Spooker furrows his brow. “Who-“ He cuts himself off, looking at Ghost. He feels himself flush, fantasizes about slashing Annie’s throat open with his pocket knife.
”You asked for this?” Ah shit. Spooker looks actually mad at him. This is exactly what he was trying to prevent, Annie. “Anne- Ma’am?”
She flashes her shark teeth. “Yes?”
”Could I speak to you alone?”
Fuck.
“Of course.” Annie targets her creepy grin at him. “Johnny, would you wait outside?”
He can’t exactly say no. He glares at her, sighs, and stands, knees cracking. Waits outside the door, too thick for him to hear anything more than indistinct murmurs. That could’ve gone better.
A moment later, Spooker comes through, pauses just long enough to frown at him with annoyed concern, and awkwardly shuffles past.
Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and goes back inside.
”You could’ve not told him.” He says as he sits back down, crosses his arms. “I only did it because of you, incase you forgot.”
She scoffs, a touch too brightly. “Don’t blame me for your inability to behave rationally. Besides, it doesn’t matter now.”
His stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“He requested a transfer. Either that, or quit, and we can’t have that, can we?” She says, singsong. “I assigned him a new partner. You know that recent transfer, Christopher? They’ll make a good match, I’m sure.”
Damn, did Spooker actually threaten to quit? Ghost didn’t think he had the balls. Not that he doesn’t understand why. But-
“What about our deal?” He says, heart beginning to race. She wouldn’t just drop it completely before he even reaches the deadline, right? Right?
She laughs lightly, bats her eyelashes. “Don’t be silly. You know as well as I that your little friend getting found out would be bad for both of us. I’ll make a few calls. Now shoo, I was quite busy before you interrupted me.”
Did she just- admit to blackmailing him for no reason? Seriously?
“I said shoo, didn’t I? You haven’t grown deaf in the last five minutes, have you?” She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, starts shuffling papers.
He raises his hands. “Jesus, fine.”
She calls after him as he leaves, ”I’ll assign you something new later. Fred can take that one with him.”
He’s tempted to ask if assigning two mostly inexperienced Hunters to such a complicated mission is a good idea, but she’s annoyed enough with him already. If something does go wrong, it’s her loss, not his.
-
“Later” ends up meaning “four whole hours later”. He spends the time chewing his nails bloody, and playing Tetris on his phone. Usually, he has a few things to do between missions, (and a partner to bother when he’s bored) but Annie’s neglecting him in more ways than one, apparently. No one approaches him, but he gets a lot of dirty looks, hears his name in far off whispers. He’s not sure how much of it he’s imagining.
Spooker only enters the room once, doesn’t so much as glance in his direction. Ghost watches from the corner of his eye as he greets a man in a blue hoodie- he’s familiar, but Ghost has never been the best at remembering names- and, after a short conversation, trots out the door with him in tow. Probably Christopher, then.
Another hour and a half with unspent adrenaline buzzing under his skin, and they come back in, talking and laughing. Their clothes look wet- Ghost thinks it’s mud at first, but then they pass by a little closer, and he gets a whiff of iron, sees the vivid red where it hasn’t yet started to dry. Jesus fuck that’s disgusting. Ghost is very far from squeamish, but even he has to swallow back nausea. Half dried globs drop off in a trail behind them, mingling with their footprints. Most of the hunters leave the room, visibly cringing, pale, pulling their shirts up over their noses. The others watch with morbid curiosity.
That has got to be a biohazard, Ghost thinks, just as a team of cleaners run in. Spooker and probably-Christopher are ushered out, wrapped in tarps, presumably towards the chemical showers in the back. Some poor soul gets stuck with a mop and a roll of paper towels for the floor. Ghost doesn’t envy them. He finds himself a lot less bitter about that particular mission being reassigned.
A few moments later, those that left file back in, and they all go back to whatever they were doing before. Just a typical Tuesday.
Ghost checks his phone and corrects himself- typical Wednesday. The point still stands.
The new mission file comes in purely email form, this time. That happens, sometimes, on particularly busy days, or on the rare occasion they’re assigned something simple. Ninety percent of their cases are the most difficult- complex, or dangerous, or large scale, sometimes all three and more. Those files get treated with care, hand delivered usually by Annie herself, along with a verbal debrief, and a condescending good luck wish. This is, presumably, none of those. He opens it.
