The (After) Life of the Party [2/?]
Title: The (After) Life of the Party [2/]
Author:
xxdance
Fandom(s): Fall Out Boy/Panic! At the Disco
Pairing: Pete/Ryan, Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Ryan's just another dead starlet. Patrick's just another overworked detective. Pete's just another shady character. Sort of.
Rating: R. [Violence, drug use, language, and that's just the first chapter.]
Warnings: Complete crack. Beyond crack. Detectives is all I'm saying, I'll save the other cracky warnings for later. Slash, language, and drug use as well.
Author's Note:whatchamacall1t is awesome, honestly. She helps loads and helps me clear up the fact that my mind jumps from one thing to the next with no discernible connection whatsoever--if it wasn't for her, this fic would be a mess. Also, she is better at insults than I am. :D
one
Patrick thought this whole 'future' thing was a ripoff. It wasn't anything but a slightly updated version of the past. His car didn't fly, but it did run on biodiesel. His cell phone still only picked up voices, but they were incredibly clear. His computer didn't process everything instantaneously, but at least AOL had been eradicated. Patrick's gun didn't shoot lasers, but it did alternately function as a taser. His badge was still just a shield-shaped piece of metal, and I-HOP was still just moderately priced pancakes, not protein drinks or caffeine shots or meal-in-a-pills. Everything was just more stainless steel, that's all.
Pete had snuck them out of the building--apparently the press were a regular feature in front of Ryan's apartment, and a neglected fire escape worked just as well as the ornately furnished lobby and staircase. Rickety, yes, and rusted--but at least there were no flashbulbs and shouts of, "Detective, tell us, what was Mr. Ross wearing?"
Pete didn't talk on the ride, not even when Patrick wondered aloud why in the hell he was driving around the closest thing he had to a witness to I-HOP. In fact, he didn't open his mouth until the waitress plunked down a glass of orange juice in front of him.
"So, I take it I'm a suspect?"
"What makes you think that?" Patrick asked, all innocence.
Pete snorted. "Yeah, okay, I'm a suspect. Of course I am. But I don't have a motive."
"Not everybody does," Patrick shrugged. "And whether or not you have one is up to us, not you."
"Fair enough," Pete said, taking another drink. "Keep questioning me then, I don't have anything better to do."
"Where were you last night?" Joe asked. "For all the predicting you're doing, you've yet to set up an alibi."
Pete snapped his fingers, smirking. "Damn, I knew I was forgetting something. From noon until about eight, I was with Ryan. I went home early last night--we kind of got into it, I said some things I probably shouldn't have and gave him some unfair ultimatums. I went home, watched TV, and fell asleep at probably about midnight."
"I thought you said you had sleeping troubles?" Patrick asked.
"I do, sometimes. Last night I didn't."
"What was the fight about?" Joe asked, resting his hand on his fist. He looked more intrigued than anything, much to Patrick's annoyance.
Pete stiffened, just enough to where Patrick noticed. "Jealousy, obviously. His constant parade of fake girlfriends, me getting sick of it. I don't like sharing."
"Really," Patrick said. It wasn't a question. "Because it seems to me that if that you didn't like to share, you wouldn't be dating someone famous in the first place."
"Fair point," Pete said, grinning in an entirely mirthless way. "But no. That's not how I work."
"So did you get Ryan's phone call?" Joe asked.
"No. I was asleep," Pete replied, face falling.
"His phone said you talked for about a minute and a half," Patrick said, moving backwards as the waitress arrived with their plates. He thanked her, and continued. "So, if you didn't answer your phone, who did?"
"I don't know. My phone didn't even say that he'd called. I think there's something wrong with it. Pass the syrup?"
Patrick did, wondering how it was, exactly, that Pete could manage to talk about his dead boyfriend while calmly eating breakfast. Patrick wasn't squeamish by any means--he'd seen far worse than Ryan's alleged nosebleed--but he'd confined himself to toast and coffee. It was just weird, Pete's ability to function normally while his boyfriend's body was being carted off to the station, where it would be injected with a vile-smelling green fluid that would tell them how, exactly, Ryan died (the whole 'cutting' aspect of autopsies was a thing of the past, as well--it was barbaric, really, slicing open the dead to take a look at their organs). Again, though, Patrick couldn't put his finger on what exactly was behind Pete's bizarre way of dealing with grief; was he guilty? was he innocent? did he know something?
