Chapter Text
Fanny had once said that nothing ever changed in Button Manor barring the slow (and not so slow in some cases) decay of the building itself.
She was right…mostly. People moved in, they lived, they died, the house went empty for a few years, someone else would take it up, cycle repeat.
On this cycle, she’d taken it, and opened it into flats. So people had moved in, and people lived now there.
Pat was one of those people.
It wasn’t exactly the nicest place he’d ever lived, but it was by no means the worst. It did the job, at least, which was all he could really ask for. And, honestly, all he could really afford. The threat of the ceiling falling down on them meant the rent was low, and he was more worried about a dent in his wallet than in his head.
Anyway, you got used to it after a while. A year in and hardly any of the troubling noises the manor made scared him.
He’d settled in surpringly nicely, and quickly found himself caught up in his own cycle. It went like this:
- Wake up at six-thirty, his body so tuned to the timing of it that he didn’t even need to set an alarm clock, and cautiously slip into his shared on-suite.
- When he was sure it was empty (it always was, Julian never got up before ten, except for his birthday and Christmas), he’d shower, change, make sure his neck was hidden by a high collar, neckerchief or scarf,
- Water his plants and head downstairs.
- There, he mucked up some toast and a cuppa, downed them both, and then wandered over the telephone.
No one was around, but he still picked it up, because that’s what he always did.
“Morning, Alison.”
“Morning,” she replied. "Finished that book you lent me last night.”
"What'd you think of it?"
"Hated it. Worst thing I’ve ever read. Mike loved it though."
"Thought he would," Pat chuckled. "It's one of Julian's."
" Julian? He's read Valley of the Dolls? No, wait, let me correct that, he reads?"
"Occasionally…mostly just the papers to see if anyone's talking about him, but it counts."
Pat heard footsteps, and as expected, Fanny walked into the room, a cuppa in hand, Dante at her heel. She looked tidy as she always did, not a single hair out of place, her outfit a mix of dull creams and greys.
He wasn’t sure how she could stand having such a boring wardrobe, but each to their own, he supposed.
"Morning,” he called out.
She raised a brow, eyeing the receiver in his hand. “Talking to your friends, I presume?”
"Of course!"
"...I don’t quite understand you, Mr Butcher. You don’t even talk to your own family as much as them."
“I try to," he lied. "Just, time zones and all that.”
"Yes, so you've said before."
She was supposed to leave then, but she didn't. Instead, she stayed, staring at him.
He swallowed thickly, and quickly glanced down at himself, making sure he was fully dressed, socks and all (she had a thing about them going around barefoot in the manor).
But he was fully dressed, and a quick look in a nearby mirror told him his hair looked fine, so he had no idea what she was looking at.
“You want something?”
“...I feel like there’s something I need to tell you," she muttered, frowning.
“Well, it can’t be that important if you don’t remember it,” he said.
“I hope it isn’t.”
He hoped so too.
She finally walked away, Dante hobbling after her, going out to the garden to enjoy her tea.
“...How long until she calls your bluff?" Alison asked when the other woman was safely out of earshot.
Pat shrugged, putting down the phone. “No idea. Hopefully never.”
If he had it his way, Fanny would never find out his sister's family had actually come back from their holiday to Spain about, oh, six months ago, and definitely weren't living there.
Mike phased through the wall. "What are we talking about?"
"Fanny," Alison replied.
He winced. "Please don’t call her that."
"It’s what she wants to be called."
"Yeah, and I don’t have to respect that. Perks of being dead and all."
Pat rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to argue. No harm no foul, as Mike had said. And really, there weren't that many perks to being a ghost, so Pat was hardly going to take away the few he did have.
"Yeah, yeah," Pat said. "Y'us two got anything planned for today?"
"Nope," Alison replied. "Day’s free."
Sunday mornings always were, but it never hurt to ask.
"I'll cook up something for us to do then," he assured her. “A trip to town maybe?”