——————————
Appearance:
Encounters:
- Home owner notices unseasonal cold temperatures —- 7/12/2X
- Home owner and spouse find frost on their windows, even in direct sunlight —- 9/1/2X
- Home owner finds smoke like mist over the floor of some rooms —- 9/8/2X
Effects:
Environmental:
- Temperature changes-cold
- Mist
Physical (Personal):
- Frequent chills (with no external temperature changes)
Psychological:
- Reported sudden feelings of sorrow with no apparent source
Emotion(s):
Potential/Unconfirmed:
- Fear (cold temperature shifts are often associated)
Confirmed:
- Sorrow/sadness
Cause of death:
Unknown (potential explanation for temperature shifts, if fear isn’t an associated emotion)
Dismissal (To be filled out after dismissal):
Tools used:
Details:
——————————
Seriously? “Frequent chills” aren’t exactly his idea of dangerous. Why even get rid of the thing, if not for a mercy killing? Sure, he needs something he can do by himself, and Annie knows he’s been…compromised, recently, but this? This is insulting. There’s not a doubt in his mind that she did it on purpose.
Still, he stands, gathers his things. Anything is better than more waiting, at this point.
-
An old woman answers the door. She smiles warmly at him, an apron tied around her waist. “Hello! You must be from S.I.D. I’m Carol.” She sticks her hand out for him to shake.
Ghost does his best to hide his grimace. He’s really not a fan of touching people, especially strangers. Generally, he’d much rather come off as rude than do so, but there are times he feels a little bad about it. Like when a nice lady that smells like cookies and reminds him of the grandmother he only met twice before she died, though the few memories of her are nice. But it’s not like he knows this woman. He doesn’t owe her shit. She could be a massive homophobe as far as he knows. He keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, pretending not to see. “Yeah, I am. You can call me Ghost.”
The look on Carol’s face is a familiar one. Wondering if that’s actually his name. How often would he even get it if he worked literally anywhere else? Atleast he isn’t the only one trying not to seem rude now.
”Come on in. I just have to pull the bread out of the oven, and you can tell me how this whole thing works. I’ve never had to do this before, you see.” She gestures him inside, closing the door.
“What’s been going on, exactly?” Ghost says, turning in a slow circle, surveying the large room. Nothing yet. The report told him most of what he needs to know, but it’s formal and vaguely worded. He likes to ask people who’ve encountered ghosts directly when possible- sometimes it’s useless, but more often than not they sprinkle in a few details that end up being vital. He follows Carol into the kitchen.
She slips on some oven mitts, and he catches a small frown in her side profile. “Here lately, my wife and I are finding cold spots around the house. Corners, mostly. I thought nothing of it until I came home to frost in every window, sunny as can be outside.” Probably not a massive homophobe, then. The smell of fresh bread fills the room, pushing away the lingering copper in his nose. She puts it on the counter between them.
Ghost jots down a few quick notes. “When did this start?”
She strips off the mitts, puts her hands on her hips. “I’m not too sure. I saw the frost a week or so ago, and there’ve been a few of them cold spots since we moved in. Sheryl said she felt something was off the whole time, though it was never more than a feeling.”
”Yeah, that happens, sometimes. How long ago did you move in?” Ghost says.
”Two months.”
That’s odd. A quick internet search told him that the property was only vacant for five months or so. (He didn’t find any relevant obituaries, either, but Toast was always better at finding those.) What, did some random squatter die of hypothermia- in the spring, no less- and no one thought to report it? ”Did you hear about anything strange happening before you moved in? From whoever sold you the house, or anyone who lived here before?”
She shakes her head. “Not a thing. Could be they were just hiding it so we’d take it for a good price.” She cuts him off just as he’s gearing up for another question, like she knows he isn’t going to give her any other opportunity. “Would you like some tea, maybe some coffee? There’s a little leftover from this morning.”
Ghost hates coffee, (Toast always drank some in the morning. Ghost always made him leave the room- he can’t stand the smell.) and he isn’t the biggest fan of tea, either. (Toast is the only one who can make it the way he likes. Ghost can’t even quite get it.) What he likes even less is having to dodge polite time wasters. Who cares about performative acts of nicety? Just answer the damn questions. “No thanks. Could you tell me a little more about your encounters?” She furrows her brow. Right- most people don’t know the technical terms. “The- the strange things you’ve seen. Anything you left out, anything new that happened after the first time you spoke to us?”
