Archive of Our Own ^beta

What sounds like a knock on the front door jolts Shane out of his not-writing, but that can’t be right. Why would anyone be here? In this weather?

As if in answer to the question, thunder rumbles overhead, and the walls of the cabin shake.

“Hello? Is anybody home? Somebody alive ideally?” A faint, miserable-sounding voice calls from outside.

Shane slides his chair away from the desk and squints through the half-closed blinds to see a man—soaked to the bone with a GoPro camera strapped to his chest. Even from a story up through a rain-spattered window, he looks pretty haggard.

Shane waits for a moment. To think. To be safe and responsible. He can’t come up with a good reason not to let this stranger in, except that he might be a psychopath. That is, however, a pretty hard thing to judge from this distance. What with the rain and all. Besides, it’s not like Shane’s doing anything productive. He might as well try being helpful, and there’s no one else around for miles.

The man drops his head against the door with a thud that echoes through the cabin.

“Fucking ow!”

Shane smiles. He likes this weirdo from the woods already, but—glancing back at his laptop and the insultingly blank Word document on the screen—Shane guesses he’d like anyone from the woods right now, weird or not. Any excuse for not writing that isn’t “I just can’t today”.

By the time Shane gets the front door open, the man is already trudging away. He’s moving like every step hurts and he has no idea what direction he came from or where he’s going. Kind of stupid of him, Shane reflects. He should have tried to break in. Or at least stayed on the porch to get out of the rain that is clearly about to start pouring down again. But the fact he didn’t probably means he’s not a psychopath, just a nice dummy.

“Hey, wait!”

Startled, the man lets out a little yip, loses his footing, and lands hard in the mud. Shane winces and quickly hurries over to help.

“Oof. Sorry, bud, I was upstairs when you knocked.”

Shane bends down and offers both of his hands to the man still sprawled stiffly on his side. Cold, filthy hands find Shane’s, and together, after some teetering that borders on physical comedy, they manage to get him back on his feet. He spits out some mud.

“So...whatcha doing here?” Shane asks, trying not to laugh at the other man’s comically miserable expression.

“Sorry, what?” The man is blinking hard and fast in an attempt to get mud out of his eyes. He brings his hands up to wipe it away and hisses when he gets more on his face.

“Here,” Shane mutters. He lifts the corner of his shirt up and wipes the man’s face…cleaner. Marginally. Gets his eyes gunk free at least. The stranger is looking up at him like Shane imagines a puppy would look up at the person who rescues them from a box on the side of the road: big, brown eyes, hurt but ready to be helped. The only thing missing is a tail going from tucked between his legs to wagging. What a normal thought to have, Shane almost says out loud, but he doesn’t want to scare his unexpected, sad-hopeful-puppy-dog-eyed guest, who—incidentally—is still not explaining himself.

“Are you lost? Or did you want to be knocking on my door in the middle of the night? Or—” Shane checks his watch. It’s only 8:00; it’s just dark as hell because it’s November. “The beginning of the night, I guess.”

The man stares blankly at Shane as if he’s completely baffled by the questions. He did hit his head on the ground, Shane recalls, so he chooses to be patient.

“I…” The stranger pauses to spit out more mud. “Can we go inside please? It’s really cold.”

Even if it is a bad idea, Shane’s ready to let this sad sack inside. In large part because Shane is not a complete jackass, and it’s clear this guy has had a rough day. And, then there’s the puppy-dog-eye thing. Plus, Shane’s got like six inches on the other man. He’s pretty sure he’ll be okay if the guy tries to do anything untoward.

“Yeah, come in, man.”

Shane kicks off his muddy shoes, and the other man does the same without having to be asked. A polite weirdo from the woods. How quaint. Shane steps inside but holds up a hand to stop the other man from following him in because mud is truly cascading off of him now.

“Okay, not to be weird but can you…take off your clothes?”

The man blinks and absentmindedly pushes his bangs up with his dirty hands, streaking more mud across his forehead. It’s a little hard to tell beneath the grime, but Shane thinks he might be blushing.

“I just mopped in here,” Shane lies. Not to be a dick, but he doesn’t want to have to mop if he can avoid it. He doesn’t even know where the mop is. Or if there is one. Have they ever mopped the cabin?

“You just mopped in here?” The man asks incredulously, like he can tell what Shane is thinking.

Okay, rude. Maybe Shane hadn’t just mopped, but it’s not like it looks like he hasn’t mopped. He swept earlier!

“Or…” Shane suggests, feeling much less generous now that the puppy-dog eyes have narrowed in suspicion. Because really what does this guy expect? For Shane to be excited to clean his mud off the floor? “You could stay outside with the wolves and bears and rain.”

“Are there bears in these woods?” The stranger sounds horrified.

Shane raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The man is looking at him again with big, helpless brown eyes, and Shane is definitely not about to crack and say it doesn’t matter; he crosses his arms to show that he means business. The man sighs and starts sliding out of his dirty layers, dropping them on the porch one after another. In perhaps the world’s muddiest strip tease, Shane thinks victoriously. In the end, he’s left barefoot in only a long-sleeved undershirt—made translucent by rain or sweat—and equally wet, black long johns. He looks up at Shane, and after giving him a once over, Shane nods in approval.

