fakebrain: (band meeting)
[personal profile] fakebrain
(Sam is telling me--) Oh, did you hear that?
Author: [profile] sharon_hate
Rated: R (language)
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Notes: Late, late, late. Not even an entry for it anymore. Just—sorry. Prompt was ‘haunted house.’
 
Summary:
Several instances where a house may or may not be haunted. As far as House is concerned, though, it’s mold and you’re hallucinating like a mother-f—ker. (Gabe Saporta/Patrick Stump)
 
 
"Oh, did you hear that?"


Gabe presses open mouth kisses along his neck and down to his collar bone, licking and biting. Fingers inch up underneath the back of Patrick’s shirt, scrambling to touch his skin; he’s still surprised how soft it is, even though they’ve been together for pretty much forever (to Gabe, at least) at this point.
 
“Oh, fuck!” Patrick cries, his nails digging into Gabe’s back.
 
“Wow,” Gabe thinks, quite jauntily, “I am so good.” But then Patrick pushes him away, forcing him to scramble to the other part of the bed, where the sheets are cold. Maybe it wasn’t a good, “oh!”
 
“What? What’s going on?” Gabe questions, pout beginning to form. He has to sit up a little and pull his boxer-briefs higher onto his hips, and that’s pretty much the opposite of what he wanted to be happening.
 
“I just fucking saw something go by the door!” he shouts, grabbing at Gabe’s forearm with one hand and hysterically motioning to the doorway with the other. “It was like, some weird, dark shadow-y thing.”
 
Gabe gives him a reproachful look, eyebrow arched.
 
Seriously,” Patrick urges, frown deepening. The bedroom door is open and the hall lights are all on. Nothing seems wrong or off, Gabe doesn’t even get any weird vibes.
 
(After all, Gabe is a little psychic. [“Gabe,” Patrick reasons dryly, “is a little stupid.”] )
 
Probably, Patrick’s just tired. Gabe is a pretty exhausting person, physically and mentally. The fact that Patrick can even live with him a majority of the time is astounding. “Just—shit. It was really weird.”
 
Gabe just continues to looks at him questioningly before looking back at the door. Nothing, just empty air and the hall.
 
“I know what you’re thinking,” the redhead glares. “But I swear, you know how fucking level-headed I am. You know I’m not crazy.”
 
“Do I?” Gabe laughs softly, biting his lower lip and leering at the younger man. “Actually, I’m a little offended you were watching other things while I ravished you.”
 
“Ravished? We were making out,” Patrick clarifies, though his amusement is evident by the way he exaggeratedly leers right back. It’s adorable, and makes Gabe want to leer for real. “I don’t think that really constitutes as ravishing.”
 
“Oh, really?” asks Gabe as he leans in and reaches to grab at his boyfriend’s face. He lets his thumb stroke Patrick’s cheek and watches the small smile beginning to form. “Well, we should get on that right now then.”
 
After a series of quick, dirty kisses, the shadow by the door is temporarily forgotten.
 
 
***
 
 
Surprisingly, Gabe actually has a pretty good reason for thinking he’s psychic. And much to his credit, it isn’t about that one time he guessed what card he had stuck to his forehead. (Though, he will cite that as additional evidence.)
 
It was back when Gabe was a kid – like fourteen or something, back when he realized how fucking cool he could be, if only he trained.
 
It was just a normal day and he was just going with the motions. His mom was out doing something or another, he didn’t really pay attention when she told him where. He was probably too busy dicking around with his Thriller vinyl at the time.
 
The first time he heard it, it was kind of faint, like someone was yelling from a few apartments down (which happened a lot, and they all just learned to ignore) or had their TV on way too loud.
 
“Gabriel,” it went. And then more insistently, “Gabriel.”
 
And it was familiar, like something he had used to hear semi-regularly. It took him a couple of seconds to realize who it even was.
 
“Grandpa?” he squawked to the empty room. He felt ridiculous, talking to himself and expecting an answer. And in addition to that, his grandfather wasn’t in even the same country—he was still back in Uruguay. That’s what made it really weird. That’s what made it crazy.
 
“Gabriel,” it said one last time. He waited for it again, refusing to say anything in case he missed it, but it didn’t come back.
 
Later that day, his dad called and informed him his grandfather had passed away that afternoon. All Gabe could manage was a stuttered, “Oh.”
 
 
***
 
 
It’s not like he doesn’t watch all those paranormal shows, because he does. (Regularly, in fact.) But he never actually believed in that sort of stuff. To him, it seemed like every episode was some pasty, nerdy guy waving a thingamabob over everything and shooting a load when it starts to beep.
 
Honestly, though, like he’s actually going to believe that some Midwestern family has a haunted fucking couch. No, he refuses.
 
But the next night, when he and Victoria are watching Most Haunted on the Travel Channel, it strikes a different chord.
 
“It’s the pipes, dude,” she dismisses, waving a hand at the screen half-heartedly. She’s referring to the sighs and moans the family reported hearing. It sounds really logical, actually, but then the family comes back onto the screen and mentions a shadow person that stands over the kid’s bed at night.
 
“Explain that one,” Gabe tries, mouth going a little dry.
 
“Uh,” Victoria twists her lips, “mold-induced hallucinations?”
 
“Nice,” he nods, trying to trust her. She watches House a lot, and knows about that sort of thing. Who is he to discount her?
 
