Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jimmy slinks from the bedroom as discreetly as possible. He knows what Ghost’s body language should look like, but in practice it’s abysmal. Jimmy’s always been too hyper, too impulsive, too unsettling, and worst of all, too obvious.

His patterns float to the surface, no matter how far down in their mind Ghost tries to bury him. His higher voice and spastic eye movements are dead giveaways. If he just plays it off though, he can sneak out of the house without Toast noticing. Unfortunately, Toast knows Ghost better than anyone else ever could. He might not know about Jimmy, but he would definitely recognize the absence of Ghost.

When Jimmy sees the back of Toast’s head from the couch in the sunroom, he realizes he has no idea how long it’s been since he got away with acting like a regular person, let alone acting like Ghost.

The sunroom is between him and the only door out. Toast is in his way.

Normally he wouldn't care. Most people would much rather not be in the same room as Jimmy, or Ghost for that matter. And most other people won’t keep up a shouting match or a real fight for as long as he will. The only person who’ll shout just as loud and swing just as fast is his mom. But Toast is a whole different story.

Jimmy can't place exactly why he never wants to get in a fight with Toast. It’s something about that man. Toast is bigger than him. Toast is unpredictable. Toast could have a gun on him. Toast knows Ghost better than he does and could easily find out Jimmy exists from just one uncharacteristic move. The crushing flood of dread makes Jimmy think there might be some merit to that last one.

He grips the kitchen counter, trying to keep his trembling to a minimum. There’s a shelf of different teas and coffee bags for him to stare down at and face away from Toast while he comes up with a plan, until he hears the older man shift around to look at him.

“Good morning, Sir!”

“Morning,” he whispers over his shoulder. It’s not perfect, Ghost’s grouchy mumbling is too hard to replicate under this much pressure.

Jimmy idles for a moment, starting to make a pot of coffee. He can’t tell if he’s feeling Toast’s eyes on him or if it’s his imagination. He wishes he’d thought more about what Ghost would be wearing. The worn jeans and belt are fine, he's pretty sure this is the only pair of shoes Ghost has, but maybe Ghost wouldn’t go out in a T-shirt. Does Ghost still throw on his hoodie first thing every morning? He’s such a toolbag.

When he woke up today, Jimmy just thought the old horror movie shirt was cool. Now he feels like he should have covered up more. He's not interested in letting Toast see his scars, even if he probably already knows. Ghost might trust him enough to be seen like this, but Jimmy absolutely does not.

He wants to duck back into their room to find a sweater, or make an excuse to leave before Toast can get a word in, except he’s already bringing two coffee mugs into the sunroom without meaning to. He hears the birds chirping outside before he realizes where he is.

Not good. He must not be as fully in-control today as he thought.

Jimmy steadies himself to keep moving and stay awake. He finishes setting the mugs down on the coffee table with twitchy hands that he hopes isn’t unusual to the other. He hums at Toast as he sinks into the couch next to him, not especially close. What's he doing? Toast is gonna know, but he can't leave now, can he? This is so bad.

Watching Toast in the corner of his eye, he doesn’t seem to pick up on anything. Jimmy has to keep telling himself not to fidget too much, unsure if Ghost is as restless as him. He rubs his temple in an attempt to relax his face and hopes the scars aren't as weird if he just looks like Ghost when he’s crabby. Toast doesn't notice that either. Maybe he's stupid.

Still, Jimmy can't get too comfortable, even though he really likes this room. He likes these sounds, these smells, the breeze, the textures. He wishes Gavin was here instead, but that's exactly why he wants to leave. He can’t space out. He can't let his guard down. Today is his day. This is his body. This is his.

Toast looks up from his crossword and gives a little laugh. “What’s this?”

Jimmy tries not to panic, suddenly much less certain of whether Toast even drinks coffee, or if he made it wrong, or why him making it would be funny somehow.

“I–” He clears his raspy throat. “I dunno.”

Jimmy almost grimaces at his voice, sounding like a kid who got in trouble. But Toast only smiles and takes a sip from his mug.

”Well, thank you anyway, Sir! I suppose we may need it today,” Toast sighs, checking his watch. “We should head to the office soon. Preferably before you put a straw in the coffee pot.”

“You say that like it’s a bad idea.” Jimmy throws his hands up in a shrug, with a subtly deeper voice, joking as if he and Toast are friends. The constant sense of exposure reminds him to put his arms down.

Toast shakes his head, still smiling as he gets back to his crossword. Even though Jimmy’s grossed out by the way they’re technically getting along, at least he isn’t caught yet.

It takes a moment to sit through the unpleasant wave of relief. Jimmy warily side-eyes the coffee he made for himself. He really doesn’t want it, remembering how bad caffeine makes him feel now. Ever since Ghost ruined it for them.

It dawns on him that that’s probably why Toast found it funny.

He’s not sure if he should drink it anyway, if it would mean fewer questions. He’s even less sure of what excuse will get him out of going to their dumb old office. This shouldn’t be so hard. Convincing people that he’s Ghost used to come effortlessly to him. He hasn’t needed to convince anyone lately.

He’s about to grab his coffee when Toast perks up and reaches over him. “Oh, before I forget!”

Jimmy freezes at the sudden breach of his space.

He feels his lungs cave in. This is wrong.

He's going to hurt him. This was a setup. Jimmy fucking knew it. Fight, fight back.

The rattling of a pill box in Toast’s hand interrupts the screaming alarms in his head. He blinks at it for a second too long before realizing they’re face-to-face.

Jimmy has one hand digging fiercely into the muscle of Toast's forearm, his other hand pushing the older man away. Neither of them move, while Jimmy's shoulder tenses so much it hurts.

Toast sees him. He sees the fear in his eyes, his pupils no doubt blown to shit. He sees the look on his face that’s nothing like Ghost.

He sees the bottomless hatred Jimmy has for him.

Toast leans back and averts his eyes. “Sorry, Sir. I was just getting your meds. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jimmy pulls his hands to himself as Toast returns to his side of the couch, putting the pill box down between them and picking up his crossword again. The pages barely make a sound. Deep red bruises bloom around his forearm that Toast either can't feel or chose to ignore. Jimmy's not sorry. He probably should be, but he's not. He's pretty sure Ghost wouldn't say anything either way.