“Alright, come on in,” he says, holding open the door for his sad, wet guest.

Shane can hear the man’s teeth chattering as he passes by, and he starts to feel a little like an asshole for drawing this out.

“I’m Shane by the way.”

“R-r-ryan.”

“Well, R-r-ryan…”

Ryan pouts as much as he can with chattering teeth. It’s so cute that it makes Shane consider that maybe being an asshole is a good thing sometimes.

“What brings you to my cabin the woods? Don’t get too many visitors at this time of year. Or in this kind of weather. Or ever really. That’s why it’s in the woods. So people can’t just show up, y’know?”

Ryan is too busy shivering and looking around to answer it would seem.

“Hey. Earth to Ryan,” Shane says, stepping into his space. Ryan flinches. His eyes are wide. And maybe red? From crying? Maybe from the mud.

“Did you come here of your own free will? Did someone send you? What’s up? What’s the story? Business, pleasure, happenstance? You in some kinda trouble? How’d ya get here?”

Shane continues rambling until Ryan cuts him off, “No one sent me. I just ended up here. I was filming with my team in the woods. I’m a journalist. And…we got separated.” He looks away, seeming embarrassed.

“You wandered off and got lost,” Shane guesses. Not surprising since the trails are completely unmarked. It’s not exactly a touristy area. Shane got lost on the way to the cabin himself because the tree he’d always used to navigate the turn off the main road got cut down. It’s lucky Ryan found his way there at all. It’s not listed on any maps as far as Shane knows.

“I didn’t wander off! I was chased!” Ryan snaps.

“Chased? Like by a person?”

“Yes!”

“Oh shit,” Shane says. Ryan seems pleased by the reaction. “Are you okay? Should I call the cops?”

“Well…” Ryan looks away. “It was…a…” he mumbles something unintelligible.

“A what?”

“A dead person,” Ryan says quickly, almost defiantly.

“A dead person,” Shane repeats, trying not to regret being nice and letting a crazy person into his house because he had pretty eyes.

“Or a demon! I don’t know. Some kind of ghost or spirit!”

“A ghoul, maybe,” Shane suggests dryly.

Ryan frowns. His frown trembles, and for a second, Shane is afraid he might start crying. Then, Shane realizes that Ryan is still shivering, and so he makes the mature and generous decision to let the ghost thing go. For now.

“Okay, man, sure. Why don’t you go take a hot shower? I’ll find you something to wear.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and then you can call someone to come get you.”

“I don’t have my phone,” Ryan says, sounding put out.

“You can use mine.”

Ryan brightens, then dims. “Um, well…I do not know any of my team’s numbers?”

Shane does not make fun of him for this. Because although Shane may be an asshole, he’s a very nice asshole. And Ryan is very cute.

“Okay. Where are you staying?” Shane asks.

“We got a rental…somewhere?” Ryan smiles sheepishly.

“Oh, somewhere. Didn’t you say you’re a journalist?” Shane asks because although he may be nice, he isn't a saint. And a cute idiot is still an idiot.

“Booking the rental’s not my job!” Ryan sounds agitated and cold and small and scared all at once. Shane wants to feed him dinner and give him a pat on the head or maybe a kiss on the cheek.

Shane compromises with a condescending pat on the cheek. This earns him a palm smeared with mud and the certainty that Ryan is blushing.

Not quite laughing but not quite not-laughing, Shane finally says, “Okay. Shower first. We’ll figure a plan out after.”

Shane shows Ryan the bathroom and leaves him to it.

Upstairs, Shane surveys his closet and half unpacked suitcase critically; everything’ll be too long, especially the pants. He settles on some boxer shorts. Not very warm but at least Ryan will be able to walk in them. Shane also selects a shirt, a sweater, and some socks.

The storm picks back up outside, and Shane hurries down to save Ryan’s clothes from flying off the porch. The rain has done away with most of the mud, but instead of dumping it all in the wash, he rinses everything off completely in the sink first—because Shane is—it cannot be overstated—a very nice man.

“Um, hello?” Ryan calls from across the house.

This is when Shane realizes—in the midst of his undeniable niceness—he forgot to bring Ryan the clothes he promised.

“One sec,” Shane calls as he throws himself up the stairs, patting himself on the back for how much effort he’s putting in. For a complete stranger, no less! He should really get some kind of recognition for this. A six-month extension on his deadline would be reasonable, Shane thinks, as he trots down the stairs and approaches the bathroom.

Ryan has cracked the door maybe one inch. Shane boldly shoves his way inside and sets the clothes on the sink. He keeps his gaze on Ryan’s face (to be polite) and notices that the skin there is very red, like maybe he’s scalded himself in the shower. That’s got to be an improvement over hypothermia at least, Shane muses. He does not look below Ryan’s collarbones, though he can tell (without looking) that Ryan has a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You wanna give me your dirty clothes? I’m gonna do some laundry.”

Ryan bends to gather his clothes, and Shane is now legally in the clear to look down. Ryan’s shoulders and traps are very well-defined. His skin is an even tan all over; it looks soft. There’s a slight curve beneath the towel that Shane can just make out. Ghost-brain aside, Shane definitely likes this beautiful weirdo from the woods.

