The (After) Life of the Party [4/?]
Title: The (After) Life of the Party [4/?]
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.]
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: A huge, wonderful thank you towhatchamacall1t, because she is the reason this is any good to read at all.
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"Please," Patrick said slowly, hands gripping his steering wheel as though it were about to fly off. "Please explain to me why I'm doing this, one more time."
"Easy," Pete replied, licking a bit of ketchup from one finger, an empty carton of fries clutched in one hand. "I'm your sole suspect, and if I die you'll get a cold case and we all know you'll have a god damn breakdown if you don't figure this one out. Are you gonna eat that?" Pete was snatching the burger from Patrick's lap even before he had even finished the sentence.
"I will not," Patrick protested, shooting Pete a sharp glare. "And anyway, I know why I picked you up, but why me? You've got friends."
"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Pete said, through a mouthful.
"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"
"Can we turn off the investigation for like, two seconds here?" Pete snapped. "Anything I say can and will be used in a court of law, whatever, I don't fucking care, but for two fucking seconds will you just act like a human being?"
Patrick didn't answer for a moment. He thought about it, and when he came to a conclusion, he slammed on the brakes and screamed, "I am acting like a god damn human being, so will you just cooperate for a change and maybe we could, I don't know, get something fucking accomplished?"
"You're blocking traffic," Pete said with a grin, sucking salt from the end of one finger. "And hey, that was much better, I saw some real, raw emotion there. Good job. But you still need work, Stump, you've got a long way to go."
"Get the fuck out of my car."
Still grinning, Pete put one hand on the door handle.
"Don't smile at me like that. I said, get the fuck out of my car."
"I'll get the fuck out of your car if you'll drop the investigation right here, right now," Pete said.
Patrick stared, barely aware of the honking (he'd managed to, at least, stop at a stoplight--but the light had long since turned green), not sure he'd heard Pete correctly. Because, for one thing, it was an extremely tempting option--lose the asshole, lose the aggravating case--and, for another, he simply couldn't do it. Not because he was an exceedingly moral and upright detective (okay, he was, but that wasn't why), but more because he actually really, really wanted to know what happened.
Also, he couldn't let Pete win. That grin on his face was definitely a 'look at the way I've outwitted the detective' grin, and no, Patrick wasn't going to let that happen.
"Get your hand off of the fucking handle," Patrick said, voice even. "Stop smiling like that, and if you say one more word until we get back to my apartment, I'll get Joe to give you a strip search, and I not kidding."
Pete stared at him, still smiling, and took his hand off of the handle. "What makes you think I wouldn't like that?"
Patrick ignored him and resumed driving as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened, preferring to seethe quietly while Pete drummed rhythms on his knees. He reminded himself to never, ever, under any condition, be a good Samaritan ever again.
---
"That's your couch," Patrick said, flipping a hand in the direction of a well-worn sofa with a collection of mismatched throw pillows to one side. He jerked his head in the opposite direction, saying, "And that's the bathroom."
Pete stared incredulously at the couch, eyeing the afghan draped over the top with particular distaste. "I'm not sleeping there."
"Fine," Patrick replied distractedly, flipping on the light. "Sleep in the hall, I don't care. Go back to your apartment. Whatever."
"No, you don't get it," Pete continued, grabbing the corner of a pillow between his thumb and forefinger. "When I say I'm not sleeping here, I mean I'm probably going to be up all night redecorating because, dude, I'm sorry, but this is the saddest thing I've ever seen."
Patrick, in spite of himself, looked genuinely confused. "What's wrong with it?"
Pete dangled the pillow in his face. "Look at it. It's crocheted. It matches your afghan."
Snatching the pillow from Pete, he demanded, "I thought matching was a good thing?"
"You shouldn't match anything, ever, to an afghan," Pete said in a desperately earnest tone. "The problem is not the matching, it's that you have an afghan in the first place."
"My grandmother made it!"
"I would hope so," Pete replied. "I would hate to think you paid for it."
Patrick scrubbed a hand over his face, taking calm, even breaths in a vain effort to keep himself from exploding again. Pete, apparently, was a master of pushing all of the wrong buttons. He pointed one shaking finger at the door. "Get out. I try to do something nice, you know, maybe at least give you a god damn chance to be a decent human being, and this is what happens? Go back to your apartment, Wentz."
Pete clasped his hands together, smiling in an almost pleading way. "No, Patrick-- Detective Stump--you're not understanding me. I am being a decent human being--I'm going to redecorate your apartment."
"No, you're not."