"So if you were at home asleep," Patrick said, gesturing with a piece of toast, "where was Ryan?"
Pete glared. "I think that's fairly obvious."
Patrick shrugged. "Not necessarily. So if it wasn't you, who was it? Was anybody else close to Ryan? Friends? Girlfriends? Anything?"
Pete shook his head. "No, not really. He tended to keep most people at a distance--he didn't want them poking around, you know? He's famous. He didn't want his personal business all over the tabloids."
"But he trusted you?"
"I never gave him a reason not to," Pete told his pancakes.
"And everyone else did?"
"No," Pete said, eyes still downcast. "I'm just charismatic and charming, that's all."
"Charming and charismatic, huh?" Patrick asked. "How did you and Ryan meet?"
Pete took a bite of his syrup-drenched pancakes, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. "Is it too late to invoke my Miranda rights? I don't feel like talking about this anymore."
"I'd rather you didn't," Patrick said with a sigh.
"Too bad, I'm invoking them. I'm free at five, though, if you're not busy." He put down his fork, pulling out a pen from his pocket. He scrawled a number across Patrick's palm, patted his pursed lips with a napkin, and slid out from the booth, leaving a ten dollar bill in his wake.
Patrick stared. First at the door swinging shut, then at Joe, then at the number inked on his palm.
"Would this be a bad time to tell you that you have something on your face?" Joe asked, head turned slightly to the side. "Yeah, no, right there."
---
Nobody, least of all some scummy witness, is allowed to make Patrick Stump (Detective Patrick Stump) wait. No. Fuck him if he was going to call when it was more convenient for some guy with delusions of grandeur. Detectives don't make time for their witnesses (suspects). Ever.
The minute arm on the clock crawled slowly, paperwork piled up, his boss complained, Joe continued to shoot him bemused glances ("Fuck you, Joe, I'm trying to be professional, here!") and Patrick wondered, vaguely, what it would take to clear himself of the crime if he happened to accidentally-on-purpose push Pete Wentz off a building.
Four-thirty. "Is Mr. Wentz there?"
"Speaking."
"Patri--Detective Stump, here. I'd like to call you down for further questioning," he said, triumphantly. Four-thirty. Not five.
"It's not five," Pete said, voice low. Patrick thought he heard voices in the background, but he couldn't be sure.
"Yeah, well, I had some paperwork to take care of and I'm finished with it now," Patrick lied (fuckfuckfuck, why was he doing this?), "so I'd appreciate it if you could stop by the station. Now."
"I'm busy," Pete said, voice clipped.
"Aren't we all," Patrick drawled. "Look, I have things I'd rather being doing, too, and they certainly aren't to interrogate you."
"Really," Pete said.
"Yes, really. You have fifteen minutes to get down here, or we'll have a cell for you tomorrow. You've gotten off lightly, thus far, and believe me when I say I can make this experience hell, okay? Either come in now, or you'll be under further suspicion. Got it?"
"Fuck," Pete growled. "Hang on." Patrick heard some muted conversation--Pete and an indistinguishable voice, some laughter--and Pete was back. "Okay, be there in five."
Click.
Joe, apparently, took Patrick's hiss of frustration as an invitation. He took his usual seat atop Patrick's desk. "Please tell me you did not just tell him to come down here right now, Patrick."
"Yeah, I did. Why?"
"Fuck you," Joe said. "Plans, Patrick. Not everybody is as singularly obsessed with their job as you, you know."
Patrick knew that look, far, far too well. It meant that if he didn't let Joe go on his--for lack of a better word--"date," he would have to listen to him whine outside of the interrogation room, and suffer through his forlorn glances and the way he would continuously scratch his nose with his middle finger. It didn't really bother Patrick, as such, but it was just as well that he did it alone.