But first, another cuppa. He had just about ten minutes until Mary and Robin got up and took over the kitchen, so if he wanted one, he'd have to get it now-
“Ah, good morning.”
“ Jesus -”
Pat narrowly avoided walking face-first into the doorframe, turning his body just in time so he only banged his shoulder. It still bloody hurt, but better his shoulder than his dignity. He didn’t have much of it left, and he wanted to preserve what little he did have for as long as possible.
He leant against the doorway, praying it looked natural and looked up.
There was a man in the kitchen.
A man Patrick had never seen before.
He was a tall bloke, stiffer than a statue, with greying hair and a tweed jacket (tweed, who wore tweed anymore, it was 1992 for crying out loud), and a firm grip on a sleek, black cane.
He was real fit though, with nice shoulders, a neatly trimmed 'stache and a nice jawline.
Was he a bloke one of the others had brought back? He could be, but Pat didn’t remember anyone going out last night. Was he family, a friend, had he broken in-
Pat suddenly realised he still hadn't responded. "Uh, hiya…who are you?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alison and Mike pop their heads through the doorway.
"Who's he?" she asked.
"I don't know, never seen him around here before."
That was a no to him being a friend or family then. God, Pat really hoped this wasn't a very slow, casual breaking and entering.
The man cleared his throat and thrust out his hand. "Theodore. Richardson. I’m the new tenant."
Pat stared blankly at the man's palm. New tenant?
Fanny stepped into the room, snapping her fingers. "That was what I meant to tell you. We have a new tenant staying in room number 8."
"But that’s our room!" Mike said.
"Great, we’re going to have to go back to sleeping on the sofa."
"No, the sofa’s like, the worst thing ever!”
The man cleared his throat, hand still thrust out. Pat flushed. Oh, bugger-
He quickly took it, shaking it. "Sorry, was away with the fairies. It’s lovely to meet you."
Stare at him for five minutes, then bloody ignore him. Great way to make a first impression, Butcher.
"Patrick Butcher," Stephanie said for him. "He lives in number 7."
Pat took back his hand, forcing a smile. "So, if you ever need anything, I'm just next door."
The man nodded sharply. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I fear you'll need to cash that offer in now," Stephanie said. Then, to Patrick, "I thought you might introduce him to the others and show him around town. I would but unfortunately, Heather’s had a tiff with her parents and won’t go home, so I have to go and pick up the pieces."
Pat's eyes flickered between the man - oh god he'd forgotten his name already - and the Coopers.
"Er, I'd love to help y'us-"
"There’s a good man," Fanny cut him off. "Welcome to Button Manor, Mr Richardson. And again, apologies for the disorganisation, but duty calls."
"Understood. I hope the traffic isn't too bad."
"The traffic is always bad," she sighed, then drifted out of the room.
And just like that, Pat’s tentative schedule was out the window.
He wasn’t exactly chuffed about it, but he couldn’t brush the bloke off. The living had to come before the dead.
"Rude," Mike huffed.
"Just a bit," Alison agreed.
" A bit?"
The man cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. "I think I should be quite alright on my own," he insisted. "There's no need to disrupt any of your plans for me."
"No, it’s fine."
"You needen lie just to please. I'm a man of routine myself, I understand how irritating it can be for someone to...shake things up, so to speak."
“It’s fine,” Pat repeated. He eyed the briefcase by the man’s leg.
A teacher maybe? Or a banker? He seemed the business type. Certainly had the face for it, expression vaguely displeased.
“Do you have any more bags or boxes you need help getting in?” Pat asked.
The man scowled. “I can manage.”
God, this was like his first meeting with Fanny all over again.
“…I’m sure you can, mate, but would you like some help? Gets it done quicker then, don’t it? And to warn y’us, the others are gonna start piling in shortly, and if they catch you out here, you’re gonna be stuck chatting with ‘em until the sun goes down.”
Pat had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate getting hounded. Though, did anyone appreciate being hounded? Pat had always been the friendly sort, and even he had found his first meeting with the whole group a bit much.
