Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2025-02-03
Updated:
2025-02-08
Words:
4,264
Chapters:
2/?
Comments:
30
Kudos:
75
Bookmarks:
13
Hits:
514

Haunted

Summary:

[A postgame epilogue that picks up where the true end left off! In which Ángel tries to pick up the pieces of his shattered psyche & readjust to the real world]

Ángel tries to be a good secretary. Unfortunately, outside of certain impossible, supernatural, totally physics-defying circumstances, it seems like detective-ing is mostly pretty boring. It’s a lot of standing in the rain, waiting for something to happen. And taking shifts sleeping while you wait for your contact to call you back. And filling out business tax forms, and income tax forms, and rental insurance forms, and—just—paperwork, in general. So much paperwork! Ángel never had to read this many documents when he was a CEO.

“That’s because you were a terrible CEO,” Oliver says helpfully.

Ángel gasps. “How could you say that!!”

“Because of your track record as a CEO?”

“Well,” Ángel huffs. “Well! Well… yes.”

Notes:

cw for nightmares/flashbacks/remembered violence? definitely no worse than in canon.

Chapter 1: separation anxiety

Chapter Text

Ángel tries to be a good secretary. Unfortunately, outside of certain impossible, supernatural, totally physics-defying circumstances, it seems like detective-ing is mostly pretty boring. It’s a lot of standing in the rain, waiting for something to happen. And taking shifts sleeping while you wait for your contact to call you back. And filling out business tax forms, and income tax forms, and rental insurance forms, and—just—paperwork, in general. So much paperwork! Ángel never had to read this many documents when he was a CEO.

“That’s because you were a terrible CEO,” Oliver says helpfully.

Ángel gasps. “How could you say that!!”

“Because of your track record as a CEO?”

“Well,” Ángel huffs. “Well! Well… yes.”

“Paperwork is a useful skill.” Ollie leans against him, smiling. “And if you took over, I’d have a lot more time to work the case. It would help me a lot.”

So, yeah. Ángel never stood a chance.

At this point, though, ‘the case’ is still mostly hypothetical. Oliver’s been indulging him, turning down any cases that will take him out of the office. Also known as: most cases.

Ollie’s being very understanding. He gets it. Historically, whenever Ángel takes his eyes off him, Oliver dies bloodily. Like… almost 100% of the time. Statistically speaking, it’s practically a guarantee. And Oliver Beebo loves statistics.

It’s not going to be like this forever. Even Ángel isn’t that controlling (or, if he is, he knows he’s not supposed to be). They’re just waiting for the dust to settle, putting a little space between Now and Then. Between Oliver being here, warm, alive, not even an eyelash away, and being dead and dead and dead. It’ll get better. Ángel will get better. And then Ollie can get back to doing what he loves.

 

But it doesn’t get better.

 

They hang out with their friends, and it doesn’t get better. They play cards with their new family and it doesn’t get better. No matter what does or doesn’t happen, Ángel knows the score. He knows what lies in wait around the corner. He knows what happens when he looks away.

It’s not just separation. It’s all the little things, a million day-to-day mundanities all swirling around them like a swarm of killer bees. Metronomes. Car horns. Fireworks. Freak storms. Mountains, snow-torn and otherwise. Oliver gasps at a display of eclairs and Ángel’s heart twists in his chest.

Ollie notices, of course. He tilts toward Ángel, frowning, before he’s even finished his eclair. (And if that isn’t love, what is?)

“Ángel?”

“Just remembered how cute you are,” Ángel tells him, and winks. “Nothing to worry over.”

He is worried, though. Because even when you’re not trapped in an inescapable death house, there are so, so many ways to die. Rabid dogs. Crossing streets. Flash floods. Gas leaks. Tetanus shots, when did Oliver get his last tetanus shot? Is he up to date? Does he even know?

(“June of last year,” Ollie says promptly, when asked. “Why? When was yours?”

“…No one knows when they got their last tetanus shot.”)