Ryan bundles a cold, wet ball into Shane’s stomach, elbows him out of the room, and slams the door. With nary a thank-you…

“Rude!” Shane calls.

Ryan throws back some mutinous but indistinct words through the solid wood door.

Shane walks away snickering. He takes the dirty clothes, drops them in the wash with the now more-or-less mud-free outer layers, and starts the cycle. He turns around to find Ryan—now dressed, looking very small in Shane’s sweater and still pink in the face—standing in the doorway, watching him. Shane’s first thought is “cute”, but it’s followed quickly by “creepy”.

“Thank you,” Ryan mutters, looking at the floor, “for helping me.”

“Don’t mention it, buddy,” Shane says lightly, as his heart melts a bit. He wonders what the front of Ryan’s body looks like. If it’s as unblemished and chiseled as his back. With effort, Shane drags his eyes from Ryan’s chest and clears his throat.

“So…” Shane says.

“So…” Ryan answers.

“Are you hungry?”

Ryan nods emphatically.

Shane leads the way to the kitchen and after checking that Ryan doesn’t have any allergies or serious preferences starts heating up some soup his mom gave him when he stopped by his parents’ place en route to the cabin.

Ryan sits down at the table, sipping water and watching Shane bustle around. Shane is surprised by how not awkward it is. He likes the idea that he’s making something Ryan will eat, likes Ryan sitting at his table in his clothes, and really likes having Ryan’s eyes on him. The soup is quickly ready.

“So, you’re a journalist?” Shane asks while he digs around in a few drawers for a spoon.

“Yes.”

Shane sets the bowl of soup and a plate of sliced bread on the table with a flourish. He hands Ryan the spoon, and the man starts devouring soup with a ferocious determination that is both impressive and kind of intimidating.

“Just how long were you lost?” Shane asks as he slides into the seat across from Ryan.

Ryan takes a brief moment to think and answer. “Maybe…ten hours? We came out at night to film and to…investigate.” He returns to shoveling soup into his mouth.

“Fuck, man, I’m sorry! Did you not have any food with you?”

“I had water. Some trail mix. I slept for a bit.”

“Jesus. Sorry, I would have gone faster if I’d realized.”

“S’okay,” Ryan mumbles around a mouthful of bread. “This is good. Thank you.”

Shane watches in silence as Ryan continues to eat like it’s his first meal in years. Eventually, he slows down, and it seems safe to ask more questions. Shane is deeply curious about his little mystery man from the woods. What kind of journalist is he that he was filming in the woods at night?

“Where do you work?”

Ryan takes a long time to chew and swallow what’s in his mouth. “I’m an independent, investigative journalist. So I have my own stuff, and I freelance now and then.”

So it was his own choice to be in the woods at night. Interesting. Pretty bold for a guy who apparently mistook a squirrel rustling in the trees for a ghost.

“What’s your area?”

“Hm?”

“What sort of thing do you report on?”

Ryan sets his spoon down and looks Shane right in the eyes.

“I’m a paranormal investigator,” he speaks with a solemn dignity as though he insists on being taken seriously.

Shane laughs at him anyway. For quite a while. Ryan’s shoulders hunch up by his ears, his lips press together. He glares down at the rest of his soup before beginning to eat again—at a more normal speed now but aggressively, like the soup has somehow wronged him.

“So, wait, if you were out looking for ghosts, how did you get chased off by one?”

Ryan exhales through his nose but doesn’t answer. One of his eyebrows is twitching. Shane laughs again.

“First time?”

“No, I have a lot of experience with this!”

“Do you?”

“Yes, ‘R. Bergara Investigations’! Look me up! I could tell it wasn’t safe, so I got myself out of there!”

“And left behind the rest of your team to get killed by the ghost?”

Ryan looks stricken.

“Hey, I’m sure they’re fine,” Shane backpedals. “They had the phones and car, I assume?”

“Yeah. I…I was off on my own when I started running. I usually spend the night alone to film for this kind of thing. And I always leave my phone in the car, so it can’t interfere with the other tech.”

What a brave dummy, Shane thinks fondly and does not bring up the fact that is plainly obvious to him—that if Ryan didn’t get spooked by his own footsteps, it was probably the sound of his team moving around out of sight that sent him running.

“Why do you live all the way out here?” Ryan changes the subject abruptly.

“Oh, I don’t live here.”

Ryan waits for an explanation. The longer Shane allows the silence to drag on, the wider Ryan’s eyes grow. His mind races—thinking that maybe this isn’t even Shane’s cabin, maybe he’d broken in and murdered the family who actually lived here, and now Ryan’s next! Shane can follow the leaps in logic without him saying a word. When he laughs, Ryan gives him a dirty look.

“The cabin belonged to my grandparents. They built it in the 60s, I think. I used to come here in the summer when I was a kid. This is my first time back in a few years…”

“So, you’re on vacation?”

“Eh, yes and no. I’m supposed to be writing. Figured a change of scenery would snap me out of the rut I’m in, but y’know…” Shane shrugs.

“Oh, you’re a writer? What do you write?”

“Books,” Shane says just to be difficult and to get Ryan to scoff and kick his shin under the table.