”None that come to mind, no. Although…” A beep rings through the air. Ghost jumps, grateful that Carol turned her head in time so that she didn’t see him. (Or is pretending she didn’t, atleast.) “Oh- the dishwasher’s gone off, would you mind if I put them away real quick? We can keep talking while I do it, if need be.”
”Sure.” He says. It’s a bit awkward, maybe, but most things are when he’s interacting with someone for the first time. (Or someone that isn’t his friend. So anyone but Toast, really.) He doesn’t have to make eye contact with her anymore, atleast. She smiles her thanks, and turns, opens the dishwasher door. “What were you saying?”
”Well… It might not mean anything, but both me and Sheryl have had… feelings. Just felt real sad, out of nowhere.” She clanks a few plates together, stacking them in a nearby cabinet. “Now, I know that could be for any reason. Started after we moved, but could just be missing our old home, or a coincidence. But I said something to the woman I talked to on the phone, and she acted like it could be related. I figure y’all know more about it than me, anyways.”
That stuck out to him in the report. Like it said, fear and cold temperature fluctuations go hand in hand. They’re not always linked, of course, but by his estimate, they are about sixty, seventy percent of the time. She’s right that it could be coincidence- humans have a tendency to make patterns where there aren’t any. But it’s worth considering, atleast. “Do you remember the first time this happened?”
She stands, stretches her back with a pop. “Hmmm…. About a month ago, I think. Same day the air conditioner stopped working right.”
…..if it turns out all this is is the air conditioner malfunctioning, he’s gonna lose it. Again. “And, uh. Did you ever get that fixed?”
”Nah, it hasn’t been worth the hassle. It works most of the time, and I don’t wanna have to pay someone until it’s a bigger problem.”
Ghost takes a very slow, very deep, breath. “I know a guy.”
-
Papa Acachalla gets there ten minutes later, parking what might generously be described as a car nearby. A layer of rust has long since taken over the original color. A few small flecks of a dull greenish yellow might be remnants of old paint, or dried bird shit, or radioactive waste. One of the tires sits over the curb, smushing the nicely maintained grass, caked in layers upon layers of mud- the most recent of which reaches all the way up to cover the faded license plates. Ghost once cut his hand on the sharp metal at the bottom, and had to get a tetanus shot.
The man that steps out of it doesn’t look much better. He’s a regular client, and Ghost has been to his house atleast thirty times in the last few years, dismissed so many ghosts that he’s half convinced he’d find a graveyard if he dug down a few feet into the soil behind it. A few of the more memorable of which include multiple haunted video games, old creepypasta style, a chew toy (For their dog Freddie, who’s always dressed in a ratty Jurassic Park T-Rex costume. The Acachalla’s daughter, Sally, insists he’s an allosaurus, and Ghost has no reason to disagree. She’d probably bite him, if he did, and he isn’t up to date on rabies vaccines.) that squealed a touch too realistically and seeped blood and pus when cut open, and a ghost that kept making all their food rot within hours of purchasing. (It was hiding in the vents. Ghost had to crawl in them to find it- popped his hip half out the socket in the process.)
“Ghost.” He says, once he reaches the porch. His breath smells like old beer and gasoline.
Ghost crosses his arms. “Acachalla.” (Ghost refuses to call him “Papa”. It’s the man’s real first name, Ghost argued over it with him for hours the first time they met, eventually got shown his birth certificate as proof, but that isn’t enough to make him use it. Just has him questioning what the hell kind of parent names their kid like a bad joke. Probably the kind that raise a man like the one standing infront of him.)
”Cashin’ in that favor, you said?” He’d come in on an emergency call, a while ago, on a day he was supposed to be off, and he’s been holding it over Papa’s head ever since. Ghost nods. Papa sighs. “Fine. What do you want?”
Ghost gestures at the half open door. “Got a client who’s air conditioner’s fucked up. I need you to help me figure out if it’s normal-broken or ghost-broken.”
”Really, now?” He looks over Ghost’s shoulder, tries to see inside. “Why me? I’m a mechanic, not some AC-repair hot shot.”