Ángel falls asleep on his desk and opens his eyes in a world of white. The wind whips at his scarf, spits in his eyes, spatters his face with splinters of glittering cold. It’s so dark. It’s so dark. The storm swallows the moon, scatters the stars. There’s not a glimmer of light in all the world but somehow he can still trace the outline of a shadow on the ground, a stripe of cold dead dark. The stink of rusted metal, copper-bright and choking. Fear in the air, blood in the snow.

Oliver.

Ángel’s on him in a moment, cradling his head, brushing blood-gummed hanks of hair back from his face. He tries to put pressure on the wound but it only presses more blood out of him, like juicing an orange. Fresh-squeezed human pulp.

Ollie’s face is so cold to the touch. Colder than the wind, colder than the storm. All his light and life drained out into the snow. There’s so much blood, there’s so much blood, enough to paint the whole night red. He can’t be alive, he’s lost too much blood, but somehow his eyes open anyway. He looks up at Ángel. He smiles.

“Wh–” Ángel chokes out, stops to gasp for breath. “Wh-Why would you…” go alone, he’s trying to say. Why would you leave me behind, where I can’t see you, where I can’t protect you? But he can’t force the words through the sobs.

“Sorry,” Ollie whispers. Every word squeezes blood from the gash in his throat, a wash of warm slick scarlet. “I’m sorry. You weren’t there.”

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Ángel moans. “We aren’t here, we got out, we got away, we’re not here anymore!”

“Oh, Ángel.” Oliver reaches up, takes Ángel’s shaking hand in one of his. His grip is so gentle, his strength already fading. “Don’t you understand? We’ll always be here. We’ll always haunt this place.”

“But—”

“Ángel,” Ollie says again.

“Wh-Wh…”

“Ángel!” It’s a whisper that’s almost a shout, sharp with urgency. Suddenly a hand is shaking his shoulder, and—

—Ángel jerks awake. At his desk. In the office. Not in the house, he’s not in the house, he’s here, they’re both here, Oliver’s alive and shaking his shoulder. Not bleeding, not freezing. Alive.

“Ángel!” he whispers, “come quick!!”

Ángel’s already on his feet, knees half-bent, reaching for his knife.

“Quick, you have to see!!” Ollie’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, both fists clutched to his chest like hamster paws. “Look, look!!!”

Ángel looks.

Mozilla Firefox is dozing on the windowsill, stretched out on his back with all four paws in the air. And he’s not alone. Somehow, somewhere, in spite of the fact that the big beautiful baby literally never goes outside, he’s found a kitten. Or maybe the kitten found him? It’s tiny, small enough to fit in Ollie’s palm, just a perfect little whorl of coal-black tucked into the fluff of Mozi’s belly. Both of them are purring like a lawnmower.

Ángel stares in total silence for at least 30 seconds. Then he says, “That’s so cute.”

“I know!!!!!” When Ollie spots the knife in Ángel’s hand, his smile falters. “Oh. Um. Were you… Did you have a bad dream?”

“No, no, of course not!” No, that’s stupid. Ollie’s never going to believe it. “Or, I mean. Yes.”

“About…”

Ángel hates himself a little. Ollie looked so happy a second ago. Now even his giddy little wiggles have stilled. Ángel hates that. He hates being the reason for Ollie to look like that. He doesn’t want to be something that hurts.

“I was late for school,” he ad-libs. “And when I got there, I wasn’t wearing any clothes.”

“...So you decided to stab your teacher?”

Ángel gives him a roguish grin. “You know I like to live dangerously.”

###

Days go by, then weeks. It doesn’t get better. If anything, it gets worse. Ángel can see the shroud of death hanging over every corner of every room. They still don’t even know how Linux—that’s the kitten; Nadia adamantly veto-ed ‘Cherubim,’ ‘Elohim,’ and about half a dozen other lesser angels—got into the office. What if Mozilla Firefox got out the same way? Ollie would go after him, of course he would. He wouldn’t wait around for Ángel to get his shoes on. He’d leap into action while the trail was still hot, and then he’d leap in front of a—a moving car, or an anvil or something, and he’d be dead forever. For good. And half the cans in the kitchenette are expired. What is it you get from improperly canned food? Botulism? Isn’t that incurable?

“C-Careful!” Ángel yelps, when he sees Oliver reach for a stack of mail. “Let me do that!”