He sighed, glowering. "Yeah, okay. I can handle it myself, Trohman, but if you don't--"
"No, really, Patrick," Joe said, suddenly all smiles, "I could kiss you right now."
"I'll pass," Patrick said, twirling a pen in his fingers. "I've had enough shit today, I don't need an STD to top it off."
"You can't get an STD through kissing," Joe scoffed.
Patrick rolled his eyes. "That's exactly why you're not getting anywhere near me."
Joe shrugged it off, returning to his desk with a bounce in his step. And just as Patrick was going to smile, just a little, because Joe was nothing if not ridiculous, a dark cloud descended on the station in the form of one apparently aggravated Pete Wentz.
"Okay, I'm here," he said, scowling. "Can we get this over with?"
Joe glanced at his watch, then back to Pete. "Did you honestly just make it here in two minutes?"
Pete shrugged. "I don't know, did I?"
"This way," Patrick said, heading in the direction of the interrogation rooms. "We're doing it officially, now, so don't even think about walking out again, that's practically--"
"So where are the cameras?" Pete asked, cutting him off. "The corner of the room, under the table, behind the two-way-mirror, what?"
"I don't think you need to know that," Patrick said, pushing open the door. "In here, please."
"I just want to know where to look when I'm wiping away my grieving tears," Pete said, expression unreadable. "Wouldn't want the camera to miss any of the action, you know."
"Look," Patrick said, shutting the door with unnecessary force. "I hate to be cliche, but there are two ways to do this, and you're definitely heading down the wrong one. Either cooperate, or we'll hold you overnight. Is that clear?"
"It's a river on a sunny afternoon, Detective Stump," Pete said, grinning in a way that was entirely mirthless. "A right regular glass of filtered water, even. Diamonds."
Patrick resisted the urge to put his fist straight through Pete's teeth, growling, "So, you and Ross, huh? Probably where he got the wardrobe advice."
"Well, we couldn't have Mom pick out his clothes, now could we?" Wentz gave Patrick an up-and-down stare that made him turn red. "Who was he supposed to ask, you?"
"And yet she can't be that bad, since you live with her. Say, Wentz, did you get your allowance from Mommy this week?"
Pete continued to grin. "Yeah, why? You need ten bucks?"
Rage wasn't really Patrick's thing. It took a lot of planning to piss him off, or at least a conscious knowledge that one was doing so. Patrick was pissed.
"I don't take bribes. Besides, another junkie starlet dead? Imagine that. One less piece of trash to worry about, anyway."
Pete didn't respond for a moment, grin fading. "Fuck you," he said, quietly.
Patrick's hands shook with rage. "What was he to you, Pete? An ATM? A dealer? What?"
"The moment," Pete said, still hushed. "The present. Not the future, maybe, but you can't fucking live in the future, can you? One of many possibles, maybe, but we were right now and that was enough." He stood up, hands pressed firmly to the top of the table. "Fuck this, I'm out of here."
Patrick, eyes closed, held up a hand. "Stop, okay?"
"Why the hell should I?"
"Because I was serious when I said that if you walk out that door, you're getting a cell. And you don't deserve that," Patrick said, eyes still closed.
Pete shook his head. "You're sending me some fucked up signals, you know that?" And even though the anger was obvious, there was something else, too, like awe or at least some kind of bizarre appreciation.
"And you're not answering my questions," Patrick said, softer now. "Answer me straightly, and I won't push your buttons."
"What is that? Some kind of fucked up interrogation technique?"
"Yes. So let's go back to where we left off--how did you and Ryan meet?"
"A party," Pete said, taking his seat.
"Whose?"
"A mutual friend, Travis. McCoy, that is. We started talking, he got my number, we hung out the next day, and it went from there," Pete said, tracing circles on his palm.
"How long have you and Ryan known each other?"
"A couple months. We didn't really keep track, and Travis throws so many damn parties there's no way I'll be able to pick out what day it was. But a couple months, yeah."
"And the nature of your relationship?" Patrick asked offhandedly.
Pete stared.
"For the record."
"Oh. Romantic, I suppose, for lack of a better word. We were together. Exclusively. In private," Pete said, bitterness dripping from every word.
