Nightingale (And Not the Lark)
Title: Nightingale (And Not the Lark)
Band(s): FOB, PATD (minor characters from various bands)
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick (background Brendon/Ryan and Jon/Spencer)
Word count: 35,500
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 / underage sex, minor character death, some BDSM
(General warnings for everything CSI: dead bodies, crime, creative serial killers, years of UST, complete disregard for the actual workings of the American legal system and/or laws of physics and probability. Some references to murder, torture, incest, prostitution and rape in cases being investigated, but nothing graphic or actually shown in-story. No creepy crawlers either. Gil Grissom Ryan Ross does not get to hatch larvae from a dead pig.)
Summary: CSI AU. Ryan Ross's CSI team joins up with Detective Pete Wentz to investigate a string of unusual murders.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Epilogue
Bonus tracks/Enhanced content:
Fanart:
Story banner by ohfreckle
Fanmixes:
Burn So Pretty by alchemywow
Fanmix by beachan18
Fanvid:
If You're Not the One by me
Thanks to: blindmouse and lariopefic for outstanding beta, to the BBB mods for a job very well done, and to chicken_cookie, ivesia19, tristafantastic, afterxbirth, fannyt, reni_days, behindthec and cynicsandsaints for awesome help bouncing ideas, developing plotlines, convincing me to write even more Peterick sex and generally making my first BBB experience really great. ♥
ETA: This fic has undergone a few, minor edits in preparation for the mirroring stories to be posted. Main changes are (very spoilery): 1) Changing the killer’s last name from Trohman to Keanes. Because I felt really guilty about making Joe a killer. 2) VickyT now works in a classy strip club instead of a seedy one. Because I love her and she’s awesome and deserves the best of everything, including imaginary strip club working places. 3) The Spencer/Ryan scene at the end of chapter 5 has been rewritten to fit the Spyro companion that I wasn’t planning on writing when posting the Peterick arc. (All details and reasonings on this here if you’re interested).
CHAPTER ONE - KINDNESS
DAY 1
The call comes at 10:34 am, roughly three hours after Jon finally got to crawl into bed after a night spent sifting through the contents of yet another Las Vegas dumpster-turned-hiding-place-for-blood-stained-clothes. He’d bagged 78 individual pieces of trace evidence and handed over more than two hundred prints to the haggard-looking print tech before leaving the lab. Lying down on the ruffled bed had felt like a little piece of heaven.
He fumbles over the night stand, finds his phone and somehow manages to press the right button.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jon, it’s Ross,” a tired voice says on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I need you to come back in. 419 over on Dawson, and Wentz insists that he needs our team on this for some reason.”
Jon closes his eyes and curses silently, even as he mentally starts preparing to push the covers away.
“I’m on my way.”
He clicks off the call and somehow manages to push himself into a sitting position. Thin rays of morning sun filter in through the wooden blinds, drawing patterns on the carpet and up along the side of the bed. A stripe of light falls across the surface of the bedside table, reflecting off a thin gold band lying next to his alarm clock. Jon picks up the ring between his thumb and forefinger, slides it on. The metal feels foreign against his skin, but he resists the urge to take it back off nevertheless. He’s been married for over a week. It’s time that he told people.
***
DAY 1 - 11:05 AM
The chapel is small and white, simple in its architecture and devoid of neon signs advertising Elvis-themed weddings at special rates. Jon parks his Denali next to a black and white police car and climbs out to get his kit from the back. On the other side of a barrier of yellow and black tape, he spots Detective Wentz and Dr Hurley, the coroner, talking to each other in carefully lowered voices by the main door. Brendon-one of the other CSI’s on Ross’s team-is fiddling with his kit a few yards away from them, already in his coveralls and ready to go. Jon is not surprised. Sometimes, he wonders if Brendon Urie ever sleeps.
“Morning, Walker.”
Jon starts a little as Spencer Smith's voice filters in from behind, his arm brushing casually against Jon's as he walks past. Behind him, Ryan Ross follows with an amused little smirk at the corner of his mouth, echoing the greeting. Jon pushes his left hand deeper into the pocket of his jeans and tries to smile. There's work to do.
***
FOUR YEARS EARLIER - OCTOBER 22
Another funeral. Another dead cop to add to the list. Pete has been to six of these gloomy office parties since he joined the LVPD, but this is the first time the body encased in cherry wood and flowers is someone he actually gave a shit about.
He nods at people he recognises, shakes hands as some come up to express their condolences. He wonders how many of them knew his dead partner by more than name and picture. Probably a fair number, actually; Matthew Williams practically grew up in grey hallways and interrogation rooms, worked his way through most departments and was promoted to detective years earlier than people normally did. Pete had resented Williams’s speedy career and higher status when he started; now he’s just grateful he’s not the one in the box.
“Officer Wentz, how are you holding up?”
The Undersheriff’s approach startles him a little, and Pete automatically pulls his shoulders back and stands up straighter, tries to give a smile that’s both appropriate and professional.
“Pretty well under the circumstances, sir. We’re all shaken up, but we do what we can in the team to support one another.
“I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great man.”
Empty words, even though they’re true. Matt was pretty great. Not that someone as high up as Undersheriff David Vaughn Stump would have known it.
“Thank you, sir.”
The other man pauses for a second, looking at Pete with eyes that have both kindness and calculation in them. “Come and sit with me and my family,” he says finally, and Pete does his best not to let the surprise show on his face. “You seem like a good cop, and Matthew always spoke very highly of you. Call my secretary on Monday and schedule an appointment for sometime later next week. We should talk some more.”
Pete nods and somehow manages to make small talk as the Undersheriff guides him through the large cathedral towards one of the front pews. Detective, Pete thinks. Undersheriff Vaughn Stump wants to promote him to Detective and have him take Williams’s place in their team. There’s no other plausible reason for an official meeting at this point. While that thought is making circles in Pete’s head, another strikes: Vaughn Stump used Matt’s given name. Pete wonders why.
“This is Patricia, my wife,” Vaughn Stump says, introducing a slim, strawberry-blonde woman in a beautiful dark-blue suit and pearls. “Patricia, this is Officer Pete Wentz, Matthew’s partner.”
They shake hands, white gloves touching lightly. Patricia has Hollywood-beautiful tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over and ruin the impeccable make-up on her face but never quite crossing the line-a perfect picture of contained sorrow.
“Matthew was our nephew,” the Undersheriff says quietly, and the things immediately make more sense. “We were all very fond of him.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete offers. Patricia smiles a little and squeezes his hand, repeats the words back to him. Pete likes her, in spite of the obvious WASP status and perfectly arranged hair. He opens his mouth to say something more, when a voice from behind cuts him off.
“Dad, I can’t find Sister Mary or Father Francis or my sheet music. Can you please help me find out what comes after ‘deducant te angeli’ in the paradisum part, because I’m going nuts here and I know I know it, I just can’t get-hi.”
Pete stares. He tries not to, maybe even manages it, he’s not sure. There’s a teenage boy in front of him. A little shorter than Pete, soft-faced and wide-eyed. A blush in his cheeks from hurrying down the aisle, a pretty pout in his lips and the same strawberry-blond hair as the woman standing next to him. He can’t be more than sixteen.