“Careful about… the mail?”

“You don’t know what’s in it!! It could be, I don’t know, anthrax or something! Or you could cut yourself!”

Oliver sets the stack aside and gives him a patient look. “Ángel.”

“Querido?”

“I think you need to get out more.”

“H-Hey! I go out! We went to that bakery this morning. And last weekend, we watched all those movies with Nina!”

“Yes,” Ollie agrees. “We go out. But I meant on your own. Without me.”

Ángel can’t suppress a flinch.

Ollie’s face softens. “How about this. I’m going to be here all night, making phone calls for this case. I’m not going to leave the office even once. I can lock the door and, and be really really careful. I won’t even open any mail.”

“Don’t tease me!!!!”

“I’m not.” He’s still smiling, but his eyes are serious. “I understand, Ángel. Really. But I—I don’t think it’s going to get less scary until you let it be a little scary.”

“...But I don’t want to?”

Ollie opens his mouth, then hesitates. “The gallery.”

Ángel leans across the desk, knits their hands together.

“It was…” He can feel Oliver’s shiver through through the place where their palms meet. “Not good.”

“Understatement,” Ángel mutters.

Ollie snickers. “Yes. I was, um. I was alone there. And I was going to die there, all alone, in a puzzle I couldn’t solve, that—didn’t make sense, didn’t have any rules…” He shakes his head vigorously, like he can physically shake off the memory. “So. Afterwards, I just. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t look at it, didn’t—feel any of it, anything about it. And it was okay, except. Anytime anyone mentioned anything s-supernatural—anything, you know. Haunted…”

This time they both shiver.

“I’d just sort of fall apart,” Ollie shrugs. “Spiral, and hyperventilate, and then forget why I was even upset in the first place. And I would have done that forever, I think. I don’t think I ever would have got any less scared. Not until I met another House.”

Ángel barks a bitter laugh. “Don’t tell me it was a good experience.”

“No. No, it was not. But I’m… less afraid now, I think. Because I didn’t have any other choice. And you don’t have a choice either. Because honestly, Ángel, I love you, but I can’t be the only thing in your life. It’s too much.”

“You’re not—” Ángel starts to protest, but he can’t even finish the sentence. He has sort of revolved around Oliver, since they got out. And he doesn’t want to be a burden. He doesn’t ever want to be something that Ollie has to throw away.

Oliver bumps him on the arm with his forehead, like a big gangly cat. “So, go get a drink with Vivi. Catch up. For an hour! And I’ll be here with the door locked, and I’ll—I’ll even turn on my ringer! So you can call me and I can let you know I’m still alive.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Ángel says automatically.

“Hey. Have I broken a promise yet?”

Ugh. “...No…”

“Then I promise. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

###

“Wow,” Vivi snickers, when Ángel’s finished catching her up. She’s got one elbow on the bar and her boots propped on the footrail of his stool, twirling the straw in her (very overpriced, very-much-on-Ángel’s-dime) drink. She nudges him with her shoulder, shaking her head admiringly. “Bunny boy must be a saint.”

“Yeah,” Ángel says dreamily. “He’s the best.”

“No, I mean, for putting up with you. You sound exhausting.”

“Wh— Hey!!”

“Like, totally suffocating.”

“I am not!!”

“The obsessive clingy thing is only cute when you’re a teenager, you know? Don’t you think you’re a little old for this?”

“I am plenty young, thank you very much! In the prime of my life! Still very charming! And I’m definitely not—” Well, okay, maybe he is a little clingy. “I’m not… too old.”

“Uh huh,” she says drily. “Sounds like the lost-puppy, sad-wet-kitten-in-a-cardboard-box act is getting old, though.”

“Ollie understands,” Ángel insists. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, if it’s Vivi or just himself. “It’s not like he doesn’t know why.”

A shadow crosses her face. “Yeah.”

“And we’re working on it! We’re… going to work on it. He’s got some experience with that,” with a note of bitterness. “I just have to follow his lead.”

“Hey, I gotcha,” Vivi says, and winks. “Follow the white rabbit, am I right?”

Huh? “Oliver isn’t white.”