Granted he hadn't been in the state of mind at that time…
It looked like it pained the man to reply, “I suppose that help would be appreciated then.”
“Brillo pads.”
As the man raised a brow, the only thing Pat could think was him and Fanny were going to get along like a bloody house on fire .
The man didn't have much, as it turned out; he'd miraculously fit it all into one small car. Pat couldn’t quite believe it. Even he’d had to hire a small van for his move, and he’d left most of his things with Carol.
It hadn’t been worth the fuss.
Being the nosy buggers they were, both Alison and Mike stuck their heads through the windows, peering into the boxes as the man and Pat worked.
"How many books on insects does a guy need?"
"Like, thirty, apparently."
"Apparently. I- oh my god."
"What?" Mike asked.
"He's got a gun ."
"Like, a proper one?"
"Looks like it. Big one too."
"Wow. Do you think he's a serial killer or something?"
“Pretty bad one if he is. You don’t just your murder weapon in-between your fluffy socks and call it a day.”
Pat couldn't help himself. He paused, under the guise of shifting the box in his hand. He glanced over and oh blimey, that was definitely a gun.
"Unloaded, I assure you. I don’t even have bullets."
Pat nearly jumped a mile, barely keeping a grasp on his box. "Please don't sneak up on me like that."
"Terribly sorry."
"Serial killer, definitely," Mike said.
"No, he’s probably just one of those rich guys that shoots clay ducks and…things, like Barclay does."
"Ugh, Barclay."
"Uh, hope you don't mind me asking then, but why do you have a gun?" Pat asked.
"It's a family heirloom, purely ornamental. My grandfather snuck it out of the barracks after the war." He spat the words out quickly and sharply like he was desperate to stop talking.
Pat felt a bit better though, hearing that. "Oh, really?" He whistled. "Best I got from my grandparents were an old horseshoe from one of the pit ponies."
"Miners?"
"Both sides." English and Welsh.
The man looked oddly…disappointed.
Pat felt a lick of anger at that. "Hard-working folks they were, stayed down there till their lungs were black."
Which, granted, was something Pat didn't much appreciate. He wasn't entirely sure if they were to blame for his own dicky lungs, but he felt they were, just a little bit.
"I don't doubt it."
Pat couldn't quite catch his tone, but for the sake of being nice, decided the man was being honest.
Though he did up his pace with the boxes so they didn't have a chance to talk.
Between them, they made quick work of getting all the boxes into No.8, finishing well before anyone else got up. Ted (Pat had snuck a look at the label on one of the man’s shirts and, lucky him, a name had been scribbled down on it) looked around the space, still looking vaguely displeased with it all.
It was nothing compared to the scowls Mike and Alison were shooting him though.
“...Not the grandest of flats, is it?”
“Not the worst either,” Pat argued.
“Steals our room and can’t even be grateful about it,” Mike scoffed. “Can’t we try and haunt him out?”
“You sure that's a good idea, Mike? Considering what happened last time..."
“Come on, Robin was fine. It was only a small electrocution.”
"He wouldn't touch any light switches for a month!”
"And his energy bill was super low because of that so honestly, I think it was pretty helpful.”
Ted rolled his shoulders, turning to face Pat. “Thank you for your help…”
Oh good, he wasn’t the only one forgetting names. “Pat.”
“Patrick, but would you mind if we delayed the tour and meet and greet? I should rather like to unpack first.”
He never had someone draw out his name instead of shortening it. Pat wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that. But he kept a smile in place and nodded. “Course not. Just come find me later, if you want.”
He had a feeling Ted absolutely wouldn’t be doing that.
Pat waved and let the man be, immediately heading into his own room, the Coopers following behind. He opened his mouth to speak, then paused.
The walls were so thin that he could hear Ted scuffling about, and if he could hear that, the other man would definitely be able to hear Pat.
He turned on the radio, putting the volume up high enough just to hide their voices.