"Well, Ryan was more of the decorating type, I mean, you saw his apartment, but even I can do better than this. A little effort, a couple bucks, some rearranging, I'll have this place Feng Shui'd in like--"
"You are not going to move so much as a coaster," Patrick declared, closing his eyes and trying desperately to keep from opening his mouth too much. If he let go, he didn't know whether laughing would come out, or another shouting match like in the car. He preferred neither. "You are going to sleep on that couch, and you are going to enjoy it, and in the morning you are going to say, 'Thank you, Detective Stump, for not kicking my ass out onto the street,' and I'll say 'You're welcome,' and we'll never, ever have to do it again."
"No, no, that's the problem. I won't be able to sleep, knowing that I'm sleeping under an ancient afghan that should probably be in a museum somewhere, not to mention--"
Patrick threw his hands into the air, storming off to his room. "Fine! Push my furniture out the window, dip into my bank account and buy some Persian cotton sheets or whatever, I'm going to bed."
"It's five o'clock," Pete told Patrick's back. "And it's Egyptian cotton, not Persian."
A muffled noise from down the hall sounded a lot like hysterical laughter, so Pete counted it as a win and drop-kicked the pillow into a corner.
---
"So, what, I'm supposed to take them both out, now?"
He pressed a pair of binoculars to his face, but saw nothing other than blank walls and someone's shadow pacing. He shifted in his seat, glad he'd ditched the taxi a mile or so back in exchange for a newer, sleeker, less cabbage-scented car.
"Yeah, right, but the problem is I've been told repeatedly that I'm not supposed to mess with civilians. By superiors. You know, the people who put me up to this," he told the voice on the other end of the phone, sounding haughty.
He eyed the black package laying innoculously in the backseat, thinking he'd better move it to the trunk soon. Sure, if he got caught they'd find no prints--no nothing, actually, no name, no age. Hell, he didn't even have DNA. But it was better safe than sorry.
"I can fucking name drop if I want," he said, absently cleaning his nails. "And I don't care about any of that. All I'm saying is I'll take the cop out when I'm told to. For right now, I'll focus on Pete. Because that's my job, no matter what you lot have to say about it."
He hung up, not waiting for a response. It wasn't that he had morals, or anything like that. His kind hardly knew the meaning of 'morals.' He did as he was told, nothing else. And futhermore, if he killed the cop right away, judging from the way Pete was turning on the charm, he'd end up missing what was likely to shortly become an amusingly volatile relationship.
Not to mention it would be much, much more dramatic that way. He fingered his binoculars and smiled a little.
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.]
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: A huge, wonderful thank you to
whatchamacall1t, because she is the reason this is any good to read at all. one two three
"Please," Patrick said slowly, hands gripping his steering wheel as though it were about to fly off. "Please explain to me why I'm doing this, one more time."
"Easy," Pete replied, licking a bit of ketchup from one finger, an empty carton of fries clutched in one hand. "I'm your sole suspect, and if I die you'll get a cold case and we all know you'll have a god damn breakdown if you don't figure this one out. Are you gonna eat that?" Pete was snatching the burger from Patrick's lap even before he had even finished the sentence.
"I will not," Patrick protested, shooting Pete a sharp glare. "And anyway, I know why I picked you up, but why me? You've got friends."
"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Pete said, through a mouthful.
"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"
"Can we turn off the investigation for like, two seconds here?" Pete snapped. "Anything I say can and will be used in a court of law, whatever, I don't fucking care, but for two fucking seconds will you just act like a human being?"
Patrick didn't answer for a moment. He thought about it, and when he came to a conclusion, he slammed on the brakes and screamed, "I am acting like a god damn human being, so will you just cooperate for a change and maybe we could, I don't know, get something fucking accomplished?"
"You're blocking traffic," Pete said with a grin, sucking salt from the end of one finger. "And hey, that was much better, I saw some real, raw emotion there. Good job. But you still need work, Stump, you've got a long way to go."
"Get the fuck out of my car."
Still grinning, Pete put one hand on the door handle.
"Don't smile at me like that. I said, get the fuck out of my car."
"I'll get the fuck out of your car if you'll drop the investigation right here, right now," Pete said.
Patrick stared, barely aware of the honking (he'd managed to, at least, stop at a stoplight--but the light had long since turned green), not sure he'd heard Pete correctly. Because, for one thing, it was an extremely tempting option--lose the asshole, lose the aggravating case--and, for another, he simply couldn't do it. Not because he was an exceedingly moral and upright detective (okay, he was, but that wasn't why), but more because he actually really, really wanted to know what happened.
Also, he couldn't let Pete win. That grin on his face was definitely a 'look at the way I've outwitted the detective' grin, and no, Patrick wasn't going to let that happen.
"Get your hand off of the fucking handle," Patrick said, voice even. "Stop smiling like that, and if you say one more word until we get back to my apartment, I'll get Joe to give you a strip search, and I not kidding."