“I’m sorry. Officer Wentz, this is my son Patrick. Patrick, Pete Wentz.”
“Nice to meet you.” Patrick extends his hand, and Pete takes it, feels the warmth against his gloved palm and does his best to offer the same polite phrases back.
“Patrick’s in the choir,” Mrs Vaughn Stump says, a distinct tone of pride in her voice. “He’ll be singing during Mass. Now, what was it that you needed help with, honey?”
Patrick blushes, embarrassed to be called ‘honey’ by his mother in front of strangers in uniform, no doubt. “The requiem,” he mumbles. “The last part-In Paradisum-the third line, between ‘deducant te angeli’ and ‘suscipiant te martyres’.”
Patricia’s brow furrows in confusion. “Isn’t that a soprano part?” she asks, looking up at her husband for confirmation. “I thought you were singing the Libera Me solo?”
“I was,” Patrick replies, a little impatiently, which earns him a disapproving look. “I mean, I still am, but Greta has some kind of throat-thing and keeps going off key, and Father Francis said that I would have to sing her parts too. I have the range, we’re just taking it down an octave. But, yes, that means that I’ve had to learn both Pie Jesu and In Paradisum in less than thirty minutes so if you could please help me figure out the words I’m missing, like now, that would be really great.”
“Patrick.”
The Undersheriff’s voice is quiet enough not to be heard by more than the people in their little circle, but still sharp enough to make Patrick’s mouth snap shut and for him to lower his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry,” he says, voice dropping to the same soft register as his father’s. “I don’t know why I’m this nervous. I know the piece, I-It’s just-nothing. I’m sorry.”
For some reason, Patrick turns to Pete when he looks back up, as though they’re in a 19th Century novel and Pete should be offended by Patrick’s lack of decorum. And Pete is pretty sure that the boy before him is not actually a little brighter than the rest of the congregation, but somehow his eyes don’t want to understand this.
“In tuo adventu,” he hears himself say. “After the angels. That’s what comes next.”
All three Vaughn Stumps look at him in surprise, and Pete sees the Undersheriff’s eyes warm up another few degrees.
Or he would if he could focus on anything other than the smile that lights up Patrick’s face.
Oh please no…
“Thanks,” Patrick says, eyes lingering on Pete for another couple of moments before he says something about having to go join the rest of the choir and warm up before the service starts. “It was nice meeting you,” he adds, holding out his hand for Pete to shake in polite goodbye. All Pete can see is a plump bottom lip pulled in and worried quickly by white teeth before it pops out again, adding sheen to the sparkle. The hand in his is warmer this time, fingers pressing together a little more firmly. Pete feels the touch right after he replies with an empty phrase of his own and right before the contact breaks: a careful caress over the heart of his palm, hidden from view as Patrick angles their hands slightly downwards.
Fuck.
Pete doesn’t know how he manages to keep his expression of pleasant indifference, but somehow, he obviously does, because Patrick's father keeps smiling at him as they make their way into the pew.
“I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” he comments as they take their seats. “I don’t think I’ve noticed you at Mass before. I suppose it makes a lot of sense, though. Matthew always spoke very highly of you. Said you were a man with the heart in the right place.”
The truth is that even though Pete did grow up in a wonderfully respectful Catholic family with rosaries and prayer and Latin sprouting from his ears, he hasn’t been to Mass since he was fifteen and came to the conclusion that organised religion was a load of bullshit hypocrisy. But the fucking Undersheriff is looking down at him as though he’s the proverbial lost son, and his head is already too full with new impressions and feelings to be able to do anything more than nod and say something vague about privacy and personal preferences. Vaughn Stump keeps throwing him little glances as the service starts, and Pete tries not to think too much about the way his body automatically falls into the set patterns of movement and speech.
The priest talks about God and heaven. Other people get up and talk about Matthew Williams, transforming Pete’s former partner into a shining saint in line with accepted funeral tradition. The choir sings, and Pete listens with his eyes firmly focused on a neutral point somewhere in the distance. That is, until the Pie Jesu begins and a single, clear voice fills up the cathedral.
His mouth doesn’t drop open, but it’s a close call.
And when Patrick Vaughn Stump lets the last note die out and looks straight into Pete’s eyes, any semblance of choice Pete might have had slides easily and irrevocably out of his joined hands.
In Paradisum deducant te angeli
Pete knows that Patrick won’t sing those words for another half-hour or so as they belong to the last part of the funeral mass, but he has no illusions that he will be able to keep himself from following this boy now, with or without wings, wherever Patrick wants to take them.
So, yeah. Fuck.
***
DAY 1 - 11.20 AM
Jon has been working as a CSI for about five years, but every time he walks onto a crime scene, something inside him is genuinely shocked to see a dead body there. There are crime scenes and crime scenes though-everything from messy, domestic chaos with a kitchen knife and blood on the carpet to meticulously planned and staged performances at the other end of the scale.
This is the latter.
The victim is male, in his early thirties, carefully placed and posed on top of the altar. Jon's first thought is beautiful, which should feel strange, but doesn't. The man is wrapped in a simple, white bath robe and looks like he just fell asleep on his bed after a really good day. The face is relaxed and happy. It doesn't look like a crime at all.
“Are we sure this is a murder?” Jon asks, nudging Spencer aside as he snaps another round of pictures. “Because this guy doesn't really look that unhappy to be here, to be honest.”
“Well,” Ross says, pausing slightly to adjust the sunglasses he insists on wearing even inside the dimly lit church, “you know what they say about little deaths.”
“Nothing little about this one,” Spencer quips. “God, how tall is this guy? Like fifteen feet?”
“You're just jealous that he's taller than you,” Brendon says, coming down the aisle from where he's been processing the area by the door. “Ross, do you think it's okay for us to put out the candles? I need it to be a bit darker for the ALS.”
“Yeah, should be fine. Jon, you got all the pictures you needed of the overall scene, right?”
Jon nods and puts down his camera, watches Brendon come to a sudden halt as he gets a first good look of the victim.
“Do you know him?” Ross asks, moving close to Brendon and putting a careful hand on his lower back. Brendon nods, and Jon can see him take a few deep breaths before opening his mouth to speak.
“His name is William Beckett,” Brendon says. “He’s a doctor at Spring Valley hospital. Paediatrics. I think he works with the cancer kids. I don't actually know him, just recognise his face, you know?” A side-effect of Brendon never sleeping is that he has about twenty thousand projects going on outside of work. Playing guitar at the hospital is one of them.
Ryan nods, and Jon watches as Brendon carefully circles the altar, blowing out what must be at least fifty candles. The blue light of the ALS feels eerie, the sudden contrast a little too sharp.
“Hey, guys, I think we have something.”
Ross moves closer, peering over Brendon's shoulder at the smudges showing up on the victim's body.
“Blood?” Jon asks, fiddling with the camera to change the settings to night view.
“No, Ross was right the first time,” Brendon replies. “I've got traces of semen underneath the robe. Lower abdomen and thighs. Hang on.” He moves the ALS to the side, frowning.