He can’t make himself act calm now. He's definitely still in danger. He hates Toast for ambushing him and he hates Ghost for letting that be normal for them. And he hates Toast even more for being so quiet about what just happened. It's better that he isn't questioning it, admittedly it's not the first time something like this has happened, but Jimmy doesn't want Toast to be familiar with it. He doesn't want Toast to understand him. He wants to get out of here. He wants to see Gavin. He wants to go back in his head and make Ghost deal with it.

He can feel himself shaking, mostly with how painfully angry he is. Toast knows. He has to. He knows and he’s hiding it. This isn’t safe anymore.

Jimmy has half a mind to run, defend himself before Toast hurts him, because Toast will. But the older man’s face is peaceful and unbothered. He never gives anything away.

He’s not even looking at him, just a glance at the pill box sitting next to him. “Do you want some water with them, Sir?”

Petrified under the gentle gaze, Jimmy nods and Toast gets up. He could run now. He remembers he still has nothing covering his arms. It’ll be fine, it’s too hot for a hoodie anyway. He’ll be with Gavin, who’s absolutely allowed to see him like this. He just has to focus.

He's barely done with that thought when Toast is handing him the water and sitting down again. Jimmy has to do something, but he doesn’t even know what’s in those pills. What’s Ghost taking now? What if it makes him feel worse? Wasn’t that the one thing they were kind of on the same side about?

He realizes he’s been staring at the glass of water in his hands, and Toast isn’t saying anything. Jimmy has to leave. He knows he has to leave. He has to concentrate.

Toast... knows.

Jimmy’s been noticed before. Sometimes outdoor cats pick up that he’s not a familiar person, even when his appearance and scent must be the same. People are a lot easier to get away with pretending around. People are more trusting of what they think they see. Jimmy had to relearn which senses were reliable, how to tell what was really there. Any trust in his sense of reality had been thoroughly beaten out of him.

Of course Toast doesn’t know. He can see the absence of Ghost. He can't see Jimmy.

Fuck. He’s really out of it.

He can’t keep himself above the surface for a full moment. This is going so wrong and he can’t concentrate. How long has this exact feeling been ruining his life? He doesn’t need to be like this anymore. Is this ever going to go away?

This isn’t fair. This was supposed to be his day. His one fucking day.

This is his body. Not Ghost’s. He has no idea what this is like. Ghost treats him like he’s not real. Like he’s not human.

Ghost hurt him so many times. He fucked up so many times.

Every thought Jimmy starts to put together falls apart in his lap. He knows he meant to do something today, it's on the tip of his tongue until it's gone. He stares quietly, motionlessly, at the glass of water blurring out of focus.

There's a steady repetition of birds chirping somewhere, if they're even really there. His head feels heavy and weightless at the same time. He wonders if anyone around him thinks he’s on drugs.

He looks down for so long that his arms start to warp out of shape. It feels like his limbs aren’t his. It feels like his heart isn’t beating. It feels like a dream that he was so sure he’d already woken up from.

Toast slowly takes the glass out of Ghost’s hands so he doesn’t drop it. He sets it down on a coaster next to their coffee mugs.

“Just…” Ghost murmurs. “Just give me a minute.”

The couch dips gently again as Toast shifts to face him. “Of course, Sir. Take your time.”

Ghost rests his elbows on his knees and drags one hand over his under-eyes, staring straight ahead vacantly. He squeezes his eyes shut in a scowl and leans back into the couch with a long, grumbling sigh. “When the hell did we come out here?”

Toast tucks his bruised arm behind the couch and smoothes his thumb over Ghost's hand. “A few minutes ago. Are you alright, Sir?”

“I’m fine. I'm just not all awake, I guess." Ghost slumps forward again, bouncing his leg as he waits for the room to stop spinning. “Johnny, what is the matter with you. How do you wake up this early?”

R I G H T  W H E N  Y O U ‘ R E

D O I N G  B E T T E R

Chapter Text

Ghost forces himself to stop spacing out. He's been staring at the bathroom floor for who knows how long, like he was drugged.

If he isn’t paralyzed, he must be too disconnected to think about moving. His legs should be sore from leaning back against the sink, instead they just feel numb. He can’t remember what he was doing before now, but based on the razor blade pinched between his fingers, he can guess well enough what he was about to do.

What made him overreact this much? He’s not really thinking of starting again, is he? He’s got to be kidding. This isn’t more brain fog than usual. This isn’t serious. All he has to do is calm down, get back to work, it’ll be like this never happened. No one has to know.

Those thoughts screaming at him that sound so… emotional…

No, no, what are YOU doing here?! I don’t want you here!

Not real. He’s making it up.

I wasn't doing anything, just go away!

This takes 'lying to himself' a little far, but he's not about to argue with a voice.

No, not a voice. He doesn’t hear voices.

Hey, what’d I say?? Are you THAT fuckin stupid? Leave me alone!

“What—” He starts, before catching himself.

He doesn’t hear voices, and he definitely doesn’t talk to them.

His eyes focus again on the blade in his hand. The rolled-up sleeve exposing his other arm. He always gets kind of disoriented from looking at them, maybe because he so rarely sees them uncovered. That must be why he feels off now. They look alien to him.

I wanna handle this. You. Go. Away.

“Handle what,” he mumbles to himself, a wave of fatigue loosening his tongue.

You know!! You just don’t care! And it’s literally your fault!

Ghost closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. That doesn’t make sense. And he’s not hearing voices. He doesn’t do that.

He stares down at the small plastic case sitting on the sink. He thought he lost it in high school. He thought he was done with this.

He is done with this.

Pushing through the dizziness, he drops the razor blade in the case and promptly shuts it. The nostalgia of that sound brings up old feelings that he knows not to give any room to fester. He shoves it in his pocket and reaches for the door on unsteady legs before something stops him. He feels like he can’t move again. His hand squeezes the plastic in his pocket.

“I’m not doing this again,” he hisses frustratedly. “I’m not. I’m not doing this.”

Just shut up.

He hasn’t felt this bad in a while. What happened?

Shut UP. No one’ll give a shit if you do it! You know you wanna!