Pete stared at him, still smiling, and took his hand off of the handle. "What makes you think I wouldn't like that?"
Patrick ignored him and resumed driving as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened, preferring to seethe quietly while Pete drummed rhythms on his knees. He reminded himself to never, ever, under any condition, be a good Samaritan ever again.
---
"That's your couch," Patrick said, flipping a hand in the direction of a well-worn sofa with a collection of mismatched throw pillows to one side. He jerked his head in the opposite direction, saying, "And that's the bathroom."
Pete stared incredulously at the couch, eyeing the afghan draped over the top with particular distaste. "I'm not sleeping there."
"Fine," Patrick replied distractedly, flipping on the light. "Sleep in the hall, I don't care. Go back to your apartment. Whatever."
"No, you don't get it," Pete continued, grabbing the corner of a pillow between his thumb and forefinger. "When I say I'm not sleeping here, I mean I'm probably going to be up all night redecorating because, dude, I'm sorry, but this is the saddest thing I've ever seen."
Patrick, in spite of himself, looked genuinely confused. "What's wrong with it?"
Pete dangled the pillow in his face. "Look at it. It's crocheted. It matches your afghan."
Snatching the pillow from Pete, he demanded, "I thought matching was a good thing?"
"You shouldn't match anything, ever, to an afghan," Pete said in a desperately earnest tone. "The problem is not the matching, it's that you have an afghan in the first place."
"My grandmother made it!"
"I would hope so," Pete replied. "I would hate to think you paid for it."
Patrick scrubbed a hand over his face, taking calm, even breaths in a vain effort to keep himself from exploding again. Pete, apparently, was a master of pushing all of the wrong buttons. He pointed one shaking finger at the door. "Get out. I try to do something nice, you know, maybe at least give you a god damn chance to be a decent human being, and this is what happens? Go back to your apartment, Wentz."
Pete clasped his hands together, smiling in an almost pleading way. "No, Patrick-- Detective Stump--you're not understanding me. I am being a decent human being--I'm going to redecorate your apartment."
"No, you're not."
"Well, Ryan was more of the decorating type, I mean, you saw his apartment, but even I can do better than this. A little effort, a couple bucks, some rearranging, I'll have this place Feng Shui'd in like--"
"You are not going to move so much as a coaster," Patrick declared, closing his eyes and trying desperately to keep from opening his mouth too much. If he let go, he didn't know whether laughing would come out, or another shouting match like in the car. He preferred neither. "You are going to sleep on that couch, and you are going to enjoy it, and in the morning you are going to say, 'Thank you, Detective Stump, for not kicking my ass out onto the street,' and I'll say 'You're welcome,' and we'll never, ever have to do it again."
"No, no, that's the problem. I won't be able to sleep, knowing that I'm sleeping under an ancient afghan that should probably be in a museum somewhere, not to mention--"
Patrick threw his hands into the air, storming off to his room. "Fine! Push my furniture out the window, dip into my bank account and buy some Persian cotton sheets or whatever, I'm going to bed."
"It's five o'clock," Pete told Patrick's back. "And it's Egyptian cotton, not Persian."
A muffled noise from down the hall sounded a lot like hysterical laughter, so Pete counted it as a win and drop-kicked the pillow into a corner.
---
"So, what, I'm supposed to take them both out, now?"
He pressed a pair of binoculars to his face, but saw nothing other than blank walls and someone's shadow pacing. He shifted in his seat, glad he'd ditched the taxi a mile or so back in exchange for a newer, sleeker, less cabbage-scented car.
"Yeah, right, but the problem is I've been told repeatedly that I'm not supposed to mess with civilians. By superiors. You know, the people who put me up to this," he told the voice on the other end of the phone, sounding haughty.
He eyed the black package laying innoculously in the backseat, thinking he'd better move it to the trunk soon. Sure, if he got caught they'd find no prints--no nothing, actually, no name, no age. Hell, he didn't even have DNA. But it was better safe than sorry.
"I can fucking name drop if I want," he said, absently cleaning his nails. "And I don't care about any of that. All I'm saying is I'll take the cop out when I'm told to. For right now, I'll focus on Pete. Because that's my job, no matter what you lot have to say about it."
He hung up, not waiting for a response. It wasn't that he had morals, or anything like that. His kind hardly knew the meaning of 'morals.' He did as he was told, nothing else. And futhermore, if he killed the cop right away, judging from the way Pete was turning on the charm, he'd end up missing what was likely to shortly become an amusingly volatile relationship.
Not to mention it would be much, much more dramatic that way. He fingered his binoculars and smiled a little.