“There's a bit on the left hand as well,” he says. “Wait, this can't be right.”
“What do you have?”
“He's wearing a ring,” Brendon says. “Which, yeah, isn't normally such a strange thing, but this guy has quite a reputation. I swear that there are nurses who never form a single sentence that doesn't somehow involve how they have a date with him or how he's such a slut for dumping them or cheating on them with one of the other nurses. Trust me, if he got married, I would have heard about it.”
“Dust it,” Ross says. “If he's not married, then the killer might have put it there. Maybe we can get a print.”
Jon snaps a few more frames before Brendon turns off the ALS, moving out of the way to give Spencer room to work.
“I think I might have a partial,” Spencer says finally. “It's hard to tell. And if not, we still have a whole bunch of swabs. Let's take this back to the lab and see if Zack can work his usual magic.”
“Good idea,” Ross agrees. “Jon, Brendon, you need more time?”
Jon shakes his head. He's taken what pictures he can. The rest will have to be done at the lab, after the autopsy.
“Okay, let's go then,” Ross says with a nod. “Andy!” he calls towards the small group of men gathered just outside. “We're done here. He's all yours.”
Dr Hurley gives them all thumbs up and disappears around the corner to call for the gurney.
***
OCTOBER 26
Pete comes to Patrick's choir practice the Thursday following Matthew’s funeral. Or, rather, he stalks Patrick's choir practice, because he doesn't actually come up and say hi. Instead, Patrick watches him lurk in the shadows in one of the back pews, keeping his head down. The dress uniform is long gone, white gloves and brass buttons and carefully slicked back hair replaced with jeans and a grey hoodie. He looks tired, and Patrick wonders why; and then he wonders why he's even interested in the first place. Their eyes meet for a second in the quiet between two measures, and Patrick pulls new air a little too fast into his lungs. As different as Pete's overall appearance is from the first time they met, his eyes are exactly the same-just a little darker. Patrick would have recognised him anywhere.
The choir practices for the regular three hours. Patrick gets bored after about half of it, around the time when the first tenors struggle to get their harmony right for the nine thousandth time over. He lets his attention wander from the conductor, eyes drawn almost immediately towards the back of the church.
Pete is gone.
***
OCTOBER 29
People say that the third time is the charm. Pete would rather call it a curse.
He’s sitting at a dinner table in a beautiful dining room, surrounded by white linen and polished silver, doing his best to keep up with the conversation about the dry weather they’ve been having lately.
“Would you care for some wine?” Patricia asks, stopping by his side on her way around the table.
“Thank you, but I shouldn’t,” Pete replies. “I’ll need to drive back home pretty early.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Patricia says, smiling. “Patrick's had his drivers licence for almost six months now. He could take you back. Didn’t you say you were going over to Jason’s, honey?”
Patrick looks up from where he’d been fiddling with his napkin, and Pete can’t believe how innocent his face is. “Yes, we’re working on our science project,” Patrick says, shifting his attention between his mom and Pete when he talks. “I told him I’d be over by five, but if we left right after dinner, I’d have time to take you back to your place before that.” He sounds polite and a little bit bored-every inch the well-brought-up young man who will do his mother favours with a smile, even when he doesn’t particularly wish to.
The foot slowly inching its way up the inside of Pete’s calf under the table tells a rather different story.
***
DAY 1 - 8:10 PM
“Hi, Patrick, right?” Jon asks, walking up to the desk at the back of the Audio Lab and extending his hand to the guy behind it. “I'm Jon, CSI-III. On Ross's team.”
The other guy smiles and takes his hand. He's pretty cute-all strawberry-blond and soft-looking. Surprisingly young, even for a tech.
“Yeah, that's me. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. You started on Monday, right? Audio analysis?”
“That's what they told me, at least,” Patrick says. “To be honest, I've mainly been making myself coffee and updating my iTunes so far. Oh, and getting some nice, solid experience in how to handle sexual harassment.”
Jon grins. “Wentz discover you?” he asks. “Yeah, don't worry about that. He's just... actually, I don't know what he is. I think he missed a few lessons on proper conduct back at the academy. He's just cuddly though. All talk and no action. I’ve never seen him make a serious attempt to hit on someone in the two years I’ve been working here, and I’m pretty sure he’s actually straight. So don't worry about it.”
“Thanks, I'll remember that,” Patrick says, and there's a small curve to his mouth, like he's trying to keep himself from grinning. “So, can I help you with anything? I'm not allowed to do too much, because I technically didn't finish college yet, but if you need help enhancing something, I'm all yours.”
“Yeah, that's a sentence you should definitely never say around Wentz,” Jon replies. “He'd tattoo your name in a heart on his arm and start calling you his sweetie-pie or something.” This time, there's a definite smirk on Patrick's face. Jon likes him. “So, college, huh?” he continues. “What are you studying?”
“Music and pre-law, double major,” Patrick replies. “Dad thought I should do something practical as well. Apparently, musicians starve in the street and get killed by drug-addicts.”
“Actually, lawyers tend to get killed off a lot more,” Jon says. “Especially corporate ones. Something about people not liking other people taking all their money and losing huge casino deals.”
“I'll be sure to bring it up next time we discuss my college fund,” Patrick grins. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Hey, no problem,” Jon says. “So, anyway, I have a bunch of recorded phone calls in the evidence box for what looks like a murder/suicide. They're pretty crappy quality, and I need to get some of the background noise enhanced, but I'm completely swamped with the new murder that came in this morning. You up for it?”
Patrick smiles and reaches for his laptop.
***
DAY 1 - 9.25 PM
“Holy shit,” Brendon exclaims, moving away from the desk by one of the windows and crossing the plush, white bedroom carpet to where Ryan is working the ALS over the giant bed dominating the room.
“What did you find?”
“Dr Beckett's little black book. Jesus, I think the phone directory I have at home has fewer names in it than this.” Brendon flips through the book, then stops, frowns, skims the last few pages again.
“What's wrong?”
“These are all really girly names,” Brendon says. “I mean, with this many people, you would think that there'd be all sorts, but this is all Maggie and Susie and Mollie and Lexie and a whole lot of other names that end in cute vowel sounds. I thought for sure there would be...”
He trails off. Ryan walks a little closer, takes the book from Brendon's hands.
“What?”
“I thought there'd be guys in here too,” Brendon says simply. “There was this fund raiser at the hospital. Three-four months ago maybe? And I ran into this guy there, and we talked for a couple of minutes, and I kind of got the impression that he... you know.”
Something contracts in Ryan's stomach. He flips the pages to 'B.' Five Britneys, two Brendas, a Belinda and a Beth. The knot inside him loosens.
“Hang on,” Brendon says from where he’s looking through the content of Dr Beckett’s bedside table. “I have something else.”
“More names?”
“Actually, I think this might be his journal.”
***
OCTOBER 29
“So, how would you go about committing the perfect crime?” Patrick asks as they’re driving down the streets in sleepy Las Vegas Sunday traffic.