“Oh my god, read a book sometime!! Geez!! And stop texting your boyfriend under the table, I can literally see you.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll order a round for the whole bar,” she says sweetly. “And we both know who’s buying.”

###

When he slips back into the office, Ollie is right where he left him. Asleep at his laptop, with his cheek smushed flat against the desk.

Ángel's heart thuds against his sternum. Oliver looks so peaceful. By day he's a pinball of motion, all bouncing feet and squeezing hands and happy little wiggles. Even when he's hyper-focused on a case, he's never still. He's chewing his lip, fidgeting with his collar, twisting a lock of hair between two fingers. Rocking gently in his chair and patting around absently until he's found the orange fluffball twining around his ankles. But right now he’s utterly still.

Maybe too still.

Is he even breathing? Ángel can’t tell, can’t trace the rise and fall of his chest, can’t see the puff of air from Ollie’s slackened mouth. Can’t see even a whisper of motion: no twitch in his limbs, no rapid-eye movement, no pulse flickering in his wrist. In life Oliver is warmth and light, unbounded, electric, and in death he's just, dead. Unmoving. Gray. Ángel knows how it looks when he dies.

…It’s his fault. He got distracted, turned his back, looked away when he should have stayed close and now Oliver’s dead and it’s his fault, again, because it’s always his fault, isn’t it? Only this time he can’t fix it. This time he can’t turn it back. They should have stayed in that House, they never should have left, Ollie could have been safe forever and ever and no one ever would have made Ángel leave.

No. No. He’s being crazy, being just as crazy as Ollie and Vivi and everyone else thinks. He j-just needs to be sure, needs to feel Oliver’s pulse against his skin. He drops to his knees beside the desk, reaches out with shaking hands—

—and a hand snaps up, whip-quick, and catches him by the forearm.

A moment later, Ollie’s eyes blink open. “Oh,” he yawns, “you’re back. Did you have fun?”

“Ollie," Ángel breathes, and closes the space.

Ollie startles; lets out a sweet little squeak of surprise that melts into a hum of pleasure when Ángel cards a hand through his curls and cradles the nape of his neck.

Even after they break apart, Ángel isn’t ready to let go. He presses his forehead against Oliver’s, lets his eyes fall shut to hide the shine of unshed tears. “Missed you.”

“Did you?” Oliver says mildly. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Don’t tease!!!”

“You like it.”

“Yeah,” Ángel admits. He likes everything about Ollie. He feels a little drunk on it, or maybe that’s just the six whiskeys. “You have a good night? Bet you got a lot done, without me to distract you.”

“I did, actually. And I, um.” Oliver clears his throat. “I’m… taking a new case.”

“Oh, yes?” Ángel’s too high on relief to feel anything but giddy. “Another thief? Should I be jealous?”

Ollie doesn’t take the bait. His face is drawn, those big brown eyes unusually serious. “No. Not a thief. Not even a criminal, really. It’s, um. Well.” He pulls in a breath, like he’s trying to gather resolve, then lets it out with deliberate calm. “It’s a house.”

Chapter 2: facing fear

Summary:

Oliver and Ángel encounter another House.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Ángel gapes at him, aghast. “A traveling carnival?”

“Not the whole carnival,” Ollie says calmly. “Just the House of Mirrors.”

“That’s even worse???”

“No it isn’t.”

No, it probably isn’t. “And why not?”

“The whole carnival would include the House of Mirrors.”

…Right.

“And it would be…” Oliver flaps a hand vaguely. “Broader. Harder to diagnose the purpose, harder to find the heart.”

“Easier to find funnel cake, though.”

Ollie looks so devastated that Ángel feels very briefly sorry. Then he remembers that this man is dragging him into another haunted house. “I’m not sorry.”

“I can see that.”

Okay, so maybe he’s a little sorry. “How do you even know it’s haunted?” Ángel asks grumpily. “No, wait—how did you even find out about this? I thought you weren’t looking for cases.”

Ollie’s face goes slightly guilty. “Oh. Um.”

“Ollie!!!!!!!”

“I wasn’t looking!” Oliver protests. “But. I might have put some testimonials on my website.”