”No professional would take me seriously. Plus,” He shows his teeth. “You’re gonna do it for free.”
”…God damnit.”
Carol works in the kitchen- baking, he thinks- occasionally popping in to check on them, and probably make sure the two strange men, only one of which was expected, aren’t destroying her aircon beyond repair. Ghost is doing his best to make sure that doesn’t happen, too- keeping a close eye on Papa, death glaring whenever he makes eye contact. And also when he isn’t. But he doesn’t know a damn thing about this, so it’s easily possible that Papa’s broken the thing worse than it already was, and he doesn’t even know it.
”Anything unusual to report?” He says, looking between the pile of removed screws and miscellaneous parts, and the open space Papa’s been digging around in.
”Nothin’, ‘sides the feelin’ of your scrawny ass starin’ at me. Gimme some space, would ya? You’re distracting me.”
Ghost scoffs. “I don’t trust you not to set anything on fire, on accident or not, the second I leave the room. Hell, I wouldn’t trust you with that in your own house.”
”I’m destructive, huh? Remind me, who’s the one that knocked down the treehouse last time?” He tugs on another scrap of metal, sticks it in the pile more roughly than strictly necessary.
“It only fell ‘cause you’re the one that built it. Why the hell would you use plywood that thin?”
”It don’t need to hold no more than a couple kids!”
Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’re gonna grow up eventually! They’re both teenagers, man. I’m surprised they didn’t break it first.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Papa lets out an uncharacteristically soft chuckle. “…still your fault, though.” Yeah, that’s more like him.
Ghost throws his hands out to the sides. “Literally how-“
“Ahem.” Carol knocks on the wall, pretends to clear her throat. Ghost bites back a yelp, both he and Papa turning to look at her. She smiles. “Just coming to check on you two, let you know I made cookies. Would you like any?”
Ghost plasters on his best impression of a polite smile. “No thank you, ma’am.”
Papa perks up at the mention of cookies, opens his mouth. Ghost kicks him. Papa winces, glaring. Ghost kicks him again. He pouts, but complies. “Uh, no thanks.” Another kick. “Ma’am.”
Carol smiles, a twinkle of what might be amusement in her eyes. “Alright then. I’ll leave you too it.”
They listen, tense, as her footsteps fade away. “She for sure heard us swearing.” Papa says.
”Heard you swearing, more like.”
”You’re the one that shouted.”
”I did not-“
They argue back and forth for a while, but they can’t keep it up forever. Ghost is exhausted, has been for days, weeks, feels it like a weight on his shoulders. Papa seems to sense it, or maybe he just gets bored of it, so when Ghost goes quiet, he does too. Eventually, though, he breaks the lull with a question. “Where’s your boy?”
Ghost blinks. “My… ‘boy’?”
”You’re ‘friend’. Partner, boyfriend, whatever the kids are calling it these days. I can count on one finger the times I’ve seen you without him.”
Oh. And Ghost thought he was tired before. He sighs. “He’s… not available. Also we’re not dating.”
Papa side eyes him. “Hey, I don’t judge.”
”I mean it. We’re friends.” He almost says “just friends,” but he’s never been a fan of that phrasing, especially when it comes to Toast. Toast isn’t “just” anything.
”Uhuh. Sure.” Papa drawl’s sarcastically.
Ghost rolls his eyes, but doesn’t try to correct him. It never works.
“Think I found the problem.” Papa says. It’s been around forty five minutes- Ghost has his suspicions that it would’ve gone a lot faster if he’d actually known what he was doing. Cars are pretty different from ACs, after all, and Papa’s car is a death trap on wheels, so there’s reason to believe he doesn’t actually know a whole lot about those, either. Maybe it’s like an email scam- anyone stupid enough to get past the typos won’t pick up on any other red flags. Atleast not before giving away half their savings.
”What is it?” Ghost got tired of standing pretty quickly, went from shifting his weight off his bad knee, leaning against the wall, to finally giving in and sliding down to the floor. The searing ache in his joints makes his wonder if it’s going to rain. That, or he’s just feeling the consequences of being forced to walk everywhere. He’s not close enough to any windows to check.
”A couple loose wires. Should be an easy fix, lemme just-“ There’s a series of clicks, and the faint buzz of the AC coming back to life fills the room.