“No, they—” He turns away from the door, unsure if he’s consciously moving his legs. “This is ridiculous. I don’t want to.”

…Whatever. It’s none of your business anyway.

"It's my arm." He risks another glance down as he paces back and forth in the cramped room.

Faded scars litter his tattooed skin, and he can admit they feel too old. There are a lot of things he would have done to fix that, not long enough ago.

He laughs dryly at how absurd it is to be arguing with himself. “I don’t need this.”

You don't even need to BE HERE.

“Right, I don’t need this,” he mutters again, moving for the door.

STOP SAYING THAT! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME GO!!

His shoulders hike up.

Something’s wrong. That was real. This is…

He might throw up. He holds himself up by the wall and listens for it again. This can't be what he thinks it is, he thought he was exaggerating. He can still feel the weight of that plastic case, and the impulse eating away at him, but he knows he doesn't want to. Something's very wrong.

This is some kind of demon controlling his thoughts, and he's completely unprepared. No equipment, no background, no idea where Johnny is, and it’s already in his head.

He’s out of time to question if he can even handle an entity of this calibre on his own. He can. He has to.

“Alright, I see what’s going on. And you and I are going to get one thing clear.” His hand slowly searches around his belt.

No gun.

“I’m not letting you stay in my body, and I’m not letting you do a goddamn thing with it. No more of this shit. So get your paranormal butt out of my head before I do it for you.”

Ghost feels weirdly annoyed with himself, a heavy sigh overpowering him as he digs his nails into his palms. He has to remind himself that the feeling doesn’t belong to him. He was never this desperate about it. How long has a demon been attached to him undetected? How has it never set off their equipment?

How many of these scars are even from him?

That doesn't matter.

“I’ve been clean for a long time.” He keeps his fist against the wall, already feeling faint. “You’re not going to ruin that. What could you even gain from it?”

After another break of silence, Ghost opens his eyes, trying to find the floor. It looks miles away. He steadies his breathing and concentrates on getting control of the situation. Regardless of why it's being so quiet all of a sudden, he most likely can't reason with this thing.

“Look, demon. As nice as it is to not hear your annoying, squeaky voice, there’s no point in trying to hide. I’ve seen worse possessions than yours, and we can do this the easy way, or the way that involves a particle thrower bullet loaded into a nuclear acceleration Beretta M9.”

He still doesn’t hear anything. 

“I know you're there. I know you can hear me. What happened earlier? Why are you trying to—”

I’m not gonna talk to you about that shit. And I’m not scared of your nerd gun.

He lifts his head to look at himself in the mirror, or whatever’s looking back. His face is resting sourly in a way he doesn’t recognize.

His pupils are massive. He can see patches of red dots around his eyes where blood vessels had burst from crying at some point. He knows he's not alone, but it feels like he caught someone in a vulnerable state that he wasn't supposed to see. It's a trick, obviously.

He waits for a deeply uncomfortable minute, firmly gripping the sink and making eye contact with something that really doesn’t want to.

“What I say goes.” He feels the pressure of his glare. “I don’t need it anymore.”

Why? Because you got better? Is that supposed to make me listen to you?

He honestly expected to see something when he hears it that time. All he sees is his unwavering face scowling coldly back at him.

You think everything just went away, and you did all it by yourself, and you’re better now?

His head and knees are killing him. He's starting to lose his patience with this demon, but he needs to deal with it carefully until he can find Johnny. And then he’ll… well, he won’t tell him about this, but…

I know you. I know what you're like. You don’t even HAVE a way to deal with the shit we go through, I do!

"Is that right?" Ghost bites back, tongue in cheek. "Clearly you don't know as much as you should. In case you haven’t heard, I am Johnny Ghost, Paranormal Investigator Ex—"

DO YOU WANNA SHUT THE FUCK UP?!

His jaw hangs open, ticked off at being interrupted. He takes a slow breath, loosening his hold on the counter.

I know EVERYTHING about you. And I know you won't remember any of this! But yeaah, you got me! I’m a magical demon haunting your spleen, why not! What are you gonna do about it?

Tilting his head in aggravation, he scoffs out the start of a less civilized response when he’s cut off again.

I know what! Ghostie’s gonna wake up tomorrow and forget whatever I did like he always does! None of it ever fuckin matters for him!

The smug curl of his mouth tweaks like it’s been punctured.

YOU don’t have to live with it. YOU should be the one doing this. YOU deserve it. But you’re— But—

Its voice cracks, gasping between involuntary laughs, as if it can hardly get the words out. Ghost isn’t falling for that, even while the entity’s performative emotions bleed into his own. He can control his expressions. It’s not real.

You’re so fuckin selfish— that you don’t even care! And— And I don’t fuckin need you, but I fuckin need him!! He’s gonna leave because of you!!

Ghost breaks away from his reflection and leans against the sink, trying to settle his breathing. “No he’s not.”

He's gonna leave someday because of you.

“That’s not true.” He presses the palm of his hand hard into his scalp as his headache worsens.

Yeah it is. You weren’t there.

“How is something my fault if I wasn’t there?” Ghost hisses through his teeth. “Do you even know how this works?”

What. You think just ‘cause I’m a demon I know everything? You’re the one obsessed with this salt-circler shit. How do you NOT know?  

“I bet I will, when I ask Johnny what happened.”

He expects a real force of resistance from that.

No— Don’t tell him. Please, please don’t tell him.

He hadn’t expected it to be that simple.

Somewhat taken aback, he feels less angry, but a growing nausea takes its place. Possessions have always disgusted him, like any parasitic infestation, and the idea that it somehow ‘needs’ his partner is making him feel sick.

He reminds himself not to drop his guard over a little subversion of expectations. “What did you think we would do? I’m not going to relapse just so you can keep feeding off of my life. I quit and it’s gonna stay that way.”

I never agreed to that.

“What— agreed— What do you mean agreed?! We don't make agreements! I will get rid of you and I will never hurt myself again. I have a good life, and I got tattoos to cover all of it, I’m done. That’s what that means.”

But I’m not!

Ghost looks over his shoulder at the mirror. “Don’t be such a baby. It’s over. It was fucked up. It wasn’t even that serious.”