"How did you feel about that?" Patrick asked, feeling like a therapist.
"Pissed. It sucked. But Ryan had an image to maintain, yeah, I get it. Always appear to be single, but on the arm of a new girl every week. If they knew he was taken, especially by a guy, his ratings would drop. There's a chance they could rise, but there was too big of a risk there and his image was all he really had, you know?"
Patrick nodded. "Did Ryan have many friends?"
"He was making a mil a day, so yes he had fucking friends."
"Names?"
"Me, obviously. This guy Spencer. Smith, I think? Jon Walker. Some of my friends, Travis, obviously, Beckett, Saporta," Pete said, ticking them off on his fingers. "Yeah, those were probably his best friends, the ones he saw often. Like, friends for genuine reasons. Not because he'd surprise you with a gift basket of Chanel for no reason."
"Would any of them have any reason to want to hurt Ryan?"
"We've been through this already."
"Do you want me to figure out who did this, or not?" Patrick asked, scowling. "State it for the record, or this'll be a cold case and put on a shelf somewhere until someone decides to fess up. Do you want me to help, or not?"
Pete, glowering, answered the question. "No, not aside from the obvious reasons. Money, jealousy, whatever. I probably had the biggest reason, and that's not a fucking confession so don't even try to twist my words. Think about it. Of course I'm jealous, he has twelve girlfriends on the side that he goes out at night with. Maybe that pisses me off. I don't like getting late-night phone calls when he's fucked up. I'm closest to him--no family or anything, so I'd probably get first dibs on his shit."
"So how can we know you didn't kill him?" Patrick asked, softly.
"I'm the only one who really knew him. Inside and out. I got pissed off at him sometimes, yeah, but I didn't want him to die."
"Were you in love?"
"No," Pete said. "I mean, we liked each other a lot and all that, but neither of is in any kind of position where we want to, I don't know, start a fucking family or something."
"Can you imagine ever doing that with Ryan?"
"No, I don't know, fuck. It wasn't like that between us. And it's never going to be, so why the hell would I even consider it?"
Patrick shrugged. "It's just a question, Pete. It establishes a boundary for your relationship, that's all."
"It's a stupid fucking question."
"It's a necessary stupid fucking question," Patrick corrected, sighing. "Do you have any idea how much information you can get from that?"
"Do I care? It's still fucking ridiculous."
He didn't, and it was obvious, but Patrick continued. "If you had said, 'yes, definitely' and burst into tears, I would be a lot more inclined to believe that you're innocent. If you had said, 'No, never, not in a million years,' I would also have been inclined to believe that you were innocent."
"Let me guess: by what I said, I just made myself ten times more suspicious?" Pete asked, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"Yes and no. Yes, you are more suspicious, but you're also obviously bitter--"
"Look, I don't fucking care about interrogation techniques. That's not my job. My job is to answer your questions, so can we get on with this so I can get out of here?"
Patrick, exasperated, asked, "Fine. Did you do it, or not?"
"No, I didn't fucking kill him. He was basically all I have, outside of my work," Pete said, standing up and heading for the door. "Ryan was it. That's all."
"Where do you--" he was suddenly cut off by Pete pressing his finger to Patrick's lips.
"We're done here, yeah? Okay? I've had enough for right now," he said, and breezed out of the room so quickly Patrick could only make a choked sound before the door clicked shut.
He waited a moment ("Calm the fuck down," he told himself, though not exactly sure what he should be calming down from) before pushing open the door and heading back to his desk, where Joe was sitting, looking forlorn. "Why are you still here?" Patrick asked, pulling on his jacket.
"She called and postponed 'til six. How'd it go?" Joe asked.
"Fine," Patrick said, checking for his bus pass in his pocket. "Peachy."
"Are you blushing?" Joe asked, leaning in for a closer look. "Christ, you fucking are, aren't you?"
"Why the fuck would I be blushing?" Patrick asked, as much of Joe as himself. "I'll see you tomorrow, try to make it in on time, and stop giving me that fucking look because I am not fucking blushing." He stomped off towards the door, attracting a few bemused looks in the process.