Ghost hadn’t realized how warm it was until now. He stands, stretches, joints popping. “Guess that’s it.”
Papa looks him up and down, eyebrows raised. “Damn, kid. You’re crunchier than I am.”
Ghost swallows a “go fuck yourself.” What comes out isn’t much nicer, but atleast he tried.“Put it back together, and then fuck off. I don’t want Carol to see your tetanus mobile.”
Papa grumbles, and picks up a screwdriver.
The air smells like freshly baked cookies, once he’s far enough away from the old man stink. He’s headed towards the kitchen, when a sudden chill races up his spine, like a miniature electric shock. He shivers, feeling the hair on his arms stand up. Looking around for the source, he catches sight of a river of mist pooling in the hallway corner, like the smoke dry ice gives off. Weird. He’d thought the AC was the real problem after all, his annoyance at the waste of time held back by the relief of the easy answer, the fact that he’d be able to leave and ask Annie about Toast again. See if she followed through on her promise, hopefully relieve some of the itch in his bones.
Apparently, he was wrong. Or….maybe half wrong. The mist is collecting into a ball, bleeding sky blue at the edges. It splits off into spikes, like icicles, rolls towards him and spins once, almost waving goodbye. Then it bursts into a shower of incorporeal shards of ice that disappear before they hit the ground. Dismissed.
Papa leaves shortly after, luckily without more than a couple words to Carol. Something about picking up his kids from school, Ghost thinks. Whatever the reason, he’s glad that he’s gone by the time a new car pulls into the driveway, confirmed as Sheryl when she enters, and immediately hugs her wife. Ghost hovers awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, notebook and pen in hand. He was finishing up his notes after a talk with Carol, informing her that both her problems with her AC and her haunting were solved, leaving out the specifics of course. He’d been half tempted to leave himself afterwards, do his notes on the way, but, again, his memory is shit on a good day. And it’s been atleast a month since he’s had any of those.
”Oh? Who’s this?” Sheryl says. Ghost startles lightly, and hopes neither of them noticed. Sheryl is a bit younger than her wife, her hair still half black while Carol’s is all silver-grey, her skin olive toned and just a little tighter over the muscle.
Carol introduces him before he has the chance. “This is Ghost, he’s from S.I.D. I called them a while ago, remember? He just got done fixing our little problem.”
Sheryl goes through the exact same thought process as Carol had hours ago. He wouldn’t get nearly this much scrutiny at a pride event. Half the fuckers there would have the same idea. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She says, stepping towards him, holding out her hand.
Ghost stares blankly until she puts it down. Puts on his best smile- which isn’t very believable, he knows. He gave up on smiling in photos years ago, but it still feels better to atleast try when he’s talking to someone who might care. “Thanks. You too.”
She furrows her brow, scrutinizing. Fuck. He’s so fucking bad at masking. It’s gotten him into plenty of trouble before. Hopefully now isn’t one of those times. “Carol, hon, do we still have some of that chicken pasta?”
Huh? Carol grins knowingly. “Yes, we sure do. I also made some fresh bread, and a couple trays of cookies.”
”Good. Start packing some up for him.”
”What?” Does she mean him? Who else would it be? “Why?”
Sheryl scoffs. “You look like a stiff breeze could pick you up and carry you for a mile, that’s why. When’s the last time you ate?”
”Uh.” His silence says enough, apparently. She gently herds him into the kitchen, has him sit down at the table. He’s too bewildered to refuse. In about three minutes, they have a whole box full- pasta, bread and cookies wrapped in foil to keep them warm. Like they’ve done this a million times before.
”Um. I don’t-“
Sheryl cuts him off. “Take it. You clearly need it, and we can’t keep all this to ourselves, anyway. Half of it would go bad.”
He blinks hard, feels like his brain is lagging. Carol taps him on the shoulder. He yips, twists around in time to see her stifle a giggle. “You startle easy, for a ghost hunter.”
He flushes, and she presses a thermos into his hands, full of something warm. “I’m vigilant.”
She giggles again. “Alright. You can keep that, by the way.” She gestures at the thermos. “The tupperware for the pasta, too.”
He has half a mind to refuse, but he’s got a feeling they wouldn’t let him. And, well. He does like cookies. He sighs, and tucks the box under his arm. “Thank you.”
