i haven’t posted any writing in a while, so here’s a snippet from one of my wips, in which medium!virgil meets ghost!patton for the first time :))
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He had been three years old, and had somehow managed to wriggle out of his mother’s line of sight and wander the graveyard out back, his beloved stuffed black cat clutched in his chubby fist. As he toddled over the uneven earth and roots, tripping occasionally, he noticed a man perched on the old wooden bench under the weeping willow.
The first thing that struck Virgil at the time was how sad the man seemed. Sadder than anyone he’d ever seen, he thought, even though he didn’t seem to be crying. This perplexed Virgil, because it was his understanding that sad people were supposed to cry. He watched for a moment as the man stared out at the copse of trees among the graves, letting out a sigh so full of despair that Virgil could feel his heart get heavier.
The second thing that he noticed was the man’s appearance. He was young, maybe thirty, with round cheeks and large eyes that drifted over the graveyard, lost in thought. He wore a well-loved gray cable knit sweater, fraying at the edges, and a round pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. But what caught his attention was his alarming lack of color. It looked like someone had cut him out of an old photograph and pasted him on the bench. His skin was a worrying shade of grey that matched the clouds in the November sky.
The grey man’s gaze fell on Virgil, and he smiled a bit, if only to himself. Virgil was much bolder as a toddler than he was as a teenager, and he certainly didn’t want the man to be sad, and so he lifted up his small hand and waved.
“H’lo, Mid-ster!” He called over to the grey man, who startled so violently he nearly fell off the bench. He stared at Virgil, open-mouthed, and whipped his head around this way and that, making sure that there was nobody else around.
Perplexed by this reaction, Virgil decided to try a different tactic. He raised the small stuffed cat up high in the air. “D’is my kitty, Mittens!” He said, raising his little voice higher. “My mommy gave her to me.”
The grey man only seemed to grow more shocked. “Are—are you talking to me?” He asked haltingly. His voice was raspy, as though he had an awful cough. Virgil frowned.
“Ya!” He replied. “I’m Vir-gil.” This was how his mother had taught him to politely introduce himself to adults.
“You can—y-you can see me?” He asked, voice hitching up, clearly on the verge of tears. Virgil shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like it when people cried.
“Ya,” he responded. Then: “Don’ cry. I’m sorry.”
The grey man got up and slowly, almost dreamlike, walked toward Virgil and knelt down to eye level. Up close, Virgil could see that his skin was see-through; the bench was still visible through his torso. His dark eyes were shiny with tears threatening to spill onto his freckled cheeks. “…a medium,” he whispered to himself. Virgil felt confused at the word, but was more concerned about the sad man. “…Virgil, you said your name was?”
“Yuh,” he said, holding Salem tighter. He vaguely remembered that his mother told him not to talk to strangers, but there was something comforting about the man, odd and otherworldly as he was.
“I’m Patton,” the man said, staring at Virgil in amazement. Then, all of a sudden, it was as though a switch had flicked on his head, his melancholic demeanor replaced by a more concrete concern. “How old are you? What are you doing out here alone?”
“T’wee,” Virgil responded with pride. “I live here.”
“Where are your parents?”
“My mommy’s inside makin’ lunch. I don’ have a daddy.”
Even as a toddler, Virgil could sense the shift that took place in Patton at those last words. The depressed glaze over his eyes was gone in a blink, and suddenly the ghost before him—though Virgil didn’t yet know he was one—seemed all the more alive.
“Oh,” he breathed, brown eyes suddenly sparkling. Virgil blinked. The man’s colors were still muted, but there were colors, now. His sweater was a faint baby blue, and his cheeks were rosy from the cold. “Okay, sweetheart. Well, you should get back to your mommy. I’ll take you to her, okay?”
“‘Kay,” Virgil responded, going to grab for his hand. His own passed right through it, like water. Virgil looked up, confused. “Are you real? Or ‘maginary?”
“I’m real,” Patton said, and Virgil believed him. “But I think only you can see me.”
“Oh,” Virgil said. And then: “Why?”
Patton paused, contemplating. “Because you’re a very special little boy, I think.”
Beaming with pride, Virgil toddled back to the old house with his stuffed cat and a ghost.
Roman has lost twenty two jobs in the past three years, which is offensive on many levels. First of all, twenty two was a number that could only be divided by two and eleven, which is much worse than twenty eight minutes ago when he had lost only a total of twenty one jobs in the past three years.
Twenty two only ever brought bad luck.
Additionally, he had been fired from all of his previous jobs so that meant that he had technically failed twenty two times before. Roman was not a fan of failure, not a fan of other people (Virgil) knowing about said failure and lording it over him.
And, of course, there was also the fact that Roman was a grown adult and suddenly money was an issue when he wanted to not be evicted from his apartment. Or, you know, eat.
So when his brother picks up on the third ring, Roman knows that Virgil already is aware what he’s gonna ask.
“Again?” Virgil says instead of the usual “hello”. He sounds tired, worn out, but Roman gets the feeling its not really directed at him.
“It was an accident,” Roman whines, slumped over steering wheel of his car. “I swear!”
“That’s the second this month.”
“I can’t help it, Emo Undertaker.”