“Sorry guys,” he said. “Looks like you’re out of a room.”
“It’s not your fault, Pat,” Alison whispered back.
“There’s got to be some other room we can stay in, right?” Mike asked. “I really don’t want to go back to haunting the living room.”
Pat bit his lip, trying to think. “...There’s the attic? Think there's a spare mattress up there, and I can probably find some pillows and a blanket. Anno it’s not ideal, but I think it’s the best you’re gonna get unless he goes running.”
There was a knock on the wall beside him.
“Would you mind turning that down?”
Pat flushed. “Sorry, will do!”
One thing, could he just do one thing right today?
“And we can’t even listen to music now?” Mike said. “Are you sure we can’t haunt him?”
“Yes,” Alison said. Then, “At least wait until he does something bad enough to deserve it.”
Pat scowled, hoping his expression said a firm no, don’t you dare, no haunting the new tenant.
Neither seemed won over, and he didn’t want to risk whispering, so he gestured over to his bow and quiver, both hanging from the coat rack by the door. He could just go on a walk instead with them, but this was more fun.
The Coopers nodded, so he grabbed them both and left the manor, making for the woods.
He probably shouldn’t like archery, considering it all, but he did.
Alison had once said it was something about him controlling the fear, rather than it controlling him, but she also once said that poker was probably just like playing snap, right? She was a lovely woman, but he didn’t put much weight behind her ‘sage wisdom’. Just like how he didn’t trust Mike’s advice about fixing the boiler.
He'd leave that to the professionals.
“...I still think he’s a serial killer,” Mike announced when they were a safe distance from the house. “That’s why he’s hardly got any stuff, because he’s on the run.”
“I think he’s just an ex-army man,” Pat argued.
“What makes you say that?”
“Saw his old uniform.”
Pat was hardly an expert on the forces, but he'd wager it was a captain's uniform too.
“...Still think we should keep an eye on him, just in case.”
“Mike, he is not a serial killer,” Alison said.
“Could be. You don’t know.”
"And you don't not…know." She frowned a bit. "That sounded better in my head.
They stepped through the thicket, deeper and deeper into the woods until they hit a clearing. Targets were scattered all over the place, hung up between the trees with rope. They could be pulled a little to the left or right by some string tied to them, letting him shift them around a little bit to give some variety.
It’d been a nightmare to set up, and that wasn’t even mentioning how long it’d taken Fanny to agree to it, but it was worth it in the end.
He’d loved archery since the first time he’d tried it at Scouts, it was his favourite way to unwind after a long or stressful day. Settling down with a cuppa was nice, after all, but it didn’t leave him with a satisfying ache in his arms and a feeling of accomplishment.
It was also a pretty good excuse to go out and chat with the Coopers without anyone overhearing them.
“Just sneak into his room after and see where he puts the gun,” Pat suggested. “If it’s up on a shelf or something, he’s telling the truth. If he’s hiding it under his pillow, then you can panic.”
Pat really hoped he wasn't doing that.
He trusted Fanny not to rent out to a criminal, but then again, she had rented out to Julian and that man's morals were questionable at best…
"Alright, I will," Mike decided.
The other two drifted away from the topic of the new tenant, gossiping about whatever movie Kitty had been watching the other day. While they were doing that, Pat strapped on his chest guard and slung his quiver over his shoulder.
"By the way, I think Stephanie-"
"Fanny-"
"No, said Barclay’s coming over to the manor tomorrow," Mike said
Pat clicked his tongue and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He fit the arrow on the bow, steadied his form, and got ready to shoot.
"What for? He's not still hung up on the driveway is he?"
He let go, the arrow hitting the target with a thunk . Eight points, not a bad start.
"Didn't hear his side of the conversation, but probably," Mike shrugged. "I don't think he has any hobbies aside from annoying us."
"Maybe if he focused on his wife as much as he did on us they'd have a functional relationship," Alison said.
Three points. Maybe this was a bad start.
"Maybe the new bloke will distract him enough that he won't get into it," Pat suggested.