“What kind of books, asshole?”

“Ghost stories mostly.”

“You’re joking.”

Shane chuckles. “No, honestly, I write about ghosts, detectives, and romance. Ghosts sell the best though.”

“Like ghost romance novels?”

“Sometimes,” Shane says to make Ryan smile. “But usually, no. Romance or ghosts. And always detectives.”

“What have you written? Anything I might know?”

This is the part that Shane hates.

“Well…have you ever heard of…C.C. Tinsley?”

“Shut up!” Ryan kicks him again. Harder this time. “The detective?”

Shane nods.

“Shut up! You’re kidding? You’re S. A. Madej?”

“Ah, well, that’s not how you say my name, but yes.”

“Fuck! I wish I had my bag with me. I have a copy of Murder in the Deadwoods with me! Would you sign it for me if I get it back?”

“Kind of a reverse Stephen King’s Misery, huh? Fan trapped in a writer’s remote cabin…” Shane jokes.

A “nehpetS s’ginK yresiM” if you will, Shane thinks because there is something wrong with his brain. Then he’s considering that “Yresim s’gniK nehpetS” might be more accurate and how a regular Misery situation where Ryan breaks his ankles so he’ll write something new might be worth attempting if Shane doesn’t have any new pages by Christmas. As a result of this mental digression, it takes him a minute to register what Ryan is saying.

“I’ve been arguing on a forum for weeks with some asshole who thinks it’s somewhere in Connecticut, but I knew it! Because you grew up around here.”

Ah, so that’s why Ryan’s here. Not such a dummy after all. No one else had ever made the connection, let alone found the cabin.

“It’s a story,” Shane says firmly. He’s not sure what kind of audience Ryan’s got, but he has no interest in more people showing up in his woods to ask him questions. Unless they’re as cute as Ryan, which seems unlikely.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. What are you working on now?” Ryan asks eagerly.

“Nothin’. That’s my whole problem.”

“You’re gonna do another sequel, right?”

“Oh, a C.C. sequel…” Shane taps his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah. My publisher’ll kill me if I don’t. But at least you could report on that. Because I’d absolutely come back as a ghost and haunt these woods.”

“So you do believe in ghosts,” Ryan says, his voice caught between admiration, relief, and something smugger.

Shane is all too happy to burst his bubble. “No. Ghosts aren’t real.”

“But you write about them!”

“Yes, I write fiction.”

“Realistic fiction! The woods are real!” Ryan gestures wildly, to encompass the woods all around them.

“You’re very cute, Ryan Bergara,” Shane says without thinking.

Shane’s mind catches up with his mouth about the same time Ryan’s hand starts tapping nervously on the table. Like a coward, Shane snatches Ryan’s used dishes and whisks them to the sink without looking at the man’s face, so he misses Ryan’s shy, pleased smile.

“So…” Ryan says. “Now what?”

He sounds like he’s holding back laughter, and Shane can feel his own shoulders tensing defensively. He starts washing the dishes with a clarity of purpose usually reserved for defusing a bomb.

“You wanna watch a movie? I have popcorn.”

“Okay.”

Shane pulls out a pot and sets it on a burner. He can feel Ryan watching him, and unlike before, it makes him feel exposed and stupid. Like he’s never stepped foot in a kitchen before, even though popcorn is probably the one thing he’s great at making.

“You’re going to make it on the stove?”

“Of course,” Shane sniffs, so insulted he momentarily forgets to be embarrassed. “I’m not an animal, Ryan.”

“You do hang out by yourself in the woods…”

“Yeah, but in a cool-loner-who-writes-books kind of way, right?”

Ryan snorts.

“Go pick a movie. I’ll be there in a sec. DVDs in the cabinet under the TV.”

As Ryan pads away, Shane squares his shoulders, unclenches his jaw, takes a few of those calming breaths his therapist insists will fix him, and decides that he can be normal. Shane is, in fact, normal most days of his life, so there’s no reason why today should be different. Ryan being cute isn’t a problem. The problem was that Ryan got lost in the woods, and Shave solved that one. So, there’s no problem. No more problems. Not a single one.

“No problems here,” Shane mutters under his breath, sounding supremely normal and well-adjusted.

“What’s that?” Ryan calls from the other room.

“Popcorn’s ready! Did you pick a movie?”

Ryan did pick a movie. The Thing (1982). Not exactly what Shane expected, but he’s been slogging through crime procedurals and hard-boiled detective stories for inspiration since June. So even if it’s horror, it’s a nice change, and he’s not going to complain about it.

Ryan slides close to Shane, so he can share the popcorn. Shane—being normal—tries valiantly not to linger on the feeling of Ryan’s thigh pressed against his own and definitely doesn’t agonize over how much nicer it’d feel if neither of them had pants on.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, looking at him uncertainly, and Shane realizes he might be being too normal. He shakes out his shoulders and bugs his eyes dramatically.

“It’s scary, man.”

Ryan snickers. “This is good popcorn.”

“Thanks.”

Ryan turns abruptly away and blinks rapidly at the scene. He’s blushing again. Shane tries not to swoon.

“You should send C.C. to the arctic.”