Which is a lie, because he definitely can help it and has helped it before. Roman is just bad at helping it. He thought he was doing well! He was really trying this time! He had managed to snag an editing job for a newspaper that required barely any talking to other people! He could make it through the day without actually talking to people and then there would be no issues other than his crippling desire to hold a conversation which was easily overlooked in the grand scheme of things--
But really, he should have guessed. No one, not even his absolute idiot of a(n ex) boss said “I’m gonna schedule you because you’re the only one stupid enough to say yes” to someone’s face.
Perhaps on his next resume he should title it Roman Prince, Psychic.
On the other side of the phone, Virgil huffs distantly, “No its my brother, Pat. He got fired again.”
“Patton is there?” Roman asks.
He can almost see Virgil cringe on the other end of the phone, “Uh yeah.”
Roman’s lips twist downward on his already not-great mood. “Virge, it’s been months--”
“I know!” Virgil says, “I know! There’s just some stuff we have to do first.”
“We?” The word is short on his tongue, bitter, leaving Roman’s tongue chasing down syllables for the empty space.
“Hey weren’t we talking about your lack of a job?” Virgil says suddenly.
“I do not want that creeper using you, Virgil.”
“Hey, Pat’s not a creeper.” Virgil says sounding more annoyed than Roman’s sure he has a right to be. “New rule, I don’t tell you to stop reading minds, and you don’t tell me to stop seeing dead people.”
“There’s a difference between seeing dead people, and seeing dead people Virgil.”
“Hey have you considered shutting up?”
“Look, he may be cute, but he’s been dead for twenty years--”
“Roman.”
“I’m just saying! He is old enough to be our dad, dude!”
“I’m hanging up.”
He does before Roman can say anything else. Roman flips his phone in his hand three times (a good number, Roman’s favorite) and senses the on coming text before it arrives. He twists his keys in the ignition of his car and listens as it rumbles to life with a story of the previous owner (Harold Johnston, who purchased it new, drove it for a while, hit two deer, and got four speeding tickets on before passing it on to his son who crashed it once in a drowsy driving accident that resulted in it being sent in a reused car dealership where Molly Keller bought it----).
By the time Roman makes it through the seven stop lights (three of which he squeezes through because Carl Smith is out jogging and pressed the crosswalk button at just the right time), there’s a message from Virgil in his inbox with a list of new places that were hiring.
It wasn’t that Roman has never thought about starting his own business, because he has. Many times, all the time. Every time he fell asleep. He imagined a cute little office off mainstreet: A psychic shop with charms in the windows that glowed at all hours, colorful draperies and scented candles that would make the shop float on mystery and otherworldness. He’d emerge from the back of the store in elegant clothes, like an ethereal being to startle any customers who dropped in, and he’d whip up a facade of a crystal ball, hide fans around the shop, and electrify the table in the middle of the room to sell the bit.
Roman has thought about starting his own psychic business before. But unfortunately, no one wants to be told things they already knew.
Which of course was the only psychic thing Roman can do. Read minds and see inner dreams with absolutely no ability to confirm them happening and-or not happening.
(And you only tell a person once that they’re getting a puppy for Christmas before you learn your lesson.)
To be perfectly honest, which Roman tries to be as he flicks on the lights to his apartment three times, Virgil would have much more luck maintaining a psychic shop. They’re almost opposites, if true opposites were a thing that exists.
Instead of reading thoughts, Roman’s younger brother hears murder stories. Instead of seeing dreams, Virgil sees dead people wandering the streets.
It made growing up and having friends a real challenge. If Roman had a nickel for every time Virgil had grabbed his arm with his cold fingers and looked him in the eye before asking if Roman could see the person in front of them, he’d have three nickels. Which wasn’t a lot, but there was something upsetting about hearing the complete terror in his little brother’s voice when he couldn’t tell the living from the dead.
The dead also like to talk to Virgil, like to hover around him because he gives off a shadowy aura that works like a drug on ghosts. It makes them feel a bit more alive, makes them more corporal, makes them more dangerous. And once they’ve had a taste, they come back for more, and more, and more.
Ghosts are good for getting information, but rarely good for anything else.
(Roman does not trust Patton. Not since Virgil told him the ghost had shown up, not since the last guy had whispered all the things he would do to Virgil if Virgil tried to leave or cut him off, not since Roman had put a hole in the hospital waiting room wall because that was his brother and he should have been there.)
Roman calls Virgil back just before dinner time after he had gone over the list (seven places, another good number) and it rings only twice before his brother picked up.
“What? No! I’m, uh,” There was a shuffling, a swear word, and a distant, “at the movies?”
“Right, I’ll pretend I believe that.” Roman says, “I was just checking the list. Your coffee shop is on here.”
“Yes, it is.” Virgil shifts the phone, “Remy fired a guy last week for purposely giving people regular coffee instead of decaf. I thought Remy was gonna kill the guy.”
“Are you sure you want me to apply there?”
There is a swatch and the telltale sound of a match lighting, and the phone shifts again, “I had an idea.”
Roman traces his fingers over the edge of his counter top, absently counting the corners, and grating his skin when it comes up even numbered. “Oh?”
(wrong wrong wrong. Its too short)
“Yeah, maybe you’ve been going about this all wrong. Instead of cutting yourself off from people, maybe you should embrace them-- ow!” Virgil makes a hiss and Roman guesses plops his fingers in his mouth quickly, “Fucking candles. I hate lighting matches.”
“Stop trying to raise the dead for a second and help your dearest brother understand,” Roman says. “What do you mean “embrace them”?”
His fingers slice the edge of the counter, four four four isn’t enough, is too much, its wrong.