"Doubt it,” Mike said.
"...Yeah, but I try to be optimistic."
"No point being optimistic with Barclay.”
Pat hummed and turned away from the two of them. He let their chatter wash over him, focusing on what he actually came out to do. He gave up keeping score, just focusing on the comforting rhythm of fit, aim, shoot, fit, aim, shoot…
- - -
He wasn't quite sure how long he was out of there, but it must have been a few hours at least as a loud whistle shot through the woods.
"Oi, Butcher!"
Mike jumped so badly that he fell through a tree, and Alison burst out laughing. Pat bit back a snicker, putting his bow down.
Poor bloke.
Julian strolled up, a cuppa in hand, scowling at a bramble bush he almost got caught on.
"Morning, Jules," Pat said.
Julian shoved the mug into Pat's hand, and he happily took it.
"Ooo, ta muchly."
"Made it too strong, and Fanny would bitch if I chucked it," he insisted. "Waste not want not and all that rubbish."
"Well, thank you anyway." It was made just the way he liked it.
"Don't mention it. Ever…what's got you worked up anyway? It’s not even lunchtime yet."
"Who says I'm worked up?"
Julian gestured to the targets. "Your shit aim."
Yeah, that was fair point.
"A new bloke's moved into no. 8, and I made a complete idiot of myself in front of him."
"A new bloke?" Julian raised a brow. "No one mentioned that…can’t be as bad as the impression Thomas made on Fanny anyway. Man bled all over her antique sofa, then collapsed on top of her dog."
Pat winced. "I'm still ninety percent sure you’re making that up."
"I'm not."
"He’s not," Alison assured him.
"He literally got into a knife fight with his cousin ten minutes before he moved in,” Mike added.
Alison grabbed his hand and yanked him back to his feet, slipping an arm around his waist when she was done. "There was blood everywhere."
"But all he could talk about was Mary Shelley, for some reason. Still have no idea what that was all about…"
"Blimey," Pat muttered. He leant against a tree, cupping his tea in his hands.
Poor Thomas…and poor Dante. Thomas was a skinny bloke, but Dante was quite the delicate dog.
"So, what's this new guy like anyway?" Julian asked.
Pat tried to think of a quick and easy way to sum him up. "…Like Fanny, but a bloke."
He almost wondered if he should bring up the gun, but it was bad enough that Mike freaked out about it. If he told Julian, the rest of the house would know by dinnertime and there was no need to cause a panic over something that could be nothing.
Julian groaned. " Ugh ."
"He wears tweed."
Julian groaned louder.
"...He's got nice shoulders though." It seemed only fair to throw something positive in.
" No, you are not fancying a bloke that wears tweed." Julian jabbed him in the chest with his pointer finger, scowling up a storm. "I won't allow it."
Pat just rolled his eyes, brushing the hand away. "I said he has nice shoulders, not that I liked him. I think you've got nice legs and I don't fancy you."
Julian leant over Pat, putting on his smarmiest grin. "You sure about that, Butcher?"
Mike mimicked gagging. "I might be dead but I'm pretty sure I'm about to throw up."
"Why did Margot marry him?" Alison wondered.
"Money?"
"I'm not sure anyone would be that desperate for cash, least of all her."
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," Pat said. He nudged Julian to the side, picking up his bow.
He could probably stay out for a bit longer, but he doubted he was going to do much better. Might as well pack in early.
"You're missing out," Julian drawled.
Honestly, did the man ever stop flirting?
"If you say so, Casanova. Oh, and do me a favour, yeah? Don't tell the others about him. I'm pretty sure he's the lone wolf sort, would probably bite everyone's heads off if they started bothering him."
Well, he didn't know what for sure, but it seemed only fair to give the bloke some time to settle in. And a little white lie hurt no one.
"He can't hide forever," Julian pointed out.
"Yeah, but he can for at least one day."