“Antarctic,” Shane corrects, but it’s not a bad idea. He imagines C.C. dispatched to solve a crime at a remote research center, a classic dead-body-in-a-room-locked-from-the-inside kind of mystery. His editor would eat that up. Shane spends the rest of the movie silently designing characters to fit this premise. A friendly Scandinavian doctor with a fondness for sled dogs, a sketchy Russian astronomer who never shuts up, a British climatologist with a tortured past and obscure motives for settling at the end of the earth. A brash American paranormal investigator with beautiful, brown eyes.

“You’d tell me if you were secretly an alien hellbent on eliminating all human life, right?” Shane asks after Ryan’s fingers brush his in the borderline empty bowl of popcorn for the sixth or seventh time and Kurt Russell sips his final whiskey.

“Really should’ve thought to check that before you let me inside,” Ryan says derisively, as though Shane’s somehow an idiot for not asking every person he meets that question. “Wait, do you believe in aliens but not ghosts?”

Laughing, Shane stands up and stretches. The sound of the wind outside becomes suddenly deafening as the movie’s credits come to an end.

“Wait, shut up!” Ryan demands as he jumps to his feet.

Before Shane can point that he wasn’t even talking, Ryan inserts himself into Shane’s personal space. His cheek brushes Shane’s chin. God, it’d be so easy to bend down and—

“Did you hear that?”

“I could be a serial killer for all you know,” Shane says quietly, trying to distract himself from the fluttering in his stomach and the dryness in his mouth.

Ryan peers up at Shane with actual fear on his face. He takes half a step back. “Are you?”

Shane mourns every inch of space between them. “No, but that’s exactly what a serial killer would say, isn’t it? Maybe that’s how I get all my ideas.”

Ryan seems troubled by this—until the wind blows again and the loose limb on one of the trees in the front rustles ominously—and then he’s back in Shane’s space. Shane’s heart skips happily.

“What was that?”

Shane’s brain has momentarily diverted all energy and attention to calculating the distance between his mouth and Ryan’s, which is making it difficult for Shane to think about what that mouth is actually saying.

“Hm? You mean, the wind?”

“That was not wind.”

“Whatever you say.”

Ryan scowls.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” Shane offers, separating himself from Ryan’s clinging body with reluctance.

The scraping sound comes again, and Ryan grabs Shane’s arm.

“That isn’t wind! It sounds like fucking demon claws scratching up the roof trying to get to us!”

“Why would a demon even need claws? Surely they’d have, like, magic. Otherwise…something with claws, that’s just a normal animal.”

The expression on Ryan’s face is one of abject pity—like Shane might be the dumbest person he’s ever met in his life—and Shane wants to kiss him so badly. What’s wrong with me? Shane wonders, unable to blame himself at all.

“Come and look,” Shane insists. He pulls slightly on the smaller man’s arm and is surprised by how much effort it takes to move him. “You’re a solid little guy.”

“I’m not little! You’re just freakishly tall!” Ryan snaps.

“Um, okay, I think I’m normal tall,” Shane says, reasonably.

Ryan opens his mouth—no doubt to concede that Shane is completely right and normal tall—but then the wind swells again; the branches clattering sound almost like footsteps on the roof. Ryan’s eyes go wide and desperate. It’s a good look on him honestly. He wears fear really well.

Certain that Ryan will follow rather than risk being left alone, Shane creeps backwards toward the front door.

“Wait!”

Ryan gloms onto his side, hitting him with enough force that Shane lets out a tiny “oof”. Shane wraps an arm around Ryan and steers him toward the window. He flicks on the outside lights, but Ryan clenches his eyes tightly shut. For good measure, he presses his face into Shane’s chest. Shane’s heart is pounding furiously, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice.

“Is this a Cthulhu thing where if I see it, I go crazy and try to kill myself? Or is it a my-team-dead-and-hanging-from-a-clothesline-with-their-entrails-all-out sort of thing?”

Ryan sounds frantic and horrified, and there’s maybe something wet like tears soaking into Shane’s shirt. But Shane finds it hard to imagine Ryan really believes he would show him either of those things, considering how he's burrowing into Shane like he’s the safest place for miles. Shane is reminded irresistibly of when he and a girlfriend fostered a kitten in college. The cat didn’t trust Shane at all, but as soon as thunder started, she’d come running to huddle beneath Shane’s legs and quiver against him. Shane realizes he’s mixing his animal metaphors when it comes to Ryan—first a puppy, now a kitten—and it’s starting to get pretty weird. Regardless, Shane hopes Ryan won’t want to bite him after things calm down like the cat always did. Or actually…

“Uh, no, little buddy. It’s a dead-tree-limb-scraping-against-the-eaves kind of thing. Take a gander.”

Ryan twists his head around gingerly, his whole body practically thrumming with tension.

The wind blows again, and the dead branch rears toward the window threateningly. The sound it makes is scratchy and—Shane will concede—pretty spooky. Ryan slumps against Shane. He lets out a long breath, warm and damp against Shane’s chest.

“That seems really dangerous,” Ryan says. His words are muffled in Shane’s shirt. “What if it falls on someone?”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to cut it down for a while now. Just been hoping someone would come out of the woods at night pissing himself about ghosts and hold the ladder while I, y’know, chop-chop.”