“Some testimonia— Whose??? When did you even work on that?” Oliver’s familiar with web design, but it’s not really one of his interests. (“Not the right type of puzzle,” he said vaguely, when asked. “Too many answers. And... not really a right answer? You can never tell when it's finished, because it probably isn't. You basically just decide that you’re done. And I'm not good at that.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Ollie gave him a dry look. “Like you’re one to talk. You walked back into that House how many times? On purpose? By choice?”

“...I plead the fifth.”

“Ángel. We’re not even in the U.S.”

“You’re violating my rights!”

“They’re not even your rights.”

“I thought you liked laws!!”

“I never said that.”

“You’ll never take me alive!!!”

Ollie’s smile went a little smug. “Technically, I already have.”

"Mean," Ángel whined, hiding his face in his scarf. “You’re so mean!!!”)

 

The website didn’t just grow a new tab. It got a full-fledged makeover. HAUNTED? the banner shouts, in thick, emphatic bold. DON’T DIG YOUR OWN GRAVE—CALL THE PROFESSIONALS.

“Who—” Ángel starts to ask, then answers his own question. “Owen.”

Ollie looks a little sheepish, a little proud. “He’s really good at this stuff.”

“Computer stuff?”

“Computer stuff.”

Ángel clicks around idly. There’s a lot of new copy, mostly from Nina and Mari. Nadia even ad-libbed a third-party testimonial about Oliver’s work at the gallery. And… oh, wow. When you mouse over the banner, the Ghostbusters theme starts playing. “Isn’t this under copyright?”

“I don’t think a bunch of Hollywood rich guys care about someone like me.”

“Good,” Ángel huffs. He doesn’t need the competition.

Oliver chews his lip. “Are you… mad?”

“No.”

“Because you have to tell me if you’re mad. I won’t know otherwise.”

Ugh. Why does he have to be so—so sweet and straightforward all the time? “...I’m a little mad.”

“Yes,” Ollie says quietly. “I figured.”

Oh, god. Not fair. Oliver looks like he just dropped a whole box of sopaipillas in the street. These sorts of negotiation tactics should be banned by the UN.

Ángel groans loud enough to wake Linux, who looks his way with a withering contempt beyond her years. “Ughhhh… no fair! You’re not being fair!!”

“Eh? What’d I do?”

“You’re not allowed to look like that!!”

Oliver looks down at himself, then back up. “Um.”

“Ohh, fine,” Ángel sighs. He never had a chance. He’s not sure why he even bothers trying to argue with Oliver. “I’m not mad. At you. I am very mad at whoever decided to Haunt a House of Mirrors, which everyone knows is the scariest part of a carnival.”

“Not the haunted house ride?”

“Whaaat? No way! Too cheesy.”

Ollie tilts his head, curious. “But what’s scary about a mirror?”

Oh, wow, okay. Clearly, Oliver has a very different experience of looking at himself.

Ángel swipes the hat off Ollie’s head so he can mess up his hair. “Nothing, of course. Nothing at all.” He scrunches his eyes shut miserably, just for a moment, before steeling himself. “You know I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Don’t even start with that. I’m going.”

“Yes,” Ollie says. His eyes are creased warmly, his smile unusually soft. “I figured.”

###

The carnival director is unusually muscular for a woman her age, with a short puff of a ponytail and skin leathered by decades of wind and sun. An elegant bone-handled cane leans against the desk by her left hand. She looks calm enough, like nothing could ever phase her, but her dark eyes are ringed with gray. Clearly, she’s not been sleeping well. Or at all.

When Oliver and Ángel step into her office—it’s just the ticket booth, technically, but it’s basically office-shaped, and peaceful enough with the carnival still closed for business—she greets them with a distrustful glare. “If this is a joke—”

“It’s not a joke,” Oliver says quickly.

“It’s really not,” Ángel agrees. He can’t think of anything less funny.

“Because we’ve had a lot of practical jokers thinking it’s funny to—to come and try to scare us, and sometimes they go inside, and then they’re the ones who—”

“Miss Ortega,” Oliver says firmly. “I have experienced things that most people would consider… impossible. That most people would laugh at. If you are suffering from the same, I cannot let you do so alone.”