YES IT WAS! It WAS for me! I didn’t want to get tattoos! I wasn’t ready to stop!!

He watches his eyes widen, his brows soften in a way he hardly recognizes.

As disturbing as this all is, he does know how that felt when he quit. He’s never been especially proud of himself for staying clean. It doesn’t feel like something to be proud of. He just wanted to move on, and he did.

He still remembers how impossible it felt to give it up, though.

“You... you don't gain power from it. Do you."

No? That’s stupid.

He eases himself to sit on the floor, another wave of nausea hitting him. “It’s not going to help you.”

Who cares. It was all I had. And you took it from me.

When he rests his bare elbows on his knees, he notices how uncontrollably his hands are shaking. That’s odd; he’s revolted, sure, but he’s not scared. Is the demon scared?

He can’t believe he actually feels sorry for this thing.

“Look, whatever happened today, I can't let you do this—”

I don’t need your fuckin permission.

“—BUT I can let you talk to Johnny.” Ghost tries to sound cordial, but it still comes out like an interrogation. “Maybe he knows a way to... make it easier when we deal with you.”

He doubts he can hold himself to that. If he can take care of the possession without anyone knowing, he will. In fact, he’ll do just about anything to make sure Johnny doesn’t know. Sympathetic offers like that don’t belong in a hazardous paranormal investigation.

…I don’t WANT to talk to him.

Oh.

Ghost leans his head back against the sink drawer. “Fine. When the exorcism starts, you're on your own.”

He waits for a much longer moment this time. The quiet of the bathroom feels too loud, now that he’s listening.

He’s about to get up when a phone buzzes in his other pocket, which he's fairly certain isn't his.

It’s just another burner phone he doesn’t remember buying. He flips it open and sees a name that fills his chest with feelings that he knows aren’t his. He’s never been the best at reading, and it’s ambiguously coded, but some part of him can recognize that name from a mile away.

He feels his limbs move on their own as he suddenly clutches the phone close to his face and his voice becomes a hoarse, euphoric whisper, nothing like his own.

"Gav?"

He gets distracted by a heavy rush of dizziness, like giving in to the suffocating temptation to sleep. It’s one more feeling he thought he was used to.

When he comes out of it again, he can't tell how long it's been, but this time he remembers. At least up until the phone rang.

The razor, the demon, and an undeniable feeling that he was crying over nothing. He remembers.

Chapter Text

When they were in high school, Gavin and Jimmy were going to run away together.

They’d never talked about it before, but something finally broke, or fell into place, or they were pushed over the edge by teenage escapism and drug-fueled adrenaline, and they did it.

Jimmy remembers that night when they were speeding on the interstate, laughing at the top of their lungs and blasting the radio until the bass shook their ribs. Gavin made him slow down because they had a lot of shit in the car that he didn’t want to get caught with.

Jimmy was still wearing his dry cleaner’s work shirt and Gavin had a black eye. Neither of them packed much, all they really needed was the product and a few connections. Jimmy had barely started transitioning by then, that was part of the plan. Gavin saw him for who he was anyway. They were going to find the perfect city and bleed it dry, become whoever they wanted, never spend another minute sober, never see anybody they knew ever again, all while feeling alive for the first time.

They pulled into an unlit convenience store, and Gavin reassured him that his guy was still there, told him to refill the car at the gas pump, and that he’d be back. Jimmy watched him walk away, breathing in deeply as he rested his chin on the wheel for a moment. The music was radiating through his head like the heat under club lights.

When he lets out his sigh, he’s running a red through an intersection and missing a semi-truck by the hair of his bumper. He yells out of his window almost as loud as the truck driver slams on the horn.

He falls back into his seat and furiously buckles himself in. “FUCK.”

C H A P T E R  3

Jimmy swerves his recently-acquired crusty Chevrolet van behind an even crustier apartment building. The plan is to meet here –some coastline town in New Jersey about to fall into the ocean– and get ready for an ‘anonymous trip to the bank.’

A door at the end of the alley swings open. First, a terrified resident shuffles out in his PJ’s and his hands wrapped in duct tape, then Jimmy sees him.

Gavin Toast, his partner in crime, a black bandana over his rugged face, the moonlight shining off the barrel of the gun he’s pointing at the hostage’s back. He can tell when Gavin spots his vehicle by the way he halts for a second, squinting in disbelief.

As they approach the van, Jimmy ties a much more colourful bandana over his lower face and waves them over, tugging on the panic handle like a train whistle. "Woo-woo! All abooard the Craigslist Express!"

Gavin shushes him from the passenger window. "Did you hotwire this from a baptist church?"

"Get in the shatmobile," Jimmy whispers back.

After one more appalled look at the van they’re working with, Gavin starts herding the hostage into the back with a wag of his pistol. He’s talking to the guy in an American accent, and a charmingly good one that makes Jimmy stifle a giggle into his hand. Technically Jimmy could consider toning down his mannerisms too, but then he’d just sound like Ghost and that’s the last thing he wants to think about right now.

He leans over the passenger seat to wave again at their new bank buddy. "You’re gonna have so much fun!"

The guy stares at him from behind the middle row of headrests; he’s probably nervous if it’s his first time coming to a bank robbery. Gavin finally climbs into the passenger seat, passing Jimmy a bag of his necromancer trinkets to hold.

"Candle, book, skull," Jimmy lists off things as his partner picks them out. "Rock, plant, sacrificial knife–!"

"Easy." Gavin lets him keep that one while he meticulously organizes the rest in a circle on the middle seats.

Jimmy quietly holds the knife up for the hostage to look at it, excitedly whispering "Look how shiny!"

The guy doesn’t like it as much for some reason.

Gavin lays down two faded, black-and-white photos on the seats, dousing them in an inky liquid from one of his tiny jars. Whatever it is has a strong smell —like a spilled bottle of nail polish— but it only lasts for a second, and Jimmy always likes the smell of Gavin’s cryptic magic stuff.

"Alright, J. Right there, and there, really drive the knife in." Gavin motions at the pictures, keeping his hand out of the way.