“You’ve been waiting for someone to come out of the woods to help?” Ryan sounds incredulous.

Shane snorts.

“Oh. Haha.”

Shane switches the outdoor lights back off. In the dark, Ryan shrinks even closer. Shane clears his throat.

“Alright so…”

“So…” Ryan echoes.

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, but he does not let go.

Shane guides Ryan to the couch, and then—demonstrating strength beyond all established standards for humans—gently unclasps Ryan’s hands from behind his back.

“Sit here.”

Ryan sits.

“And stay,” Shane orders.

Ryan pouts. Shane ruffles his hair and chuckles.

“I keep the holy water under the sink if you see anything truly spooky,” Shane calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

Ryan mutters something under his breath.

As Shane walks leisurely to the bathroom, he wonders—not for the first time—if he’s being stupid. He’s been having trouble thinking for a while now. Impulsively, Shane spins around on one foot. Ryan’s eyes jerk up—guilt written all over his face.

“Were you looking at my ass?” Shane asks, momentarily thrilled thrown.

“No!” Ryan snaps, unconvincingly. His cheeks flush darkly.

“Mhm. Okay.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“Shut up!”

“Now, Ryan, that’s not very nice.” Shane stalks back toward him. Ryan cowers on the couch. It takes all of Shane’s willpower not to climb on top of him. “You’re such a scaredy cat.”

“I am not!”

“Anyway!” Shane jabs a finger in Ryan’s face. “I just wanted to say, it would be very rude of you to steal from me while I’m in the shower. Or to get a knife and do your best Norman Bates. I truly would not appreciate that, Ryan.”

Ryan seems insulted, almost hurt. He shoves Shane’s hand away. “I’m not! That’s so—!” He trails off as if unable to find words strong enough to communicate the depth of his offense.

“Okay, good, just checking.” Shane turns back around. Exercising so much self-control. Being an excellent host.

“No snooping either, Mr. Investigator. Not without a warrant!” Shane calls over his shoulder even though he doesn’t honestly care if Ryan snoops or not. There’s not much here of interest. The DVD collection, his laptop with absolutely nothing salvageable written on it, and piles of moth-eaten blankets older than Shane’s parents in one closet.

Shane has just stepped out of the shower, finished drying himself off, slung the towel around his waist, and begun wiping a clear spot into the fogged-up mirror when the door flies open and slams into the wall, hinges screaming in protest.

“Jesus Christ!” Shane clutches his chest where his heart is pumping harder and faster than it ever has before in his life. Cold air floods into the room and seems to freeze Shane’s brain completely. Is this guy actually going to murder him? God, Shane is so fucking stupid.

But when he turns around, Ryan’s not brandishing a knife—he’s holding up a manila folder. It takes Shane all of thirty seconds to recognize it as one of his murder files. For writing inspiration. This one was probably under the coffee table where Shane had left it after he’d spent eight straight hours on the floor trying to write.

“God, Ryan, what the fuck?” Shane says as he turns back to the mirror, now mostly clear thanks to the open door. Shane flicks open his toothpaste and squirts it onto the brush.

“What the fuck me? No, what the fuck is this, Shane?”

Shane meets Ryan’s eyes in the mirror and finds the other man’s are practically rolling in their sockets.

“I thought we agreed no snooping,” Shane says. He begins brushing his teeth haughtily.

“I wasn’t going to snoop until you told me not to!” Ryan snaps. “I thought that was highly fucking suspicious. Now, tell me: What is this?”

After precisely two minutes of dedicated brushing and Ryan huffing anxiously, Shane spits toothpaste into the sink. “Research.”

“For what? A murder spree?”

“For my next book. Jesus, Ryan, you came to my cabin!”

Shane spins around to point accusingly with his toothbrush, and the towel around his waist falls to the floor. Automatically, Ryan’s eyes flick down. His cheeks go red, and he hurries out of the bathroom.

“Pervert!” Shane calls after him.

“Oh, like you didn’t break down the door earlier just so you could see me naked!” Ryan shouts back.

“Oh, that reminds me. Go move your stuff to the dryer!” Shane calls. Ryan doesn’t answer. “Ryan?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing it!”

“We have fun, yeah?”

“Shut up, Shane!”

“Yeah, we have fun,” Shane says to himself in the mirror. He can’t hold back a smile.

After a long day of wandering the woods and accusing the only person to help him of being a murderer, Shane figures Ryan must be ready for bed. A nervous disposition like his must require a minimum of eight hours, and if Shane also happens to be a little afraid of what he’ll say if they keep talking—if Ryan keeps looking at him like that—that’s between him and God.

Shane conducts a tentative, quiet Ryan up the stairs to the largest bedroom in the cabin.

“You don’t sleep in here?” Ryan asks after taking in the untouched king-sized bed and tasteful but old-fashioned furnishings.

“Oh, nah. This was always my parents’ room. Just feels weird to use it, I guess. And besides, I like my room.”

Ryan is looking up at Shane with an expression which is hard to read. Almost fond? Charmed? Amused, Shane decides, feeling nervous and observed.

“Can I see it?” Ryan asks.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure,” Shane says even though every muscle in his body tenses at the mere prospect of having Ryan in his room. “Right this way.”