But when he stepped outside the cold night air on his flaming cheeks made him swear.
Author:
xxdanceFandom(s): Fall Out Boy/Panic! At the Disco
Pairing: Pete/Ryan, Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Ryan's just another dead starlet. Patrick's just another overworked detective. Pete's just another shady character. Sort of.
Rating: R. [Violence, drug use, language, and that's just the first chapter.]
Warnings: Complete crack. Beyond crack. Detectives is all I'm saying, I'll save the other cracky warnings for later. Slash, language, and drug use as well.
Author's Note:
whatchamacall1t is awesome, honestly. She helps loads and helps me clear up the fact that my mind jumps from one thing to the next with no discernible connection whatsoever--if it wasn't for her, this fic would be a mess. Also, she is better at insults than I am. :Done
Patrick thought this whole 'future' thing was a ripoff. It wasn't anything but a slightly updated version of the past. His car didn't fly, but it did run on biodiesel. His cell phone still only picked up voices, but they were incredibly clear. His computer didn't process everything instantaneously, but at least AOL had been eradicated. Patrick's gun didn't shoot lasers, but it did alternately function as a taser. His badge was still just a shield-shaped piece of metal, and I-HOP was still just moderately priced pancakes, not protein drinks or caffeine shots or meal-in-a-pills. Everything was just more stainless steel, that's all.
Pete had snuck them out of the building--apparently the press were a regular feature in front of Ryan's apartment, and a neglected fire escape worked just as well as the ornately furnished lobby and staircase. Rickety, yes, and rusted--but at least there were no flashbulbs and shouts of, "Detective, tell us, what was Mr. Ross wearing?"
Pete didn't talk on the ride, not even when Patrick wondered aloud why in the hell he was driving around the closest thing he had to a witness to I-HOP. In fact, he didn't open his mouth until the waitress plunked down a glass of orange juice in front of him.
"So, I take it I'm a suspect?"
"What makes you think that?" Patrick asked, all innocence.
Pete snorted. "Yeah, okay, I'm a suspect. Of course I am. But I don't have a motive."
"Not everybody does," Patrick shrugged. "And whether or not you have one is up to us, not you."
"Fair enough," Pete said, taking another drink. "Keep questioning me then, I don't have anything better to do."
"Where were you last night?" Joe asked. "For all the predicting you're doing, you've yet to set up an alibi."
Pete snapped his fingers, smirking. "Damn, I knew I was forgetting something. From noon until about eight, I was with Ryan. I went home early last night--we kind of got into it, I said some things I probably shouldn't have and gave him some unfair ultimatums. I went home, watched TV, and fell asleep at probably about midnight."
"I thought you said you had sleeping troubles?" Patrick asked.
"I do, sometimes. Last night I didn't."
"What was the fight about?" Joe asked, resting his hand on his fist. He looked more intrigued than anything, much to Patrick's annoyance.
Pete stiffened, just enough to where Patrick noticed. "Jealousy, obviously. His constant parade of fake girlfriends, me getting sick of it. I don't like sharing."
"Really," Patrick said. It wasn't a question. "Because it seems to me that if that you didn't like to share, you wouldn't be dating someone famous in the first place."
"Fair point," Pete said, grinning in an entirely mirthless way. "But no. That's not how I work."
"So did you get Ryan's phone call?" Joe asked.
"No. I was asleep," Pete replied, face falling.
"His phone said you talked for about a minute and a half," Patrick said, moving backwards as the waitress arrived with their plates. He thanked her, and continued. "So, if you didn't answer your phone, who did?"
"I don't know. My phone didn't even say that he'd called. I think there's something wrong with it. Pass the syrup?"
Patrick did, wondering how it was, exactly, that Pete could manage to talk about his dead boyfriend while calmly eating breakfast. Patrick wasn't squeamish by any means--he'd seen far worse than Ryan's alleged nosebleed--but he'd confined himself to toast and coffee. It was just weird, Pete's ability to function normally while his boyfriend's body was being carted off to the station, where it would be injected with a vile-smelling green fluid that would tell them how, exactly, Ryan died (the whole 'cutting' aspect of autopsies was a thing of the past, as well--it was barbaric, really, slicing open the dead to take a look at their organs). Again, though, Patrick couldn't put his finger on what exactly was behind Pete's bizarre way of dealing with grief; was he guilty? was he innocent? did he know something?
