The (After) Life of the Party [7/?]

Title: The (After) Life of the Party [7/?]
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: Crack. Slash. Language. Violence. Drug use.
Author's Note: For whatchamacall1t, because she tells it like it is. Also, concrit is appreciated. Hopefully I'll get back to a more normal posting schedule as the nice weather is gone and I won't be out swimming or anything.

one two three four five six



Unable to tolerate another moment of Brendon (he blamed it on the coroner, when in fact it had more to do with the absolute, undeniable insanity that was anything involving Ryan Ross), Patrick had insisted they leave. "As in now," he hissed in Joe's ear, jerking his head in the direction of the door.

Brendon had waved slightly, maniacal grin still in place.

Once they were in the car, Joe said, "I'm serious, you know."

"I know you're serious," Patrick replied, starting the car with shaking hands. "Fuck. What do we do, phone up the UN and tell them we've got a genuine alien corpse in the Chicago city morgue?"

"I don't know, isn't there like, a hotline for UFO sightings?"

"This isn't a UFO sighting! We don't have photos of odd-shaped clouds, we have a fucking alien corpse!" Patrick pulled into traffic, cutting the furious shaking of his head short. "And besides, it's entirely possible this could be the next Roswell. Shit. What if he's not even an alien? What if he's just--"

"A very anatomically incorrect human?" Joe asked. "Yeah, Patrick, people can't live without those organs. They just can't."

"But," Patrick said, though he knew his rationality was fighting a losing battle. "But it--fuck, Joe, things like this don't happen."

"Apparently they do. And--okay, don't freak out on me, Patrick, because I know you're going to want to--I don't think we should talk to anybody about it," Joe said cautiously.

Patrick, determined not to have another repeat of driving with Pete, contained himself to raising an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Well, okay," Joe said. "First of all, chances are, we'll never see the case again--"

"That's a bad thing?"

"You know as much as I do that you want to know what happened and why," Joe replied, eye-rolling almost audible. "Second, it would answer a lot of questions I've been wanting to know the answer to, and before you cut me off, three, because who knows if the case is ever going to be solved, that way? The killer could get off for nothing, 'cause they'd be more concerned about the body than the fact that Ryan Ross was murdered, right?"

Knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, Patrick didn't answer.

It wasn't until he pulled into his parking space at the station that he spoke again. "So what do we do?" he asked softly.

Joe shrugged. "Continue on with the investigation. Okay, Ross was a different species, but he's still dead and nobody knows why. Someone's responsible and nobody knows who. We can't let the fact that it's more than a little strange stop us from figuring out who the murderer is, right?"

"But we don't know anything about this," Patrick said, staring at the ceiling as though it held the answer. "We're in over our heads."

"When are we not?" Joe asked. "It's just a little more interesting this time, that's all."

Patrick sighed, closing his eyes. "And I'll be getting overtime for this, right?"

Joe chuckled. "Yeah, Patrick, that'll be the day we find ourselves working on a case involving a dead alien. Oh, wait."

"Yeah, Joe, that joke wasn't funny the first time, either," Patrick said, grinning anyway. "Tell Andy I'm taking the rest of the day off. I'm going to pretend I live a normal life."

"Okay, and you'll be explaining that to him in the morning," Joe laughed, getting out of the car. "He's on edge enough lately as it is. I don't want to have to deal with him."

"He owes me one for handing me this case file," Patrick replied. "A really, really big one."

---

Patrick was too tired to argue with Pete by the time he got home--and anyway, he admitted to himself, his apartment actually looked good. Perhaps it was a result of his exhaustion, but when Pete greeted him at the door with an almost sheepish smile and a carton of tofu yakisoba from Chen's ("I ordered in," Pete had explained, "I ate some of my omelet this morning and I can't believe you're still breathing."), Patrick almost hugged him with a tired sort of gratitude.

"So," Pete said, after about ten minutes of relaxed silence. "I realize you've just gotten off of work, but can I ask--"

Patrick sighed; it was bound to happen eventually. "Things just got a lot more complicated."

"Is it, like, against protocol to tell me about it?"