She holds his gaze for another beat, her black eyes locked onto his. Ángel can see how uncomfortable it’s making him, but credit where credit’s due: Ollie can push past his limits when he needs to.

Whatever she sees must not offend her, because she turns her glare on Ángel. “And who is this supposed to be?”

“Miss Ortega,” Ángel says, smiling charmingly. “Such a pleasure. I’m the Detective’s associate, here to assist with the minutiae of the job. Backup, security and so on.”

“Is this supposed to impress me?”

“We’re not trying to impress you,” Ollie says. “We’re just trying to help.”

Her mouth twists for a moment, wary, and then some of the tension bleeds out of her. “I’m sorry. These past few months have been… difficult.”

Ollie’s notebook is already in his hand, pen hovering above the page. “Why don’t you tell us what is happening? Everything you can remember, please. Even before it started happening. No detail is too small. Any little thing might be the piece we need.”

###

The House of Mirrors was the original engineer’s pride and joy, an architectural marvel. A passion project.

(“Makes sense,” Ángel mutters grimly. Oliver shushes him.)

“Houses of Mirrors don’t travel well, you see,” the director explains. “All those sheets of glass, normally, they need to be dismantled separately, every time. Packed and padded separately, each one, one by one. It’s why you don’t usually see them outside of theme parks, places that stay in one place.”

Oliver nods, marks something down in his notebook.

“Camilo—that’s our engineer. Was, I should say.”

“He retired?”

“He died.” (Ollie makes another note.) “He was a good man. A brilliant architect, yes; his House, the way it folded in, the way it could contract to be packed away safely, it was a marvel, but. He was also… family. To all of us. The only family, for some. Many who work here..." She grimaces. "Their families were... not kind. Not... accepting. But Camilo saw us— Saw them as they are. Accepted them. The House of Mirrors, it was his gift. To say, If no one else will see you, I will see you. We will see you. You will see yourself.”

“With a House of Mirrors?” Ángel asks, unconvinced. Oliver kicks him in the shins.

“You can laugh,” Miss Ortega says coldly. “We do not mind. This is a place of joy.”

Another note in Ollie’s book. “It sounds like a wonderful project. When did the situation change?”

Miss Ortega’s mouth hardens. “Camilo. He was… dying. He knew that he had little time, it was not something the doctors could fix. But the young ones here, they are… He was their family. For some, their only family. He was afraid, I think. Of leaving them alone.”

Oliver nods solemnly. “And when did you become concerned? About the House. What changed?”

“...The first day.” Her voice is flat, without emotion. “The first day after he… was gone. One of the young ones went into the House—to speak with him, I think, in the place that was his. And she came out. Different.”

“Different?”

“Not different, maybe, it was… She was still herself, but. Less? Like part of her was gone.”

Oliver flinches. (Ángel does, too, but Ángel has more practice lying.) “I see. Can you tell me more about that?”

###

The stories are all too familiar. People go into the House of Mirrors, and they come out different. Changed. Pieces of themselves stolen away. And the House itself, it isn’t natural.

“Why not just close it down?” Ángel can’t help asking.

“We tried,” the director says grimly. “Not at first—it was Camilo’s; we could not bear to leave him. But after the first few times… We haven’t unloaded it in weeks. We even tried leaving it behind. It follows. It stays. It unpacks itself, shines its own glass. No matter how far we drive, it stays with us. People find their way in. And they are lost.” Her onyx eyes are distant, opaque as fogged glass. “Even when we find them, they are lost.”

Oliver lets out a slow, shuddering breath. Then he snaps his notebook shut. “Thank you, Miss Ortega. I believe we have all that we need.”

“We do??” Ángel sputters.

“We do. And we’re ready to enter the House.”

“We are????”

Miss Ortega quirks an eyebrow at them, clearly not encouraged. “Well, then. I suppose I will leave it to you.”

Notes:

sorry to post such a quick lil transitional chapter! i’ve been struggling with executive function, so i'm trying to tackle side-projects in more approachable bite-sized pieces. i hope it's not too underwhelming..... i have some fairly silly ideas for the next chapter, so, y'know. bear with me?