Pete can’t help but smile a little, thinking of innocent faces and covert touches. “I think you’re doing pretty well, so far,” he says, chuckling at the smug expression that crosses Patrick’s face. “I can tell you right now what your downfall is going to be, though.”
“Oh really?”
Never in his life has Pete Wentz heard a challenge that sounded so much like a proposition.
“Yeah. Turn here. Second building on the right.”
Patrick stops the car in front of a big apartment complex and turns off the engine. He looks around, takes in the less-than-luxurious surroundings with a frown on his face.
“You live here?”
“Expecting a castle?”
“Well, no. But a house at least. I mean, everyone else my dad works with has a house. Why not you?”
“Maybe I’m a lazy asshole who can’t be bothered to weed the garden,” Pete replies easily, unbuckling his seatbelt. “So, how much of a lie did you tell your mom? How much time do you really have before you need to be at your friend’s?”
Patrick bites his lower lip, and Pete can’t keep back a chuckle. “Do you even have a friend named Jason?” he asks with a grin. “Because using an imaginary friend as your alibi is a very crappy idea if you want to be a criminal mastermind.”
“Screw you.”
Pete replies by leaning quickly over the armrest, one hand wrapping around the back of Patrick’s head and bringing their faces together. The kiss is barely even there, just a soft brush of lips, slow and sweet. Patrick jerks away almost immediately, and Pete lets his hand fall. “Careful what you wish for,” he says quietly, trying to focus on something other than the way Patrick wets his lips reflexively and the way his own heart beats much too hard and fast inside his chest. “Thanks for the ride.”
He gets out of the car before Patrick has the chance to recover, walks up the concrete path to his building without looking back. He sees the faces of Patrick's parents before him, words from a couple of days earlier, when David shook his hand and handed over a new, shiny badge, echoing uncomfortably in his head.
We need good men in this office. I believe you're one of them.
Pete trips on the step just inside the main doors and squeezes his eyes shut around the pain that shoots through his knees as he hits the ground. It's not enough to distract him from the memory of Patrick-or his family-and Pete isn't stupider than that he realises what a complete mess he's in.
In Paradisum deducant te angeli.
Pete is so, so fucked.
***
DAY 1 - 11:50 PM
“You got married?”
Ryan stops dead in his tracks, hand freezing on the handle to the door of the break room. Behind him, Brendon comes to a halt as well.
“Spencer, God, just-”
Jon’s voice. And whoa-when the hell did that happen? Ryan throws a quick glance over his shoulder. Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide, and leans a little closer-closer to the door, Ryan clarifies to no one in particular-listening intently.
“You haven’t even dated anyone in ages! How the fuck can you be married!” Spencer shouts. A small, forgotten part of Ryan feels cheerfully vindicated at the obvious pain in Spencer’s voice. The remaining 95% of him mostly feels a little sick.
“I fucked up, okay?” Jon throws back. “What? Did you think I meant for this to happen with what-Fuck, Spence, do you really see me as that much of an asshole?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer says coldly. “Would I be wrong?”
“No.” Jon’s voice is quiet. Ryan has never heard so much feeling fit into a single word before. “I guess you wouldn’t.”
Brendon leans in even closer, practically glued to Ryan’s back now. It makes breathing kind of difficult.
“When?”
“About a week ago.”
There is a long silence.
“Why?”
“It was right after Holly was shot,” Jon says. “I know it was my fault, okay? Even if people don’t come right out and say it. I fucked up royally that night, and I-I guess I tried to forget the whole day ever happened. I did a pretty good job. I went out, got drunk. There was this really sweet girl-Cassie-working at the bar. She helped me home. I don’t remember if I asked her to stay or if she did it on her own. I don’t remember much at all. The next day, I woke up naked and sticky with her head on my shoulder. And I felt like a complete jerk, but we had breakfast and talked and it wasn’t a big deal. She left, and I kind of pushed it out of my mind. There was so much other shit going on with the IA enquiry and that fucking three-week suspension and trying to have any kind of conversation with any of you without it turning into a huge fight-and then she was pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
“She’s twenty-one, Spence. She doesn’t believe in abortion and has no family here. What else could I do?”
“Not marry her without even telling your friends?”
“Spencer, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” Spencer says, and Ryan recognises that particular tone of voice all too well. He really wishes that he didn’t. “It’s fine. It’s not like we were dating or anything. Just… forget about it.”
“Spence…”
“I said fucking forget about it!” Spencer hisses. Ryan pulls back from the door as quickly as he can, dragging Brendon with him around the nearest corner.
The door to the break room slams. Ryan lets Spencer’s steps fade to a soft shuffle before pushing off the wall.
“I’ll go talk to him.”
Brendon nods numbly. Ryan makes to move away, only to be stopped by Brendon’s hand on his elbow.
“Ryan-”
Brendon isn’t quite meeting his eyes. The question hangs between them, words unspoken like they always are. Ryan pulls away from the touch, squeezing Brendon’s hand quickly in answer before heading off down the hall.
***
OCTOBER 29
Patrick drives to his usual place. It's in the rocky parts east of Vegas-one of the few places outside the carefully planned and gardened green city areas to display something similar to forest. Patrick's always liked trees for some reason. And having to drive half an hour longer and top up a couple of gallons of gas is a lot better than being caught because of his mom's car suddenly changing colour to 'desert dust.'
It's actually not that hard, sneaking off and making an odd, isolated life for himself outside of his parents' expectations. Patrick learned very early on that appearances are more than enough in his family. His dad's motto has always been 'Ask the right questions'. From what Patrick gathers, the right questions are the ones where the answers will assure you that everything is just fine.
Do you even have a friend named Jason?
Actually, he does. Lying with the truth is something he learned from his mom. (Hiding in plain sight is another.) He sometimes wonders if he should be bothered by all the false propriety and transparent Stepfordness around him, but the truth is that it keeps him freer than most people he knows. His dad works long hours and his mom puts in at least as much time with her charities and social life. As long as he's discreet enough to keep people from talking, Patrick can do pretty much whatever he wants.
What does he want?
He stops the car where the narrow path ends, walks the last fifty yards or so to a small plateau where there's a nice view of the sky and just miles and miles of desert and rock spreading out beneath him.
He sits down on the dry grass, touches his lips.
Pete kissed him.
There's a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like arousal, but warmer-deeper somehow. Patrick doesn't know what to make of it. He thought he was only playing with power a little, testing out the waters to see what kind of reactions he could get. Now, he's not so sure.
Careful what you wish for.
Pete is twenty-eight. Patrick found his MySpace. He wonders briefly how long the prison sentence would be if his dad found out.
He thoughtfully slips off the silver ring he wears on his fourth finger and twirls it around the tip of his thumb. It still feels completely right. It's simple in the way the sky is simple, and music, and God. It just fits, somehow. Like it was always meant to be part of him.
Patrick knows that people don't understand this about him. Knows that they see the good Catholic boy and thinks that he's just like Adam or Tom or Greta-that he believes in set rules rather than in things that actually mean something, and thinking in terms of sin and penance and forgiveness just like the rest of them.
Then he remembers the knowing look on Pete's face right before he left the car and wonders if maybe-just maybe-Pete sees the simple things too.