Patrick stirred his noodles absently with one chopstick. "No--well, I don't know, to be honest. If it continues as a--no. I'm pretty sure that, as of right now, I can't talk about it. We'll have you in for questioning again shortly, and then we can talk about it, but for now I'd much prefer if we talked about something else."

"Can I say just one thing?"

"If you must."

"Something isn't right," Pete said. "I really think--" he swallowed hard, staring at the kitchen table, "--I really think you should look into some of those names I mentioned. McCoy, Beckett--I just don't think, at this point, the entire focus should be on me." He raised his eyes, smiling. "And that's all I have to say about it, promise."

Patrick squinted at him briefly, aware that he should maybe be asking for more information, or at least speculating to himself about Pete's weird expression when he brought up their names, but he was just too tired. One more nasty surprise would only serve to drive him nuts; he really didn't think he could handle any more.

They finished the meal in silence. When Patrick came back from a shower (it always helped him to think, especially when he had so much on his mind), he found Pete on the apartment's minuscule balcony, smoking. Pete turned around, cigarette perched between two fingers. "Oh. Uh. Hope you don't mind, I've been really stressed lately." He pulled the pack out from his hoodie pocket. "You want?"

"No," Patrick shook his head. "I just quit a couple weeks ago."

Pete nodded. "Good. That's good. I've quit on a monthly basis since I was sixteen."

Patrick leaned on the balcony's railing. "So you're not going to tell anyone if I stand here and inhale it secondhand?"

Pete smiled, shaking his head. "Your week's coming up on as bad as mine," he said. "I'll excuse it."

They didn't speak for a moment, Patrick doing his best to discreetly catch Pete's smoke as it escaped into the night air. "Look, I--"

"I've still got one, if you want it," Pete interrupted.

"No, I--yes, yes, okay, I'll take it," Patrick said, fingers shaking as he lit the cigarette. He inhaled and relaxed slightly. "Fuck. You wouldn't believe how much I need this right now."

Smiling, Pete said, "Yeah. Sorry, what were you going to say?"

"I was just--I could offer you excuse after excuse, I really could. And I'm only saying this because I'm exhausted and you just gave me what is possibly the best cigarette I've ever had. I realize that I've already apologized, but I just feel like I should reiterate--"

"You're a jaded, honest cop with a somewhat tarnished heart of gold, who, I might add, just quit smoking," Pete said, chuckling. "Yeah, I've got that, you walking cliché."

"No, no, for one I'm a detective, and two I'm not entirely honest, and three I don't think I've ever had a heart of gold--"

"Modest!" Pete exclaimed. "I've forgotten modest."

"But I'm not," Patrick insisted, and though he could tell Pete was aiming for frustration, he wouldn't let him have the satisfaction. "I suppose I'm jaded, I'll give you that, and at twenty-one I guess that's sort of a problem--"

"At what?"

"--twenty-one, my birthday was last month--"

"Fuck, Stump, I thought you were at least my age. Twenty-one? What are you doing being miserable already? Shit, you're still a baby."

Patrick frowned. "I'm what, five or six years younger than you? You have no right to patronize me if you're five years older and almost as short."

Pete continued on, ignoring Patrick. "You've been out of school three years? How long is police training, anyhow?"

"About a year, but I started early, and anyway this has nothing to do with my actual point, which was--"

"You had a point?"

Patrick glared at him. "Look, okay, I'm doing my best not to start yelling at you right now because it'll wake up the neighbors and believe me, they'll call the landlord, but also because I am trying, if you couldn't tell, not to be an obnoxious asshole." He paused. "And you're making that very difficult."

Pete grinned, stubbing out his cigarette on the balcony's railing. "You know what, Stump?"

"What, Wentz?"

"I kind of like you."

"Yeah, well, you have your moments," Patrick said, shaking his head. He had to bite the corners of his mouth to keep from smiling, because no way was he giving Pete the satisfaction of seeing it. "I give up, I'm going to bed." He slid open the sliding glass door and walked inside, muttering, "G'night," in an aggravated way.

Pete couldn't help but laugh as he heard a thud followed by Patrick's exclamation of, "Fuck!"

He'd put the ottoman there on purpose.