Jimmy gasps at him with a huge grin before he leans over and stabs through the pictures into car cushions in quick succession. The two puddles of ink erupt in a faceful of smoke and what Jimmy can only guess is interdimensional confetti. He startles back, holding his hands up and letting the knife drop in the bag, along with the photos skewered on the blade.

Gavin opens a window to let the smoke clear, which is when he learns it’s a manual crank. A pair of hands reach out and cling to Jimmy’s raised fingers, and a familiar face joins them before he has time to freak out.

"Ja-meee!!" Aimée yells excitedly, her translucent form blending with the smoke while it’s still filtering.

Jimmy’s face lights up as he jumps in the seat. "Aiméee!!"

Too late to cut him off, Gavin leaves the window crank for a moment to break their spastic handshake. "Names. Fuck’s sake."

Aimée and Jimmy chuckle to each other when Gavin’s accent slips, hoping the hostage cowering in the back didn’t catch it or the real names they just gave away. Gavin finishes rolling the window down by the time the cloud dissipates and gives Jimmy a thorough look. With the last of the smoke gone, they notice another see-through masked man in the next seat lifting the brim of his dusty cowboy hat. Aimée excitedly hugs him, her Victorian silk dress transforming into a lacey Old West blouse and skirt. "Now we’ll match pour la cambriolage, Maxwell!"

Gavin hands Maxwell a bandana to give to Aimée, which makes her beam as she puts it on over her lower face. The masks and anonymous names aren’t necessary for the ghosts, but Gavin had made a few mental notes when he negotiated their participation for this heist, and Aimée wanted to be matching with everyone. Maxwell refused the offer to use a fake name, because in classic red-dead outlaw fashion, he likes the notoriety of his scourge being publicly known. It’s not like the cops could track a ghost down with a name, at least.

Maxwell starts passing out guns to the rest of them while Gavin goes over the plan. If he’s being honest, Jimmy’s barely listening as he familiarizes himself with the grip of the most elegant collectible pistol he’s ever seen. Even though it’s not his style, he’s shocked to be entrusted with something so obnoxiously expensive. He almost asks why they’re robbing a bank if Maxwell has a stash of mint-condition luxury guns and Aimée can conjure antique dresses that a museum would probably rob them for, but he knows all of it only lasts as long as the ghosts stick around. Gavin’s got them on some kind of contract for this job, and once that’s done, they can haunt whoever they want or go back to their dimension —and take their limited-edition pistol with them.

"You listening?"

Jimmy perks up, breaking into a cheeky smile when he sees Gavin talking to him.

"J, when we’re done, you drive us the fuck out of here like Barry Allen banging a rock of crystal meth out of a broken light bulb." Gavin puts a firm grip on the steering wheel next to Jimmy, very much grabbing his attention now. "I’m counting on you to get everyone to the docks, got it? You better be in this seat by the time the rest of us are out that door."

Jimmy nods earnestly while Gavin moves along, gesturing to the back seats. "The cops won’t shoot as long as we have a hostage. Everybody say hi to Roy."

"Hi Roy!" The three of them shift around, Aimée and Jimmy waving cheerfully at the man behind them.

Roy hesitantly waves back with two duct-taped hands.

Gavin leans one arm over the headrest. "Roy’s under a very minor, temporary curse of silence today. Keep your fuckin’ head down, Roy."

Roy curls himself down.

Spinning around to face forward again, Jimmy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Okay! Everybody buckled? Ready to go?"

"NO." Gavin snaps his fingers, and in a much faster poof of smoke, the crusty van turns into a stunning black Mustang.

He stares Jimmy down with a look that could slice a car like this in half. "You get one hour."

Jimmy lets out a shaky laugh, either from suddenly being at the mercy of an infinitely more daunting wheel or from the sternness in Gavin’s eyes. But he doesn’t have time to loiter in front of either one, so Jimmy starts the engine with a key that feels like it’s worth more than him and pulls out of the alley, cruising into the open road.

The car is fast, and it picks up so smoothly until they’re soaring down the empty streets like a hot knife cutting through butter, playing music that couldn’t fit more for the energy they need. Jimmy could get so used to this, but he tries to focus on learning the mechanics and getting to the bank. However fast the car feels now, he’s going to have to be able to drive its bumper off pretty soon.

Jimmy became the designated getaway driver when Gavin found out he’s freakishly skilled at driving like a bat out of hell. Getting his license the second he could, and sneaking out at night with his mom’s car since he was 12, gave him plenty of practice.

He only remembers the rest of them are there when Aimée suddenly jumps, looking around and lifting the dividing cup holder. "Messieurs, where is the ‘ostage?"

"In the trunk. It’s fine." Gavin looks in the rear-view mirror before going back to studying a blueprint, ignoring a choked-down snort from Jimmy.

Maxwell pauses spinning his revolver. "So, we’ll be starting at the saloon and hit the bank after, right?"

Gavin doesn’t look up from the blueprint again, scowling at it while Jimmy cackles until he starts coughing. "It’s a Wednesd– We’re not PREGAMING the heist."

Jimmy tries to compose himself as their bank crests the skyline. The electricity in the air starts to spike his blood flow, and the rising adrenaline curls his mouth into a grin that he actually recognizes as himself. This is what he needed.

He glances beside him, grinning wider when he meets Gavin’s eyes again. He can see the first crack of amusement on his partner’s face under the bandana. "What’re you smiling at?"

Jimmy bashfully tilts his head back to the road, giggling a bit. "We’re going to jail!"

"We’re not going to jail." Gavin argues with him without skipping a beat.

"Ohh, we're so going to jail," Jimmy laughs. “I just hope they didn’t erase my mural on the cafeteria ceiling.”

As they pull in front of the bank, right over the sidewalk, Gavin points at him with the folded blueprint. “I sincerely hope they did, Jim.”

They peer through the glass doors and windows to make sure the place is empty. The rest of the town isn’t much to look at, but the bank is like a shining billboard advertising that it has too much money. All old wood and marble floors. Gavin gives a quick motion to the ghosts. “Alright. You two, get in and hijack the security system.”

“The what?” Maxwell and Aimée ask in unison.

Gavin briefly ducks his head into his hand. “Just break anything that feels like technology. Go.”