-
Ghost is a few streets down, headed towards HQ, and hoping he’ll be able to make space for the box in the break room fridge, when his phone rings. Buzzes, technically, it’s set permanently to vibrate, but it’s still loud enough to startle him. He struggles to answer it with one hand, nearly drops it.
“Hello?” He says, once he’s adjusted his grip.
”Hey, man.” Says…Josh? He furrows his brow, glances at the caller ID to confirm it.
”Josh? What’s up?” Last time she called him, it was for backup on a mission. Same thing the time before that, if memory serves. He hopes it isn’t urgent, atleast- he already has to walk all the way back to HQ, he doesn’t want to have to go somewhere else right after. Plus, he still needs to talk to Annie.
”Uh. I’m not sure, exactly. Anne told me to come get you, and take you..somewhere. She texted me the address.”
Ugh. What does she want with him, now? A specialized mission, maybe? But then why bring Josh into it? “Okayyy… What’s the address?” He types it into his phone as Josh reads it off. Stops dead, once it loads. “That’s a block away from the police station.”
Josh pauses, seems to pick up on the weight behind his words. Ghost isn’t sure how it got out, he certainly isn’t the one who spread it, but there were rumors about Toast’s arrest going around nearly as soon as it happened. Josh knows to not put too much belief into rumors, clearly, but there’s no way she didn’t hear them, and wonder how much truth they held. She doesn’t ask about it, thank god. “Where are you?”
Ghost directs her to him, listening to her car’s engine crackle through the speakers, and trying not to panic. His voice is shaky, and so are his hands, and his breath. He paces back and forth, clings to his phone like a lifeline, wishes he had one hand free so he could pull at his hair. Josh takes around ten minutes to get there, but it feels like hours. The moment she pulls up next to him, he hangs up the phone, shoves himself into the passenger seat.
”Hey. Again.” She says. Her little shadow sits curled around her headrest, twisted in a way a real cat couldn’t be. It’s featureless face seems look right at him.
He grunts at her, knee bouncing, nails digging into the fabric of his gloves. He’d forgotten them, that day, still has a couple scabs where he’d torn up the skin. They sting at the pressure, and he almost wishes he left them this morning, too. The car starts moving, and his stomach swoops, like he’s riding a roller coaster, even at the more than reasonable speed.
”Seatbelt.” She reminds him. Reluctantly, he complies, clicking it into place with shaking fingers. Josh doesn’t miss it. “Are you okay?”
There’s an odd sense of deja vu, at that. She’s asked him that before, recently. He remembers, vaguely, her coming up to him, his first day back. He’d blown her off, probably rudely. She’s done the same thing, once or twice, since, including when she gave him the file. He’s just been so stressed that he barely noticed her, honestly quite justified, concern. “I’m fine,” he says, and the lie is familiar, too.
She frowns, and he half expects her to drop it, the same way she did before. She doesn’t. “You really don’t look fine.”
He barely even hears her, counting the street signs, pulling at his seatbelt to keep it from touching his neck. “I’ll make a few calls.” Annie had said, as if that meant anything. He’d been prepared to fight tooth and nail for her to tell him what the hell she meant, exactly, demand some kind of proof that she was still going to help. He certainly didn’t expect anything to happen this quickly, but what even is this? Does she just want to mock him? Use him for something? Bring him there with her?
He’s been to the police station three times. First, as soon as he was able, which had felt- still does, really- absolutely vital. Like if he’d waited even a second longer, he would’ve never seen Toast again. It had been, in a word, overwhelming. A blur of security measures, being searched, escorted through crowded hallways, a wait that could’ve been anywhere from ten minutes to three hours. He was holding back tears the whole time. When he finally, finally, got to see him, they were very far from alone. In a glass walled cubicle, the middle of a dozen, guards hovering in every corner.
Ghost hardly noticed any of that, though. All he could look at was him. Toast. Looking right back at him, with the same amount of desperation. A dark bruise blooming outwards from a cut on his brow, and, when he turned his head, a bright red splotch of empty skin, where hair was supposed to be. Ghost’s stomach dropping, because he’d known about the arrest, in vague terms, but he didn’t know he was hurt. He’s had nightmares about it. Toast, with his head slammed into the ground, a faceless uniform ripping out fistfuls of his hair. Those are worse, in a sense, than the ones where he dies- because when he wakes up, he can’t tell himself they didn’t happen. Toast is in cuffs until the last possible second, when he needs his hands free to pick up the phone on his side. Ghost remembers him rolling his wrists first, like they were hurting, and his heart aches.