Chapter II - Patience
Band(s): FOB, PATD (minor characters from various bands)
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick (background Brendon/Ryan and Jon/Spencer)
Word count: 35,500
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 / underage sex, minor character death, some BDSM
(General warnings for everything CSI: dead bodies, crime, creative serial killers, years of UST, complete disregard for the actual workings of the American legal system and/or laws of physics and probability. Some references to murder, torture, incest, prostitution and rape in cases being investigated, but nothing graphic or actually shown in-story. No creepy crawlers either. Gil Grissom Ryan Ross does not get to hatch larvae from a dead pig.)
Summary: CSI AU. Ryan Ross's CSI team joins up with Detective Pete Wentz to investigate a string of unusual murders.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Epilogue
Bonus tracks/Enhanced content:
Fanart:
Story banner by ohfreckle
Fanmixes:
Burn So Pretty by alchemywow
Fanmix by beachan18
Fanvid:
If You're Not the One by me
Thanks to: blindmouse and lariopefic for outstanding beta, to the BBB mods for a job very well done, and to chicken_cookie, ivesia19, tristafantastic, afterxbirth, fannyt, reni_days, behindthec and cynicsandsaints for awesome help bouncing ideas, developing plotlines, convincing me to write even more Peterick sex and generally making my first BBB experience really great. ♥
ETA: This fic has undergone a few, minor edits in preparation for the mirroring stories to be posted. Main changes are (very spoilery): 1) Changing the killer’s last name from Trohman to Keanes. Because I felt really guilty about making Joe a killer. 2) VickyT now works in a classy strip club instead of a seedy one. Because I love her and she’s awesome and deserves the best of everything, including imaginary strip club working places. 3) The Spencer/Ryan scene at the end of chapter 5 has been rewritten to fit the Spyro companion that I wasn’t planning on writing when posting the Peterick arc. (All details and reasonings on this here if you’re interested).
CHAPTER ONE - KINDNESS
DAY 1
The call comes at 10:34 am, roughly three hours after Jon finally got to crawl into bed after a night spent sifting through the contents of yet another Las Vegas dumpster-turned-hiding-place-for-blood-stained-clothes. He’d bagged 78 individual pieces of trace evidence and handed over more than two hundred prints to the haggard-looking print tech before leaving the lab. Lying down on the ruffled bed had felt like a little piece of heaven.
He fumbles over the night stand, finds his phone and somehow manages to press the right button.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jon, it’s Ross,” a tired voice says on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I need you to come back in. 419 over on Dawson, and Wentz insists that he needs our team on this for some reason.”
Jon closes his eyes and curses silently, even as he mentally starts preparing to push the covers away.
“I’m on my way.”
He clicks off the call and somehow manages to push himself into a sitting position. Thin rays of morning sun filter in through the wooden blinds, drawing patterns on the carpet and up along the side of the bed. A stripe of light falls across the surface of the bedside table, reflecting off a thin gold band lying next to his alarm clock. Jon picks up the ring between his thumb and forefinger, slides it on. The metal feels foreign against his skin, but he resists the urge to take it back off nevertheless. He’s been married for over a week. It’s time that he told people.
***
DAY 1 - 11:05 AM
The chapel is small and white, simple in its architecture and devoid of neon signs advertising Elvis-themed weddings at special rates. Jon parks his Denali next to a black and white police car and climbs out to get his kit from the back. On the other side of a barrier of yellow and black tape, he spots Detective Wentz and Dr Hurley, the coroner, talking to each other in carefully lowered voices by the main door. Brendon-one of the other CSI’s on Ross’s team-is fiddling with his kit a few yards away from them, already in his coveralls and ready to go. Jon is not surprised. Sometimes, he wonders if Brendon Urie ever sleeps.
“Morning, Walker.”
Jon starts a little as Spencer Smith's voice filters in from behind, his arm brushing casually against Jon's as he walks past. Behind him, Ryan Ross follows with an amused little smirk at the corner of his mouth, echoing the greeting. Jon pushes his left hand deeper into the pocket of his jeans and tries to smile. There's work to do.
***
FOUR YEARS EARLIER - OCTOBER 22
Another funeral. Another dead cop to add to the list. Pete has been to six of these gloomy office parties since he joined the LVPD, but this is the first time the body encased in cherry wood and flowers is someone he actually gave a shit about.
He nods at people he recognises, shakes hands as some come up to express their condolences. He wonders how many of them knew his dead partner by more than name and picture. Probably a fair number, actually; Matthew Williams practically grew up in grey hallways and interrogation rooms, worked his way through most departments and was promoted to detective years earlier than people normally did. Pete had resented Williams’s speedy career and higher status when he started; now he’s just grateful he’s not the one in the box.
“Officer Wentz, how are you holding up?”
The Undersheriff’s approach startles him a little, and Pete automatically pulls his shoulders back and stands up straighter, tries to give a smile that’s both appropriate and professional.
“Pretty well under the circumstances, sir. We’re all shaken up, but we do what we can in the team to support one another.
“I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great man.”
Empty words, even though they’re true. Matt was pretty great. Not that someone as high up as Undersheriff David Vaughn Stump would have known it.
“Thank you, sir.”
The other man pauses for a second, looking at Pete with eyes that have both kindness and calculation in them. “Come and sit with me and my family,” he says finally, and Pete does his best not to let the surprise show on his face. “You seem like a good cop, and Matthew always spoke very highly of you. Call my secretary on Monday and schedule an appointment for sometime later next week. We should talk some more.”
Pete nods and somehow manages to make small talk as the Undersheriff guides him through the large cathedral towards one of the front pews. Detective, Pete thinks. Undersheriff Vaughn Stump wants to promote him to Detective and have him take Williams’s place in their team. There’s no other plausible reason for an official meeting at this point. While that thought is making circles in Pete’s head, another strikes: Vaughn Stump used Matt’s given name. Pete wonders why.
“This is Patricia, my wife,” Vaughn Stump says, introducing a slim, strawberry-blonde woman in a beautiful dark-blue suit and pearls. “Patricia, this is Officer Pete Wentz, Matthew’s partner.”
They shake hands, white gloves touching lightly. Patricia has Hollywood-beautiful tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over and ruin the impeccable make-up on her face but never quite crossing the line-a perfect picture of contained sorrow.
“Matthew was our nephew,” the Undersheriff says quietly, and the things immediately make more sense. “We were all very fond of him.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete offers. Patricia smiles a little and squeezes his hand, repeats the words back to him. Pete likes her, in spite of the obvious WASP status and perfectly arranged hair. He opens his mouth to say something more, when a voice from behind cuts him off.
“Dad, I can’t find Sister Mary or Father Francis or my sheet music. Can you please help me find out what comes after ‘deducant te angeli’ in the paradisum part, because I’m going nuts here and I know I know it, I just can’t get-hi.”
Pete stares. He tries not to, maybe even manages it, he’s not sure. There’s a teenage boy in front of him. A little shorter than Pete, soft-faced and wide-eyed. A blush in his cheeks from hurrying down the aisle, a pretty pout in his lips and the same strawberry-blond hair as the woman standing next to him. He can’t be more than sixteen.