They head down the hallway, and Shane kicks open the door, revealing the blue walls and boat-and-airplane themed room of a little boy. Simple wood desk, worn-down carpet, a patchwork quilt in shades of navy to teal. An old toy box sits in the corner of the room, overflowing with cars and action figures. Then, there’s Shane’s actual possessions—his still-open laptop, his half-empty suitcase, his sweater thrown carelessly over the back of the desk chair— which look eerily out of place in this child’s room. Shane tries to see the room through Ryan’s eyes and finds himself fretting over what the other man will think of him now.

“Cute” is all Ryan has to say. The word sends a fully unwarranted thrill of delight through Shane. It’s pathetic, and Shane cannot keep a stupid grin off of his face.

“Yeah, well…”

“Is there…a room closer I could use? Not your parents’?”

Ryan is blushing again. Shane might be too.

“Uh, sure. If you want.”

Shane guides Ryan across the hall to the less lived-in, mirror-flipped version of the room Shane’s brother used to sleep in. A matching quilt in shades of green is on the bed in here.

“So, um, let me know if you get cold or need anything.”

“Okay,” Ryan agrees. He’s watching Shane’s face closely, like he expects something to happen.

Shane glances to Ryan’s lips then half laughs.

“Well, good night.”

“Good night,” Ryan whispers.

About an hour later, Shane jerks awake to what sounds like a (small) adult man falling out of bed and hitting carpeted floor.

In the brief ensuing silence, Shane notices that the wind has picked up again, and the tree branches are back on their spooky-but-not-demonic scraping bullshit. Then, he hears light, urgent footsteps, and Ryan skitters into his room. Shane sighs, annoyed with himself for not feeling at all annoyed.

“We talked about this, Bergara. Wind. Tree branch. Scratchy, scratchy.” Shane mimes dragging claws down an imaginary wall in the air above him.

“Yeah, but...”

“But?”

Ryan fidgets. “Well, what if sometimes it’s the wind? And sometimes not?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Maybe there’s something or someone else out there!”

Shane shuts his eyes. He does not make fun of Ryan, even though it would be totally justified.

“And—” Ryan continues, his voice goes high and trembly again, and Shane feels a twinge of sympathy for this poor scared dummy from the woods. “And they—it—can hear that just like we can...and it’s sneaking closer, using the wind as a cover?”

Shane cracks one eye open; he takes in the quivering bundle of anxiety shaped like a man hovering at the edge of the bed. Ryan looks like a little kid who just had a nightmare, so Shane is very, very sweet when he answers: “Ryan, that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“It’s what I would do if I was a demon!” Ryan shoots back as if this is somehow compelling evidence for his theory.

“Is it?” Shane asks, skeptical for a multiplicity of reasons.

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, the good news is you’re in here—not out there.”

Ryan considers this until the wind howls again and the sound of wood scraping against wood makes him flinch spectacularly. He ducks his head and looks all around but seems unsure of where exactly to cower.

“Ryan,” Shane says, laughing.

“Shut up!”

Shane can’t see in the dark, but he suspects Ryan’s cheeks have gone pink again.

Shane raises himself up to his elbows.

“What do you want me to do, man? Go out on a ladder in the dark and rain and lightning to cut down the branch? Just so we’ll know for sure there’s not also a demon with legs made of creaking bark out there?”

Ryan’s shoulders slump. Shane feels bad.

“It’s the woods, honey. Just sounds like that out here.”

Shane lowers himself back down, but Ryan lingers. Shane wonders if he’ll need to get up and walk Ryan back to the other bedroom. And tuck him in. The thought is very appealing until an even better solution occurs to Shane. He lifts the blankets on his right. Ryan blinks.

“C’mon. I’ll keep you safe.”

Ryan’s blush is a whole-body affair, Shane finds, when the smaller man steps hesitantly closer and a flash of lightning illuminates the room. Can Ryan tell Shane is blushing too? Maybe he isn’t even blushing, and his face only feels like it’s on fire, Shane thinks deludedly.

“Are you serious?” Ryan shifts from foot to foot uncertainly.

“You don’t have to,” Shane hears himself say—despite the way it makes something in his chest clench in protest.

Ryan wavers. Thunder crashes. Ryan flinches.

“C’mon,” Shane says again. Soft and surer than he feels.

Ryan dives under the covers. The bed is too small, and they slowly sink together in the middle of the mattress. Neither of them does anything to stop it. Shane barely manages not to groan aloud. Ryan’s body is radiating heat. Shane can smell him. Fuck.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?” Shane hears someone—presumably himself—reply.

The wind interrupts whatever Ryan was going to say, and the smaller man scoots even closer—pressing under Shane’s arm until his entire (very warm, very muscular) body is flush against Shane’s.

Shane lets out a loud, breathy gasp. He can feel Ryan’s dick through the boxer shorts he’d lent. Ryan’s hard too. Huh. Go figure.

“Shane?” Ryan is whispering now.

Unable to take it any longer, Shane shuts the smaller man up by slotting their lips together. Shane rolls onto his back and drags Ryan on top of him; both of them groan as their dicks slide across each other through their pants.