_ _ _
His plans to do anything with the Coopers were thrown out the window the minute he stepped inside, but he didn't much mind. That was also a part of the cycle, and the Coopers weren't dependent on him.
Mary dragged him out to help with the garden and vegetable patch, Thomas somehow convinced him to tag along to his poetry club, and Humphrey had asked him to come along to his shoe shopping, so by six o'clock he was well and truly worn out.
And he also knew that by half-five, Ted had yet to leave his room, because no one in the house had mentioned him.
Which was a little worrying. Unless the bloke was hoarding food in his room or had planned an elaborate escape out the window while everyone wasn't looking, he'd likely not eaten lunch. And Pat was a little worried he'd forgo dinner too if left to his own devices.
And so, against the advice of his resident ghosts (mostly Mike), Pat stuck a note to his door saying he'd be out and knocked on no. 8.
It took a full three minutes for Ted to open the door (Pat kept count on his watch), and he didn't look particularly happy when he did.
And he was still wearing that bloody jacket.
"Hiya!”
"I thought I said I wasn't interested in a tour,” Ted said quickly.
“Wow, he’s a git,” Mike commented, poking his head through the wall. “Even if he’s not a serial killer - which I still think he is - I don’t think he deserves a meal out.”
“Honestly, I agree with Mike,” Alison called out. “He seems a bit full of himself.”
It could be hard sometimes, ignoring his ghosts, but Pat had mostly gotten the hang of it.
“Anno, I just thought you might like to go out and get some chow,” he shrugged.
Ted narrowed his eyes. “With the other tenants?”
“No, just you and me. Thought it'd be a nice way to welcome you to the area.”
And made sure he ate.
Ted didn't look thrilled about the idea, but he didn’t scrub up any excuse about already having food or the like, which confirmed for Pat that if he didn’t push, the man wouldn’t be eating.
“I'll pay, my treat,” Pat tried.
His wallet would no doubt feel the blow, but it did the job, Ted perking up some. Mike threw his arms up in exasperation and faded back through the wall.
"I suppose I wouldn't say no to a free meal. When about would you be looking to leave?”
Pat checked his watch. “Er, now? Might be able to escape without anyone catching y'us that way.”
“Good Lord.”
“That too early for you?”
“No, no. Just let me-” He disappeared for a moment, reappearing with his cane. “Lead the way.”
Outside, Ted eyed Patrick's van (Volkswagen type 2, thank you) wearily. Why did no one like his van? It was all the rage back in the day. At least Ted didn’t make a snarky comment about it or refuse to get in like Thomas had the first time.
Pat turned the radio on as soon as they settled in. He couldn’t stand a quiet ride.
Though it seemed Ted could. He didn't bop nor shimmy, didn't even give one little smile at Waterloo which was unbelievable. It was ABBA . Even Fanny sang along to ABBA!
He even remembered one special night they’d managed to get her to headbang along to T.Rex.
All Ted was doing though was staring blankly ahead, looking for all the world like he was being held captive. Pat was beginning to question whether doing this was really all that good of an idea. Maybe he could have just offered to make some food up for the man and bring it to his flat instead.
But hey ho, they were out here now, too late to turn around.
He managed to stay quiet for another five minutes before it got too much and he just had to talk.
"...So, what brings you to Kently?"
Ted shook himself. "Hmmm?"
"What brings y'us to Kently," Pat repeated
That was a pretty safe question, or so he thought. But Ted just scowled harder.
“Is that really any of your business?”
Maybe Mike was right, maybe he was a bit of a git.
“You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, mate. I’m just trying to make talk. Gonna be a bit of a boring ride otherwise."
“...A fresh start,” Ted said after a moment.
A bit vague, but he’d take it.
“Same for me too,” Pat replied. “I wanted a clean slate, so moved in a year back.”
Ted raised a brow. “You don’t seem the sort to have a sordid past, what slate could you possibly need to clean?”
Pat wasn’t sure what ‘sort’ he seemed like, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to answer either. But he forced it out.