They fly out through the roof of the car, then Aimée pretends to kick the bank doors down and phases through them while Maxwell disappears into the motion sensor. The few lights that were on flicker for a moment before the whole building goes dark.

Gavin pulls his hood over his head and Jimmy can feel him watching as he loads his gun.

“Don’t fire that off if you don’t have to.”

Maybe that should be obvious, but Jimmy lets out a lighthearted scoff anyway.

“I mean it, Jim.” Gavin reaches over and puts his hood up for him. “We have the ghosts for that. If anything goes wrong, they can’t go to jail. I don’t want to see your finger on that trigger unless I say so. Got it?”

Jimmy exaggerates a ditsy gawk, slowly lifting the gun towards Gavin with his pinky finger up. Finally Gavin laughs and pushes it away from his face. “Fuck off.”

Smiling a little too wide to himself, Jimmy tucks the gun under his belt and an empty duffel bag over his shoulder as they get out of the car. “Whatever you say, boss. Am I on Roy Duty?”

“For now. And he’s got work in the morning, so play nice.” Gavin settles into the American accent again, talking over the roof of the car as they meet around the back.

He opens the trunk and out comes Roy by his shirt collar. Gavin leaves him with Jimmy and waits by the door with two more duffel bags, using a quick spell to cut off the nearby streetlamps.

“Heyyy Roy, put ‘er there!” Jimmy offers up a handshake.

Roy looks back and forth, shrugging with his duct-tape mitts.

Jimmy keeps his hand up with a toothy smile. “Don’t leave me hangin’, Roy.”

They’re interrupted when Aimée opens the bank doors from inside, holding something with both hands and a befuddled look on her face. Gavin hushes everyone as they gather around, Jimmy guiding Roy with a whispered “Alright, we’re gonna work on that sha—”

A sleeping crow is nestled in Aimée’s hands. She holds it out in front of her like it’s a bomb, which isn’t too far off.

Jimmy frantically points his finger down at the bird, quietly mouthing “That’s the cop.”

They all take a step back from Aimée, who stubbornly pushes the crow into Gavin’s hands, who gives it to Jimmy, who passes it to Roy.

Everyone catches their breath as the bird, or rather the security guard, ruffles its feathers in its sleep, and Jimmy pulls out his gun. “Rock the cradle, Roy.”

Sweating bullets, Roy stiffly holds the bird in his arms and rocks it back and forth until it settles into a deep slumber again.

“Thank you, Roy,” Jimmy whispers, poking the gun in Roy’s face. “Y’know, you make a good cradle.”

Jimmy herds him into the building while Gavin holds the door open, nearly doubled over in relief. Shoes clicking against the glossy marble floor, they hop behind the teller counter and Aimée flies through the vault in the back. They wait in silence except for the crow’s tiny snores until the vault unlatches and Aimée swings it open from the other side. She and Jimmy giddily reach out for a well-practiced secret handshake, finishing with a quiet hand-explosion as Gavin drags Jimmy into the vault by the strap of his duffel bag.

When they step through the door, an alarm shrieks overhead and suddenly the room is filled with flashing red lights. Gavin drops both of his bags, whirling around to glare at Aimée. “WHAT the FUCK.”

She’s preoccupied with keeping Roy at gunpoint by the front doors and swatting the angry crow-cop away from pecking her, but she yells back at them in just as much shock. “Maxwell must ‘ave missed a technology!”

“MAXWELL!” Gavin furiously shouts at the ceiling and starts breaking open the drawers lining the vault’s walls, loading stacks of money into the bags.

Jimmy pries open a few drawers on the opposite wall, and by the time he fills his bag, Gavin swings the other two over his own shoulders and hurries him out of the vault.

“We ‘ave company!” Aimée ducks out of view from the cop cars pulling up to the glass doors.

Gavin crouches behind the counter with Jimmy. “How the hell do we have company?!”

The crow violently flaps its wings against her arm and squawks over her head. Jimmy rushes out and grabs the bird with two hands, holding its beak shut. He freezes as headlights blind him from the doorway and a megaphone roars in his ears with a thick, southern accent.

“Hold it right there, boy! This is the LAW. I am Sheriff Princeton Quagmire!”

Jimmy shuts his squinted eyes for a moment and doesn’t move. “Aw crap, not this guy.”

“This is our ‘ostage!” Aimée shoves Roy into their view, still pointing her gun at him. “We ‘ave a ‘ostage!”

“And a cop!” Jimmy holds up the crow.

Princeton Quagmire approaches the door with another officer. He swings his legs in big, dramatic steps and sounds like he talks through the side of one cheek. “Hello, you bunch of degenerates. I’ve been hot on yer trail for the past SIX MINUTES, and now yer bushwhackerin’ days are OVER.”

The other cop aims his gun at Jimmy and steps closer. “This is Officer Frappuccino with the local police! Release the hostage and this’ll be a lot easier for you!”

Jimmy giggles nervously, starting to crack up a bit. “Sure! No biggie, come on in, officer!”

“What are you doing?” Gavin hisses at him from his hiding place.

Frappuccino leans next to the door. “Are you armed?”

“No,” Aimée and Jimmy answer, Jimmy shaking his head enthusiastically.

“Oh!” Frappuccino lowers his weapon, which up close looks to be a bubble gun. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

He walks in and Jimmy chucks the bird at his face. All three cops fall on the sidewalk in a pile, along with an alarmed squawk. Before the door closes, Aimée fires off two shots and Jimmy grabs Roy, backing away from view of the door.

The officers scatter and Frappuccino spits out a few feathers. “They were lying, Sheriff! Ugh, Maloney, take a shower.”

Princeton Quagmire gets up in a huff. “You crooked, reprehensible, CORKSCREW-SPITTIN—” Aimée shoots at him through the glass, barely missing his foot. “OH, SWEET MOTHER O’ CAROLINE!”

The cops retreat behind their vehicles and point much more real guns at the bank. “Let that hostage go, boy! Or this friendly-like conversation is gonna go down the ol’ fashioned way.”

“Uh, G?? You got a plan?” Jimmy yells over his shoulder.

“Working on it,” Gavin calls back. “Where the fuck is Maxwell?!”

In a cloud of gunpowder, Maxwell appears in the doorway, blasting both doors wide open. He eyes the sheriff down with a long pause, and a disembodied musical accompaniment.