“I’m sorry. Officer Wentz, this is my son Patrick. Patrick, Pete Wentz.”
“Nice to meet you.” Patrick extends his hand, and Pete takes it, feels the warmth against his gloved palm and does his best to offer the same polite phrases back.
“Patrick’s in the choir,” Mrs Vaughn Stump says, a distinct tone of pride in her voice. “He’ll be singing during Mass. Now, what was it that you needed help with, honey?”
Patrick blushes, embarrassed to be called ‘honey’ by his mother in front of strangers in uniform, no doubt. “The requiem,” he mumbles. “The last part-In Paradisum-the third line, between ‘deducant te angeli’ and ‘suscipiant te martyres’.”
Patricia’s brow furrows in confusion. “Isn’t that a soprano part?” she asks, looking up at her husband for confirmation. “I thought you were singing the Libera Me solo?”
“I was,” Patrick replies, a little impatiently, which earns him a disapproving look. “I mean, I still am, but Greta has some kind of throat-thing and keeps going off key, and Father Francis said that I would have to sing her parts too. I have the range, we’re just taking it down an octave. But, yes, that means that I’ve had to learn both Pie Jesu and In Paradisum in less than thirty minutes so if you could please help me figure out the words I’m missing, like now, that would be really great.”
“Patrick.”
The Undersheriff’s voice is quiet enough not to be heard by more than the people in their little circle, but still sharp enough to make Patrick’s mouth snap shut and for him to lower his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry,” he says, voice dropping to the same soft register as his father’s. “I don’t know why I’m this nervous. I know the piece, I-It’s just-nothing. I’m sorry.”
For some reason, Patrick turns to Pete when he looks back up, as though they’re in a 19th Century novel and Pete should be offended by Patrick’s lack of decorum. And Pete is pretty sure that the boy before him is not actually a little brighter than the rest of the congregation, but somehow his eyes don’t want to understand this.
“In tuo adventu,” he hears himself say. “After the angels. That’s what comes next.”
All three Vaughn Stumps look at him in surprise, and Pete sees the Undersheriff’s eyes warm up another few degrees.
Or he would if he could focus on anything other than the smile that lights up Patrick’s face.
Oh please no…
“Thanks,” Patrick says, eyes lingering on Pete for another couple of moments before he says something about having to go join the rest of the choir and warm up before the service starts. “It was nice meeting you,” he adds, holding out his hand for Pete to shake in polite goodbye. All Pete can see is a plump bottom lip pulled in and worried quickly by white teeth before it pops out again, adding sheen to the sparkle. The hand in his is warmer this time, fingers pressing together a little more firmly. Pete feels the touch right after he replies with an empty phrase of his own and right before the contact breaks: a careful caress over the heart of his palm, hidden from view as Patrick angles their hands slightly downwards.
Fuck.
Pete doesn’t know how he manages to keep his expression of pleasant indifference, but somehow, he obviously does, because Patrick's father keeps smiling at him as they make their way into the pew.
“I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” he comments as they take their seats. “I don’t think I’ve noticed you at Mass before. I suppose it makes a lot of sense, though. Matthew always spoke very highly of you. Said you were a man with the heart in the right place.”
The truth is that even though Pete did grow up in a wonderfully respectful Catholic family with rosaries and prayer and Latin sprouting from his ears, he hasn’t been to Mass since he was fifteen and came to the conclusion that organised religion was a load of bullshit hypocrisy. But the fucking Undersheriff is looking down at him as though he’s the proverbial lost son, and his head is already too full with new impressions and feelings to be able to do anything more than nod and say something vague about privacy and personal preferences. Vaughn Stump keeps throwing him little glances as the service starts, and Pete tries not to think too much about the way his body automatically falls into the set patterns of movement and speech.
The priest talks about God and heaven. Other people get up and talk about Matthew Williams, transforming Pete’s former partner into a shining saint in line with accepted funeral tradition. The choir sings, and Pete listens with his eyes firmly focused on a neutral point somewhere in the distance. That is, until the Pie Jesu begins and a single, clear voice fills up the cathedral.
His mouth doesn’t drop open, but it’s a close call.
And when Patrick Vaughn Stump lets the last note die out and looks straight into Pete’s eyes, any semblance of choice Pete might have had slides easily and irrevocably out of his joined hands.
In Paradisum deducant te angeli
Pete knows that Patrick won’t sing those words for another half-hour or so as they belong to the last part of the funeral mass, but he has no illusions that he will be able to keep himself from following this boy now, with or without wings, wherever Patrick wants to take them.
So, yeah. Fuck.
***
DAY 1 - 11.20 AM
Jon has been working as a CSI for about five years, but every time he walks onto a crime scene, something inside him is genuinely shocked to see a dead body there. There are crime scenes and crime scenes though-everything from messy, domestic chaos with a kitchen knife and blood on the carpet to meticulously planned and staged performances at the other end of the scale.
This is the latter.
The victim is male, in his early thirties, carefully placed and posed on top of the altar. Jon's first thought is beautiful, which should feel strange, but doesn't. The man is wrapped in a simple, white bath robe and looks like he just fell asleep on his bed after a really good day. The face is relaxed and happy. It doesn't look like a crime at all.
“Are we sure this is a murder?” Jon asks, nudging Spencer aside as he snaps another round of pictures. “Because this guy doesn't really look that unhappy to be here, to be honest.”
“Well,” Ross says, pausing slightly to adjust the sunglasses he insists on wearing even inside the dimly lit church, “you know what they say about little deaths.”
“Nothing little about this one,” Spencer quips. “God, how tall is this guy? Like fifteen feet?”
“You're just jealous that he's taller than you,” Brendon says, coming down the aisle from where he's been processing the area by the door. “Ross, do you think it's okay for us to put out the candles? I need it to be a bit darker for the ALS.”
“Yeah, should be fine. Jon, you got all the pictures you needed of the overall scene, right?”
Jon nods and puts down his camera, watches Brendon come to a sudden halt as he gets a first good look of the victim.
“Do you know him?” Ross asks, moving close to Brendon and putting a careful hand on his lower back. Brendon nods, and Jon can see him take a few deep breaths before opening his mouth to speak.
“His name is William Beckett,” Brendon says. “He’s a doctor at Spring Valley hospital. Paediatrics. I think he works with the cancer kids. I don't actually know him, just recognise his face, you know?” A side-effect of Brendon never sleeping is that he has about twenty thousand projects going on outside of work. Playing guitar at the hospital is one of them.
Ryan nods, and Jon watches as Brendon carefully circles the altar, blowing out what must be at least fifty candles. The blue light of the ALS feels eerie, the sudden contrast a little too sharp.
“Hey, guys, I think we have something.”
Ross moves closer, peering over Brendon's shoulder at the smudges showing up on the victim's body.
“Blood?” Jon asks, fiddling with the camera to change the settings to night view.
“No, Ross was right the first time,” Brendon replies. “I've got traces of semen underneath the robe. Lower abdomen and thighs. Hang on.” He moves the ALS to the side, frowning.