“A customer came up to me yesterday and demanded a refund because I didn’t put whip cream her latte.” Virgil explains. “I was angry because she didn’t tell me that she wanted whip cream and its not like I can read minds-- and then I remembered my brother can read minds.” The phone shifts again, “Besides you love talking to people and don’t even try to deny it. That editing job was slowly killing you.”
Roman is quiet for a moment, because, really what is he supposed to say to that? Reading minds isn’t all that great, the same way as seeing their childhood cat that died seven years ago wasn’t all that great. But Virgil was also right: Roman missed talking to people, missed the days when he could show up without having to study for the “pop” quizzes and when he could do little magic tricks to wow his friends in between the classes.
And even if everyone thought his psychic abilities were just parlor tricks, Roman still misses the attention.
“I’ve gotta go, Ro,” Virgil says, “McDonalds nuggets get cold fast, and the dead don’t like cold food.”
“Picky, are they?”
“Very much so.” Virgil agrees, “Just send in an application. I’ll put in a good word to Remy, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll figure something else out.”
Roman’s fingers hit the corner of the counter again, for the seventh time and he flings them back like they were burning. “Right, yeah. Sure.”
“Bye, Ro.”
“Yeah, thanks, Casper.” Roman says and means it deeply.
Virgil ends the call.
Roman twists the phone in his hand three times as the call screen closes. The puzzle game on his phone is about two minutes 120 seconds from reminding him his game hasn’t been played yet today and wouldn’t play at all today if he ended up in the hospital waiting room because something his brother got food poisoning from McDonald’s--
Roman fingers tap the call button again.
First ring, “Ro?”
“Sorry,” Roman blurts out, “I-- am? Damnit! I really am sorry, Virge.”
Virgil’s quiet for a moment, but then he says softly, “I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Roman’s mouth snaps close. He ends the call and lets his brother go back to raising the dead on his Tuesday night where he is not going to get food poisoning. He leaves his phone on the counter and flicks the switch three times before leaving the room to go find his computer and fill out the online application.
***
Roman enjoys his twenty third job interview much less than Remy Dormire does. It lasts slightly less than twelve minutes, and by the end of it Roman is ushered behind the counter and given a brown apron (with a single hole at the bottom) and a nametag with his name on it.
(First name only, and it makes the back of his mouth taste like bitter oranges.)
Virgil gives him a rare smile on his way back out, and finishes making two drinks at once, and ships them off to the customers waiting patiently at the end of the counter.
It wasn’t quite the calm Roman was used too, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Thoughts flowed over Roman like a river, dangerous but exciting. He felt a type of connection to everyone in the store, a type of connection that came from understanding the blurbs and fragments that made up a consciousness.
It was strange to think that no one else felt like this, felt like they were touching and being touched in a way that was closer than physical contact. How could anyone not want to feel like this?
But how could anyone know what they were missing when they had never had such a feeling before in their lives?
He had tried explaining it to Virgil once, twice, thrice before. He wishes he could send thoughts the way he read them.
Roman leans over the other side of the counter watching Virgil pour coffee into a styrofoam cup, “You’re off in a minute right?” He taps the the dividing wall, “Wanna grab lunch?”
Virgil hums, his eyes flicking to the side just enough for Roman to guess who might be standing in the empty space.
Roman taps again, “Unless you and Ghost McGee already have fun plans.”
“They can be changed.” Virgil says, and slides the drink over the counter, “Logan!”
Roman shuffles to the side so a guy with glasses and a plaid button up can get his drink. “I don’t want to get in the way of your ghost time. And I definitely don’t want you bringing undead dilemmas to our lunch.”
“I don’t have--” Virgil huffs, “Patton has things to do this afternoon anyway.”
Roman frowned. “Things to do? The guy’s dead.”
Virgil scowls darker than usual. Actually now that Roman is looking, he notices that Virgil’s eyeshadow is a shade lighter than normal: as if he’s trying to make his skin look less pale by comparison. His fingers tap the dividing wall again as Roman narrows his eyes at his brother and tries to remember if he’s ever looked his drained after a night of summoning the dead for a ghost party.
“Five minutes,” Virgil says abruptly, “I’ll see you then.” He wipes the counter with a purple rag and then uses it to slide right away from Roman entirely.
Its a cheap tactic. Roman’s almost offended. The buzz of the cafe hums around him, through him, and causing goosebumps right down his spine. Its exciting, being close to people, almost exciting enough to distract Roman from the predicament of Virgil being cagey-er than before (which he hadn’t thought was possible). His knuckles tap the wall three times and he turns on his heel to settle into a chair for the next five minutes.
(Five was an okay number, Roman supposed. Seven was better, and Three was the best. But Five wasn’t an even number so it was something. At least, no one ever got cancer when he counted to five.)
Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location: too little practice, not enough reason to need to. The process itself required a lot of focus and will power and it felt a lot like pulling out teeth (something he had done when he was seven and Virgil was five and he had lost two teeth in a row and it was wrong, and he couldn’t figure out how to explain it to his parents when they came to figure out why the doors kept slamming). Cutting out the thoughts that weren’t even in order, had no logical reasoning: in the span of a minute a person could go from thinking about a TV show, to thinking about the color of the tile floor, to the scent in the air, to a birthday present for a friend, to, to, to. And with multiple people? In a small space like this coffee shop? It was easier to stop a mountain slide than cut off one person from himself.
Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location, but just this once he’s makes an attempt.
Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location--
Virgil is his brother, and so that means that Roman is obligated to figure out why he’s being cagey. Especially if he’s going to bring the moping to their lunch. And Roman’s absolutely not patient enough to wait five minutes to figure out what is causing him distress.
Virgil's thoughts feel exactly like him, Roman thinks. He's a little cold, a little clammy, a little crafty. His presence is like a cat evading capture by any means and when Roman was particularly bored as a child he used to chase after them, chase the feelings, and the scraps of emotions and impressions that sped by like he was actively running out of time to think them.
Virgil is thinking about coffee. He’s thinking about how to punch buttons into the computer they use for the register and how the person currently ordering is an actual idiot because they don’t serve a “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” because this store is not a freaking Starbucks, its either a “Vanilla Chai Tea” or a “Vanilla Latte” and fuck, Roman get out of my head before I send a Zombie after you.
So Roman blinks back seeing his brother at the counter, using that customer service smile to please the middle aged woman digging through her purse, but his eyes are dark when he shoots Roman his patented don’t-mess-with-me glare.
I said five minutes, fucking wait will you.
And Roman debates for a moment, less than a minute, just 21 seconds staying there in Virgil's mind that feels a lot like a sweater in the middle of the winter. But in the end Virgil’s mind moves on to the ingredients in a Vanilla Chai Tea and someone else and the girl in the corner has the top third song of the week stuck in her head on a loop and Roman is ever so easily distracted by the repetition of the three lines--
He falls out of his brother’s mind and back into the connective conscious of humans as a whole. There's nothing jarring about it. It's just simple acceptance, like the course of a river gently rolling over him.
If he closes his eyes it feels like safety and warmth and calmness.
The next thing he knows there's a shove as his shoulder that nearly nearly knocks him off the chair. Virgil's standing there, his hair sticking up from where he yanked off his visor and his mysterious purple eyes glowing with annoyance and irritation and a bit of worry.
"I've been calling you," He says, "Are you alright?"
Roman offers him a blinding smile, that most likely comes across dopey, "Absolutely, Graveyard ghoul!”
Virgil stares at him for a moment longer, mouth curled downwards. “Holy shit, just how socially starved are you? You look like you’re on drugs.”
Roman’s vision is a little blurry. He rubs his eye to clear it, and is surprised when it comes back with tears. Was he crying? “I’m perfectly fine!” He flicks away the tears, because honestly they’re happy tears, and they mean so much and absolutely nothing at the same time.
He gathers his stuff and stands up, (tall enough that he can count the three inch difference between him and Virgil), “Are we going to lunch now?”
Virgil keeps staring at him for a moment, and Roman can only glimpse fractions of impressions from him before his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Fine. Yeah.” Virgil says, “I know just the place.”
****
“Really, this place?” Roman asks and almost can’t quite believe it.
Virgil, in all his brother loving glory, does not give him a response. Since he was the one driving he puts the car in park (“not this spot! Use that one!” “Is this necessary?” “Do you like your current car insurance number, Virge?”) and then kicks the door open with more force than necessary. In the car is a lot quieter than in the cafe, but Virgil spends the entire drive thinking of musical numbers rather than what is bothering him.
The only things that Roman learns from the twenty minute drive to a sandwich shop in the middle of the city is that, Virgil is really into The Guy Who Doesn’t Like Musicals for someone who doesn’t like musicals, and that he’s three times a better driver than Roman can ever hope to be.
“Why here, Virge?” Roman asks getting out of the car and stumbling around the edge of the trunk. His brother is already across the parking lot by that time. “We passed nine other shops on the way here!”
Virgil’s hand goes flying up and snaps close in a silencing motion. Roman thinks that its way more effective on ghosts than on living being that he can’t control, but he goes quiet anyway. Virgil huddles by the storefront glass doors turning his around with his hand to his ear-- is he seriously pretending to be on the phone right now?-- and is peering into the shop as inconspicuously as he can.
Roman is beyond confused.
Virgil takes a deep breath, and nods to himself apparently seeing whatever he was looking for. He grabs the door and then waves Roman inside quickly like he’s embarrassed to be seen with him.
“What is happening?” Roman asks.
“Just shut up and follow my lead.” Virgil says.
And proceeds to go up to the counter and order a sandwich like a normal person. Roman frowns at the implication that he doesn’t know how to order a sandwich from a shop. His fingers knock the counter (Ew the last customer did not wash their hands after using the restroom, ew, ew!) and he gives the tired sandwich maker a dazzling smile.
He looks a little old to be working in food retail in honesty. Much more Virgil and Roman’s age than the high school teenagers that are manning the cash register a few feet over. His eyes are gold and brown and very interesting to look at, along with with the dusting of concealer that is all over his cheek covering up something. His name tag is strategically missing in the moment but Roman doesn’t think it matters too much in the grand scheme of things.
The guys name is Dante Ethan Ekans. He’s tired. Overworked. Not paid enough.
He got a nice voice though. He keeps glancing between Virgil and Roman and Virgil, Virgil, Virgil. So much so that he puts way too much mayo on Roman’s sandwich.
Roman grabs a thing of chips and throws them on the counter at the same time as Dante the sandwich maker puts his carefully wrapped flatbread sandwich next to the register to be rung up. Instead of sliding to the back, Dante leans on the counter next to the sandwiches ignoring the high schooler ringing them up and grins at (a blushing????) Virgil.