“Hello. My name is Maxwell Acachalla. You killed me.” He lifts up two sawed-off shotguns. “Prepare to die.”

Quagmire points his revolver right back. “Don’t you quote my favourite movie at me.”

Infuriated, Gavin plants his face in his hands and groans. “This is why I don’t work with fucking theater kids.”

“Maxwell, bordel de merde, je vais casser tes putain de couilles!! The alarm was your fault!” Aimée floats above the doorway, throwing her shoe at him.

“Of course it was!” Maxwell ducks out of the way, pointing his other shotgun at Frappuccino. “And I tipped these idiots off when we got here!”

Gavin stares at him in dismay. “WHY?”

“Because this is the only way it’s fun!” Maxwell defensively shrugs with both shotguns.

“Yeah, this is kind of the highlight of our night, you know,” Frappuccino says into the megaphone.

“We an’ Maxwell been doin' things this way for two-hundred years, boy. And we don’t take kindly to yer campin’ hall-monitor attitude.”

Gavin bites back a sigh, dragging the three duffel bags closer to the edge of the counter and waving Jimmy over. “Whatever. Can you just cover us?”

“Definitely.” Maxwell grins, keeping his eyes on the officers.

“Aims, you take Roy. J, get over here and help me with the bags.” Gavin gestures at Jimmy again, irritated that he’s just standing there.

As she’s about to whack Maxwell with her other shoe, Aimée begrudgingly puts it back on and flies down to pull Roy to the door with her gun to his side, but she startles back when she gets a closer look at Jimmy’s face. The flashing red lights reflect off the barrel of his pistol, rigidly trained on Maxwell.

Gavin turns to scold him as he lifts the bags. “J, I’m not playing with you, move your ass–”

He stares at his partner, unable to read his face.

“Put your hands up, Maxwell.” Ghost steps back, finally glancing to where Gavin is coming around the counter. “Johnny, what’s with the masks? Who called the cops?!”

With a short-lived hesitation, Gavin drops everything and sprints across the room.

“... You–?” Ghost barely gets out before Gavin grabs him by his forehead, wrestling his pistol away and throwing it to the floor.

Ghost frantically pries at Gavin’s arm with both hands, but in an instant he’s hit with an overwhelming, impossible fatigue. Like chloroform, like... like fentanyl, as much as he tries to block out the reminder. It comes on so much faster when he loses the strength to hold his hands up. Somewhere behind them, the police are shouting through a piercing speaker and an alarm is making his head spin.

He glares up through the gaps between his arms, his wild eyes rapidly losing their fury. He sees Johnny’s twin brother with a desperate expression that looks so unnatural on him, and watches it melt into something much more decisive and calculating.

Ghost knows what a ‘downer’ spell feels like, but the coldness in Gavin’s eyes makes him question it with his last hint of consciousness. There’s nothing left of the lighthearted, inexperienced friend from when they tried this spell together as kids. He can’t tell if he’s trying to kill him right now. Ghost hasn’t seen Gavin in so many years.

He never thought he’d be scared of him.

Gavin puts Ghost’s slack arm over his shoulder and carries him steadily to the door behind Maxwell and Aimée, along with the bags. As they open the door, the ghosts steer the cops further back using Roy, until there’s enough between them and the getaway car. Gavin sets Ghost down in the passenger’s seat while eying the cops like a protective wild dog. With the money secured, he gets in the driver’s side, starting the car and immediately pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

“OUAAIIIS!” Aimée excitedly shouts over the screeching wheels as she hurls Roy at the cops and dives through the roof into the back seat.

Quagmire fires off shots from the ground at Maxwell, who hangs onto the edge of the car while it speeds down the street. The officers give chase and quickly start gaining on them. Gavin tightens his grip on the wheel and takes a sharp turn on a narrow road, letting go for a moment to keep Ghost from cracking his head on the dashboard. Their Mustang crashes into a pair of garbage cans and flings them over the cop cars as they funnel in after them.

With a flurry of trash and airborne wheels, they burst through the other side of the passage into a wide street next to the shore, bullets flying between Maxwell, the cops, and Aimée leaning out the window. Maxwell briefly holds his fire to holler in a guttural rasp, “I’M BACK FROM THE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

He hoists up an automatic gun summoned from his pocket and starts emptying the magazine. Gradually, the shots from behind them come to a stop.

Gavin has to do a double-take in his left mirror when he sees the cop cars slowing down and pulling into the gas station. All three of them turn to look behind them, disregarding all road safety.

“They’re stopping–”

“They’re STOPPING FOR GAS!!”

Aimée and Maxwell erupt in exhilarated cackling. Gavin pulls his mask off and holds his forehead in disbelief as he turns to face in front of them and they race even faster to the boardwalk.

Slumped down against the car seat, Jimmy lifts his head up and sees the biggest ecstatic smile on Gavin's face, completely flushed red, eyes bright and laughing.

The town disappears and outside of their car is nothing but an open highway. Energy and blasting music fills the air, his racing heart feels like it’s running on stimulants and feeling alive for the first time. They’re teenagers, and Gavin is singing along with the lyrics, and the memory feels so real.

It’s different, he can’t move as much, and he’s half-asleep. The music is something slower and wispy, the night sky is growing brighter with a pale orange glow. It’s as if he never left the memory, as if he never abandoned Gavin at that convenience store. As if Ghost never made him do it. As if they’ve been driving together all night, and everything else was a bad dream, and when he woke up Gavin was the first thing he saw.

He strains to slowly murmur “I’m so happy.”

“Jim!” Gavin reaches for his forehead.

He blinks and the music is gone. The orange sky is a streetlight shining into the car. The highway was a hallucination. But Gavin’s still here.

He sits up, somewhat aware of the magic fading from Gavin’s hand as the spell wears off. The car is stopped at the edge of a boardwalk, cutting out over the ocean. Jimmy stares at the dashboard, barely registering how deeply he’s breathing until Gavin shakes him out of it by the shoulder. “Are you back with us? We’ve got to go!”

By the time Jimmy can stumble around the car –which transforms back into the crusty van and disorients him even more, the others have finished loading everything into a speedboat they’d parked at the dock and Gavin guides him down into it with a steady hand on his back.