“Messy divorce. My wife and best mate ran off together, taking my own bloody kid with them.”
Not too far, but still.
“Good Lord.”
“Yeah,” Pat agreed. “We lived in a small town, so there was no real escaping it if I stayed there, you know? But a mate here up here said they had a spare flat, so I here I am.”
The other man went quiet, and Pat turned up the radio to compensate. It didn’t much help.
Just as Pat was parking up the van though, he spoke.
“...I suppose you could say that…complications of the heart are what brought me here too."
Pat clicked his tongue, heart aching in sympathy. Poor love, no wonder he was acting so mardy. God only knew how rotten Pat had been for that first month after his divorce.
“Happens to the best of us,” he insisted. “And I doubt dinner and a pint will solve it, but it might help.”
“Perhaps.”
The air between them felt a bit easier as they stepped out, and though Ted went quiet again, Pat got the feeling it was because he wanted to be, not because he was giving Pat the silent treatment.
Nothing to bond two souls like a broken heart, aye?
Dinner was quick and peaceful, Ted devouring his food in a blink of an eye. Pat couldn’t tell if that was down to being hungry, or being an ex-army man. Maybe a bit of both. And even though Ted eyed the dessert menu for a good five minutes, clearly interested, he still had to be bullied into actually ordering something.
But all in all, it was a decent, if very quiet, night out.
A little less decent when Pat stepped outside and saw a familiar car parked on the edge of the pavement.
“Is something wrong?” Ted asked.
“No, nothing. I…"
It looked like he wasn't the only one skipping games night tonight. Annie and Mary seemed to be too…again.
And there was no way they’d missed his van, it did stick out just a bit. He'd probably get an earful from them tomorrow, but that was for Pat of the future to worry about.
"...was just wondering why they've got a bumper sticker of a rat wearing a pirate hat."
Ted leaned forward, squinting. "Maybe it's the captain of a very tiny ship."
Pat didn't know why, but he found that strangely funny and couldn't help but laugh. Maybe it was just because it seemed such a silly answer to come from such a serious man.
"I like that," Pat snickered. "Captain Rat. Sounds like a character from a kid's show."
"It does a bit."
Ted's shoulders were looser on the ride back, and he actually hummed along when Fernando played, which Pat considered a victory. He could only hope it made up for the disaster that was the morning.
“Thank you for you,” Ted said at the door, “that was quite a pleasant evening.”
It seemed like it had. Pat beamed, rocking on his heels. “No problemo. You have a nice night now, Ted.”
He jumped a bit at that, and Pat immediately panicked.
“Er, would you prefer Theodore?”
Ted nodded sharply. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Course not,” Pat replied. If anyone understood wanting to be called a certain name, or referred to in a certain way, it was him. “G’night, Theodore.”
Theodore relaxed, just a little bit. “Goodnight, Patrick.”
He closed the door, and that was that.
Well, that could have gone worse, he supposed. At least Theodore didn’t ask to be called Dick.
Downstairs, there was noise and chatter as the others cleaned up and dragged the games out. Pat was tempted to wander down and join them, but the attic was calling.
He opened his door to see the Coopers lounging on his bed and gestured for them to follow him.
It was a bit of a fuss, getting up there and rooting around for the spare mattress, a few spare pillows and a duvet. Pat wasn’t even sure how much the two of them could actually feel, being incorporeal and all, but he still wanted to make it as comfy as possible.
“There we are. Nothing fancy but it’ll suit y’us fine.”
Maybe tomorrow night he’d make it a bit nicer for them, maybe fish out some lights for them, do a bit of spring cleaning so it wasn’t so dusty and cramped, but for tonight it’d have to do.
“Thanks, ” Alison replied, yawning.
“The gun’s still in the box,” Mike said out of nowhere. “...And thanks.”
Alison rolled her eyes, leaning against him. “Sure Pat’s going to sleep great after that.”
“ Just think it’s important to let him know!”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine,” Pat chuckled. “Night you two.”
And then it was off to bed.