“Fuck...” Ryan mutters into Shane’s skin.

“Mmhm,” Shane hums his agreement into another wet, messy kiss.

“This is okay, right?” Shane asks when he finally comes up for air.

“Shane,” Ryan grits out, panting, “That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Shane laughs, then moans as Ryan grinds down.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Shane says, a tad too reverent given they met maybe four hours ago.

But Ryan grins and ruts against him again. “Yeah? That why you let me in?”

Although he doubts Ryan really expects him to, Shane works very hard to answer the question with the other man wriggling sensually on top of him.

“Nah, I wanted to eat you,” Shane manages to growl, sounding borderline inhuman.

Ryan’s eyes widen. Shane brings his teeth to Ryan’s shoulder and drags them against the skin. Ryan moans, high and loud.

“You’re not funny, man.”

“Hey, be nice, or I’ll send you back to sleep in the haunted bedroom all by yourself.”

“H-haunted?” Ryan asks, stuttering as his dick twitches against Shane’s.

Shane grins and draws his hands down Ryan’s back, scratching lightly with his nails. “That’s what my brother always said.”

Ryan shudders. “Are you lying?”

“Why? Does the idea of ghosts watching us get you hot?”

Shane squeezes Ryan’s ass and groans, pulling him down at the same moment as his hips rock up

“N-no!” But Ryan’s hips stutter, betraying the truth.

“Maybe you just like getting scared?”

“No!” Ryan denies.

“Not even a little?” Shane is panting, but he speaks in a low spooky whisper to get the point across: “What if I told you that...no one’s lived in this cabin for years? That I died a long time ago?”

Ryan laughs, then gasps. His hips work faster. There’s a burst of warmth and slick, and Shane knows Ryan’s coming before he slumps against him—mouth open, hot and wet—and digs his teeth into Shane’s neck. Shane keens and feels the mouth contort into a smile.

“That what does it for you, big guy?”

Shane’s hands clamp down so tightly as he bucks up against Ryan that it makes the joints in all his fingers ache. It’ll leave bruises, Shane thinks, and he doesn’t—can’t—stop, but he huffs out “sorry, sorry” against Ryan’s temple.

“You’re so stupid,” Ryan says fondly.

And with a not at all girlish or desperate whine, Shane spills into his pants, and everything is quiet and hazy and perfect.

After an interval that could be seconds or centuries, Shane’s eye blink open. He loosens his hold on Ryan and runs his hands gently over the hips he’d been gripping. Ryan slides off of him with an audibly slick sound, even under the hiss of oversensitivity one of them lets out.

“Sorry,” Shane says again, unprompted.

“Stop apologizing. I obviously wanted to.” Ryan sounds content and already half-asleep. He tucks his head under Shane’s chin.

For a moment, Shane considers falling asleep. But the sheets beneath them are sweaty and have come loose at the corners.

“Let’s go sleep in the other bed,” Shane suggests half-heartedly, wanting to be comfortable far less than he wants to disturb the other man.

“I’m not sleeping in a haunted room.”

Shane has to laugh.

Shane wakes up in the morning, slips silently out of bed, goes downstairs, and starts writing page after page. It’s all shit, but hey, it’s pages. Pages upon pages of C.C. Tinsley running away from a job—pursued by a malevolent spirit or maybe just the wind—and stumbling upon a familiar, haunted cabin. This time with someone new inside. Someone alive but jumpy. Someone with big brown eyes and an as-of-now undetermined backstory that gives him the skills to live through one of C.C.’s grisly stories. Maybe a real journalist. But maybe it’d be better if he’s a ghost hunter too. Shane types the name Ricky, deletes it, re-types it, deletes it again, and types it one final time when he hears Ryan coming down the stairs.

Looking at Ryan, Shane jots down a character description: short, muscular, seems like a dummy when you first meet him, brave.

“What are you writing?”

“Oh, nothing…”

“Can I see?”

Shane slams his laptop shut so forcefully the table shakes. “No.”

“Okay, jeez!”

“Ready to go?”

Ryan’s shoulders slump. A clap of thunder makes the cabin walls tremble. The power flickers off then quickly comes back on.

“Woah…well, y’know, maybe we should wait,” Shane says, like the thought has only just occurred to him.

Ryan grins. “Wait?”

“Yeah, wait until it’s a bit safer. No point in killing you on the drive to town after I did all that work yesterday to keep you alive.”

Ryan rolls his eyes and steps closer. He places a hand on Shane’s chin and makes him look up. “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” Shane stutters like an idiot. “Besides, we haven’t had breakfast! We can call your team and let them know you’re okay.”

“How?”

“You know your number, right?”

“Oh, yeah!” Ryan looks at Shane like he’s a genius. His fingers curl around the nape of Shane’s neck.

“Okay. It’s a plan.”

“Good plan.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ryan pulls Shane up into a kiss and then presses him down over the table’s surface. After a few beautiful minutes, Shane pulls back to look at Ryan.

“This can’t be real,” Shane says. But it's not a fantasy he ever wants to wake up from.

“You really gotta open your mind up to the infinite possibilities of the universe, Shane,” Ryan murmurs—so serious, so cute, so hot.

Shane kisses him again. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”