“There's a bit on the left hand as well,” he says. “Wait, this can't be right.”
“What do you have?”
“He's wearing a ring,” Brendon says. “Which, yeah, isn't normally such a strange thing, but this guy has quite a reputation. I swear that there are nurses who never form a single sentence that doesn't somehow involve how they have a date with him or how he's such a slut for dumping them or cheating on them with one of the other nurses. Trust me, if he got married, I would have heard about it.”
“Dust it,” Ross says. “If he's not married, then the killer might have put it there. Maybe we can get a print.”
Jon snaps a few more frames before Brendon turns off the ALS, moving out of the way to give Spencer room to work.
“I think I might have a partial,” Spencer says finally. “It's hard to tell. And if not, we still have a whole bunch of swabs. Let's take this back to the lab and see if Zack can work his usual magic.”
“Good idea,” Ross agrees. “Jon, Brendon, you need more time?”
Jon shakes his head. He's taken what pictures he can. The rest will have to be done at the lab, after the autopsy.
“Okay, let's go then,” Ross says with a nod. “Andy!” he calls towards the small group of men gathered just outside. “We're done here. He's all yours.”
Dr Hurley gives them all thumbs up and disappears around the corner to call for the gurney.
***
OCTOBER 26
Pete comes to Patrick's choir practice the Thursday following Matthew’s funeral. Or, rather, he stalks Patrick's choir practice, because he doesn't actually come up and say hi. Instead, Patrick watches him lurk in the shadows in one of the back pews, keeping his head down. The dress uniform is long gone, white gloves and brass buttons and carefully slicked back hair replaced with jeans and a grey hoodie. He looks tired, and Patrick wonders why; and then he wonders why he's even interested in the first place. Their eyes meet for a second in the quiet between two measures, and Patrick pulls new air a little too fast into his lungs. As different as Pete's overall appearance is from the first time they met, his eyes are exactly the same-just a little darker. Patrick would have recognised him anywhere.
The choir practices for the regular three hours. Patrick gets bored after about half of it, around the time when the first tenors struggle to get their harmony right for the nine thousandth time over. He lets his attention wander from the conductor, eyes drawn almost immediately towards the back of the church.
Pete is gone.
***
OCTOBER 29
People say that the third time is the charm. Pete would rather call it a curse.
He’s sitting at a dinner table in a beautiful dining room, surrounded by white linen and polished silver, doing his best to keep up with the conversation about the dry weather they’ve been having lately.
“Would you care for some wine?” Patricia asks, stopping by his side on her way around the table.
“Thank you, but I shouldn’t,” Pete replies. “I’ll need to drive back home pretty early.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Patricia says, smiling. “Patrick's had his drivers licence for almost six months now. He could take you back. Didn’t you say you were going over to Jason’s, honey?”
Patrick looks up from where he’d been fiddling with his napkin, and Pete can’t believe how innocent his face is. “Yes, we’re working on our science project,” Patrick says, shifting his attention between his mom and Pete when he talks. “I told him I’d be over by five, but if we left right after dinner, I’d have time to take you back to your place before that.” He sounds polite and a little bit bored-every inch the well-brought-up young man who will do his mother favours with a smile, even when he doesn’t particularly wish to.
The foot slowly inching its way up the inside of Pete’s calf under the table tells a rather different story.
***
DAY 1 - 8:10 PM
“Hi, Patrick, right?” Jon asks, walking up to the desk at the back of the Audio Lab and extending his hand to the guy behind it. “I'm Jon, CSI-III. On Ross's team.”
The other guy smiles and takes his hand. He's pretty cute-all strawberry-blond and soft-looking. Surprisingly young, even for a tech.
“Yeah, that's me. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. You started on Monday, right? Audio analysis?”
“That's what they told me, at least,” Patrick says. “To be honest, I've mainly been making myself coffee and updating my iTunes so far. Oh, and getting some nice, solid experience in how to handle sexual harassment.”
Jon grins. “Wentz discover you?” he asks. “Yeah, don't worry about that. He's just... actually, I don't know what he is. I think he missed a few lessons on proper conduct back at the academy. He's just cuddly though. All talk and no action. I’ve never seen him make a serious attempt to hit on someone in the two years I’ve been working here, and I’m pretty sure he’s actually straight. So don't worry about it.”
“Thanks, I'll remember that,” Patrick says, and there's a small curve to his mouth, like he's trying to keep himself from grinning. “So, can I help you with anything? I'm not allowed to do too much, because I technically didn't finish college yet, but if you need help enhancing something, I'm all yours.”
“Yeah, that's a sentence you should definitely never say around Wentz,” Jon replies. “He'd tattoo your name in a heart on his arm and start calling you his sweetie-pie or something.” This time, there's a definite smirk on Patrick's face. Jon likes him. “So, college, huh?” he continues. “What are you studying?”
“Music and pre-law, double major,” Patrick replies. “Dad thought I should do something practical as well. Apparently, musicians starve in the street and get killed by drug-addicts.”
“Actually, lawyers tend to get killed off a lot more,” Jon says. “Especially corporate ones. Something about people not liking other people taking all their money and losing huge casino deals.”
“I'll be sure to bring it up next time we discuss my college fund,” Patrick grins. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Hey, no problem,” Jon says. “So, anyway, I have a bunch of recorded phone calls in the evidence box for what looks like a murder/suicide. They're pretty crappy quality, and I need to get some of the background noise enhanced, but I'm completely swamped with the new murder that came in this morning. You up for it?”
Patrick smiles and reaches for his laptop.
***
DAY 1 - 9.25 PM
“Holy shit,” Brendon exclaims, moving away from the desk by one of the windows and crossing the plush, white bedroom carpet to where Ryan is working the ALS over the giant bed dominating the room.
“What did you find?”
“Dr Beckett's little black book. Jesus, I think the phone directory I have at home has fewer names in it than this.” Brendon flips through the book, then stops, frowns, skims the last few pages again.
“What's wrong?”
“These are all really girly names,” Brendon says. “I mean, with this many people, you would think that there'd be all sorts, but this is all Maggie and Susie and Mollie and Lexie and a whole lot of other names that end in cute vowel sounds. I thought for sure there would be...”
He trails off. Ryan walks a little closer, takes the book from Brendon's hands.
“What?”
“I thought there'd be guys in here too,” Brendon says simply. “There was this fund raiser at the hospital. Three-four months ago maybe? And I ran into this guy there, and we talked for a couple of minutes, and I kind of got the impression that he... you know.”
Something contracts in Ryan's stomach. He flips the pages to 'B.' Five Britneys, two Brendas, a Belinda and a Beth. The knot inside him loosens.
“Hang on,” Brendon says from where he’s looking through the content of Dr Beckett’s bedside table. “I have something else.”
“More names?”
“Actually, I think this might be his journal.”
***
OCTOBER 29
“So, how would you go about committing the perfect crime?” Patrick asks as they’re driving down the streets in sleepy Las Vegas Sunday traffic.
Pete can’t help but smile a little, thinking of innocent faces and covert touches. “I think you’re doing pretty well, so far,” he says, chuckling at the smug expression that crosses Patrick’s face. “I can tell you right now what your downfall is going to be, though.”