“Back again, Raccoon?” Dante the sandwich maker says flicking his tongue out just enough to show off a tongue piercing. Its not something Roman thought could be attractive, but somehow he makes it attractive.
And if Roman can tell that from two feet away, Virgil’s hopeless as the target of such an action.
“Yeah,” Virgil says, “I mean- I just-- I wanted lunch.”
“I can see,” Dante says with a smile. “You’ve made a habit out of coming here for lunch. A guy has to wonder if thats the only reason you keep coming back.”
Roman looks at him, and then Dante the sandwich maker, and thinks he almost understands what is going on.
“Virgil, quick question….”
“I’ll buy you a cookie if you can hold your fucking tongue for three more seconds.” Virgil snaps out loud and then thinks so horrifically loud in his head that Roman resists the urge grimace.
Say it out loud. I dare you.
Virgil is glaring at him again. Dante is staring at him like he’s just now noticing that Virgil came with someone, despite the fact that the man made his sandwich. He pushes off the counter suddenly, with his eyes darting between Virgil and Roman and his thoughts becoming clouded with a sudden flurry of unhappy impressions then he clears his throat and hums a self dismissal.
“And Ice cream from the parlor on First Street.” Roman whispers quickly.
“Roman!” Virgil snaps.
“Deal or no?”
“I hate you.”
“What type of brother would I be if you didn’t hate me?” Roman says loudly without even looking at Virgil. Dante stumbles his steps towards the back. Roman thinks he glances back, but its so quick that Roman really only has the unraveling of the sandwich makers shoulders to take as assurance he was heard.
Roman leans towards his brother in a much, much lower voice, “is this why you’ve been distracted? Because boy troubles?”
“Shut up!” Virgil hisses back and elbows him.
“That will be $23.36.” The cashier says effectively keeping them from breaking into a brawl at the counter.
Roman taps his foot in a series of three while Virgil pays with a debt card and takes their sandwiches and drink cups to a table.
“He’s flipping amazing,” Roman says once they’re sitting and Virgil’s stopped blushing through his concealer. “What’s the problem?”
“Can you read his thoughts right now?” Virgil hisses back. He does a great job of flicking a piece of lettuce off his sandwich.
“Can I-- YES!” Roman presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am insulted you had to ask at all--”
“Just do it.” Virgil snaps and then folds his arms on the table and burrows his head into them without even attempting to eat his sandwich at all.
Roman imagines that Patton is floating over Virgil’s shoulder even if he can’t see the ghost. He hopes the ghost is as confused as he is, but he seriously doubts it.
“It shouldn’t be that hard.” Virgil mumbles, “He’s probably always thinking about him.”
Roman’s stomach drops for his brother, “A boy friend?” (He frowns at the needless separation of the words)
Virgil moans, “Worse.”
“He’s not straight,” Roman mumbles, because at least that much is obvious.
Virgil doesn’t give him a response, so Roman goes deeper. Dante’s thoughts are at odds with his actions, which throws Roman off when he goes to single them out from Virgil’s and the other workers and the small family that was eating across the dining area. Where he comes off as smooth and suave and absolutely sure of himself….
HOLY FUCK BROTHER DOES HOT RUN IN THE FAMILY WHAT THE FUCK--
...His thoughts are not. Roman chases the screaming through the astral plane with mild amusement. Even when the man is cleaning dishes in the back or checking bread or pacing the back, his thoughts are shouting with panic and he keeps coming back to the snapshot of Virgil at the counter. There’s fragments of emotions with it too, amusement, happiness, self embarrassment, as if he can’t believe he really called Virgil a Raccoon and Virgil let him.
Honestly with how much Virgil comes up in his mind, Roman can’t see why his brother isn't launching himself over the counter and dragging the sandwich maker to the freezer for an impromptu make out session.
Or at least he couldn’t.
Then Dante’s thoughts take a leap to the cook time on the last batch of bread, and then the clock, and then the current time and then--
“Dad!”
Roman’s head jerks as he lets go of the isolated thought process and comes back to reality. Virgil does not look up but half his sandwich is gone. Its looks very much like Virgil is throwing himself a pity party while Dante rounds the counter to catch a small child in a hug.
Its undeniably adorable. Roman’s own heart is melting at the sight. The kid can only be four at max, and he’s wearing a backpack almost as big as he is, with a spiderman theme. When the kid talks, he prattles on, and Dante listens to each word with adoration in his eyes.
“So he has got a kid,” Roman comments. He taps Virgil’s foot under the table, “Don’t tell me a kid is a turn off.”
“Roman, you know how I am with kids,” Virgil says. “I’m worse with kids than I am with adults! Which is saying something! The last living person I talked casually to called me a freak and threw a kickball at my face.”
“That was middle school, Miserable Mortuary.” Roman points out, and taps Virgil's foot again, “And if you remember, I beat the snot out of Alfred Hitchcockopolous for saying that. Not to mention, we are talking right this second.”
Virgil grunts sullenly, “Whatever. I’m still bad with kids. I give off that dark energy aura, remember? Give it an hour and Thomas will be running for the hills! There’s no way I could court his dad if he hates me. I’m not gonna drive that wedge between them.”
“You don’t know that yet! Have you talked to this Thomas?”
“And get labeled as a pedophile? No way, not happening.”