He doesn’t remember what he said. Half blubbering nonsense, and promises he didn’t know if he could keep, and empty reassurances. He does remember Toast reminding him to slow down, more than once. Watching him wipe away tears that finally fell with an expression on his face like he wanted to be the one doing it. They nearly had to drag Ghost out the door, when time was up. Probably would’ve, if Toast hadn’t told him he’d be okay. He was lying, of course, but Ghost held on tight to that shred of hope.
The second was much the same. Exactly a week later, the day before he had no choice but to go back to work. Toast’s bruises- the ones he could see, atleast- were just a little more healed. The empty spot on his scalp, even more visible with his hair up, was as bad as ever. Ghost didn’t cry that time, but it was a near thing. He saved that breakdown for home, spent hours tearing apart the empty pages of a notebook into shreds. He was angrier, then. Nearly punched the fucker who searched him.
The third time, he did. Punch someone, that is. It was a grazing hit, a startle reflex, and the pig who touched him let him off with a warning. It wasn’t a good omen for the rest of that hour. He’d sobbed, heedless of the stares, and pushed his palms against the glass like he could phase through it if only he tried hard enough. He did need to be forced out, that time. He hadn’t gone back, after that, worried about a repeat incident, or worse. He doubts seeing him spend an hour on the verge of breaking was all that helpful for Toast, anyway.
Josh breaks his train of thought. ”Ghost?”
He jumps, for what feels like the hundredth time that day. “Hmm? What?” His voice breaks, and he feels his too quick pulse in his fingertips.
”You need to breathe, man. You’re freaking out.” She says, darting her gaze between him and road.
He follows her instructions. Shuts his eyes, head against the window. In for ten, out for ten. Over and over, until his hands stop shaking. The rest of the ride isn’t calm, exactly, but he isn’t actively panicking. Can think clearly enough to formulate what he knows. That’s exactly what he does, half to keep himself from spiraling.
Annie said she would help him get Toast out of jail. He doesn’t know why, exactly, he’s so certain that she even can- it always just felt like a fact. Filed right next to other fundamental truths. The sky is blue, water is wet, the first recorded fossil was discovered in 1676, (part of a Megalosaurus femur) Antarctica is technically considered a desert because it gets very little rain or snowfall, Annie is a lot more powerful than she lets on. She’d’ve told him directly by now, if she couldn’t. Just to fuck with him.
What he doesn’t know is how she’s going to help, if it’ll be fast enough. He’d stayed up for hours last night, staring at his firmly shut curtains. According to google, the next full moon is in three days. They have time, if only a little. But Toast’s transformations have been erratic before. A day or more off the technical date. Whatever magic (Toast would hate him calling it that) that dictates when it happens doesn’t follow human calendars to a T. Once, it happened two nights in a row. Scared the hell out of both of them when it triggered unexpectedly, when they thought they were safe for another month. They never figured out what caused it. If that happens now….
”We’re here.” Josh says. Ghost’s heart leaps into his throat. He sits up straight, looks around. Sure enough, Annie’s car, a pastel pink that’s never suited her, sits in an empty parking lot. A closed grocery store, he thinks, but he isn’t paying much attention. The glint of movement through the tinted glass on the passenger side of Annie’s car is all that matters.
Ghost stumbles out of the car before it stops, nearly rolls his ankle. It’s not easy to jog across such as small distance, but he does it anyway, stumbles to a stop just as the door opens, and a figure steps hesitantly out.
There he is. Ghost throws himself at him, slamming them both into the car. Toast is warm, and real, beneath his hands, his breath ghosting along the back of his neck. He clings back just as tightly, tucks his chin ontop of Ghost’s shoulder. Toast lets out a breathy chuckle that Ghost feels more than hears, in the vibration in his chest. He puts a palm flat against that spot, feels the rise and fall of his breathing. Pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes, one still holding a tinge of yellow bruising.
”I’m never letting go of you again.”