“Oh really?”
Never in his life has Pete Wentz heard a challenge that sounded so much like a proposition.
“Yeah. Turn here. Second building on the right.”
Patrick stops the car in front of a big apartment complex and turns off the engine. He looks around, takes in the less-than-luxurious surroundings with a frown on his face.
“You live here?”
“Expecting a castle?”
“Well, no. But a house at least. I mean, everyone else my dad works with has a house. Why not you?”
“Maybe I’m a lazy asshole who can’t be bothered to weed the garden,” Pete replies easily, unbuckling his seatbelt. “So, how much of a lie did you tell your mom? How much time do you really have before you need to be at your friend’s?”
Patrick bites his lower lip, and Pete can’t keep back a chuckle. “Do you even have a friend named Jason?” he asks with a grin. “Because using an imaginary friend as your alibi is a very crappy idea if you want to be a criminal mastermind.”
“Screw you.”
Pete replies by leaning quickly over the armrest, one hand wrapping around the back of Patrick’s head and bringing their faces together. The kiss is barely even there, just a soft brush of lips, slow and sweet. Patrick jerks away almost immediately, and Pete lets his hand fall. “Careful what you wish for,” he says quietly, trying to focus on something other than the way Patrick wets his lips reflexively and the way his own heart beats much too hard and fast inside his chest. “Thanks for the ride.”
He gets out of the car before Patrick has the chance to recover, walks up the concrete path to his building without looking back. He sees the faces of Patrick's parents before him, words from a couple of days earlier, when David shook his hand and handed over a new, shiny badge, echoing uncomfortably in his head.
We need good men in this office. I believe you're one of them.
Pete trips on the step just inside the main doors and squeezes his eyes shut around the pain that shoots through his knees as he hits the ground. It's not enough to distract him from the memory of Patrick-or his family-and Pete isn't stupider than that he realises what a complete mess he's in.
In Paradisum deducant te angeli.
Pete is so, so fucked.
***
DAY 1 - 11:50 PM
“You got married?”
Ryan stops dead in his tracks, hand freezing on the handle to the door of the break room. Behind him, Brendon comes to a halt as well.
“Spencer, God, just-”
Jon’s voice. And whoa-when the hell did that happen? Ryan throws a quick glance over his shoulder. Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide, and leans a little closer-closer to the door, Ryan clarifies to no one in particular-listening intently.
“You haven’t even dated anyone in ages! How the fuck can you be married!” Spencer shouts. A small, forgotten part of Ryan feels cheerfully vindicated at the obvious pain in Spencer’s voice. The remaining 95% of him mostly feels a little sick.
“I fucked up, okay?” Jon throws back. “What? Did you think I meant for this to happen with what-Fuck, Spence, do you really see me as that much of an asshole?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer says coldly. “Would I be wrong?”
“No.” Jon’s voice is quiet. Ryan has never heard so much feeling fit into a single word before. “I guess you wouldn’t.”
Brendon leans in even closer, practically glued to Ryan’s back now. It makes breathing kind of difficult.
“When?”
“About a week ago.”
There is a long silence.
“Why?”
“It was right after Holly was shot,” Jon says. “I know it was my fault, okay? Even if people don’t come right out and say it. I fucked up royally that night, and I-I guess I tried to forget the whole day ever happened. I did a pretty good job. I went out, got drunk. There was this really sweet girl-Cassie-working at the bar. She helped me home. I don’t remember if I asked her to stay or if she did it on her own. I don’t remember much at all. The next day, I woke up naked and sticky with her head on my shoulder. And I felt like a complete jerk, but we had breakfast and talked and it wasn’t a big deal. She left, and I kind of pushed it out of my mind. There was so much other shit going on with the IA enquiry and that fucking three-week suspension and trying to have any kind of conversation with any of you without it turning into a huge fight-and then she was pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
“She’s twenty-one, Spence. She doesn’t believe in abortion and has no family here. What else could I do?”
“Not marry her without even telling your friends?”
“Spencer, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” Spencer says, and Ryan recognises that particular tone of voice all too well. He really wishes that he didn’t. “It’s fine. It’s not like we were dating or anything. Just… forget about it.”
“Spence…”
“I said fucking forget about it!” Spencer hisses. Ryan pulls back from the door as quickly as he can, dragging Brendon with him around the nearest corner.
The door to the break room slams. Ryan lets Spencer’s steps fade to a soft shuffle before pushing off the wall.
“I’ll go talk to him.”
Brendon nods numbly. Ryan makes to move away, only to be stopped by Brendon’s hand on his elbow.
“Ryan-”
Brendon isn’t quite meeting his eyes. The question hangs between them, words unspoken like they always are. Ryan pulls away from the touch, squeezing Brendon’s hand quickly in answer before heading off down the hall.
***
OCTOBER 29
Patrick drives to his usual place. It's in the rocky parts east of Vegas-one of the few places outside the carefully planned and gardened green city areas to display something similar to forest. Patrick's always liked trees for some reason. And having to drive half an hour longer and top up a couple of gallons of gas is a lot better than being caught because of his mom's car suddenly changing colour to 'desert dust.'
It's actually not that hard, sneaking off and making an odd, isolated life for himself outside of his parents' expectations. Patrick learned very early on that appearances are more than enough in his family. His dad's motto has always been 'Ask the right questions'. From what Patrick gathers, the right questions are the ones where the answers will assure you that everything is just fine.
Do you even have a friend named Jason?
Actually, he does. Lying with the truth is something he learned from his mom. (Hiding in plain sight is another.) He sometimes wonders if he should be bothered by all the false propriety and transparent Stepfordness around him, but the truth is that it keeps him freer than most people he knows. His dad works long hours and his mom puts in at least as much time with her charities and social life. As long as he's discreet enough to keep people from talking, Patrick can do pretty much whatever he wants.
What does he want?
He stops the car where the narrow path ends, walks the last fifty yards or so to a small plateau where there's a nice view of the sky and just miles and miles of desert and rock spreading out beneath him.
He sits down on the dry grass, touches his lips.
Pete kissed him.
There's a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like arousal, but warmer-deeper somehow. Patrick doesn't know what to make of it. He thought he was only playing with power a little, testing out the waters to see what kind of reactions he could get. Now, he's not so sure.
Careful what you wish for.
Pete is twenty-eight. Patrick found his MySpace. He wonders briefly how long the prison sentence would be if his dad found out.
He thoughtfully slips off the silver ring he wears on his fourth finger and twirls it around the tip of his thumb. It still feels completely right. It's simple in the way the sky is simple, and music, and God. It just fits, somehow. Like it was always meant to be part of him.
Patrick knows that people don't understand this about him. Knows that they see the good Catholic boy and thinks that he's just like Adam or Tom or Greta-that he believes in set rules rather than in things that actually mean something, and thinking in terms of sin and penance and forgiveness just like the rest of them.
Then he remembers the knowing look on Pete's face right before he left the car and wonders if maybe-just maybe-Pete sees the simple things too.
Chapter II - Patience