“Virgil,” Roman says pointedly (and taps Virgil's foot again), “I’m not saying approach the kid and offer him a joy ride in your crappy used silver Scion. You don’t have to even wait until Dante is out of earshot. Ask him about his favorite color.”
Virgil makes a rather pathetic noise in response. “It’s Dee. He hates being called Dante.”
Roman glances back at Dante the sandwich maker and Thomas the kid. Dante was getting him set up at a table by the counter where he could color in a cheap Star Wars coloring book. He hadn’t come in with anyone. Which was odd. It wasn’t like anyone would let a four year old ride the buses around town either. But surely if there was another parent in the mix they would have at least come in to see that Dante had received the kid, right?
Roman chews on his sandwich for a moment. His eyes are narrowed at his brother as the melody of thoughts roll over him. He’s seeing, feeling glimpses of something else from his brother something that’s making him even more upset than the whole Dad issue.
“What is it?” Roman says, because he’s terribly impatient for his brothers cryptic dance around thoughts.
“You know how I was busy last night?”
“Summoning the dead on a Tuesday?” Roman nods three times.
“Yeah,” Virgil says and drops his head again like a moody teenager. “Yeah that.”
Roman gets flashes of flash night from Virgil’s point of view: Patton kneeling beside him, McDonalds kids meals, too many melted candles, too many slight variations to the chalk circle, a long night. There’s an unsatisfied tinged to them, an unhappiness, a frustration and a nervousness.
It takes Roman a moment to work out what it means.
“Oh,” Roman says, “oh no.”
“Yeah,” Virgil bounces his head on his arms staring into his lap, “Thomas’s mother, Dee’s girlfriend, died in childbirth.”
The sandwich tastes foul in Romans mouth. Too much mayo and bad feelings from it. Virgil stuffs a chip in his mouth and crunches on it sadly.
Overall, it's not how Roman was expecting the lunch out to go.
"It's been four years though, right?" Roman tries, because even if Virgil and him give each other grief all the time, he never wants to see his brother unhappy. "He's definitely in to you, Vee. I have proof. He's moved on."
"That's not the issue," Virgil whines. His eyes flick over Romans shoulder where there's absolutely nothing there, which means that Patton the ghost is witnessing this exchange at least. "Ghosts are tricky businesses. For all I know, me dating Dee will cause a tremor in the afterlife and will bring a vengeful ghost down on the three of us."
"Isn't that an extremely rare occurrence?" Roman says.
Virgil huffs glaring to the side, "Not helping, Pat. And to answer your question, Ro, it is a rare occurrence. But I'm also a magical fucking beacon of dark energy that draws ghosts to myself. Do you really think that the odds are in my favor for this one?"
Roman squints at his brother, "Yes, I do? That is why I'm telling you to go talk to the kid?"
"I'm not going to talk to the kid," Virgil says stubbornly, "Not until I know I'm not gonna endanger him or Dee or… myself." He rubs the insides of his arms, and Roman gets flashes of an emergency room and his own fist in the walls. Neither of them say anything for a moment, and from the glassy look in Virgil's eyes, Patton chooses to be quiet too.
Then Virgil shakes his head and wards off the thoughts. "It's fine. Or whatever. Patton and I are going to do some deep research and I'll find a way to contact Marissa. If she gives me permission, I'll go ahead and talk to Dee again."
He wraps up the rest of his sandwich neatly and leans back in his chair facing the counter where Dante is replacing the produce selection. As if sensing him watching Dante's head tilts up and he winks towards Virgil with another snake like flick of his tongue piercing.
Virgil goes red in the face and stands up. "You know what, I'll be outside!"
Roman catches a glimpse of a dopey, stupid, lovesick smile on his brothers face and cant believe that hes not in a Hallmark movie. Really it's insulting now. This is drama gold and no ones even writing it down.
Dante frowns as Virgil flees the scene, and head to the back again with the clear intention to mope in his thoughts. Roman is left alone at a table, with half a sandwich. Which is fine! All fine!
Roman packs up their combined trash and saves the second half of Virgil's sandwich before he gets up and strolls across the restaurant to the trashcan near where Thomas is sitting. Once he throws his stuff away he stops by the table where the kid is sitting.
"Oh my lord!" Roman says, "Look at this magnificent art work! The colors, the lines, the texture! How very bold! Tell me artist, are you the one who crafted such intricate works?"
Thomas grins up at him bursting with joviality. "I am, mister! Who are you?"
"My name's Roman Prince, young artist!" Roman says, "I am trying to solve a problem that I think you can help me with."
"Me?" Thomas says, "What is it?"
Roman thinks that this kid would be very easy to kidnap.
"Well you see, my brother comes here quite often and he thinks your dad is very super nice." Roman explains the best he can, "He wants to be your dad's friend but my brother is very shy around people."
Thomas taps a red crayon to his lip, "He's that scary man that was over there, right? Dad talks about him a lot."
Roman smiles, "My brother talks about your dad a lot, too!" It's a lie, but really it's for a good cause. "I want them to be friends because they seem very happy together. How about I write down my brothers phone number and you give it to your dad for me?"
Thomas nods easily at the words, and then excitedly, "Then they can set up a playdate! Even if Mr. Purple is really scary, I think he makes dad laugh a lot. And Uncle Emile says laughing is good!"
