Archive of Our Own

You trip into the building, suited up and so very ready for tonight. It’s been weeks of planning, cajoling, begging and blackmail to finally get His Royal Crankiness to agree... And even then, you had to drag him behind you just to get where you stand right now. Pagan looks just short of hilarious; similarly suited up with a mounted camera and infrared, his hand wrapped around that poor flashlight in a death grip. You can nearly hear the plastic squeaking, even moreso when you finally drop his wrist in favour of strolling out into the room fully.  
 
'Hey ghoulies!'  
 
'Stop yelling like that,'  
 
'What, you worried I'll upset the demons? Piss off a ghostie ?' You squint through Pagan's flashlight, burning your retinas until he's nothing but a floating - and very annoyed - face in the dark. You turn to the nearest bleak hallway; cement and debrie as far as the eye can see. 'I'm here to fight!'  
 
'We're going to die, oh God.' Pagan sighs, head tilting so far back there’s nothing to see but neck and jaw. He’s not yet crying, and that very much will not do.  
 
'Your reign of terror has come to an end!' Perhaps that one was a bit too loud, your own voice echoing back at you from the end of the hallway as you both stand in a charged silence.  
 
Nothing. Just silence and another Pagan Sigh.  
 
'You're going to be haunted, I want that,' he grits out, finally tilting his glare from the ceiling to your too amused face. 'I want you to be haunted, so very badly,'  
 
'Mean, but I’m down.’  
 
The tut is quiet, but when you’re standing in such crushing silence, even a creaking floorboard seems glaringly loud. 'Why did I even come here? What am I doing?'  
 
'Investigating, facing your fears, being so cool and slick and,' A light flicks on at the end of the hallway, yellowing through age. There's a scuffling behind as you fully turn toward the light, switching your flashlight on and off without purpose. Communicating? Acknowledgement? Morse code? You dunno . 'Huh.'  
 
By the time you swivel around to see just how badly Pagan has wet himself, he’s pressed up to the door you just came through. Rigid with shock and fear, yet somehow still radiating anger. ‘I should’ve stayed in the car.’  
 
Tonight is either going to be the best time of your life, or a Trauma to be discussed later. In therapy.  
 
 
The “Spirit Box” is always a treat. It’s loud and startling, and also hilarious. After a minute, every half-caught word sounds vaguely like a threat. It’s no wonder you’ve whipped it out after barely 10 minutes in the building, Pagan already looks like he’s going to pass out. It’s near impossible to keep a grin from splitting your face.  
 
‘Anybody here with us?’ A choppy static is your only response, both of you sat awkwardly in a kitchen that is more broken pile of kitchen cupboards than kitchen. The sideboard beneath your shared weight groans, but doesn’t give. ‘Any spooky fellas wanna give us a scream?’  
 
‘You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,’ Pagan gripes, all hard tension and forced anger. The shriek of sound between you makes you both jump, but Pagan is halfway to the door before he stops again. ‘Christ! Turn it off,’  
 
‘What was that? What did you say?’  
 
It seems to take forever with nothing but static to keep you company, both of you staring into space and trying so hard to decipher nonsense on a hyped radio. No more screaming, thankfully. No, this time it’s a voice. A voice speaking in clipped tones, broken over channels that stutter the noise like they’re spoken into a fan.  
 
‘ Wh - excuse me?’ Weirdly enough, it’s Pagan who speaks. Voice oddly polite to be speaking to a radio, interested too if the lean toward the radio is anything to go by.  
 
‘AP-PLE TA-TER,’  
 
‘Oh, apple tater! Good call, spirit,’ You hum happily, grinning up at Pagan as he scoffs and shakes his head. Interest gone, lasting all of a minute. ‘Don’t apple taters sound good, right around now?’  
 
‘This is ridiculou -’ Another shriek from the radio leaves you both silent, Pagan’s light flipping from one corner of the room to the other at a speed just bordering on terrified. ‘Turn it off,’  
 
‘You want us to leave? Or is that a no to apple taters?’ A brief pause, too brief actually. Barely seconds later, you get what could theoretically be a laugh from the radio. ‘Ok cool, creepy laughter. Pagan, ask it a question,’  
 
‘Not in a million years, no. Thank you all the same,’  
 
‘It’s okay, spooky lads, Pagan’s just shy. Give us a rousing hello, he’ll love that,’  
 
And oh, there it is; fury. Even in the darkness, you can really see Pagan’s angry flush. Fists tight to his sides, shoulders tight to his ears, he almost seems to stop breathing entirely as you await the next nightmarish sound.  
 
And then nothing. Just radio static and the odd half jingle of noise. Awesome.  
 
‘Thank God, we’re leaving now. Turn it off.’ You do, the silence that follows feeling too silent. It’s suffocating. So, of course, you open your mouth again.  
 
‘Alright, it was swell almost talking to you, kitchen ghost,’ You sigh theatrically, brushing paint flakes from your thoroughly dusty ass. With a lingering amble, you make one last circuit of the dilapidated room.  
 
Pagan is still a moody shape in the doorway, arms tight across his chest and jaw tucked. ‘I’m going to throw you out that window if you don’t leave right now,’ he grumbles, more into his scarf than at you. He does flick you a glare that is equal parts terrified and furious, so that’s something at least.  
 
‘It was almost a beautiful friendship. Keep it tight, visit anytime,’ You’re nearly out of the room, grinning as Pagan marches off into the hallway. ‘Or follow us home, whatever,’  
 
‘STOP!’  
 
 
All in all, you’d call tonight a rousing success.  
 
Did you get Pagan to faint, wet himself or cry? No, but you did get the most skittish version of himself that you’d seen to date. If you weren’t so worried he would try to strangle you to death, you would be trying your hand at “communicating” with the spirits some more. Instead, you allow him to drag you wrist first out of the building, retracing steps that you only half remember from earlier.  
 
He must’ve been keeping track, the front door is already in sight. It’s either impressive, or hilarious. You’ll decide which later. Right now, something metal has just collided with something entirely too close. And hard, the vibrations still under your feet.  
 
You both stop.  
 
And that’s where things get confusing. It feels like you blink and you’re upside down, staring at Pagan’s legs from above as he roadrunners it out of there. The confusion lasts but a moment, that moment being broken when your ass becomes a battering ram for the front door. Pagan shoulders his way outside, the door just short of bouncing off the opposite wall as he makes a break for it.  
 
Just as suddenly as you had found yourself in a Fireman’s carry, you again have ground beneath your boots once more. The car is there, right by your side and Pagan has already teleported to the driver’s side.  
 
‘Pag-’  
 
If looks could kill, you’d currently be on fire and rolling in the dirt. As they can’t, you wisely shut your mouth and get in the car.