 
***
 
 
Gabe couldn’t be sure if Patrick continued to see them, because if he did, never mentioned it. The only real clue he got was Patrick continually walking into the room looking shaken and anxious.
 
Mostly, though, he ruled it out to it just being something in the air. He had been feeling kind of jumpy lately, too.
 
 
***
 
 
Their bed is still, Patrick already having settled into REM and buried his face into Gabe’s chest. He breathes out soft gusts of warm air that tickle Gabe’s skin. Usually, it would be ideal conditions for him, Patrick’s warmth and rhythmic expansion of his chest, but there’s something unsettling about the room.
 
Nothing seems to be outwardly wrong – the dirty clothes are at the foot of Gabe’s side of the bed, having amalgamated together some time ago – and even the darkness seems to be the same as usual.
 
Except, Gabe blinks away the heavy dryness in his eyes, there’s a light pressure on the blankets around him. It makes him feel antsy, not enough to move and disturb Patrick, but enough to keep him watching the red light from the alarm clock flash against the wall.
 
“Shit,” Gabe murmurs lightly. He squeezes his eyes determinedly, lip caught between his teeth, and tries to will himself into unconsciousness.
 
The pressure moves up around his waist and he doesn’t manage to fall asleep until 5:30.
 
 
***
 
 
“Shit,” Gabe swears, grimacing at the doorway. His lower back stings from having backed into the counter, and there will probably be a bruise later. Bringing his hand to his chest, he can feel his heart pounding like he ran ten miles. And other than those three feet towards the counter, he hasn’t really even moved. It doesn’t warrant how winded he feels, at all.
 
“Patrick!” he calls out shrilly, hoping it travels up the stairs. And when Patrick moseys down the stairs a minute later, Gabe just gapes at him.
 
“What’s up?” Patrick asks, narrowing his eyes in uncertainty. (He keeps his genuine concern buried deep in his gut.) Gabe is known to be occasionally hysterical, so Patrick has learned to weed out the false alarms before he commits to caring.
 
Gabe leaps at him and to Patrick’s merit, he doesn’t flinch much. “I saw it! I saw that shit you saw!”
 
“What shit?” Patrick asks, not missing a beat. “That special I told you about? The one about Hitler being a boy-hooker?”
 
“No, no,” Gabe dismisses, waving it away with an only slightly limp wrist. “Well, yeah, I did see that. But that’s not what I’m talking about!” He grabs Patrick’s shoulders, hunching down to look into Patrick’s confused eyes. “I saw the shadow-thing!”
 
The redhead cocks an eyebrow, “Yeah?” He turns around and inspects the kitchen. There’s nothing really, besides empty take-out bags crowding the counter. Tito, their tabby, sits underneath the table, though. He seems to note Patrick’s attentiveness and pads over, circling him and letting his tail flirt along his calf. “Everything seems okay.”
 
Gabe scowls. Of course it does now. “You scared it away when you came down,” he informs him, definitely not as petulantly as he could be.
 
Sorry,” Patrick snorts. “You’re the one that fucking screamed like your face was on fire.”
 
 
***
 
 
“Come here, my little babelett,” Gabe coos, crawling across the bed on his knees. He pulls Patrick along, fingers entwined with his, attempting to lure him with his overwhelming sensuality. “I must have my way with you.”
 
Patrick laughs softly, meeting Gabe’s casual leer. “Are you now?” he asks conversationally, eyes bright.
 
“I am going to devour you,” he grins into Patrick’s neck, biting and nipping at the soft, clean smelling skin.
 
“I read about that kink once,” Patrick muses, light and breathy. “I don’t think it’s very practical, though.” He pulls away and presses their mouths together, licking at his lips and running his hands up Gabe’s smooth stomach.
 
“Not like dolphin sex,” Gabe whispers back.
 
Everything stops and Patrick pulls away slowly. “Gabe.”
 
“What?” Gabe asks carefully.
 
Gabe.”
 
“Come on, I’ve said worse things before. I was obviously making a joke,” he tries to explain. It is true, though; he has said worse things and brought up more devious subjects.
 
“Gabe, shut up.”
 
Huh, Gabe thinks and notices how Patrick’s eyes aren’t meeting his. They stare past him and towards the wall behind him, intent and focused on a short dark shadow hidden just behind the dresser.
 
“Shit,” Gabe swears, mouth dropping. And as soon as he says it, the shadow is gone. And as soon after that, Patrick pulls away from him with a frown. “No,” he whines, and makes futile grabby at hands at him.
 
Patrick just offers a remorseful smile and starts climbing back to his usual side of the bed.
 
 
***
 
 
“That goddamned thing has cockblocked me for the last time!” declares Gabe, rifling through the hamper, trying to find a pair of jeans that at least give the appearance of being clean. “I will assemble the Cobra and find an end to this.”
 
(When Gabe calls Victoria, she asks, “Are you on peyote?”
 
The question is outrageous, he thinks. This is serious business, he has his serious voice and everything, and she thinks he’s *high*. “No,” he fumes, but then he sort of remembers, and amends, “a little.”
 
Really, though, that has nothing to do with this.)
 
Patrick watches from the warm space Gabe had left in the bed, the sheets pulled up around his waist. “I think I’ll go to Pete’s. I don’t really want to be here to witness the mayhem that will surely come from this.”
 
“Good idea, my sweet-tart,” Gabe looks back at him, a determination flashing in his eyes. “This might get ugly.”
 


**
Sorry again for it being a million years late. Review please.
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J. Gomez

May 2009

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