"So if you were at home asleep," Patrick said, gesturing with a piece of toast, "where was Ryan?"
Pete glared. "I think that's fairly obvious."
Patrick shrugged. "Not necessarily. So if it wasn't you, who was it? Was anybody else close to Ryan? Friends? Girlfriends? Anything?"
Pete shook his head. "No, not really. He tended to keep most people at a distance--he didn't want them poking around, you know? He's famous. He didn't want his personal business all over the tabloids."
"But he trusted you?"
"I never gave him a reason not to," Pete told his pancakes.
"And everyone else did?"
"No," Pete said, eyes still downcast. "I'm just charismatic and charming, that's all."
"Charming and charismatic, huh?" Patrick asked. "How did you and Ryan meet?"
Pete took a bite of his syrup-drenched pancakes, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. "Is it too late to invoke my Miranda rights? I don't feel like talking about this anymore."
"I'd rather you didn't," Patrick said with a sigh.
"Too bad, I'm invoking them. I'm free at five, though, if you're not busy." He put down his fork, pulling out a pen from his pocket. He scrawled a number across Patrick's palm, patted his pursed lips with a napkin, and slid out from the booth, leaving a ten dollar bill in his wake.
Patrick stared. First at the door swinging shut, then at Joe, then at the number inked on his palm.
"Would this be a bad time to tell you that you have something on your face?" Joe asked, head turned slightly to the side. "Yeah, no, right there."
---
Nobody, least of all some scummy witness, is allowed to make Patrick Stump (Detective Patrick Stump) wait. No. Fuck him if he was going to call when it was more convenient for some guy with delusions of grandeur. Detectives don't make time for their witnesses (suspects). Ever.
The minute arm on the clock crawled slowly, paperwork piled up, his boss complained, Joe continued to shoot him bemused glances ("Fuck you, Joe, I'm trying to be professional, here!") and Patrick wondered, vaguely, what it would take to clear himself of the crime if he happened to accidentally-on-purpose push Pete Wentz off a building.
Four-thirty. "Is Mr. Wentz there?"
"Speaking."
"Patri--Detective Stump, here. I'd like to call you down for further questioning," he said, triumphantly. Four-thirty. Not five.
"It's not five," Pete said, voice low. Patrick thought he heard voices in the background, but he couldn't be sure.
"Yeah, well, I had some paperwork to take care of and I'm finished with it now," Patrick lied (fuckfuckfuck, why was he doing this?), "so I'd appreciate it if you could stop by the station. Now."
"I'm busy," Pete said, voice clipped.
"Aren't we all," Patrick drawled. "Look, I have things I'd rather being doing, too, and they certainly aren't to interrogate you."
"Really," Pete said.
"Yes, really. You have fifteen minutes to get down here, or we'll have a cell for you tomorrow. You've gotten off lightly, thus far, and believe me when I say I can make this experience hell, okay? Either come in now, or you'll be under further suspicion. Got it?"
"Fuck," Pete growled. "Hang on." Patrick heard some muted conversation--Pete and an indistinguishable voice, some laughter--and Pete was back. "Okay, be there in five."
Click.
Joe, apparently, took Patrick's hiss of frustration as an invitation. He took his usual seat atop Patrick's desk. "Please tell me you did not just tell him to come down here right now, Patrick."
"Yeah, I did. Why?"
"Fuck you," Joe said. "Plans, Patrick. Not everybody is as singularly obsessed with their job as you, you know."
Patrick knew that look, far, far too well. It meant that if he didn't let Joe go on his--for lack of a better word--"date," he would have to listen to him whine outside of the interrogation room, and suffer through his forlorn glances and the way he would continuously scratch his nose with his middle finger. It didn't really bother Patrick, as such, but it was just as well that he did it alone.
He sighed, glowering. "Yeah, okay. I can handle it myself, Trohman, but if you don't--"
"No, really, Patrick," Joe said, suddenly all smiles, "I could kiss you right now."