They take off from the coast, a loud spray of water trailing behind them.

Everyone’s high on the adrenaline of somehow pulling that off, except Jimmy who’s mostly just high. At the wheel, Maxwell waves his hat in the wind and Aimée lies back on the bags of cash, throwing her hands in the air and cheering. Gavin’s still smiling wide and breathless as he pats Maxwell’s shoulder, partially to keep himself standing, then he turns and wraps Jimmy up in a hug. Jimmy giggles deliriously as he listens to the muffled, elated sound of Gavin’s voice, but his knees cave and he almost topples them both off the boat.

Once the New Jersey shoreline is out of view, they start cruising home to North Carolina.

Parked at a remote beach on the southern Crystal Coast, Jimmy and Gavin are lying together on the boat while it's still dark out. The other two took off to do whatever ghosts can do with money these days, and the speedboat is disguised for now, though they’ll probably have to sell it or sink it later.

Jimmy has to go back soon. He’s putting it off as long as he can.

“Are you mad that I didn’t show up yesterday?” He mumbles from where he’s resting on Gavin’s chest. “It was Ghost’s frickin’ fault.”

He hears Gavin sigh as if he almost fell asleep. “No, it all worked out today. You did good.”

“Oh.” Jimmy absently twirls his ankles. “Are you mad about that time when we ran away? Ghost ditched you at the stupid convenience store.”

“Jim, come on. I don’t even think about that.” Gavin laughs a little, sitting up and bringing Jimmy with him. “It was high school. Everything turned out fine, why do you think I’m mad?”

Jimmy tiredly throws his arm over his partner. “Don’t know.”

He tries to let it go, his mind wandering along to the light rocking of the boat, the constant sound of waves over the sand, Gavin's smoker lungs rising and falling, and the feeling that there’s no one else in the world, only them. But he knows he can’t. He’s not allowed to. If he drifts off, he can’t stop Ghost from seeing this and taking it away from him.

“Can we do that downer spell if Ghost comes out again?”

Gavin doesn’t answer as fast. “No. Hell no. I shouldn’t have even used it earlier... It was a bad idea. It’s a chemical charm, it acts like heroin.”

Jimmy lifts himself up to argue. “So? It worked that time–”

“Whatever you’re thinking it did,” Gavin interrupts sternly. “That doesn’t exist. Yeah, there are mind-altering spells, like shutting up a hostage for a few hours, but I can’t do anything like... deciding which of you is in control. You switched back out on your own.”

Breaking away from the eye contact, Jimmy fidgets with Gavin’s hand. “Why’d you do it, then?”

“I shouldn’t have. I was just thinking about the job. Ghost could have given us away, and then what? We’d be fucked.”

Jimmy bites the inside of his cheek as dread lodges itself in his gut. He wants to tell him what happened, but he wishes it just wasn’t real. Noticing his abnormal silence, Gavin sighs and takes his hand away. “I’m sorry. I thought if I was fast enough, maybe he wouldn’t remember.”

It takes a delayed reaction that’s a bit too long, but Jimmy lies back down and smiles at him. “I don’t want you to be sorry! I really liked that spell.”

“Ugh, I know.” Gavin pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s why I’m sorry.”

There’s a quiet pause that makes Jimmy restless. He can’t think of anything else to tell him about except that. It’s rotting away at him. He tries to believe it’s just a comedown and he turns his head to the side, blinking back tears. The only time he tells anyone anything is when he’s with Gavin, but if he says it out loud, what if that makes it real?

Gavin starts to get up from under him and Jimmy blurts it out. “Ghost knows about me.”

They both hold still and now Jimmy desperately misses the eye contact. He squeezes his partner’s hand, hardly realizing it when his lip trembles. Gavin doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t say anything.

“I think—” Jimmy’s voice catches in his throat. “He kind of talked to me yesterday. And he— he thought I was a demon in his head. I don’t know if he’s even gonna remember, but...” He tilts his head up to the sky, feeling like the knot in his chest is suffocating him. “God— Gavin, what’s gonna happen if he does?”

Gavin’s fingers curl down over his. “...Do you want him to know the truth?”

Jimmy breathes in sharply, the ocean air cold against his watery eyes. He needs so badly for the answer to be no. Even if it can’t change anything. It’s always been no.

The sun’s almost up when Jimmy gets back to Ghost’s stupid dumb house. The street is tinted in a thick, blue fog. Gavin cheered him up on the drive home, and he’s still laughing to himself when he stumbles inside, but he sees Toast asleep in their bedroom and can’t help but drop his smile.

His heart hits the floor as he rests his hand against the wall and lets go.

Ghost holds his head in his palm. He groans, faintly trying to take in the room and feeling how exhausting work must have been today.

Toast stirs awake as he settles onto their bed. “Welcome home,” he murmurs. “Big night, Sir?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Ghost stares at the wall, not ready to lift the covers or close his eyes.

In fact, he can’t.

As tired as his body feels, his brain is cooking itself into overdrive. Every thought he has fixates like a magnifying glass under sunlight on everything he remembers about this demon. He can feel the possession crawling beneath his skin. His heart pounds with every old case that crosses his mind, everything he needs to review in order to get the exorcism done right.

This can’t wait until morning.

He planned to do it earlier, but he can’t remember what he did today at all. He needs to do this now.

As quietly as he can, Ghost forces himself to get up and sneak out of the bedroom, into their spare office. He sifts through the file cabinets and puts everything he can find in a pile on the desk under the lamplight. Looking for a notepad, he opens the bottom drawer and reaches in until his hand brushes something way in the back. His eyes shut and he hesitates for a very short moment before pulling out a forgotten pack of cigarettes.

It’s not the worst habit he’s ever had, even though it was one of the bigger nightmares to quit. But he figures just one to calm his nerves will at least get this over with faster. He opens the window and strikes a lighter that was easy to find, blowing the smoke over his shoulder outside.

The first head rush leaves him weak in the knees.

If he takes a shower later, Toast doesn’t have to know. Just a few case reports to read and he’ll have this all figured out, then he’ll sleep. He fans out the files across the desk and gets to work.