Roman laughs at that. He scribbles out the numbers for Virgil's personal phone in red crayon on a napkin and gives Thomas a fist bump for teamwork. By the time Dante appears in the front again (with a cloud of suspicion and terror that a stranger is near his son) Roman gives him a cheery wave goodbye and is out the door.
(Virgil is lying in the middle of the parking lot just behind his car and asks Roman to run him over and put him out of his misery.)
(Roman does not run him over.)
(It does take twelve minutes to convince his hopeless brother to get off the asphalt and into the car for the ride back to Virgil's apartment.)
Trigger Warnings: Implied previous character death, Implied character death, Food mention, Implied nudity (non-sexual) (I think that’s it, let me know if I need to add more!)
Genre: Fluff (if you even want to call it that)
Word count: 1048
Universe: Ghost AU
This was a result from my Dice Roll Event you can find here, and you can find my previous result here. This was really fun and interesting to write and I hope you enjoy whatever this ended up being!
--------------------
When Patton moved into his new house, he did not expect to be visited by a ghost.
“If I’m not intruding on you, might I ask who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
“Wait, you can see me?” The person replied. They got off of the counter they were sitting on and walked over to Patton. His walk was more of a glide, really, in the means of it being smooth and barely making a sound if any.
“Why wouldn’t I?” That seemed like a silly question, there was a person sitting on his kitchen counter in plain sight, why wouldn’t Patton be able to see them.
“I’m a ghost.”
Oh.
That’s why.
“Well, I’m Patton! I hope you can get into the spirit of making friends because I think we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.” He ended the statement with a small giggle from his pun, then extended his hand for a handshake.
He couldn’t help but notice the way the ghost curled in on himself a bit, mumbling something to himself. Wait… Patton drew back his hand feeling like an idiot for forgetting they can’t touch.
“I’m Virgil.”
“Nice to meet you!” Patton then turned back unloading his boxes and continued a light conversation like the person he was talking to wasn’t dead.
It was nice.
---
While Patton was baking the week after, Virgil decided to spoop him. He was so invested into the mix he was working on that he didn’t even notice the temperature change again, meaning that Virgil was present. It wasn’t until Virgil put his hands on Patton’s neck, sending a chill down his spine like an ice cube, that Patton realized he was present. He yelped at the cold and sudden contact and froze after falling on the floor while Virgil cackled.
“It’s not funny!” Patton shouted, not getting up from his ball on the floor. Though, his voice betrayed him and let a small giggle slip through. Virgil just laughed harder, the infectiousness of it even got Patton to sound closer to a hyena at his own antics.
“It was, and you know it.” Virgil looked over at the bowl on the counter, smiling at the sweet aroma of the mixture, “What are you making?”
Patton took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself down, a lost cause, before trying to explain what he was making. “It’s pumpkin spice bread, though I think it’s just going to end up like pudding.” He stood up to continue to try and thicken the dough… and was actively failing. He sighed and just decided to get some saran wrap and put it in the fridge for a bit.
“So… how was your day?” Virgil asked in an attempt to start up a conversation.
“It was okay I guess. I had to deal with a few Karen’s at the vet, I didn’t even know that was possible in that field, but apparently, it is-” He cut himself off when he saw Virgil, who looked like he was trying not to laugh. “What?”
Virgil broke out into a giggle fit and tried to explain in between gasping breaths. “There are Karen’s in the veterinary field!?” Which, in result, got him a look from Patton.
Patton had to resist the urge to give the cackling spirit a playful smack, settling instead on blowing a raspberry at him. Sure, it was childish, but what do you do when a ghost is laughing at your troubles for the second time? They spent the rest of the day talking to each other, mainly Patton ranting about his day, but it was comfortable.
---
“Hey, Pat, do you wanna-”
“AAAAAAA”
“AAAAAA, I’M SORRY!!”
---
Patton walked into the living room from his shower shortly after that... encounter, face blazing. He saw Virgil sitting on the couch and, despite his body always being pale and having a slightly misty look, had a face as red as Patton’s. He sat down at the opposite end of the couch and continued to stare straight ahead of him, both of them staying that way for who knows how long until Patton cleared his throat.
“So… what was it you were gonna ask me?”
“Oh, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to have a movie marathon? But, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Really it was a stupid idea of me asking. You probably don’t even want to after whatever that was. This was a du-”
“That sounds great!” He replied, cutting off the thought spiral before it got too self-deprecating. “What movie would you like to start with?”
They watched movies until 1:00 am when Patton fell asleep on the couch with his surroundings, despite Virgil being ice cold, felt warm and comfortable.
---
Virgil kept visiting Patton for years after the initial move-in, and Patton welcomed him. Whenever he would visit, Patton had something planned handy in his back pocket, always ending with a movie marathon. Their friendship grew strong in those few years, slowly evolving into something more. Though, what they both wanted could never happen with one being dead. But one day when Virgil visited, it was different.
“Patton?” Patton turned around at the sound of his name with a smile. He couldn’t wait for Virgil to get closer to the ground from the support beams, so he flew up to Virgil to give him a hug.
Virgil didn’t know what to do. Patton flew up to him and is now giving him a hug. Patton now is a ghost, why is he a ghost? He stayed there for a few seconds before he reciprocated the hug. It lasted longer than it probably should have, but Patton was finally able to give a hug to Virgil, though eventually, they pulled apart, Patton absolutely beaming.
“Pat, how-” Virgil cut himself off at the sight of Patton shaking his head, his smile never wavering.