"I'll pass," Patrick said, twirling a pen in his fingers. "I've had enough shit today, I don't need an STD to top it off."
"You can't get an STD through kissing," Joe scoffed.
Patrick rolled his eyes. "That's exactly why you're not getting anywhere near me."
Joe shrugged it off, returning to his desk with a bounce in his step. And just as Patrick was going to smile, just a little, because Joe was nothing if not ridiculous, a dark cloud descended on the station in the form of one apparently aggravated Pete Wentz.
"Okay, I'm here," he said, scowling. "Can we get this over with?"
Joe glanced at his watch, then back to Pete. "Did you honestly just make it here in two minutes?"
Pete shrugged. "I don't know, did I?"
"This way," Patrick said, heading in the direction of the interrogation rooms. "We're doing it officially, now, so don't even think about walking out again, that's practically--"
"So where are the cameras?" Pete asked, cutting him off. "The corner of the room, under the table, behind the two-way-mirror, what?"
"I don't think you need to know that," Patrick said, pushing open the door. "In here, please."
"I just want to know where to look when I'm wiping away my grieving tears," Pete said, expression unreadable. "Wouldn't want the camera to miss any of the action, you know."
"Look," Patrick said, shutting the door with unnecessary force. "I hate to be cliche, but there are two ways to do this, and you're definitely heading down the wrong one. Either cooperate, or we'll hold you overnight. Is that clear?"
"It's a river on a sunny afternoon, Detective Stump," Pete said, grinning in a way that was entirely mirthless. "A right regular glass of filtered water, even. Diamonds."
Patrick resisted the urge to put his fist straight through Pete's teeth, growling, "So, you and Ross, huh? Probably where he got the wardrobe advice."
"Well, we couldn't have Mom pick out his clothes, now could we?" Wentz gave Patrick an up-and-down stare that made him turn red. "Who was he supposed to ask, you?"
"And yet she can't be that bad, since you live with her. Say, Wentz, did you get your allowance from Mommy this week?"
Pete continued to grin. "Yeah, why? You need ten bucks?"
Rage wasn't really Patrick's thing. It took a lot of planning to piss him off, or at least a conscious knowledge that one was doing so. Patrick was pissed.
"I don't take bribes. Besides, another junkie starlet dead? Imagine that. One less piece of trash to worry about, anyway."
Pete didn't respond for a moment, grin fading. "Fuck you," he said, quietly.
Patrick's hands shook with rage. "What was he to you, Pete? An ATM? A dealer? What?"
"The moment," Pete said, still hushed. "The present. Not the future, maybe, but you can't fucking live in the future, can you? One of many possibles, maybe, but we were right now and that was enough." He stood up, hands pressed firmly to the top of the table. "Fuck this, I'm out of here."
Patrick, eyes closed, held up a hand. "Stop, okay?"
"Why the hell should I?"
"Because I was serious when I said that if you walk out that door, you're getting a cell. And you don't deserve that," Patrick said, eyes still closed.
Pete shook his head. "You're sending me some fucked up signals, you know that?" And even though the anger was obvious, there was something else, too, like awe or at least some kind of bizarre appreciation.
"And you're not answering my questions," Patrick said, softer now. "Answer me straightly, and I won't push your buttons."
"What is that? Some kind of fucked up interrogation technique?"
"Yes. So let's go back to where we left off--how did you and Ryan meet?"
"A party," Pete said, taking his seat.
"Whose?"
"A mutual friend, Travis. McCoy, that is. We started talking, he got my number, we hung out the next day, and it went from there," Pete said, tracing circles on his palm.
"How long have you and Ryan known each other?"
"A couple months. We didn't really keep track, and Travis throws so many damn parties there's no way I'll be able to pick out what day it was. But a couple months, yeah."
"And the nature of your relationship?" Patrick asked offhandedly.
Pete stared.
"For the record."
"Oh. Romantic, I suppose, for lack of a better word. We were together. Exclusively. In private," Pete said, bitterness dripping from every word.
"How did you feel about that?" Patrick asked, feeling like a therapist.
"Pissed. It sucked. But Ryan had an image to maintain, yeah, I get it. Always appear to be single, but on the arm of a new girl every week. If they knew he was taken, especially by a guy, his ratings would drop. There's a chance they could rise, but there was too big of a risk there and his image was all he really had, you know?"
Patrick nodded. "Did Ryan have many friends?"
"He was making a mil a day, so yes he had fucking friends."
"Names?"
"Me, obviously. This guy Spencer. Smith, I think? Jon Walker. Some of my friends, Travis, obviously, Beckett, Saporta," Pete said, ticking them off on his fingers. "Yeah, those were probably his best friends, the ones he saw often. Like, friends for genuine reasons. Not because he'd surprise you with a gift basket of Chanel for no reason."
"Would any of them have any reason to want to hurt Ryan?"
"We've been through this already."
"Do you want me to figure out who did this, or not?" Patrick asked, scowling. "State it for the record, or this'll be a cold case and put on a shelf somewhere until someone decides to fess up. Do you want me to help, or not?"
Pete, glowering, answered the question. "No, not aside from the obvious reasons. Money, jealousy, whatever. I probably had the biggest reason, and that's not a fucking confession so don't even try to twist my words. Think about it. Of course I'm jealous, he has twelve girlfriends on the side that he goes out at night with. Maybe that pisses me off. I don't like getting late-night phone calls when he's fucked up. I'm closest to him--no family or anything, so I'd probably get first dibs on his shit."
"So how can we know you didn't kill him?" Patrick asked, softly.
"I'm the only one who really knew him. Inside and out. I got pissed off at him sometimes, yeah, but I didn't want him to die."
"Were you in love?"
"No," Pete said. "I mean, we liked each other a lot and all that, but neither of is in any kind of position where we want to, I don't know, start a fucking family or something."
"Can you imagine ever doing that with Ryan?"
"No, I don't know, fuck. It wasn't like that between us. And it's never going to be, so why the hell would I even consider it?"
Patrick shrugged. "It's just a question, Pete. It establishes a boundary for your relationship, that's all."
"It's a stupid fucking question."
"It's a necessary stupid fucking question," Patrick corrected, sighing. "Do you have any idea how much information you can get from that?"
"Do I care? It's still fucking ridiculous."
He didn't, and it was obvious, but Patrick continued. "If you had said, 'yes, definitely' and burst into tears, I would be a lot more inclined to believe that you're innocent. If you had said, 'No, never, not in a million years,' I would also have been inclined to believe that you were innocent."
"Let me guess: by what I said, I just made myself ten times more suspicious?" Pete asked, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"Yes and no. Yes, you are more suspicious, but you're also obviously bitter--"
"Look, I don't fucking care about interrogation techniques. That's not my job. My job is to answer your questions, so can we get on with this so I can get out of here?"
Patrick, exasperated, asked, "Fine. Did you do it, or not?"
"No, I didn't fucking kill him. He was basically all I have, outside of my work," Pete said, standing up and heading for the door. "Ryan was it. That's all."
"Where do you--" he was suddenly cut off by Pete pressing his finger to Patrick's lips.
"We're done here, yeah? Okay? I've had enough for right now," he said, and breezed out of the room so quickly Patrick could only make a choked sound before the door clicked shut.
He waited a moment ("Calm the fuck down," he told himself, though not exactly sure what he should be calming down from) before pushing open the door and heading back to his desk, where Joe was sitting, looking forlorn. "Why are you still here?" Patrick asked, pulling on his jacket.
"She called and postponed 'til six. How'd it go?" Joe asked.
"Fine," Patrick said, checking for his bus pass in his pocket. "Peachy."
"Are you blushing?" Joe asked, leaning in for a closer look. "Christ, you fucking are, aren't you?"
"Why the fuck would I be blushing?" Patrick asked, as much of Joe as himself. "I'll see you tomorrow, try to make it in on time, and stop giving me that fucking look because I am not fucking blushing." He stomped off towards the door, attracting a few bemused looks in the process.
But when he stepped outside the cold night air on his flaming cheeks made him swear.