“I don’t know, but does it really matter now?” A small giggle escaped his lips. “But I gotta say, you look boo-tiful today.” The bubbly spirit received a sigh in return. He took a step back from Virgil, staying at arm’s length. “So, what do ya say, think you can coach me on this ghost thing?”
Summary: Virgil finds a new guest in their apartment. (Ghost!Patton)
Pairings: bit of platonic analogical and implied platonic analogince
Word Count: 960
Warnings: brief mention of being killed (as a joke), cursing
Fun fact, the beginning of this was inspired by something that actually happened to me last week
~~~~~
Virgil gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He was trying to scroll through Tumblr while laying on the couch in the living room, but there was an insistent hum coming from down the hallway that made it impossible for him to focus.
He was certain the sound was coming from the TV in Roman’s room. It was the same sound Virgil could sometimes hear at night from his roommate’s room when he was sitting in bed. Stifling a growl, Virgil tossed his phone beside him and stood up.
He grumbled as he made his way down the hall to Roman’s room. The door was open ajar. Virgil knocked on the doorframe, despite knowing that the thespian had gone home to visit his parents for the weekend. Honestly, you’d think he’d have enough sense to turn off his TV when he left for multiple days, but guess not.
Except the TV wasn’t on. Virgil poked his head through the door, and the screen was black and silent. That’s weird. Well, at least Virgil knew the noise wasn’t coming from the TV. Maybe it was just the hum of the heater, or he’d imagined it.
Shrugging, he walked back to the couch, deciding to put on his headphones to drown out the sound.
A couple hours later, his other roommate, Logan, came home. Virgil pulled off his headphones when he heard him calling his name.
“What’s up?” Virgil called back.
“Do you know if there’s a particular reason that Roman left his television on while he’s not present?” Logan asked.
“Huh?” Virgil sat up and tossed the blanket off of himself. He made his way towards Logan, who was standing by Roman’s door.
“Roman’s television. It’s on.”
“No, it’s not,” Virgil insisted.
“Virgil, I’m quite sure it is,” Logan said, stepping aside to let Virgil look into the room.
Logan was right. The TV was on, playing an episode of Parks and Rec at a reasonable volume.
Virgil looked around the room with narrowed eyes. “Lo,” he turned back to his roommate, “did you turn on the TV?”
Logan gave him a curious look. “Why would I ask you why the television is on if I’d been the one to turn it on.”
Virgil shook his head, scanning his eyes around the room again. “Yeah, you’re right.” Logan walked in and reached for the remote. “It’s just… the TV wasn’t on earlier.”
Logan turned off the TV and they both made their way out of the room. “Are you certain?” Logan inquired, pulling the bedroom door closed behind them. Virgil nodded. “Perhaps you were mistaken. Or it could potentially be on a timer.”
“Right,” Virgil hummed, though his attention was focused elsewhere. He barely gave a nod when Logan excused himself to his room. With a shake of his head, he walked to the kitchen, choosing to leave the matter behind.
~~~
Virgil slowly blinked his eyes open. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have because the living room was completely dark. He squinted at his phone screen, seeing that it was nearly one in the morning.
Before Virgil could rub the sleep from his eyes, he heard shuffling from in the kitchen. Logan was adamant about proper sleep schedules, so it couldn’t have been him, and Roman was the only other occupant of their apartment. So, ignoring everything that the many horror movies he’d ever watched had taught him, Virgil’s sleep-addled brain decided he should investigate the sound. He slowly crept to the kitchen doorway, mind too fogged to form anxious thoughts as he peered in.
Whatever he was expecting, it certainly was not what he found.
There was a person—or not a person, since Virgil could see through their faintly blue-tinted body and they appeared to be floating a couple inches off the ground, but they looked like a person otherwise—was standing at the kitchen sink.
They saw Virgil in the doorway (somehow, Virgil was too tired to figure out exactly how) and turned around wearing a sheepish grin. “Oh, uh… hey kiddo.”
Virgil just stared. This was definitely a dream. Or some weird sleep-induced hallucination. Definitely not real.
When Virgil continued to stand in the doorway, staring unblinkingly with his mouth open, the… whatever it was rubbed a hand at the back of its neck.
“Kiddo, are you alright?”
Virgil stayed silent for a few moments. Then, he said, “I really can’t handle this shit right now.” With that, he turned around and walked back into the living room.
The thing gasped and followed him. “Language, young man!” he admonished. He sped up to cross in front of Virgil, causing him to stop in his tracks. “Sorry, I should explain myself.”
Virgil’s slow blink was the only response.
“Okay,” the thing continued when it was clear Virgil wasn’t going to say anything. “Gosh Emile’s gonna kill me for getting caught. Or kill me again, I suppose,” he added with a giggle. “Well, my name’s Patton, and I’m a ghost!”
Again, Virgil just blinked slowly.
“I can explain myself again in the morning when your noggin is working a little better, but for now I’ll just tell you why I’m suddenly here. I used to be in the apartment below yours, but it got too crowded down there, so I thought I’d move up here. I hope that’s alright with you?”
Virgil barely nodded his head, still unsure whether this was a dream or not.
Patton giggled again. “I think you should head on to bed, huh?” He moved aside, and Virgil slowly started trekking to his bedroom. “G’night, kiddo!”
Virgil shut the door behind him and collapsed onto his bed. Sleep almost immediately overtook him. He only had one thought before drifting off:
