Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a promotion. An improvement. It was supposed to mean he was untouchable, that he ran the entire Ministry, that he was as powerful as his mother had once been. It had been her final act. An act of love, an act of power, neither, both, he didn’t know. But her last request had been for him to become Frater Imperator.

Sister Imperator always got what she wanted.

And Frater Imperator never got what he wanted.

He was no longer on stage, but in some ways that wasn’t even so bad. He’d loved the spotlight and the music and the adoration of the fans and the sheer raw energy that came from performing, but he didn’t miss the hours in a cramped tour bus, the shitty catering, the brutal pace and sleepless nights.

No, what he missed was doing something.

Anything.

His promotion should have left him busy. His mother always had been, or it seemed like it. She was the one running the show, making decisions. Not a thing had gone through the Ministry without her eyes upon it. Even after her death, it seemed everyone was following her directives.

Not so with him.

He sat on a couch while his office was being “redone,” all without his input. No one had so much as shown him a paint swatch. The Psaltarians had assured him he was the boss, but the title was hollow, desiccated.

Someone else handled finding his twin brother, training him to be the new Papa and recording his songs. Someone else wrote the scripts to the stories put out to further promote the tour and Ministry. Someone else directed the clergy and summoned the ghouls and kept the peace with Siblings of Sin. Things happened around him, things happened to him, but he made nothing happen.

When he was a boy he remembered, once, trying to go an entire day without speaking, just to see if anyone noticed. He couldn’t remember if anyone had, if he’d even managed to go the day.

He could not try that now. He didn’t want to know the answer.

His days were empty, and his nights were full of ghosts.

The little promotional videos the Ministry put out—still—showed his ability to see ghosts, but there it was a silly thing, petty and almost not worth mentioning. Useful to tell a story and a few jokes and nothing more.

They did not show the reality. How he would turn and abruptly find something standing beside him, watching him with hollow eyes. The way the dead whispered, ceaselessly, in the night, or how they screamed. The faint but pervasive aroma of rot or embalming fluid that sometimes announced their presence like perfume in an empty room.

And they did not show how his mother watched over his shoulder, now, and made demands. Trying to work still through him, except that the man she had promoted in her place was ineffectual. And where there had once been a sort of exasperated affection, now he could see only frustration.

They did not show how his father said nothing, just stood there, sometimes, in the corridors. He used to speak, the ghost of Nihil. He used to speak and move more even than he had in life. But now there was nothing, just the faded shape of a man standing, waiting, but for what he would not say.

They did not show the other things Copia saw. The two children, always together. The past sacrifices, blood oozing thickly down their chests and dripping into nothing. Terzo carrying his head, Primo looking out the window, Secondo wandering from room to room as if lost. Copia had always glimpsed things, here and there, but when he had ascended to the papacy it was as though a veil had been lifted. And now it was worse; he had nothing to do, no distractions, nothing but ghosts and the awareness of his own uselessness.

He wondered if the smell of decay was from the ghosts or from himself. He watched movies he didn’t care about, and played games he’d played before, and read books without absorbing a single word. He drifted through the Ministry headquarters, touching nothing, making no impact on anything living or dead.

Until one night he woke up, stared at the ceiling, and thought, I can’t live like this.

He didn’t want to die. He had been afraid of death for too long, and anyway, he’d seen enough ghosts to know that death did not end your torment. But still, he couldn’t live like this.

And so he wouldn’t. 

That night he packed a few bags. He could send for the rest later, or leave it. It didn’t matter, not really. Maybe they’d give it all to his twin, the man he still hadn’t met, and now probably never would.

He felt a brief pang of regret, but that was all.

He left his quarters, and went to the head office, the one that wasn’t his because his was still being “redecorated.” He wrote a long note in his spidery handwriting. Later, he would lie awake realizing he’d misspelled “resignation,” but it didn’t matter. Not really. Not in the end.

The letter said he’d keep in touch, and maybe he meant it. For Marika’s sake he tried to mean it. Anyway, he thought, he’d need to for references, things like that, in the outside world.

He set down the letter and signed it. His last act as Frater Imperator was to abandon the title, and so Frater Imperator was left behind in an office that was not his own.

And the slight figure of Copia Emeritus headed out into the night.

The moon shone hazily through clouds, casting the grounds in a watery-pale light. The cab he had called was waiting, ready to take him anywhere. He had plenty of money, and plenty of skills, and plenty of fear because he had lived his whole life in the Ministry and did not know what else there was.

But he was going to find out.

He put his bags in the trunk, and got into the cab, and he did not look back.

If he had, he would have seen a collection of ghosts in the windows, watching him leave in perfect silence.

Chapter Text

The strangest thing to get used to was the isolation.

Copia had grown up in and around the Ministry. His whole life, from childhood onward, he had been around people, whether he’d wanted to be or not. That didn’t mean he was good with people, but he was used to them being everywhere. He was used to the weird little politics of minor clergy trying to out-maneuver one another. He was used to Siblings of Sin giggling in the corridors. He’d lived in several Ministry locations, but never before away from it, and so his life had always been both full and sheltered in its own strange way.

He’d found a job easily enough that he wondered if someone back home had somehow pulled strings, but it didn’t matter, really. His interview had been awkward in demeanor but excellent in substance, and his many years handling finances with the Ministry and his employee-of-the-month awards had served him well, here, outside of it. He was now a payroll clerk for a landscaping business. He didn’t know anything about landscaping but he did know a lot about papers and numbers and money and checking for mistakes. He was very good at mistakes.

During the day it was fine. Tuesday through Friday, he shared an office with three other people, and there were the sounds of typing and talking and phone calls, and sometimes someone brought in donuts. That was all familiar, having people around. Exchanging hellos and uncertain laughs. At the end of the day, he had done work and he could look at it and see that he’d existed for the past few hours.

And then at the end of the day he went home to his little apartment, and there was the unsettling part. Nothing. No one.

He had three pet rats now, and their squeaking and moving and rattling around in their cage cut through the eerie silence, at least. And he had a TV, and he’d bought a record player before realizing he’d left all his vinyls back at the Ministry, but it had a radio at least. But it was still quiet, in a way he wasn’t accustomed to. He could go entire weekends without seeing another human face.

He wasn’t lonely, exactly. After all, it wasn’t like he’d made many connections within the Ministry, especially since his promotion. And sometimes it was still a fun novelty, even as the weeks went on, to know he could just go to his kitchen without running into anyone. He could just be, without apology or preparation.

But it was different.

He’d moved into an apartment complex thinking that there would be an easy community within it. But this was not so. The apartments were set up with doors to the outside, like little vacation villas without any of the amenities. Across the parking lot lived a family that ignored him. The unit to his left was vacant. His immediate neighbor, to his right, he had never yet seen. During the day he heard the TV sometimes. At night usually there was silence, but once a week or so he heard shouting or some kind of argument. On those nights he put his pillow over his head to try to sleep, to try not to listen to the vile rage. He could complain to management, he supposed, but he sympathized with whoever was being yelled at and didn’t want them to get in bigger trouble, so he didn’t. He didn’t check in for the same reason.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. He went to work, and came home again. He played with his rats and learned their favorite toys and treats. He made jokes with his coworker, and the cashiers at the grocery store. He grew out his mustache and his sideburns, the way he used to wear them. They were a little more gray than they were, but it felt like himself all the same.

He had been free of the Ministry for thirty-seven days, living in this building for thirty-three. And then one Monday, a delivery was dropped in front of his door.

He sliced it open with his keys, expecting the rat chews he’d ordered. Instead, he drew out a pair of fuzzy slippers that he definitely had not ordered, and blinked at them for a moment. And then he caught himself, and looked at the label on the box again.

Not his name, not his apartment. This had happened twice before, but both times he’d just put the package down on his neighbor’s step and moved on. But this was open now, so he couldn’t do that, and with a sigh he tucked it under his arm and went out into an autumn morning.

An oak tree stood in the postage stamp that approximated a front yard outside his apartment. It was skinny, but the paper-crisp leaves were bigger than his hand, and heavy acorns lay in the thick pine straw the complex used instead of mulch. The air smelled earthy and sweet as he walked the few feet to his neighbor’s door and knocked. He hoped someone was home, but also hoped it was not whoever yelled so much.

There was silence for a moment, and he wondered if he would have to come back. And then the door creaked open to a puzzled face.

His neighbor had short dark hair, and eyes that seemed much bigger behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. His first thought was that they looked like a bug, which probably wasn’t nice. “Hello?” they said, tentatively. They clutched a wooden cane, and he wasn’t sure if it was support or a weapon or both.

“Hi,” he said, waving his hand a little. “I’m, uh, I live over there.” He jabbed a thumb towards his place. “I didn’t mean to open your mail, but I, uh, I guess I did. I’m sorry.” He held out the abused box. “I thought it was for me. Didn’t check. It’s slippers.” Shut up, he told himself.

The person stared at him, and then smiled a little. A half-smile that looked sardonic for a moment before he realized that half of their face didn’t move right. Only then did he notice a few long scars criss-crossing that cheek, like pale branches overlapping against the sky.

“I was wondering if those would get there,” they said, and then noticed him looking at their cheek and the smile faded. “Uh, thanks. For bringing it.” Definitely not the voice he heard shouting. He knew that voice pretty well, despite his attempts to muffle.

“Well, they wouldn’t fit me even if I wanted them,” he said, hoping to get that smile back, but he failed. “Okie-dokie, well, sorry again I opened it.”

“It’s okay. Mistakes happen.” They reached out a hand for the box. “At least it wasn’t anything embarrassing.”

He actually let out a laugh, more out of surprise than anything, and handed it to them. “Rowan Stafford, it says. Is that you, or the other lady who lives here?”

But the person at the door frowned and shook their head. “You must be hearing the TV. I live alone. But yes, I’m Rowan. Nice to meet you, I guess.”

“No—I mean, yes,” he said, “but it’s not just the TV, I…” Even as he spoke, he saw the other person come into view, standing a distance back. An older woman, arms crossed over her chest, looking at him skeptically. “Well, if you need anything let me know, okay? My name is Copia, by the way.”

He was about to ask about the woman behind them, trying to find a way to make it polite.

And then the smell of rot hit him like a wave, almost sending him staggering back. His eyes met the strange woman’s, and he understood far too well.

“I’ll be fine, but thanks,” said Rowan, oblivious to any of this. “Appreciate it.”

He let Rowan close the door, and hurried the few steps back to his own apartment with a groan.

What a fool he had been. He may have left the Ministry and its ghosts, but that didn’t mean there were none others to be found. And just his damned luck, his newfound life was next door to the angriest ghost he’d ever heard.

And then he got back into his apartment and realized his luck was worse than he realized. Because he’d forgotten one little thing.

Ghosts didn’t have to stay in one apartment, after all. It wasn’t like they were bound by walls and doors.  

So it seemed Rowan’s angry undead roommate was now in his apartment, arms still crossed, eyes narrowed, still looking alive with a smooth bob to her chin and her lips pursed. Next to her was a man; if Copia had seen him first, he would have figured things out sooner. The man’s neck stood at a wrong angle, head tilted like a sickening mockery of curiosity. Copia quickly looked back at the lady.

“You,” she said, and yes, this was definitely the one he’d been hearing, yelling at all hours of the night. “You stay the hell away from my daughter. Do you hear me? You—”

The man reached up then, and put a hand over the angry ghost’s mouth, silencing her. But the silence didn’t quell her rage, and her eyes blazed black; for a moment they looked half-decayed in their sockets, her bob now clumped and matted with half-dried blood.

The crooked-necked man locked eyes with Copia, and offered him a wry smile, a sort of what can you do? smile that did not belong here, or on that face. And then he shook his head, and Copia’s stomach churned, because the angle was all wrong.

And then they both vanished. And Copia sucked in a lungful of fresh air, fresh except the slight musky smell from the rats’ cage in the corner. The rats themselves seemed unbothered, but Copia could not say the same.

Thirty-three days in this apartment, thirty-seven days away from the Ministry. But Copia could not escape his truth and who he was and what he could do, and it had found him here. Rowan had no idea their apartment was haunted, possibly by their own mother, but now he wouldn’t know peace because of it.

He let out a groan and flopped onto his couch, and wished he’d picked a different place to settle.

Chapter Text

Rowan put on their new slippers and shuffled back to their couch, tossing their cane aside on the way. Copia’s delivery mishap had been the first thing to break up monotony in a while. Their life was pretty predictable. 

They got groceries delivered twice a week, met with an online support group twice a month, and otherwise just hung around, day in and day out. The lawsuit had provided enough to live on for the rest of their life if they were frugal, especially with the occasional royalties that still trickled in from time to time. So frugal they were. It was better than the alternative.

They’d seen Copia’s eyes come to rest on their scars, a familiar sight they no longer had to endure much from the safety of their apartment. At least he hadn’t commented. They’d heard enough of that after the accident.

If you grew your hair out people might not notice, Rowan thought in their mother’s voice, and scowled a little. They’d never liked having long hair. They’d had to cut it all off after the accident, and they’d almost been happy about it.

Well, that part, anyway.

Besides, it didn’t matter. Who saw Rowan? No one, if they could help it.

It wasn’t just the scarring anyway. Some days their knee would barely bend, and some days their back felt like someone had hammered nails through their spine in the night, and some days they got migraines so intense they felt like they were no longer in their body, or maybe just wished they weren't. The migraines had gotten better over the years, but the leg and back seemed worse. Their old physical therapist probably could give them reasons for that, given they didn't leave the apartment, but it was bad enough having their mother’s voice in their head forever scolding them; there simply wasn’t room for a medical professional on top of that.

At this point, walking any distance required a cane and a lot of rest, and that was embarrassing. They weren’t even forty yet. And never mind the dirty looks they’d gotten a few times early on, venturing out enough to go to the store and needing one of the mobility carts. It seemed to Rowan that the scars would have given a hint as to why perhaps they might need it, but apparently that was the only time people weren’t looking at them.

All-in-all, Rowan preferred delivery. And staying home. Avoiding the gaze of strangers except for a few moments at their own door, where they could retreat as soon as it was over.

The new slippers were soft, anyway. It had been nice of him to drop them off and make sure they’d arrived safely. This was their first time even seeing him, aside from a glimpse out the window when he’d moved in. Dorky. Nice. One light eye, one dark, grayed hair. Handsome, maybe, not that it mattered. It wasn’t just insecurity or shame. They just didn’t bother to notice, most of the time. There wasn’t a point.

But then, there was also the insecurity.

They picked up their current project and put their movie back on. Their life wasn’t empty anyway. In seven years they’d seen hundreds of movies they’d never seen before. They had learned all the crafts they’d liked but hadn’t had time for. They could cook, and they could cook pretty well, if they said so themself, as long as they took breaks. They didn’t play music anymore, hadn’t touched a guitar in years, but their phone and laptop were full of songs they loved and that filled the silence. They even had a few friends they talked to, although most of them had lives and could only squeeze Rowan in as an afterthought.

Of course, they’d also shed some along the way—friends still from their old life, mostly. The accident had driven away some. Changing pronouns had chased away more. Some had tried valiantly to stick around anyway. But the condescension had been worse than outright contempt, and Rowan had quietly stopped talking to them, too. They didn’t have many friends, and they didn’t even talk to those very often, but at least the ones they had were people they enjoyed talking to.

But right now, they had a movie, and a large cross-stitch project, and slippers. In an hour they’d make lunch. They were living a peaceful life, and no one made demands of them. And that was enough, surely. That had to be enough. Because anytime Rowan thought about asking for more, the shame and guilt rose up in their throat again, choking out any wants.

They got about a square inch done in their cross-stitch when a knock came on their door, and they put down the hoop and stared at it like it might have answers. One knock in a day was unexpected. Two knocks in a day was concerning.

But the knock came again, and they got up and approached it, not bothering with the cane this time.

Outside was their neighbor again. Copia. He wasn’t very tall, and his smile was awkward, as was the little hand-raise he did in lieu of a real wave.

“Uh, hi again,” he said. “Do you like lasagna?”

Rowan stared back at him, tried to make sense of the question. “What?”

“Lasagna,” he repeated. “You know, to eat. It’s just, I was thinking of making one, you know, and it’s a lot of food for one guy, but I don’t have a lot of freezer space, so…”

Rowan stared at this man, and for a moment they almost smiled. But that little voice in the back of their head, the one that always sounded like their mother, said, What does he want out of this? Men aren’t nice for no reason. And you aren’t pretty enough to want to date anymore, so what does that leave? Nothing good…

“I promise,” he said then, holding up his hand. “I’m not trying to, uh, be weird. You’re the only person I know in the neighborhood. I do want to talk about something later, but…” He trailed off, looking over Rowan’s shoulder at something, and back at them, and fell quiet. It was almost like he was responding to that thought, setting it at ease.

And Rowan thought of all the therapy they’d done, years trying to silence that voice that sometimes just seemed so fucking loud, and remembered that they shouldn’t listen to it, after all. “I’d love to,” they said, “but I can’t eat wheat.”

“Oh!” he said. “Oh, like, that, what is it called. Celiac?”

“Close enough,” they said. “I, um, had this car accident a few years ago.” They said it casually, like it was no big deal, and in its way maybe it wasn’t. “Among other things, it involved some abdominal injuries and surgery that left my innards kinda fucky.” Watch your language. “I’ve gotten a lot of food back over the years, but I still can’t do wheat.”

“Swear all you want, I don’t give a fuck,” he said. “Well, they make gluten-free lasagna noodles, right?”

“Well…yes,” they said, and paused. They actually had some tucked away in the cupboard, bought a few weeks ago in a bout of optimism that they kept forgetting about.

And yes, that voice was still saying it. To send him away, to be polite but firm, to never talk to him again. They didn’t know him. He might not be a good Christian man.

Where the fuck did that one come from? they wondered. They didn’t want a good Christian man. In any capacity. They didn't even know what they'd do with one.

“Want to come over?” they said then, and almost fumbled over it. No one ever came over. Their friendships were at a distance, over the phone. When people could spare the time. “You could—you could bring your supplies and I could provide the noodles. If you want.”

And somehow, as if by the fragile strength of that action, that little voice was gone. The fear was still there. The uncertainty. But the inner monologue of mistrust and self-loathing was gone, and some of the tension left their body. And maybe they showed it, because now Copia looked more relaxed as well. He even smiled again, and this time it seemed less awkward.

“Sure,” he said. “Yes. I would like that, if I’m welcome. I’ll come over in…in ten minutes?”

“Okay,” they said, glad that gave them a chance to tidy up. “Okay. Sounds good. Thanks.”

“Sure. Yes. No problem. Er. Thank you.” He took a deep breath. “Okie-dokie, yes, I will see you soon.”

He left, and Rowan closed the door and started to tidy up. Made sure the kitchen and dining area were presentable. They were nervous, but not for fear of what he might do. Rowan might be a shut-in, but they were pretty sure that no one who said okie-dokie that much in all sincerity could possibly mean any harm.

Still, they did make sure they knew where their phone and pepper spray were. The lingering memory of their mother might skew their perception of things, but sometimes their mom had been right. Unfortunately.

Chapter Text

Copia was not sure if this was a good idea, but he couldn’t think of anything better. Yes, if he just ignored this, maybe Rowan’s ghosts would leave him alone. But maybe he’d hear their mother shouting forever. Maybe they’d come to pick on him again. He wasn’t sure what talking about it would accomplish, but he had to try. For his own peace of mind, if nothing else. Anyway, he was a talker, a complainer. He had never really been the type to endure in stoic silence. 

Rowan didn’t seem aware of the ghosts, except…they’d responded to their mother. Their mother spewing suspicion and cruelty in their ear, glaring at Copia like a rival on the field of battle. He’d seen Rowan’s discomfort, and he’d had to struggle not to tell their mother to shut up and confuse things further. Until something had happened in the exchange, and she’d vanished.

The dead were not as they were in life, he’d learned that much in his years. It was like being a ghost reduced a soul, somehow, to something with less nuance. Maybe in life Rowan’s mother hadn’t been like this. But she had been reduced to anger and spite, and that was what Rowan lived with, alone and unaware of a source.

And he thought his mom was a lot sometimes.   

He gathered up supplies. Jarred sauce—he could imagine Secondo’s contemptuous face—and some Italian sausage and other things, checking ingredients as he packed up a bag. Once that was together, he kissed his fingers to his rats, promised he’d be back later, and headed over to Rowan’s apartment next door.

When Rowan opened the door, the man with the broken neck was there, but their mother wasn’t, at least. The man was easier to ignore, since he just stood aside silently, and seemed intent on staying out of the way. He did notice Copia’s eyes on him and waved a little, but that was all.

“Here we are,” he said, and put the bag down on Rowan’s table.

He glanced around a moment. The layout was identical to his own, of course—a narrow kitchen to one side, a main room, back windows, one door to the bathroom and one to the bedroom. But his own walls were bare, his belongings sparse, bought only as he noticed he needed something. Rowan’s apartment looked lived in. There were framed cross-stitches around the room—flowers, a nonbinary flag, a moon and cat—and a few movie posters. The table was a small drop-leaf under the window, and on its surface, an aloe vera plant extended its thick branches towards the ceiling like so many tentacles. He noticed a rag rug on the kitchen floor and wondered if Rowan had made it or bought it.

“I preheated the oven already,” Rowan said. “The noodles don’t have to be pre-boiled, I checked.”

“Oh, good,” he said.

“So what do you need?” they asked.

“Well,” he said, “I had some béchamel made already, but I realized it has flour in it, so I am hoping I can make some here? I assume you have a flour you can use? Otherwise I will run to the store, and I mean I will run because—”

“I have flour,” they said with a smile. “Béchamel, huh? Fancy.”

“Yes, you know it? I’m Italian, I don’t use the ricotta like Americans. Or cottage cheese,” he said scornfully, before suddenly hoping they weren’t a cottage cheese lasagna devotee that he was offending.

“I know béchamel,” they said. “I don’t make it much, though. Just a roux and then some milk, right?”

“Yes. And then some nutmeg. And salt.” He got out his little jug of milk and a stick of butter, while they got out a bag of gluten-free flour. “So nothing special with it? The flour I mean. You do not have to do any funny math or…”

“Nah, use it like normal,” they said with a smile. “And hey, thanks for thinking about the wheat flour thing. A lot of people don’t remember that stuff.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “I am trying to be friendly and share food. It don’t work if I make you sick. Anyway, you seemed nervous, earlier, so maybe I should be extra reassuring I am not trying to poison you or something, eh?”

Rowan smiled at that, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s not anything you did, I promise.”

He thought about saying, no, it was your mother, apparently, but he wasn’t sure how to word that, and then they were setting out pans and the opportunity passed.

“So,” said Rowan. “You make the béchamel and I’ll brown the meat? What else do you put in?”

“Ehh, let’s see. The sausage,” he said. “I have a jar of sauce, I’m not making that from scratch today. Cheese. You know. The usual, I think.”

They nodded and started heating the pan. “Got it.” They looked at labels, then nodded in satisfaction. Copia was relieved and gratified, like maybe he’d passed some sort of test.

The two of them set to cooking. There wasn’t much space in the narrow kitchen, but each stuck to their own side of the stove, and the air smelled of melting butter and the rich, spicy scent of the sausage he’d bought.

“You, uh,” he said, not sure what to say as he stirred in flour. “Have you lived here long?”

“A few years,” they said.

“Ah,” he said, and stared at the roux as it started to form. “Okay. You like it, then?”

“It’s okay,” they said. “It’s quiet, anyway, or mostly. Sorry you can hear my TV sometimes, I’ll try to keep it down. If you thought there was another person it must be loud.”

Maybe that could be another opportunity to bring up the ghosts, but it still didn’t feel right. What would he say? Well, it turns out it’s something else…

“No, it’s fine,” he said instead. “I keep my TV on for company, sometimes. Do you hear it?”

“No, but I tune a lot out,” they said.

Quiet again, and he felt more awkward than he had in a long time. And then he realized he wasn’t the only one struggling with what to say, and he glanced over at them. Maybe that was why it felt so awkward. That they were mutually uneasy with one another.

“So why were you nervous, then?” he asked then. “Or were you being polite about it not being something I did?”

“No, it’s not you,” they said, and turned over some browning meat, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam into the air. “I just don’t get out much, that’s all.”

“Ah,” he said.

Silence again while he made sure his roux didn’t split.

“Um,” he said, glancing over again. “I left the milk on the table. I would get it but I don’t want to have to squeeze past you.”

They got it for him and came back to hand it to him. “No problem,” they said. “Listen, after I’m done with this part I gotta sit down, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “After this is just assembling, I can do that. Do you want to sit now? I can finish this.”

“It’s okay, I can go a little longer,” they said, although they shifted their weight away from their left leg. But he wasn’t going to argue.

“So, um. What do you do?” he asked, and wondered if that was the wrong question. “Or what did you do?” No, maybe that was worse. “Or, you know.” And that one was just unhelpful. He was really nailing this.

They were quiet a moment, and he wondered if he’d really fucked up. And then they laughed and, with an air like they were admitting to a felony, they said, “I actually used to be a singer.”

“Wait,” he said, looking over again. “Really?”

They laughed. “I know, it sounds like I’m making it up, but I was.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said. “It’s just, so was I.”

They shot him a sharp look, and he realized it might sound like he was making fun of them.

“Not kidding,” he said quickly. “My whole family. Except my mother. She…managed things.” That was as good an explanation as any.

“Oh,” they said, relaxing a little. “My mom was my manager, too.”

“Of course she was,” he said, thinking that explained a lot. But they looked at him again and he realized they didn’t know he’d met their dead mom. “I think that happens a lot. Moms. Managing.”

They nodded, accepting that explanation. “What did you sing?”

“Rock music,” he said. “But not anymore. How about you?”

They bit their lip a moment. “I think this is browned enough. Should I add the sauce?”

“No, I can do that when I’m ready to layer the lasagna.”

They nodded and stepped away, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down with a groan, then flexing their knee a little. “Sorry. Um. So if I’m honest, I used to do Christian contemporary music.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said, and almost dropped his spoon when he realized what he said. “No. Sorry. No, that’s—”

But to his surprise, Rowan actually laughed.

“No, that’s fine,” they said. “I’ll be honest. My whole career is mortifying. If I could, I’d forget it ever happened. Unfortunately, I’m not well off enough to send back the royalty checks when they come in.”

“Ah,” he said, not sure what to say to that. “Well. It’s funny I moved next door to you. Considering.”

“No kidding,” they said. “So you fronted a band?”

“I did, yes,” he said. “My brother does it now. I left the family business to do something else.” He turned off the heat, and drew over the casserole dish they’d gotten out so he could start layering, its porcelain bottom scraping lightly against the surface of the counter. “You like a little cheese or a lot of cheese?”

“The answer to that is always ‘a lot,’” they said. “So what do you do now? Music management or something?”

He spooned sauce over the meat and tasted it, and decided it was fine. “Uh,” he said. “I do payroll for a small business.”

“Oh. Wow. That is a change,” they said. “Can I ask why you quit the industry?”

He started spooning in dollops. “They wanted my brother to head the band,” he said finally. “Which is fine, I guess. But then I didn’t know what to do with myself.” It was a simple way of putting it, and for a moment it frustrated him, that all the uncertainty of the past few years was boiled down so easily. “Why did you quit?” he asked, and looked up, and realized that was the wrong thing to ask.

The man with the broken neck loomed behind Rowan’s chair.

“I’d say I didn’t,” they said, seeming unaware. “The accident ended my career. But truth is, I’d wanted to quit years before that, and maybe if I had…” And then they sighed. “Never mind. Sorry. So did you tour?”

They spoke a little bit while he layered the lasagna in the pan. About life on the road, about performing. Rowan’s mother didn’t return, but the man with the broken neck stood near. His hair was buzzed tightly to his head, and he wore a suit without a tie. Copia wondered if a tie would make the neck’s angle seem better or worse.

And then he put the lasagna in the oven and straightened up. “Okay, well,” he said. “Good news is, the lasagna will be ready in forty-five minutes. The bad news is, we have forty-five minutes before the lasagna is ready.”

They laughed a little. “Well, it smells good, so I guess I can wait that long. Um. And hey,” they said. “Thanks for coming over. Like I said, I don’t go out much and I don’t have much company, and it’s…” They hesitated, like they weren’t sure they should say it. “Well. It’s nice to have some. Sorry if that sounds kinda pathetic.”

“If you’re pathetic, so am I,” he said. “I have coworkers but I have not made many friends yet. And I left the family business behind.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. Looked at Rowan, and then at the man behind them. “Rowan, I…actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

“You said before,” they said. “Is it the noise? Like I said—”

“No. Well. Sort of,” he said, realizing. “But in a, well, sort of a weird way.”

They raised their eyebrows. “Is it something I’m doing?” they asked.

His mind suddenly raced to all the things someone could hear through thin walls and he felt his ears go red. “No, no, no. It isn’t you at all. And you don’t even hear it, I don’t think, or maybe you do. It’s not you, it’s, well, I guess it’s your mother.”

Rowan straightened. Behind them, faintly, he could see an outline of her, the dark-haired woman in a neat dress, as if Copia were summoning her himself. “Copia, my mom is dead,” they said. “She died in the accident.”

“I, yes, okay, yes, I know she’s dead,” he said, and watched them. For a moment he felt so far out of his depth. In the Ministry people knew. People understood how the occult and the mundane could cross so easily, but out here… “I see ghosts,” he blurted.

Rowan blinked at him a moment. Next to them stood the man, and behind them, their mother’s presence sharpened somehow. “Okay,” said Rowan, and took a deep breath. “That’s a very interesting gift. Maybe we can talk about it another time.”

“You are patronizing me,” he said, holding up a hand. “You don’t believe me. Fine. Your mother is about five foot five, dark hair. Stands with her arms crossed a lot.”

Rowan’s expression darkened, and they groaned. “You’re grifting me. You looked me up already and saw her, didn’t you? If you’re looking for money or something—”

“I am not—” he started.

Behind Rowan, her mother materialized fully. “I told you,” she said. “I told you he only wanted one thing.”

“You,” he said, pointing sharply past Rowan. “You are not helping.”

Rowan’s mother looked startled, but not as much as Rowan themself.

“What are you doing?” Rowan asked.

“You hear her, don’t you? She said I only want one thing. Well, she’s right. I want peace and quiet. I cannot do that with your mother’s bitchy ghost yelling at me, and yelling at you at night.”

Rowan’s eyes went wide. “That—what?”

And for a moment, they didn’t look skeptical. They looked confused. Maybe even a little frightened, and he realized how this looked. A strange man coming into their house to make lasagna and yell about ghosts, ghosts of people they loved. And he wasn’t even sure they could hear those ghosts. He took a breath, tried to sound calm, tried to sound reasonable.

“I did not look up you or your mother before,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t know your old career, anything. I swear to you, Rowan, I did not know. But after I spoke to you earlier she was in my apartment and told me to stay away from you. And when I asked you about lasagna she was telling you to watch out for me because you were—” He broke off, realizing he didn’t want to say what her mother had said, that she wasn’t pretty enough to date, implying she was only good to be used. That was something he couldn’t imagine telling anyone. “She said men aren’t nice for no reason. Which isn’t true, by the way.”

Rowan was staring at him. “That—no,” they said. “That’s just…”

“You heard it, didn’t you?” he says softly. “When she said that. She said—she was not nice, I will not say what she said. Was she that mean in life?’

Rowan was shaking their head back and forth, slowly. “It’s not—that’s not real. That’s my own—my own negative self-talk that takes on her voice because of her control over my life during my adolescence and young adult years.”

He recognized the cadence, the wording. “A lot of therapy, huh?” he said.

“A fuckton,” they said.

“Watch your mouth,” said her mother.

“Watch yours,” Copia snapped at the ghost, and Rowan froze in place. “Not, I mean, not you. Your mother.”

“No,” they said, and stood up. “No. Maybe you should go. No. Wait. You can’t, the lasagna’s in the oven. Fuck.”

“Your mother is about five and a half feet,” he said again. “Dark hair to her chin. Crosses her arms. Glares at me like I owe her money, huh? But I don’t know who the man is.”

“The…man?” they said, looking up in confusion.

“Once he quieted your mom for me, but mostly he is just there. Is he your dad?”

They shrugged. “Describe him, I guess.”

“Hair buzzed short, he is a bit stocky,” he said dutifully, looking at the man, who gave him an encouraging smile. “He doesn’t talk. His neck is broken, though, and he wears a suit with no tie. Do you know him?”

He had never actually seen the blood drain from someone’s face before, but Rowan was suddenly stark white and sank back into the chair.

“What?” he said. “Rowan?”

“No,” they said. “No. That’s not my dad. He’s here?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Standing next to you. Who is he?”

They looked down, and they took off their big bug glasses, setting them on the table. “His name was Sam.” They closed their eyes a moment, rubbed the little red patch from the glasses’ nose pad. And in a low voice, they said, “He was the driver.”

Chapter Text

They’d moved to the couch. The two of them, as far as Rowan was concerned, but occasionally Copia moved as though he were stepping around someone.

“I don’t really remember the accident,” Rowan said as they pulled a blanket into their lap. Their house smelled cozily, almost incongruously, of the lasagna in the oven. Copia sat on the other end of the couch, past the reach of failed memories. “I dream about it sometimes, but I don’t know how much of it is real and how much of it is made up. Probably most of it.”

“How long ago was it?” he asked.

“Seven years,” they said. “Always surprises me, y’know? It seems like it wasn’t that long ago.”

He nodded knowingly. “Time is like that.”

“I don’t remember the crash but I know what happened. We were leaving a concert venue, really late. This was finally supposed to be my last tour and I only had a few more shows. I’d been wanting to quit for about five years by then, but my mom wouldn’t let me.” Why would you want to quit? You had a God-given talent and you had everything. You were spoiled—

“Would you shut up?” he said irritably, startling Rowan, and then they realized.

“Was…was that actually her?” they asked. This whole thing was surreal.

“Yeah,” he said. “Go on. And stop interrupting,” he added to a place in the air, which was also disconcerting.

“Okay,” they said. “Um. So we left the venue late, and that’s really the last thing I remember, but what happened is he managed to flip the car right off an overpass.”

Copia flinched, and they couldn’t blame him. Most people did.

“Mom and Sam died pretty much on impact.” They took a deep breath. “Next thing I knew was waking up in the hospital a few days later. They were dead and I was in bad shape. Abdominal injuries, two cracked vertebrae, smashed up leg, concussion. And lacerations, of course.” They touched the familiar raised tissue on their cheek. “It’s not just my face. I’m scarred all down the left side, basically.”

“Does it still hurt?” he asked.

“My skin? No,” they said. “The rest of me does, sometimes. I’ve had two knee surgeries and it’s still never going to be fixed.”

“I guess so,” he said, and looked next to them. “I wonder why he’s hanging around. Your driver, I mean. You’d think he’d go to his family.”

“I guess…” They hesitated. Did they really believe this? But he’d described Sam. Sam was not online to find easily. Sam’s family had maintained his privacy, even after everything. “After the crash, at some point they found his blood alcohol had been…well, he should not have been driving at all, let alone with passengers. And the thing is…the service knew he’d been drinking and let him take the job anyway.”

“They what?” he asked, and looked sharply next to them. “You really drove like that?” It still took them a moment to realize he was addressing Sam.

“You know, it’s really weird when you do that,” they said uncomfortably.

“That’s okay, I regret it anyway,” he said. “You ever see someone nod with their neck at the wrong angle?”

“Uh,” Rowan said. “No?”

“No, I guess not. Wish I hadn’t. I’m guessing you, uh, sued the service company. A lot.”

“No, my lawyers did it for me,” they said tiredly. “I guess maybe that’s why he’s still here. He feels guilty or something.”

“Maybe he should,” Copia said, with a glare to Sam. And then his eyes darted behind Rowan. “Never mind, I don’t like agreeing with you.”

“My mom?” they said. “I didn’t hear her that time. How many ghosts are there?”

“Just those two. Sam and your mother. What’s her name?”

“Helen,” said Rowan. They looked over their shoulder, but saw nothing, of course. “So you really just came over to tell me my mom’s awful and keeping you up at night?”

He winced. “I guess that’s no help,” he said. “But it’s, you know, maybe we can find a way to have them move on, or do an exorcism, or something. If, if you want that. Do you have any living relatives? A father, anything?”

They shook their head. “Dad died when I was a kid. I guess he didn’t hang around.”

“If he did, well, not here,” he said. “I’m sorry. I think. Am I sorry?”

They shrugged a little. “I am not sure what to feel about any of this. How do we help a ghost move on?”

He took in a deep breath, then let it out. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never done it before.”

“I thought you said you saw ghosts. Like it was a regular thing.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I never did anything about it. Mostly I just argue with them.”

The oven timer went off then, and he got up.

“Is it okay if I use your oven mitts?” he asked.

“What, you think I’m gonna make you take it out bare-handed? Go ahead.”

He stepped away from the couch and back to the little kitchen, and Rowan sat with their thoughts. And, apparently, two ghosts. They didn’t feel any different than they had before Copia had told them, but then again, they must have had these two ghosts hanging around for ages. Years.

Since they woke up from the accident and everything had been different.

He came back soon after. “It’s done but it needs to sit for a few minutes,” he said. “I turned off the oven. Ah. So. I’m sorry. You know. To…to scare you. Or upset you. Or make you feel like you had to talk about your accident.”

“It’s fine,” they said. “Talking about the accident doesn’t bother me. I just don’t ‘cause people don’t want to hear about surgeons having to extract shards out of your guts.”

“Um, no, I can’t imagine they do.”

“Sorry,” they said, and dropped their head back against the couch. “This is a lot. I just met you and I rarely talk to people. So they’ve been hanging here all this time?”

“No, no, not exactly,” he said. “Your mother went missing for most of the time I was here, actually. And Sam...he’s quiet so I am not sure if he did the same or not. He’s easy to overlook, despite everything.”

“Where do ghosts go when they vanish?” they asked.

He shrugged, which was helpful.

“Okay. So you’ve always seen ghosts? Like Haley Joel Osment? Or what?” Rowan was curious, but part of them was still looking for holes in this story. A way for things to be fake.

But he’d seen Sam. He’d responded to those words in their mother’s voice, words they’d thought were their own…

“Not really,” he said. “I think maybe I saw…hints, sometimes. But I didn’t, really see anything until my ascension to the papacy.”

Rowan opened their mouth to respond, and then that sentence sank in fully and they were left confused. “Your what to the what?”

He sucked in a breath. “Right,” he said. “Erm. So. My family. With the band. And all.” And then he stopped, mouth a flat line.

“Yes?” they prodded.

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Okay. So. Um. We aren’t just a band. We also, you know, sort of, a little bit…head a Satanic cult.”

He’s a Satanist. You left your faith and mission and look how far you’ve fallen—

“You are not helping,” said Copia, and Rowan realized once again that was not Rowan themself, that it was actually coming from outside, just as it had all throughout their younger years. “Rowan, I am not trying to convert you or—”

“I don’t care,” Rowan said sharply. Maybe they were overwhelmed by all of this, or maybe they were just sick and tired of arguments that should have been buried coming back. Maybe the source of their frustration didn’t matter. “Just tell me what you were going to tell me. Please.”

Copia sighed and nodded. “Fine. Yes. So my family heads a Satanic religion. The band is the face of it. We are an inversion of the Catholic church and as a result we have popes, mostly descended through the bloodline, and I became Papa Emeritus IV after my father died, and then, oops, I could still fucking see him, and I got back home and oops, turns out the Ministry headquarters are full of fucking ghosts and I could see all of them. It has only been a few years and if I’m honest, most of it has just been trying to get my father to shut up once in a while. That’s my entire ghost-spotting career.”

“Is he here now?”

“No,” he said and sighed, scrubbed at his face with his hands a moment. “No, he and my mother stayed behind when I left the Ministry. I am glad but I do not know why or how any of this works. I have never sent someone on towards the light, I have never cleared a haunted house, I have never solved a murder, I have never done anything except get bitched at by dead people. Then I came here and I’m still getting bitched at by dead people.”

“Oh,” said Rowan, not sure what to say to that. And then, “I’m sorry.”

He sighed and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to—to do that. You just. It is strange for me, too. I thought for the past month that you lived with someone who was cruel to you, because I heard your mother yelling at you all night sometimes, and now it turns out it’s worse because she’s dead and only I can hear her.”

Rowan stared at him for a moment. His face was oddly earnest, his eyes focused and sincere.

“I guess I can, too,” they said finally. “I just didn’t know it. I thought it was me.” They looked down at their hands. “Maybe some of it still is. I don’t know. But it’s weird to think some of it’s my mother’s ghost, making sure I know I’m worthless.”

“You are not worthless,” he said, so automatically that Rowan was taken aback.

“Thanks,” they said, not sure what else to say.

They sat in silence for a moment.

And then Copia shook his head. “Lasagna is ready, I guess.”

“Right,” said Rowan. “Thanks for making lunch or dinner or whatever meal we’re on.”

He smiled. He had a little mustache that made Rowan think of Vincent Price, and it followed the movements of his mouth, as if doubling his expressions for emphasis. “I didn’t make it. You helped.”

“I guess so,” they said, and got up to sit at the table. Copia brought over two pieces of lasagna and they sat together, two strangers until that morning.

They were quiet as they ate. The two of them were, anyway. But Rowan could hear their mother’s voice, on and on. Telling them how they were eating too much, how they didn’t do enough, how they’d abandoned God and now they were taking up with a Satanist whose motives they still don’t know, how…

“Is that one her?” Rowan asked, uncertainly.

Copia nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I should say anything. You know,” he said, “you’re a tougher person than she realizes.”

“What do you mean?”

Copia snorted, and in the process almost choked on a bite of lasagna. He took a moment to drink water and get all of that sorted out before he continued. “You’ve spent the past seven years with a bitch spewing vitriol at you that you thought was you,” he said. “And you’re okay.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m okay,” they said. “‘Okay’ is a pretty strong term for what I am. I’m a disabled shut-in with very few friends who spends most of their time watching movies to try to drown everything out.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

Rowan looked up at him, surprised. “Of course I am,” they said. “I learned to ignore it. Sometimes. Most of the time. I mean, it explains why even therapy couldn’t seem to turn the thoughts off but I learned to tune them out. But I can’t…” They shrugged. “I can’t do stuff. I can’t go to the store because I know everyone’s staring at me and judging me, except now I don’t know if I know that or if my mom is telling me that. I can’t…I can’t do enough.”

Copia looked at them for a moment, then shook his head. “But you’re still here,” he said again, quietly.

Rowan’s objections faded. He was right. Whatever else was true, Rowan was still alive, was still finding ways to block out the self-loathing that maybe wasn’t self-loathing, or maybe not entirely. And maybe…maybe that meant something?

“Yeah,” they said. “I am.”

They ate their lasagna for a moment. Rowan tried to think of something else to say.

“You, ah,” said Copia. “You really don’t go anywhere?”

Rowan shrugged. “Why would I? It’s uncomfortable as hell. People stare, plus I need my cane, and I need a store cart and half the time they aren’t even charged and…it’s just…it’s easier not to.”

“Why would people stare?” he asked.

“I look like I lost a fight with a lawn mower,” they said.

“Not really,” he said. “I don’t think people notice that much.”

“Please,” they said. “You noticed right away.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I noticed your glasses first.”

“My glasses?” they repeated. They’d taken them off during their conversation, though they tried to wear them most of the time. It helped with migraines.

“Yeah,” he said, and sighed. “Okay. I confess. I thought you looked like a bug. Are you happy?”

“A what?” Rowan asked, and felt a smile tugging at their mouth. “A bug?”

“Your glasses make your eyes look big,” he said. “Okay. I’m sorry. But no one is going to stare at you for looking like a bug. I guess they might try to put you in a glass and take you outside—”

Rowan started laughing at that, and had to move their lasagna out of the way so they could put their face in their arms on the table. “Oh my God. A bug.”

“I guess I didn’t hurt your feelings,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” Rowan said. “I’m worried people think I look like Wade Wilson or the Phantom of the Opera and you’re just telling me I look like...wait, we aren’t talking, like, Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, are we?”

“No, no, no,” he said. “Like I said, someone would put you outside. Or maybe put you in a jar with a little leaf and a twig.”

That got Rowan going again, laughing so hard they felt lightheaded.

“She’s gone,” he said then.

“What?”

“Your mother,” he said. “She’s gone again. Like earlier, when she just faded away. I guess she’ll be back again, but she’s gone for now.”

“Oh,” Rowan said, breathless and trying to recover. “Well, good fuckin’ riddance for now, anyway. So if I’m a bug, what are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “What did you think I looked like when you met me?”

“Some guy, I’m afraid,” Rowan said, and wiped their eye. “Well. Thanks for the lasagna and the laugh, I guess.” They took a deep breath, let out another giggle, and then managed again, and drank some water.

“Happy to help,” he said, slightly bewildered.

Rowan finished the rest of their lasagna. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know,” they said. “I mean, living like this. I know what I said, but I’ve taken up hobbies and watched movies. I have a few friends who talk to me online or by phone, at least. I figured out I was nonbinary and lots of other stuff. I’m…it’s…you’re right. I’m okay. In the end.”

He shrugged. “I know,” he said. “So should I leave you half the lasagna?”

“Yes, please,” they said. “I can get you a container to bring your half home.” They got up and headed to the kitchen. Their kitchen was arranged for a minimum of bending, crouching, or stretching, so it wasn’t too difficult to get out a container. It was more difficult to cut into the lasagna and start trying to move half of it over without it sliding out of the utensil or losing half the cheese.

“Let me,” he said, getting up and coming over. “I’ll still make a mess, but then it will be my fault.”

Between the two of them, they eventually transported half of the lasagna into the container. He sealed it up.

“I guess I’ve bothered you enough for one day,” he said. “But I’ll…I’ll try to figure out what to do about your, uh, situation.”

“Yeah…thank you,” they said finally. “For telling me.” They looked down. “I don’t know if that’ll fix anything. But it’s sort of nice to know it’s not just me, you know?”

There was quiet for a moment. “Would it be so bad if it were?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “A lot of people have an inner voice that says those things, you know? It doesn’t mean they are bad or awful. Or I hope it doesn’t.”

Rowan looked up at him.

“What?” he said.

“You…” they started, and stopped. Did that mean he felt that way about himself? This kind, goofy man? “Maybe it’s none of my business.”

He hesitated a moment, then shook his head and picked up his leftovers. “I’d better go. Let you maybe enjoy the rest of your day. I…well. I work tomorrow, but I will see you soon. If that’s okay.”

“Sure,” they said. “My schedule’s usually open so come over whenever. And I’m sorry if my mom gets too loud again.”

He waved off their apology, and left. And Rowan watched the door close with a heavy click.

Rowan could open it easily, could go out into the world, be a part of it again.

But they wouldn’t. They never did. Instead they stayed in the safety of their apartment, all their movies and crafts, and the secret voices of ghosts that might be cruel, but at least were familiar.

Chapter Text

Copia went home, put the lasagna away, and then let out a long groan, leaning his head against the closed refrigerator door. He ran through every conversation he’d just had with Rowan and felt like a fool for most of it. What right did he have to ask them about anything? Had he really been so awkward? How could he be so cool on stage and so useless in person?

Had he been cool on stage? Suddenly he wasn’t sure. Maybe there was a real reason he’d been removed from the papacy. He’d never won a Grammy or made a best-selling album, had he?

He sighed and went over to his rat cage. “At least you guys like me,” he said. “You want to play, hm?” He set out their playpen, with its hard plastic sides so they couldn’t chew or squeeze out. He set up some toys and then opened the cage. His rats had been from a breeder, and had no problem with his hand, and Graham hurried over to climb into it. “Elevator going down,” he said, depositing Graham into the playpen, followed quickly by Mallow and Hershey. He watched the three of them bounce around for a while, wrestling and squeaking and exploring the boxes he’d set up for them like a little village, and then sighed and started to clean their cage.

After, though, he sat down outside the playpen. His rats had run out of energy and were piled together in one of the boxes, half-buried in shredded paper that had originally been in a different box. He didn’t wake them or put them back yet, just sat, his back to the side of his couch, taking out his phone.

He did what he hadn’t done before, and looked up his neighbor.

Rowan Stafford had gotten their first record deal at seventeen with a small Christian label. They’d spent the next thirteen years making music and touring, making appearances in megachurches and at huge Christian events and Bible colleges and occasionally even a regular concert venue.

At seventeen they’d had long, straight dark hair and a fresh-faced, sweet appearance, in soft floral dresses that didn’t show anything above the knee. At thirty they’d had long, curly dark hair and a fresh-faced, sweet appearance, in soft floral dresses that didn’t show anything above the knee.

And then the accident. He found articles and posts about prayer for them, but then almost nothing after that. Their original label still sold their albums, but they were buried within the shop listings, not readily advertised on the front page.

He tried some of their music, mostly just acoustic and voice, self-penned. He played one of their first songs, which wasn’t very good but extremely earnest. He followed that with one from their last album. It was better; his trained ear could hear the matured voice and the better understanding of technical details. But it lacked something.

Both sang praises to a God that Copia had always known to be a tyrant, but it was different. Distinctly different. He listened again, without paying attention to the lyrics, and this time he heard it.

If the first one was a young girl falling passionately in love with this God, the second was an older, tired wife going through the motions and dreaming of divorce.

He tried to read the YouTube comments on both, but stopped after he felt his IQ dropping several points.

So that was Rowan, he thought, before. Talking and singing to crowds about the glory of God. A God they’d stopped believing in long before they were allowed to admit it. He looked at the pictures again, and yes, he could see Helen standing with them here and there, but mostly it was just a younger Rowan, soft and pretty. No bug glasses, no scars, but there was something about the younger Rowan that seemed…unfinished. Like dough that hadn’t finished baking.

Well, he thought, it wasn’t like he’d been particularly “finished” in his mid-twenties. “That’s the thing about getting older,” he said to the sleeping rats. “When you’re twenty-five, other twenty-five-year-olds look attractive. At my age, they just look fetal.”

The rats snored.

“You wouldn’t know, I guess,” he grumbled.

He had been raised in the Ministry. He’d known plenty about Christianity, usually explained as a sort of enemy. But his faith had never been shaken, because it had never made any demands. God, said Rowan’s songs, was unchanging and ever-present; Satan was adaptable and did not often intervene. Satanism did not expect the rigidity of heaven, but the joyful chaos of the fall.

The rigidity had kept Rowan trapped in a life they hadn’t wanted, he thought sympathetically.

But then, he had never been free within Satanism, had he? His mother, Mr. Psaltarian, Marika, his father, the clergy, everyone knew who he would be. And he did it, and then when he reached the top…

He’d chosen the fall, he thought, looking around his apartment. He hadn’t decorated much, leaving most of his art and furniture at the Ministry’s headquarters. Rowan might be stuck in their house but at least it was pretty. They’d at least made a place they wanted to live.

Maybe he could learn from them.

He put three wiggling and protesting rats back in the cage, put away their playpen, and got his keys.

For a weird moment he thought about going next door again and inviting Rowan along, but he knew they would decline. And even if they didn’t, he’d already bothered them twice today.

So he wouldn’t, he’d just go. He’d see if he could find something, anything, to grace his walls so it looked like someone lived here, like Rowan’s homey little space. He nodded once to himself, and then opened the door, and almost ran smack into the person whose fist was raised to knock.

“What the fuck,” he said, jerking back. “You…”

And he trailed off when he took in just who was on his front step.

It was his first time seeing him in the flesh, but he knew him, of course. The curly hair, the slim figure, just the tiniest bit taller than Copia. He didn’t wear makeup today, just as Copia no longer did. He did wear a mask over his eyes even now, but it was leather, not metal, a soft burnished leather with vines embossed along the edges.

And under the mask, his face split into a smile.

“Hi!" he said. 

“Uh, hi,” answered Copia, taken aback.

It wasn’t a very memorable exchange, for the first words ever exchanged between twins.

Chapter Text

“What…what are you doing here?” asked Copia after a long, awkward moment. He was not smiling. He wasn’t angry, but he couldn’t seem to make himself smile.

“I found your forwarding address,” his brother said. “You’re a very organized person, thank you, that made this easier.”

“I don’t mean how,” he said. “I mean why.”

“Oh!” said his brother, and he smiled again, a big, slightly unsettling smile. “Well, I wanted to talk to you, of course.”

“Ah,” said Copia, as if that explained anything. He looked out into the parking lot a moment, but no one else was there. No Psaltarians or ghouls or Ministry ghosts. “Uh. Come in,” he said finally, and stepped out of the doorway. “Want some…coffee? Tea? Something?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He looked around Copia’s apartment. “Haven’t had time to decorate yet, huh?”

Copia gritted his teeth, less annoyed at the observation itself and more that he’d just been about to rectify that and now it felt like it didn’t count. “Well, I’ve only been here a month.”

“You have…are they hamsters?” he asked, coming over to look in the cage. “Oh, rats. Oh! Rats! Of course, you would. What are their names?”

Copia wasn’t sure how to take any of this, but he crossed over to look in the cage next to him. “The one with the black hood is Graham,” he said. “The others are Mallow and Hershey.”

“I take it Mallow is the white one…you named your pets after s’mores ingredients?”

“What’s wrong with s’mores?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re Italian. I’d have thought you’d have done, I don’t know, Pesto, Marinara, and Mozzarella.”

“Those are terrible names,” said Copia. “But what do I expect from a guy called Perpetua?”

“V,” corrected the man, bending to peer into the cage. “Hi, rats,” he said, and made a kissy noise at them. Hershey waddled over to see if the kissy noises involved attention or perhaps treats.

“V?” repeated Copia. “I thought you were all weird about how you were Papa Five Perpetua, not Papa Vee.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m not Papa Vee. I’m just V. It’d be weird if you called me Papa, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I’m only Perpetua formally, and I don’t think we need to be formal.”

“Fine, V,” said Copia. “Why are you here?”

V straightened up, disappointing Hershey, who stretched up towards him, whiskers twitching, only to be ignored. “They need you back at the Ministry.”

“No, they don’t,” Copia said. “I wasn’t even doing anything. Psalty and Marika have it covered.”

V looked at him, and then stuck his hands in his pockets. “Are you doing much out here?”

“Sure,” Copia said, puffing up his chest a little. “I’ve got a job that keeps me busy. I have my rats. I have, uh, friends.” Rowan counted, right? And his coworkers? And maybe Sam, who was dead and silent but at least not openly hostile?

“You could have all that back at the Ministry.”

Copia sighed. “Look, who put you up to this? Marika? I love her, I do, but she thinks I’m ten and feels sorry for me. Psalty? He doesn’t need me, he has you, and you’re his favorite anyway.” His voice came out sharp, bitter, despite every intention of sounding cool and flippant.

“What are you talking about?” V asked. “All he talks about is how much better of a performer you were, how easy it was to work with you.”

Copia squinted at him. “No, he keeps telling me how great you are.”

“Is that why you left?” V asked. “Me? You were jealous of me?”

“I never said I was jealous.” Copia folded his arms. “You don’t need me at the Ministry. I didn’t do anything. So give me the real reason.”

V looked in the cage, leaning over and suddenly giving it his full attention. “Because…I wanted to see you,” he muttered, shoulders hunched in embarrassment.

“What?” Copia felt even more confused. “Why? You have everything you need.”

“Because, stupid, you’re my brother.”

Copia fell silent at that. “Oh.”

“You did know that, right?” V asked, turning back to him, folding his arms. “I’m not dropping this bombshell on you suddenly? You didn’t miss several memos and a video you were in that—”

“I know you’re my brother,” he snapped. “I just didn’t know you gave a fuck.”

Silence fell, except for Hershey chewing on the bars of the cage to try to get V’s attention back on him.

“Well…I did,” V said.

“Oh,” said Copia again, awkwardly.

More silence.

“Do you want to give Hershey a treat?” Copia said finally. “He’ll never shut up unless you do.”

“Uh, sure,” said V.

Copia went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, then pulled out a bag of pea pods he kept just for them. “Might as well give one to each of them,” he said, bringing it over. “Don’t stick it through the bars, open the cage and reach in.”

“Won’t they get out?” asked V, and for the first time, he seemed worried.

“Nah,” said Copia. “They’d stay in hellfire if they had a pea pod. Here.” He held out the bag, and V took it. Copia opened the cage and V leaned down, picked up a pea pod, and brought it into the cage. Hershey grabbed it and scampered off, only to be thwarted by Mallow who grabbed it from him, and Graham who tackled him for it.

V burst out laughing. “Little bastards,” he said, and started handing out treats. “There’s enough for all of you, you little assholes. Come on.” He tried another kissing sound. The rats kept taking turns grabbing treats from V’s fingers and then stealing them from each other, but soon all three were hunched up on various levels and platforms of the cage, munching away as quickly as they could to prevent further theft, and V was watching them with a grin on his face. “That was fun,” he said, as he withdrew his hand and Copia closed the cage up again.

“I like ‘em,” Copia said with a shrug. He took the bag from V to put away, and V followed to wash his hands in the kitchen sink.

“I, uh,” said V. “I guess brothers don’t always get along, huh? I mean, they don’t.”

“Guess not,” Copia said, and looked at him for a moment. “I didn’t leave because of you, V,” he said finally. “I was angry at first but that’s not why. I just…there was nothing for me there. You didn’t see me, day in and day out, just sitting there, doing nothing but watching videos. I was this close to taking up knitting.” Unbidden, he thought of Rowan, who didn’t leave the house and instead watched movies and did crafts and listened to seething hate at all hours of the day…

“What’s wrong with knitting?”

“Nothing, if you actually want to do it,” he said. “I needed to get out, V. I lived my entire life in the Ministry and I had to see what else was out there.”

V considered that, then nodded. “I suppose. So now you work a nine-to-five and feed peas to rodents. Is that better?”

“Eight to four. And I don’t know if it’s better,” he admitted. “But at least it’s mine.”

V’s head tilted to the side, like a curious dog’s, as he considered that, and then he nodded. “All right,” he said. “I can see that. Is this forever, then?”

“I don’t know,” Copia said. “It’s been a month.”

“I guess,” V agreed. “Look. Uh. I am sorry, for taking your place…”

“Don’t,” Copia said, holding up a hand. “You’re Papa now. Fine. Anyway, the papacy isn’t—this isn’t a bunch of rats fighting over a pea pod. It’s sacred and it’s significant and you’re—you’re doing better than I was.” This time his voice was quiet, more than it was bitter. “Even if I could have it back, I wouldn’t want it. And whatever else is going on, apparently Mom thought you were a better fit than I was. She was wrong about other things, but she was right about that.”

V swallowed hard. “Uh, thanks,” he said. “That’s nice of you.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Copia muttered.

Silence again. V’s phone buzzed loudly; he took it out of his pocket, looked at it, then put it away again.

“Ministry summoning you back?” Copia guessed.

“Ministry noticing I left,” he admitted.

Copia raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I left without telling anyone,” V admitted. “I wanted to see you, and I’m…” He sighed. “I like the papacy, I like the Ministry. I wasn’t raised in it, and it’s incredible. The things I’m learning, the things I’m…but it’s a lot. You didn’t have any responsibilities, but I have too many. I’m running things I barely knew about a year ago, they’re acting like I should know everything, and it’s weird and creepy, there are ghouls and ghosts in every fucking corner and I just, I…I left. And drove to where you were. And I kind of, uh, didn’t tell them.”

Copia stared at him, and then sighed. “Well,” he said. “If there was any doubt we’re brothers. We reach a problem and we both run away about it.”

“Yeah, well, I learned it from you,” he said. “I guess I’d better reply and head back soon, but I just…I wanted to do something. And I wanted to see you and not wait until my schedule ‘allowed’ it.” He straightened up and started to go.

“V, wait,” said Copia.

V looked up at him. “What?”

Copia hesitated a moment. Should he do this? “Look,” he said, feeling his way through his thoughts. “I’m kind of dealing with something here. And I have work in the morning. But, uh.” He looked around his slightly Spartan apartment. “But if you want to stay on my couch a couple of nights, you know, you, uh. You could.”

V stared at him, and then smiled. “Yeah? The Ministry won’t like it.”

“Fuck the Ministry,” he said. “Although I should warn you, if you’re here to get away from ghosts, this is not the right place. That’s the thingy I’m dealing with that I told you about.”

V cautiously crossed over to the couch. “Well,” he said, “tell me about it. Who knows?” He sat down. “Maybe I can help.”

Chapter Text

Rowan lay awake late into the night.

As far as Rowan could see, they were alone in their room. Their room, which was reasonably neat, with a doily spread across the dresser under their lotions and a couple of medication bottles. The trash can was a little too full, but not bad. That day’s clothes were in a pile on the floor.

They often slept naked, but the news that they were never entirely alone had made them uncomfortable, so now pajama shorts bunched under their hip and their tank top pulled too tightly on their chest. It didn’t make a difference, they knew that. The ghosts had been with them for the past seven years. But the knowledge still changed things.

That was not why they lay awake, though.

You shouldn’t have accepted food from someone you barely know. A man whose motives you still don’t know, especially. But even if he meant nothing, you have no right to accept charity from a stranger. You had everything and if you had prayed harder, if you had held onto your faith, you would never have gotten hurt at all, this would never have happened. And now look at you. You can’t even leave the house. What good are you?

“Could you shut up?” they said out loud.

But it kept going, jumping from one insecurity to another. And yes, it was their mother’s voice, but right now, in the middle of the night, some of it rang uncomfortably true.

Their knee hurt, and they should take ibuprofen for it, but they were exhausted and didn’t want to move. And besides, some part of them—or maybe their mother—made them wonder if maybe it wasn’t that bad, if maybe they should just grow up and deal with it. They were already on daily meds to manage pain. It should be enough.

Those daily meds were also the reason they couldn’t take a sleeping pill to shut their mother, or themself, up. Or drink. They used to drink a lot prior to the accident, privately, where their faithful fans wouldn’t see them, where their mother couldn’t comment, where their Christian label and its morality contract would never know. But they couldn’t drink with their meds, and they no longer kept it in the house.

Unfortunately, old habits were also the reason they weren’t allowed stronger pain medication—mentioning it to the doctor had shut that avenue down real quick.

So they were stuck here, sore and miserable, unsure how to fix any of it. And they knew if they didn’t get some fucking sleep it would be worse, probably, and they were just so sick of all of it they wanted to cry.

“Please,” they said. “Shut up and let me sleep.”

But it kept going. On and on, and they felt guilt settle into their stomach. Their mother had never been so bad in life, and they knew that. She’d been harsh sometimes, overbearing even. But there had been kindness and affection sometimes, there had been laughter, there had been breaks if nothing else. Not this onslaught. And if their mother hadn’t died that night, inches away from Rowan, she wouldn’t have turned into—into this, whatever the fuck this was.

You wanted to quit singing for Christ? Well, you got it, said Helen or Rowan themself, they couldn’t tell. You wanted out, I guess you’re out. You should be happy, shouldn’t you, but you’re never satisfied—

“Jesus fuck, shut up,” they said. They sat up, grabbed their phone, and put on the song they’d been listening to before bed.

They’d spent the evening looking up Copia, and his own musical career. They didn’t quite understand how the papacy stuff worked, but they did know enough about music to know this:

It was fucking good.

It wasn’t just the lyrics, words that felt like they answered questions Rowan had hardly dared ask. It wasn’t even the good beats or catchy hooks. There was an understanding of music theory, and studio production, things that Rowan had learned over time until they understood it like its own language. They hadn’t strummed a guitar in years, let alone written music, but they knew how it worked. They knew what was good. They knew this was good.

And now they played it, and finally, finally, it drowned their mother out.

Even before their big break, Rowan had been immersed in music. Not just Christian music, either. Singer-songwriters, mostly, the folk musicians their dad liked and ones they’d learned to love, too. Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Janis Joplin, Tracy Chapman. Musicians they weren’t supposed to name as influences in interviews with Brio Magazine or Ignite Your Faith.

And even after they’d started questioning God, even after they’d realized they didn’t want to worship him, even as they begged to be let out of their contract and go their own way, music had been a comfort and a joy. Travel was never a problem; they were perfectly happy to sit on a plane or a bus or in a car with some headphones in their ears and a book in their lap. They wondered sometimes what they’d been listening to during the crash, but couldn’t remember.

But after the accident, they seldom found themself seeking out anything new. Instead they played old favorites, over and over. Beatles and Goo Goo Dolls, Joseph Arthur and Cat Power, music from childhood and high school, on an endless loop. Songs that reminded them of what they had once felt, but never what they felt now.

And now, Copia’s voice was in their ears, and it didn’t even feel like an escape. It felt like a response. An answer to everything they’d been through, everything they were going through.

They fell asleep, and his voice followed into their dreams.

When they woke, Ghost was still playing—maybe Copia, maybe one of his relatives, they didn’t hear the difference yet—and they sat up slowly, rubbing their eyes, and turned it off, leaving them in silence.

Total silence.

Their knee was struggling to unbend from how they’d had it all night. They reached for the cane they kept by their bed for mornings like this, fumbling with it. They inched their way over to the dresser for their daily meds, and then ibuprofen that they’d regret taking on an empty stomach, and slowly shuffled their way to the kitchen.

And their head was still peaceful.

No scolding, no loathing, no guilt. Just the awareness that they needed to take care of their pain, and to have some breakfast. And “Spillways” playing vaguely in the background of their mind, like someone had left a radio on behind their eardrums.

This was not a morning to cook, so they grabbed a protein shake to drink and put a gel pack in the microwave, knowing from experience that heat would work better on their knee than cold.

And then—thankfully, before they sat down—a knock came on their door. They opened the door, and were unsurprised to find Copia again. Who else would it be?

“Uh, hi,” he said.

He was dressed for work. He didn’t quite dress normally, and they guessed that was a holdover from the Ministry. A black button-down and black pants should be normal, but there was something about the tailoring and the collar that looked weirdly old-fashioned, and then there was the waistcoat he wore over it, with silver details. He didn’t wear the heavy makeup they’d seen when looking up his music career, but they suspected he might have been wearing eyeliner, or maybe he just had amazing eyelashes.

“I am sorry to bother you so early, but I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You heard last night, huh?” they said tiredly, and took a drink of their breakfast shake.

“Uh, well, yes,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” they said. “Actually.” They hesitated. “I, um, I found your music. It’s good. It kinda helped me get to sleep last night.”

He cleared his throat. “I know,” he said, sheepishly. “I heard that, too. It wasn’t loud but you learn to recognize it.”

Rowan felt their face heat. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I’d rather listen to my old shit than someone yelling. I’m…I’m glad it helped. That’s what it is for.” He hesitated. “I thought about coming over last night. Trying to interrupt. But my brother was over and also I didn’t want to intrude…anyway, I’m glad you found something to help, yeah?”

“You would have come over?” they asked, bewildered.

He shrugged. “I thought about it,” he said again. “I make very good hot cocoa and I’m really good at telling people to shut up.”

Rowan smiled a little. “I appreciate that,” they said. “Listen, I need to sit, do you want to come in?”

“Oh! Uh—yes. I won’t stay long, I have work, but, yes.”

He followed them in. They put their protein shake on the end table, went to the beeping microwave for their gel pack, returned to the couch, and sat down with a groan, leaning their cane against the arm of the couch. The house smelled unpleasantly of heated plastic, but that would fade.

“You okay?” he asked again.

They shrugged. “Okay enough,” they said, and put the pack on their knee. “Some days are just like that. So your brother was over? The one who sings now?”

“Yeah. Long story. Um. Is it okay if he visits while I am out? Not all day, and you don’t have to do anything, it’s just, I told him about your little problem and he might have some thoughts.”

“My little...the ghosts?” they said. “He sees ghosts, too?”

“Uh. I think so? Maybe?” He shrugged, spreading his hands. “I don’t know. I only met him yesterday.”

Rowan tried to piece that together. “I thought he was your brother.”

“Yeah,” he said. “My twin. It’s a really long story. And a stupid one. But I think he knows things and he might help. Hi, Sam,” added Copia.

That was still weird, having him address someone Rowan couldn’t see, but it probably felt weirder to him to not say something, ignoring a person in the room.

“Not my mom?” they said.

“No, Helen isn’t here,” he said. “Maybe we will find a pattern. Maybe there isn’t one. I’ve never done this before, you know. My expertise is mostly seeing Ghostbusters a lot.”

“Well, Egon, maybe we’ll figure it out,” they said. “Or maybe we won’t.”

He actually lit up at that. “I love Egon. And…and we’ll figure something out. We will.”

“I hope so,” they said. “I hate to think you’re losing sleep just because I have issues.” They realized they were squinting at him. “Can you hand me my glasses? They’re on the table.”

He grabbed them and brought them over, and Rowan popped them on. “Ah, now I recognize you,” he joked.

“Yeah, the bug next door,” they said with a smile. “What kind of bug am I, anyway? You never did tell me.”

“I did say one of the good ones,” he said. “Like a dragonfly. Or a grasshopper.”

“Maybe I’m a cricket,” they said, “given I keep you up at night with all the noise.”

He barked out a laugh, and covered his mouth. “I am not…oh, dear.” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “I should go. But is it okay if my brother visits later? You can say no.”

“It’s fine,” they said.

He smiled a little. “Right. I will—I will see you later. Maybe this evening?”

“If you want,” they said. “Like I said, my schedule is wide open. And we gotta start busting ghosts, right, Egon?”

“Right,” he said, and started for the door, then stopped. “You know, I like crickets.”

“You know what?” they said. “I do, too.”

“See you later, Cricket,” he said. “Hope, uh, hope your knee feels better.”

“I…thank you,” they said, surprised, because in all of this they’d almost forgotten the pain.

And then he left, and they were aware of it again. And also aware of the fact that they were still in their short pajama shorts and a clinging tank top, showing not only the scarring down their shoulder, but almost definitely their nipples.

They finished their breakfast shake, got their cane, and got up to get dressed. They did not need to show their tits to everyone in the Emeritus family.

Chapter Text

By the time Copia’s brother came over that afternoon, Rowan’s knee was a little more mobile but still held a dull ache that suggested a storm that evening, and favoring it wasn’t doing their back any favors. But they’d had a good and easy lunch of leftover lasagna, and they’d worked a little more on their cross stitch, and they’d put on a loose t-shirt shirt and some leggings, comfortable on a pain day but not feeling so exposed. So by the time the bell rang they were in pretty good spirits, and they called “It’s open!”

The man who entered wore a black tracksuit and wore a mask. They’d seen pictures of him by now, but had figured his mask was an on-stage conceit. This one was leather, and looked molded to his skin.

“Rowan?” he said.

They bit back a joking desire to deny it. “Hi,” they said. “Yeah, I’m Rowan.”

“You can call me V,” he said.

“Like…for Vendetta?” they asked, taking in the mask in new light.

“What? No. Like the letter. So that must be Sam.”

Rowan shrugged. “I can’t see him, but I guess so.”

He studied a spot next to them. “Copia was right. That’s really unsettling. Is your mom around?”

“I don’t currently hate myself, so I guess not,” Rowan said. “Sorry to disappoint. Want to sit down?”

“Thanks,” he said, and sat in the easy chair they never used. “And it’s for the best. Maybe she’s gone for good.”

“I don’t know,” Rowan said. “Maybe I’m just having a good day. Or, no. Maybe her being gone gives me the good day? I don’t know how this works.”

V shrugged. “Well, what do you think?”

Rowan blinked at him. “What?”

“She’s your mom, you know her better,” he said. “Do you think she only shows up when you’re already in bad shape?”

Rowan frowned at him, studying the mask. They wondered if he was scarred, like Rowan was, or if there was some other reason he wore it. They had tried wearing surgical masks to cover their scars, but they hated the feeling of paper or fabric clinging to the scar tissue, leaving fibers behind in textured, lotioned skin and making their face itch, and it wasn’t like it called less attention to themself in most cases.

“I don’t know,” they said finally. “I was thinking about it last night. She wasn’t always nice, but she was never like this. Not really.” They picked up a throw pillow to fiddle with the fringes. “She wanted what was best for me and she had exacting standards of what that meant. But she was also...she was more than this. She was thoughtful. She wanted me to excel because she thought it was important to share my gift with the world, but it wasn’t out of cruelty. I don’t think so. Not like she is now.”

V nodded at that. “Hm.”

“Copia said you might have some ideas for—for dealing with this,” they said. “Do you? Have you done like…an exorcism before?”

“Me? No,” he said. “But once Copia’s home we’ll talk. I’ve studied a lot in the past few months and maybe I can come up with a banishing ritual or, or something.”

Rowan’s stomach knotted. “Like New Age stuff?” they asked, remembering a disastrous incident when they’d developed an interest in Christian folk magic in their early twenties. Their mother had been furious and thrown away the book, reminding them of all the Bible passages against witchcraft, Christian or not.

“What? No, not New Age,” he said. “Like Satan stuff. Very old age.”

“Right,” they said, abruptly remembering his and Copia’s background. “Satan. Right.”

What have you gotten yourself into, Rowan?

“Oh!” said V, lighting up. “You must be Helen.”

“She’s here?” Rowan asked, but that was a silly question. They knew she was here.

“Yes. Listen, don’t worry about the Satanism thing,” he said. To Rowan or their mother was unclear. “Satan isn’t so bad. It’s the other guy you have to worry about…oh, that didn’t help,” he said, eyes wide behind his mask, though his mouth was still quirked into a smile.

Rowan couldn’t hear any specific words from their mother, but there was something, a sense of incandescent rage. And now that they knew to look for it, they could feel that it wasn’t their own.

“I’m not Christian,” Rowan said then, sharply. “I haven’t been for years, and I want nothing to do with the God I was raised to serve. I don’t care if my new friends are Satanists.”

And now it was a raw scream, somewhere inside their head, or in their chest. A headache began to blossom, starting behind their eye and blooming over the rest of their head, and the screaming didn’t stop.

“You know what?” they said, taking off their glasses and pinching the bridge of their nose. Pressure helped there, but it felt like someone had taken a hammer and chisel to the base of their skull, pain radiating down their neck and back. “If you don’t want me to turn to shit you don’t agree with, maybe you shouldn’t hang around bullying me all the time.”

And suddenly there was a snapping sound.

And the headache was gone, as if the chisel had punctured through and drained it all out.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Rowan said.

“Like a light,” said V, and his smile spread. “Telling her off works.”

“Not always,” Rowan said. The headache had been brief but it had been bad, and now they felt wrung out and floppy and a little sick to their stomach. “Is this that spiritual warfare I kept hearing about as a kid? Because it fucking sucks.” They leaned back on the couch.

“Are you okay?” V asked.

Rowan sighed. “I guess so.” They bit back a wave of nausea. It was nice to have company in theory, but in practice, they wanted to be alone again, wanted to just sit and feel like shit in private, not with well-meaning witnesses.

Unfortunately, their wish was not granted; instead there was a knock on the door again.

“That’s probably my brother,” V said, and stood to get it so Rowan didn’t have to. He opened it and yes, there was Copia, shaking off an umbrella and scowling as he stepped over the threshold. “You missed a good show.”

“What?” Copia asked, distracted, and looked around. “Where should I put this?” he asked Rowan.

“I don’t care,” they said.

“You should have seen it,” V said, gushing, as Copia tried to prop it against the wall only for it to fall again. “Their mother showed up, found out we were doing Satanic rituals later and started glowing. I’ve never seen anything like that, she was furious. And then your Rowan here told her to shut up and she was gone.”

“My Rowan—well. Not my Rowan,” said Copia. “But uh. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Rowan said, some of their irritation slightly fading. “Unfortunately, I think I got an entire migraine in the three seconds she was furious and now I’m in postdrome, so, can we not do that again?”

The brothers were quiet a moment.

And then Copia glared at V, hands on his hips. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” V asked.

“You shouldn’t have pissed off Helen. Honestly—no. No. Never mind.” He took a breath, then looked at Rowan. “What do you need?”

Rowan stared blankly at him. “What?”

“What do you need?” he asked. “We’ll fix things with your mom and Sam later, but right now, what do you need?”

Rowan frowned at him, feeling like they didn’t quite understand.

“Something to eat?” he prompted. “Water? Another heating pad? Us to fuck off? Just tell us what you need and we’ll do it.”

“N-no,” they said, and then adjusted. “Actually. I think I need to go lay down in a dark room for a while, and yeah. I could maybe use…um…some quiet. As much as there’s any quiet around here.”

“See, easy,” Copia said, and narrowed his eyes at V. “You should have asked, you know.”

“I—no, never mind,” V said, and got up. “We’ll go. Sorry about the migraine, Rowan.”

“It’s not your fault,” they said. They wondered how many of their migraines were also their mother’s anger, absently, and fumbled for their cane before getting up. “And...and thanks for trying to help, I guess.”

“Not trying,” said Copia. “We’re going to help. Okie-dokie?”

“Sure,” they said, and sighed. “You can let yourselves out, right?”

“Yeah,” said Copia, going for the door. “Uh. When should we come over for the ritual?”

“Do you even have one in mind?” they asked.

“Not yet, but we will,” he said. “By tonight, if you want.”

“Not tonight,” they said, knowing the next few hours they would be dead exhausted. “Maybe—maybe tomorrow night?”

“I’ll bring dinner,” he promised, and grabbed V to shove him out the door, ignoring his brother’s protests. “Get some rest. See you later.”

“Thanks,” they said, and watched him slip out and close the door after himself. Amateur Ghostbuster, they thought, and actually smiled a little, before making their way back to their room, taking their migraine meds just in case, and collapsing on the bed.

On good thing about a migraine, even a brief flash of one. They fell asleep almost instantly. It didn’t matter if their mother returned or not; for that night, Rowan was nearly as dead as she was.

Chapter Text

Copia realized too late that he’d left his umbrella, so the few steps to his own door left him quite damp. He’d live, but it didn’t help his mood.

“You shouldn’t have antagonized Helen,” he told V as they headed in. He took off his waistcoat as soon as he was in, ready to be done with his day. “I know she sucks but we aren’t the ones who have to live with her.”

“Believe it or not,” said V, “I was actually trying to reassure her. And Rowan. I was raised Catholic, you know. So I know the whole Satan thing is scary at first, but I found peace in him and I’d hoped they might, too.”

“Helen died and still doesn’t know peace,” Copia said, and went to turn on the oven. “I hope frozen pizza is all right because that’s all I’m making.”

“Fine by me,” he said. He was quiet. “She went away when Rowan stood up for themself.”

“She wasn’t there this morning, either, after Rowan shut her up last night. I guess there’s a pattern. But the first time I saw her vanish it was just when Rowan let me come over to make lasagna. Not standing up to her. Rowan didn’t even know it was their mom.”

“Hm.” V was considering. “Well. We can find a way to banish her and then we won’t have to figure out the reason.”

“Oh? Any ideas?” he asked, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Should we wave a bunch of sage around or whatever? I’d say call an old priest and a young priest, but maybe an ex-pope and a new pope will work the same way. Do you think?”

“I was thinking,” V said calmly, “we can banish her the way we banish ghouls.”

Copia scowled. “That’s…” He trailed off, thinking it through. “Actually plausible.”

“I’ve never banished a ghoul but I’ve read the ritual,” V continued. “And I’ve summoned them and that’s not that different.”

“Hmm.” Copia opened the freezer to pick out a pizza. “We can’t draw the sigils on Rowan’s living room floor. It would never come out of the carpet.”

“Maybe we could put something down?”

They talked to each other, brainstorming ideas, while the pizza cooked. And they kept talking—and arguing—while he cut it and split it between them, and brought over a beer for each of them. But finally, by the end of dinner, they had a plan. V had sketched, eagerly if not skillfully, in a spare notebook for some layout thoughts, and Copia was writing down a list of things to get.

“We’ll have to do it near midnight,” Copia said. “Which is not going to make work the next day fun.”

“So skip work,” V said.

“I’m still on probation,” Copia said. “Technically. Out here that stuff matters.”

“I know that,” V said. “I haven’t been in the Ministry my whole life, remember?”

Copia stopped and thought of that. “I…guess that’s true,” he said. “What were you doing before, anyway?”

V shrugged. “Picking up jobs here and there. Living wherever. I always knew there was something waiting for me, I just didn’t know what it was. So I was biding my time. I guess I never felt like any of my jobs or homes were permanent, but I did them.”

“For fucking…over fifty years?” Copia asked.

“Well, that’s what it took,” he said with a shrug. “But I got where I was supposed to be.”

“And you’re happy now?” Copia asked.

V took a drink of his beer. “Well,” he said, “the pressure got overwhelming and I took off to find my brother, so…I don’t know.” He lowered it, frowning a little.

“So you don’t like the Ministry?”

“I do,” he said. “Well. I like parts of it. I like touring and singing. I like the ghouls. But…” He considered. “It’s strange now. Because before, if I didn’t like something, I knew I could leave it. But not this. This is what I was heading to and I can’t run away from it like I could those other things. And, uh, that kind of scares me.”

“You can leave whenever you want,” Copia said. “I did.”

“And you’re happy now?” V asked.

“Well, I don’t know,” Copia said. “I’m trying.”

They both sat at the table, contemplating.

“What was it like, being raised in the Ministry?” V asked. “Rising through the ranks like you were supposed to?”

“I don’t know how to compare it to anything,” Copia said. “It was…I always knew what to do next, I guess. People I am not always good with, but I knew what to do anyway. If I did screw up I knew exactly how, you know?” He leaned back in his chair. “I knew how to advance, so I did. I worked hard. Second most employee-of-the-month awards, you know.”

“Who’s the first?” V asked.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “Anyway, I worked hard and became a priest, and a bishop, and a cardinal, and eventually Papa, and I thought it was because I worked hard and did everything right. And then it turns out it’s because Mom said so and I could have done fuck all and still gotten there. And then when she said it was time to move past Papa, what else could I do? And then I was Frater and all my hard work meant nothing and I couldn’t even do it anymore and…” He sank low in his chair. “Now I do payroll. And maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but I work hard. Landscapers get paid on time and accurately because of me. It isn’t flashy, but it matters to them. What I do matters to someone.”

V looked at him for a moment. “I don’t think Mom would have let you become Papa—and Frater—if she didn’t think you were worth it.”

“How would you know?” he asked. “You never met her.”

“Well, her ghost is around,” he said. “She’s proud of you, you know.”

“Yeah, right,” Copia said.

“She is,” V said.

“Well, she could have acted like it when I was there,” he said. “She could come to see me. She’s a ghost, I bet she can teleport.”

“I don’t know,” V admitted. “Do you think so? Maybe not. Maybe they have to travel with you.”

“Well, I for one am fucking glad she didn’t,” he said, despite his earlier complaints. “Dad, too.” He got up and went into his kitchen, and pulled out a tub of ice cream. “You want some?”

“Dad seems lonely,” said V, putting his chin on his hand.

“Well, he shouldn’t have been a dickhead and then maybe he’d have friends. Do you want some fucking ice cream or no?”

“What kind?”

“Phish Food.”

“Okay, then,” V said.

Copia scooped some into a bowl for V and took the rest of the pint for himself, and came over with the ice cream and two spoons. “I guess Dad probably likes you better.”

“What makes you say that?”

Copia shrugged. “Well, he never liked me very much,” he said, “so if he likes you at all…”

“I don’t think he notices me,” V admitted, starting in on his ice cream. “He just looks around like he’s looking for something. You know, ghosts…parts of them vanish with death. Who they are, I mean. They lose something.”

“Yeah,” Copia said. “I don’t think he had much to start with.” He dug his spoon into his pint. “Okay, he wasn’t all bad. He knew how to put on a show, gave me some pointers.” He shook his head. “But he never gave a shit about anything. Even our nice moments were about performing, not about, you know, family or some shit.”

“He cared about Mom. He wrote her those songs.”

“Yeah,” Copia said scornfully, but then he lowered his spoon. “Yeah,” he repeated, more quietly. “I guess he did.”

V ate his ice cream carefully. “Well. I guess being raised in the Ministry had its own issues.”

“Where did you grow up, anyway?” Copia asked. There were thousands of rumors, and he didn’t know which ones to believe.

“I had a ghoul nanny for the first few years,” he said. “Then when I was six I got shipped off to Catholic school. No one ever told me about the Ministry, you know. I thought for years my ghoul nanny was an imaginary friend or something, but she was real.”

“Oh,” Copia said. He frowned into his ice cream. “Did I give you all the little chocolate fish? Goddammit. So is that why you’re like that?”

“Like what?” V asked. “Do you want some of the fish?”

“No, I don’t want your fucking fish. Like that. Creeping around and being spooky and unsettling and shit.”

“Ah, that,” said V. He shrugged. “Could be the ghoul nanny. I could just be weird.” He didn’t seem particularly bothered by the idea.

“Why the mask?” Copia asked. He probably shouldn’t, but he wanted to know. “Are you deformed? Scarred?” He thought for a moment of Rowan, who shied away from their scars to not bring attention to them and somehow made them more obvious for it.

V swallowed a mouthful of ice cream. “Oh, no. It’s just they’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future.”

“Great. Yes. Thank you. I ask you a serious question and get a movie quote.” He sighed. “Whatever. It’s your business, I guess.” He got up to throw away the pint carton and wash his hands, which had somehow gotten alarmingly sticky finishing the ice cream. As he ran the water he thought he heard V speak, and he turned it off. “What?”

“I said,” V answered, getting up as well, “without the mask I can’t remember how to be a person. I’m thinking of what to do with my face, I’m thinking of how I look to people, how I’m acting to people.” He put the bowl in the sink. “With the mask, I’m just…me.”

Copia ran water in the bowl, thinking. “So you’re saying without the mask you’d be as weird and awkward as, uh, me.”

“No, I’m saying with the mask I’m weird,” he said, “and without the mask I’m nothing.”

“Right,” Copia said. He wasn’t sure which was more concerning: that it didn’t really make sense, or that in a weird way it did. “Well, good for you, I guess. I’m going to bed.” He crossed to the rat cage to make sure they had food for the night. “Good night, V.”

“Good night, Copia.”

Copia went in and got ready for bed. Thinking of V and his mask, thinking of how V had spent his whole life drifting free and now didn’t know what to do when he was in his legacy. Thought of his own upbringing, in Satan’s free church under the rigid expectations of his then-unknown mother.

He thought of Rowan next door, whose mother’s anger was actively hurting them. Did Helen realize? Did Helen know what she was doing to her own child?

Had Sister Imperator known what she was doing to hers?

Copia shook his head, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes. He dreamed he was doing a banishing ritual, but a mask on his face clung too tight, until he couldn’t remember the ritual words, until he couldn’t breathe, and when he woke he was sweating.

Chapter Text

“So, Egon,” said Rowan over the burrito bowl that Copia had brought them. “What’s the ghostbusting plan, then?”

“I’m glad you asked, Cricket,” he said, making them smile. When was the last time someone had called them by any nickname at all? “V thinks, and I think he’s right, that one of the regular banishing rituals we use for ghouls might work. If it can send a demon back to Hell, it can probably deal with your mom.”

Rowan moved past the mention of ghouls and demons, distracted when they felt a little pang. “Is it going to send her to Hell, though?”

V and Copia looked at each other.

“I don’t know,” Copia admitted.

“Satan is merciful in his way,” V said philosophically. “Even if it sends her there…”

“No, you know what?” Copia interrupted, and looked at Rowan. “Your mother is hurting you. You realize that, right?”

Rowan opened their mouth to protest.

“No, listen,” Copia said. “She’s constantly yelling at you, scolding you, making you feel worthless, so much you thought that you were worthless. You haven’t left your house for years because of her.”

“Hey,” Rowan said.

“And if it weren’t enough that she’s verbally abusing you—and that’s what she’s doing, Rowan, you know that, right?”

Rowan squirmed uncomfortably and didn’t answer.

“Anyway, if that weren’t enough,” Copia said, “she gives you migraines. Apparently. Which as far as I’m concerned means she’s hurting you physically, too.”

“I don’t think she means to,” Rowan said. “And I might have gotten one anyway—”

“You didn’t. You know you didn’t. And does it matter if she ‘means to’?” Copia demanded. “She’s doing it.”

“She wasn’t always like this,” Rowan said shortly. “You know that, right? This isn’t my mom, this isn’t—”

“It is now,” Copia said, cruelly, and stood up. “I can’t believe this. I can’t. I’m trying to fix this and now you won’t let us?”

“I never said that,” Rowan said. “But I don’t want to send my mom to Hell for something that might not be her fault. Anyway, what do you care about me? You just don’t like that she’s interrupting your sleep. And what about Sam?”

Copia gritted his teeth, his little mustache twitching as he worked his mouth, and turned away for a moment. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered again. “Sam is the one who did this to you in the first place.” He turned away then, as if he couldn’t bear to look at them.

That hurt a little, but the hurt only made them angry. “Goddammit, Copia—”

“Hey,” V said then, quietly, and Rowan jumped and looked at him. For a moment, they’d almost forgotten he was there, silent as a ghost himself. “Rowan? You’re right, you know. Maybe this isn’t your mom. But…then she’s stuck here, like this. That’s not good, either.”

Rowan felt a burning behind their eyes.

“I don’t know what the banishment will do,” he admitted. “I don’t know if it’ll send her to Hell or what. Sam, either. But I know Satan allows for free will and choice and becoming who you want to be.” He gave them a little smile. “I don’t think anything unfair will happen. I just don’t. But he’s right. My brother, I mean. You can’t live like this.”

Rowan looked at him, and then at Copia, whose was still turned away, his slim shoulders taut and his posture rigid.

They bit their lip, trying to fight back against tears. “It’s my fault she’s dead,” said Rowan, finally. “It’s my fault she’s a ghost. Her and Sam. She wouldn’t be like this without me.”

And that’s when Copia turned back to look at them. “It’s not, though,” he said. “You said before, she wouldn’t let you quit performing.”

Rowan swallowed hard. “I hated performing,” they said quietly. “I hated doing that shitty Christian music for shitty crowds, trying to spread a message I didn’t even believe in anymore.”

“Exact—” he started.

“So I drank,” Rowan said. “You know what you get really good at when you’ve got an overbearing parent? Hiding shit. She had no idea.” Rowan’s hands were shaking. “I drank before the show and I did a great fucking job on stage, and then I drank after the show, and sometimes I’d sneak a few in the middle. She never knew, but she did know I had to go to my dressing room after to ‘decompress,’ and I did just like I did every fucking show. Except that night I fell asleep.”

Silence for a moment from both of them. Rowan didn’t want to look at them.

“Normally I’d have left hours before, but I didn’t. So the driver we’d booked wasn’t available. And we had to call the service last minute and get a new one, and Sam was the only one available…”

“That isn’t your fault,” Copia said, sharply. “They chose to send Sam. Sam chose to take the job. That’s one of the reasons to have a fucking driver, is so you can get home safely when you’re—Rowan, this is not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” they asked. “Mom spends her time berating me now in the afterlife, but if I hadn’t fallen asleep, if I hadn’t had to have a late drive to the hotel, if I’d left earlier, if I hadn’t drunk myself into a fucking stupor, she wouldn’t be in the afterlife.”

I wouldn’t have died if your faith had been stronger, said her mother’s voice. Your scars are divine punishment. Look at you.

“Rowan’s scars are fucking fine,” Copia snapped at a place next to Rowan. “You leave them alone, don’t make this worse.”

And then he came over to where they sat at the table and, to their surprise, took their hand. His was big, and warm.

“Even if it was your fault, and it’s not,” he said, “you can’t live like this. You cannot live with your mother doing this to you, putting you in Hell for it. It’s been seven fucking years, your scars are barely noticeable, you know that?”

Rowan looked up in confusion. “What?” they asked, but they were distracted by his hand on theirs. It had been so long since they’d felt the touch of a hand…

“And even if they were, it doesn’t fucking matter. If this whole thing is divine punishment, then God is a fucking asshole.”

Rowan’s eyes went wide at that. It was like his songs all over again, echoing feelings they’d had but never, ever dared to voice.

“Your mother made you keep singing and you did what you could to cope. Your driver showed up drunk. You think your mom doesn’t deserve eternal torment for hurting you, but you do? Fuck that.” He squeezed their hand. “V and I are going to banish your fucking mother, and we can either do it here, in your living room, with your blessing. Or we’ll do it from my apartment and you can hate my guts. But either way, your mom is toast and it’s up to God and the Devil to decide what to do with her.”

Rowan swallowed hard, tried to answer, couldn’t. They reached up to wipe their tears, pushing aside their glasses to do it. Felt the scar tissue under their fingers and snatched their hand away again.

Was this the Satan they’d been raised to fear? They couldn’t feel like it was. But they could not turn to the God of their childhood, they knew that much. God had no answers for them, God had no solutions. God’s path was this life they were in now. Isolation, a constant stream of pain and loathing from their mother and from themself, so that they couldn’t tell one from another. If that was God’s, then who could blame them for turning away?

“Okay,” they said. They did not say it with resolve. Their voice was shaky and uncertain still. “Okay. You can do it here, like you planned.”

And this is what my child would do to me, said that voice in their ear, the one that had been there too long. My child, who I birthed and raised, who I only tried to protect and elevate. This is how you repay me.

And as she said it, as the anger dripped like venom into Rowan’s ear, another headache started to form.

“Ignore her,” said Copia softly. “Ignore her. We’re going to take care of this.” And now both his hands were on theirs, and it was almost too much, except it felt so good that Rowan did not pull away.

They weren’t sure if they believed in Satan. But they wanted desperately to believe in someone who wanted to help. And that was Copia, and his brother, and maybe that was enough.

“It’s still a few hours to midnight,” said V.

“You know what?” Copia said. “I don’t fucking care. It’ll take a while to set up and I don’t think we should leave Rowan like this any longer than we have to.”

“Okay,” said V with a shrug, and he got up. “Then I’ll get the stuff. You stay here. I won’t be long.”

And Copia sat with Rowan. Their head ached, and they knew they should take something, but they didn’t want to move. Not when he was holding their hand, not when he was comforting them, the first person to do so in so long. Keeping everything at bay as best he could.

And then V returned, arms full of supplies. Sheets, markers, they didn’t know what else.

Copia took a deep breath and squeezed their hand once more before letting go. “Okay, Cricket,” he said, with a little smile, trying to make them smile back. “Let’s see if we can get your cicada of a mother to stop screaming, eh?”

Chapter Text

Copia and V spent several hours working. Laying out sheets, moving some of Rowan’s furniture, promising to put it back after. Copia, the more practiced one, drew out arcane symbols on the sheet they’d bought for this, taking care that no Sharpie leaked through to the carpet.

Rowan themself had taken something for a migraine and laid down in their room. As far as Copia was concerned they could stay there for the whole thing, but V thought maybe Rowan should attend the ritual. So once everything was set up, Copia knocked lightly on their bedroom door.

Rowan emerged, pale and flinching at the light, and Copia felt a knot of guilt. But when they came out of their room, Sam and their mother followed, and he thought maybe they were needed after all.

“Listen, Sam,” said Copia. “No hard feelings. But you have to go, too.”

Sam just shrugged.

“As for you,” he said to Helen, who glared back at him, “I don’t know if you were actually the nice lady Rowan remembers or not, but as you are now, go fuck yourself.”

“You’re an evil man,” Helen said. “What now? I’ll go and you’ll convert my daughter to your devil worship? You’ll debauch her, bring her to orgies?”

“Your kid is nonbinary, for one thing,” Copia said. “And I don’t do orgies anymore. I do payroll. But frankly, Rowan should get to go to any orgies they want, without their mother hanging over their shoulder…ew,” he said, thinking of that for a moment too long.

“Disgusting,” said Helen, and looked at Rowan. “Do you think he’s doing this because he likes you? Because—”

“You’re hurting them,” Copia snapped. “Look at what you’re doing to them!”

And to his surprise, Helen shut up. She stared at Rowan, then looked at him.

And for an odd moment, Helen seemed to half-fade.

“It’s almost ready,” V said behind him, and Helen snapped back into focus like someone had fitted a lens into place. “Rowan? I think you should come over here, closer to the ritual space.”

“You’re…you’re not going to accidentally banish me, are you?” Rowan asked anxiously. They started to walk, but they didn’t have their cane and was wincing a little with each step. Copia felt a drop in his stomach and wondered if he should help, but before he could, they were at the edge of the symbol-drawn sheet.

“No,” V said, and looked at Copia. “Right? We can’t.”

“We can’t,” agreed Copia. “You’re a living person. But just to be safe,” he said, gesturing, “go sit in the chair and don’t touch the sheet.”

“What time is it?” V asked.

Copia looked up at the clock. “11:17. Close enough to midnight for what we need, anyway.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. V. You ready?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You know the chant?” he asked. “Because you tend to forget lyrics.”

“Fuck off,” said V.

Copia snorted but didn’t ask again. Instead, he made sure Rowan was sitting safely out of the way, then followed his brother to stand in the middle of the living room.

It was…strange. Copia had done these rituals many times, but always within the Ministry’s walls, in the chapels and spaces built for it. Symbols painted on stone, not drawn on bedsheet with permanent marker. But the symbols were familiar, and he knew them like he knew his alphabet, and he could feel their power. And when he met his brother’s eye, he knew he did, too.

“Okie-dokie,” he said, and took a deep breath. “You,” he said to Rowan. “Stay there and whatever happens, don’t move, don’t say a word, not until it’s over. And you,” he said to V. “Start chanting.”

And he did. Not Latin. Something far older than Latin. Something so ancient that syllables rolled in the mouth, on the tongue, words that sizzled in the air. Words Copia knew by heart, and after the first repetition, he joined in.

Their voices mingled, similar and different, overlapping, almost harmonizing.

On the sheet on the floor, the symbols began to glow. To one side, he could faintly hear Rowan take in a deep breath, but they still said nothing.

And then Copia raised his knife, and slashed across his hand, wincing as he did. He spattered the blood onto each of the drawn symbols, and then the center. When the droplets reached the floor they hissed and steamed, like water splashed onto burning metal.

Copia Emeritus, once a cardinal and Papa and Frater Imperator, spoke then, with an authority he had once ascribed to his titles, and found that he had still, even in their absence. Speaking to the Ancient One, not beseeching so much as demanding. Speaking to the two souls, the broken-necked man and the angry woman, ordering them to leave this plane and to never return. And under his words were his brother’s, chanting over and over, the same phrase he’d started with, echoing off the walls until it overlapped, a choir of one voice, louder and louder until it reached a crescendo.

“Now!” Copia cried, and the glowing symbols blazed with hellfire, shooting up towards the popcorn ceiling, blasting heat and light and something more. Something so bright he had to close his eyes, but he knew what it was doing, he knew it was banishing the two, burning away the ghosts that had haunted Rowan for too long. “Nema!”

All at once, the light went out, plunging them in darkness and stillness.

Copia’s ears rang with the chant no longer spoken. He could see very little at first, though his eyes adjusted to the faint light of the outdoor light trickling in through the blinds, enough to make out shapes. His brother. The pushed-back couch with the coffee table stacked on top of it. His own hands held before his face.

And then he heard Rowan gasp, and he looked over sharply to see what was wrong.

Rowan was not looking at him. They were pointed in another direction, and he followed their gaze to see what they saw now.

“Was that supposed to do something?” asked Helen’s ghost, and for a moment, the usually-faint smell of rot was so overwhelming that Copia gagged.

Chapter Text

Rowan’s head pounded, a racing drumbeat in step with their heart. The room was dark, almost soothingly, but they could see a little now. They could see Copia and V, standing in Rowan’s upended living room.

And before them—faint, uncertain, like seeing a reflection in a dark glass—Rowan could see their mother.

Helen looked just as Rowan had remembered. Slimmer than Rowan had ever been, dark hair bobbed neatly, arms folded, face sharp. If a good Christian woman was supposed to be meek and submissive, Helen had always fallen short of the glory of God. Somehow, she had never considered that a problem.

“Mom?” said Rowan in a small voice. They sounded like a child to their own ears. They felt like one, for a moment.

And beside her, a little behind, just as faint, there was another shape. A man’s body, neck at an angle no neck should have.

Helen’s voice was distant. But Rowan could hear it, out loud, not in their own head.

“I’m still here,” she said. “So is Sam. I guess your devil magic didn’t work.”

Copia was staring. His mouth was screwed up, his brows knotted. He looked at Helen, then Rowan, then V, then the sheet, and back in rapid succession. The room smelled of decay and, faintly, of charred cloth.

V, quite calmly, turned on the overhead light. The light knifed into Rowan’s eyes and skull, and they flinched hard and put their hand over their face.

“Sorry,” V said, and turned it off in favor of a small table lamp, yellow through the shade. “I guess we’d better clean up.”

“How the fuck didn’t that work?” Copia demanded.

“Maybe we did something wrong,” V said, already bending down to roll up the sheet. The symbols they’d drawn were now burned into the fabric, and ash spilled onto the otherwise unmarked carpet like gray snowflakes.

“No,” Copia said. “The ritual was right. I felt it. Didn’t you?”

V sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Copia scowled, then looked to Rowan again, and his expression seemed to soften. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That should have worked.”

“Copia?” said Rowan.

“Yes, Cricket?” he said, coming over.

Rowan jutted their chin forward a little. “That’s my mom,” they said. Their voice was thin, reedy.

Funny, Rowan thought, vaguely. They’d known she wasn’t that tall, but they’d remembered her much taller anyway.

Copia was quiet for a moment. “You can see her now?”

Rowan nodded, which hurt, so they stopped. Their eyes were still on the shape of their mother. A shape they had feared and loved, resented and mourned. They had never expected to see it again. They weren’t sure how they should feel. They weren’t even sure how they felt.

Helen said nothing. Rowan said nothing back.

Copia knelt down next to Rowan then. “I’m sorry this didn’t work,” he said. “We’ll figure something out. Okay? I promise.” His hand was on their arm, and he let out a hiss. “You’re freezing.”

Rowan tore their eyes away to look at him a moment as he frowned. They felt like they should say something, but they couldn’t think of what to say. Their mother lingered at the edge of their vision.

Copia sighed. “Come on,” he said, urging gently. “How’s your head?”

“Bad,” they said. “But it’s still attached, at least.” It was supposed to be a joke, but then they darted a look to Sam, whose neck reminded them how delicate that truth was.

“Always good,” Copia agreed. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? You need some rest. Should I get your cane? Or you can just lean on me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Helen, voice dripping with sarcasm again. “Just lean on someone you don’t know. You tried so hard to be independent from me all those years ago…”

It was weird, actually, to hear it like this. From outside. Yes, they’d established that it wasn’t Rowan’s own thoughts already, but maybe some part of them hadn’t really believed it. Now it was real.

“Up,” said Copia. “Ignore her. She can’t even help you, can she?” he said, glaring. “Not that she would, but she can’t. So what use is she right now?”

Rowan let out a weak little laugh, and then suddenly Helen vanished, and the air grew fresher. Sam was still there, but apparently he didn’t have that same rotting problem.

“Do they always smell like that?” Rowan asked.

“No,” Copia said. “Some don’t at all, but most of them it’s just very, very, uh, light. You don’t even notice it most of the time. Your mom just stinks.”

Rowan wanted to laugh, but right now they just felt awful. So despite their mother’s words and any of their own lingering misgivings, they rose, and when Copia offered an arm they leaned on it, taking the weight off their knee.

“Weather’s still bad,” they said. “I can tell.”

“That’s okay,” Copia said, and escorted them into their bedroom. He sat them down on the bed, but he didn’t leave. “Rowan, are you…no, that’s a stupid question,” he muttered. “Asking if you’re okay. Obviously you are not. Um. What…is…what can I do?”

Rowan shrugged a little, helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he said. “I guess not. Um. Well, I’ll do like before. V and I, we’ll go and let you rest.”

Last time, Rowan had wanted him and his brother out of their apartment as fast as possible. But suddenly now they…didn’t.

They wanted to reach out, grab his hand, not let him go. They wanted to beg him to stay, in the room, in their bed. They had no desire for sex, not with their head like this, but if he wanted it they’d give it to him just to have the contact, just to have someone close and keeping everything at bay. In that moment they’d do almost anything to have someone with them.

Anything, of course, except ask for it.

“Okay,” they said instead. “Um. Thanks. For everything. For trying, and all that. It was…it was interesting.”

“You should see what I can do when shit actually works,” he muttered.

A laugh bubbled out of Rowan, startling them both.

“Well,” Copia said. “We had better go, V and I. But you have your phone, yes? You call if you need anything. Or text, because calling sucks.”

They smiled at him. “Yeah. Um. Night, Copia. Sorry you’re not going to get enough sleep for work now, I hope…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He hesitated, lingering for a moment, then shook his head. “Bye.”

He turned to go, and Rowan watched after him before sighing and laying down, pulling up the blankets over their chilled skin. They could hear him talking quietly to V for a moment, though couldn’t make out the words, and then some footsteps and, finally, the sound of the door opening and closing and the scrape of Copia locking the door with the spare key they’d given him.

And then, silence.

Sam stood in the corner still, but he was so quiet that he was almost unobtrusive, despite everything. No anger from him. They weren’t sure why he was there, what he did all day. At least Helen had interest in berating Rowan. What did Sam do with his afterlife? Right now, though he was present, he faded into the background, and Rowan was just left feeling confused and alone.

They briefly considered their phone, maybe putting on some of the Ghost music they’d just found. Funny, how ghosts were the cause to all their problems, and Ghost was the only solution they could find, both the music and the brothers’ attempts at fixing everything.

But before they could decide anything, sleep reached up and claimed them, like a creature beneath the surface of a lake, pulling them into murky dreams and not letting them go until morning.

Chapter Text

Copia and V sat on the floor next to the rat playpen. The rats were having a great time exploring some boxes with Cheerios hidden within, snuffling and scuffling as they sought out each treat. Copia had a cup of mint tea. V had a cup of hot water with lemon. A plate of store-bought shortbreads sat between them.

“We really should have put Rowan’s furniture back,” V said idly, biting into a cookie.

Copia shook his head. “They needed the sleep,” he said. “We’ll fix it tomorrow, first thing.”

“You have work.”

“I’ll call in. Fuck probation.” He took a sip of his tea. “Why the fuck didn’t it work? It can’t be the time, we were near midnight and it’s never been that exact.”

“It’s a ritual for ghouls,” said V. “Maybe that’s why. Maybe I was wrong to start with. They’re human, or they were. They might be—might be corrupted memories of humans, I guess, but they’re still human. It was worth a try, but maybe we need to try something else.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Copia demanded.

V shrugged vaguely. “I don’t know yet. I think…I think I’d better go back to the Ministry and do some research.”

And to Copia’s surprise, the news made his chest hurt a moment. “Already sick of me, huh?” he said, turning it into a joke.

V smiled and shook his head. “No. But you were right. Poor Rowan shouldn’t live like that, and we can fix it. I know we can.”

We. The two of them, united. That was new.

“Okay, well,” Copia said. “You’re still helping me put Rowan’s furniture back in the morning.” He reached over the edge of the playpen wall to pet Mallow, who was sniffing up at them in curiosity, stretching to his full length as his whiskers twitched towards Copia’s hand and the smell of cookie crumbs. “You know rats’ noses are more sensitive than a dog’s?”

“I didn’t know that,” said V.

“Yeah. So even though they don’t see very well, they know we’re right here.” He fell quiet, bending over to toy with the rats a bit, play-wrestling them with his hand. And then he let his hand drop a moment. “I think…” He considered for a moment. “What if…”

“What?” V asked.

Copia frowned, thinking a moment. Thinking of Rowan’s pale face, thinking of their mom scolding them for leaning on someone, thinking of how they hadn’t left their apartment in years. “What if you didn’t go back to the Ministry alone?”

V leaned forward. “What do you mean? You’d come with?”

“I guess,” Copia said. “But I was thinking, maybe we could talk Rowan into coming along. Because if you figure out another ritual, a better ritual, it shouldn’t have to wait for you to travel back and explain it and set up again and do it. We should be able to just call Rowan and get rid of the problem.”

“Do you think Rowan would go?” V asked.

Copia opened his mouth, froze, then closed it again, then sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we should ask, at least. If they won’t go, I won’t try to make them. But…I want to at least try.”

“Are you sure you want to go?” V asked. “You left on purpose.”

Copia almost hadn’t thought of that. He thought now of returning. Was it a form of surrender, of admitting he couldn’t make it outside the Ministry’s walls?

“It’s temporary,” he said finally. “It’s just until we get this stuff sorted out with Rowan.” He got up. “I’ll get the rats’ travel cage ready, though. I can’t just leave them here.”

The travel cage was a bird cage with a shoulder strap. It didn’t need much readying, but before he went to bed he made sure it had clean bedding and some toys and hides and one of their regular hammocks so it would smell like them. He put the rats back in their own cage, which was nearly as tall as he was and took up a lot of wall space. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “Temporary smaller quarters tomorrow.”

“I hope they don’t get car sick,” said V.

“Rats can’t throw up,” he said. “That’s why it’s bad if they eat something they shouldn’t.”

“Oh,” said V. “Like horses.”

“Yeah,” said Copia, closing the cage. “Rats and horses, very similar.”

“Which would be better? A horse-sized rat or a rat-sized horse?” V asked.

Copia looked at him for a moment, but V just stood there, clearly thinking about it. Copia shook his head and sighed. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight,” said V, and Copia mumbled back and went into his room.

But in bed he found himself thinking about it. A rat he could ride, maybe, but it might be expensive to feed. Plus, how would you attach a bridle or a saddle? On the other hand, he could hug it, a thing he could not easily do with his rats.

And then, on the other hand, a little horse that would fit in his pocket. Galloping across the table, its hooves sounding like the drumming of fingernails. A tiny little whinny. Eating carrot shavings out of his hand.

As he fell asleep, it occurred to him that the unimportant dilemma was distracting him from real problems. The failed ritual, Rowan’s torment, his upcoming return to the Ministry. And as he dropped off, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, V had asked such a dumb question for that exact purpose.

He fell asleep and dreamed he was a knight on a rat’s back, with a little horse in his pocket. But when he reached for his sword it crumbled away at his touch, scattered into the wind like ash, and he did not know how to slay the beast before him.

Morning didn’t dawn so much as it insinuated itself, the overcast sky fading from bruise-dark to an unwashed gray. V and Copia talked about the drive to the Ministry’s US headquarters, and how many stops to make on the way, and didn’t talk about anything important. Copia had grown up in the smaller Italian location and missed it sometimes, but he hadn’t seen it in years and wasn’t sure he ever would again. V, of course, had never seen it.

After coffee, Copia texted Rowan to see if they were up and ready for visitors. He got back a thumbs up, and went over with his brother in tow.

Rowan answered the door, cane in hand. They had a cup of coffee on the table, and they weren’t squinting at him like he was backed with floodlights, so their migraine must have passed. Helen and Sam stood behind them like an entourage, but this morning the rot smell was subdued, if there at all.

“Head feeling better?” Copia asked.

“Yeah,” Rowan said, and stepped aside. “Come on in. Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks. Sorry we couldn’t put the furniture back yesterday,” V said.

“It’s okay. I understand.” They sank into a kitchen chair with their own coffee.

“Copia, help me with the couch.”

V and Copia got everything put back more or less as it had been before. Copia scuffed his foot over the dents in the carpet from the sofa’s wooden feet, but that did nothing.

“Thanks,” Rowan said. “I appreciate it. And listen, even if it didn’t work…I am grateful for what you were trying to do yesterday. And something changed, anyway. I can see them now, a little. Is that how they look to you, just faint?”

“No,” Copia said. “They look like whole people, just...there. In the way.”

“To me they’re a little washed out,” said V. “But I still see them. And hear them.” He sat down at the table as well, and looked at Copia. “You should tell them,” he said bluntly.

“Tell me what?” asked Rowan, straightening up.

Copia saw Helen open her mouth and held up his hand. “Don’t you start,” he told her, and looked to Rowan. He breathed in for a moment, held it, then let it out in an explosive sigh. “We need to go to the Ministry. Where I came from.”

He could see himself reflected in Rowan’s bug glasses, and behind that, expressions flicking over their face. Confusion, hurt, and then a resigned sort of acceptance. “All right. I guess living next door to my mom hasn’t been—”

“It’s not that,” he said, too sharply. “No. And I’m not staying. I’m…” He tapped his fingers on the table for a moment. “We need to go to find out more about how to get rid of your ghosts. But there’s another thing.”

Rowan’s head tilted to the side slightly, the same direction as Sam’s, although much less disturbingly. “What is it?”

Copia glanced at V for some reason, courage maybe, then looked to Rowan again. “I think, we think, you should come with us.”

V nodded. “Then we can take care of it as soon as we have an answer. You’ll be right there.”

Rowan’s face fell. “I don’t…”

And that’s when Helen, who had been silent, spoke up. “Rowan doesn’t leave.” Instead of the anger that Copia was used to, though, her voice was quiet and matter-of-fact. “Rowan can’t leave. Do you know how people treat someone who can’t walk right? Do you know how people treat someone who looks like—”

“Like what?” Copia asked. “So they have some face scars. Who fucking cares?” He looked fiercely at Rowan. “You can’t see them as well as you think you can, you know. It’s been seven fucking years, they’ve faded, but even if they hadn’t?” He spread his hands. “Who fucking cares?”

“Rowan used to be beautiful,” said Helen, and for a moment she sounded almost plaintive. As if Copia should understand this, the difference, what it meant that Rowan no longer looked like the perfectly groomed fresh-faced twenty-year-old, but all it did was make him more angry.

“That doesn’t—” Copia started.

And then V interrupted, loudly. “I wear a mask every single day.” He didn’t yell, but the announcement rang off the walls.

Copia looked over at him, and so did Rowan and Helen.

“Do you think,” V continued, more quietly, “that anyone would look at Rowan when I’m right next to them looking like the Phantom of the Opera?” He tapped the leather mask over his features. “In public some people notice the mask, I guess,” he continued, “but at the Ministry? There are ghouls, there are ghosts, there are Satanic clergy. I’m not the weirdest thing there, so by comparison, Rowan would be invisible.”

Copia watched Rowan’s shoulders relax a little. “Really?” they said.

“And between here and there?” asked Helen, and Rowan’s shoulders snapped right back up. “You can’t just hide on the way, can you? You’ll have to make stops.”

“I’ll still be there looking much weirder,” said V with a shrug. “And not giving a fuck, by the way. Why should I?”

“But what if I get in the way?” Rowan asked, voice soft. “You’d be with me. I might embarrass you. I…”

Helen was nodding along, and Copia’s hatred of her was as strong as his concern for Rowan.

“Would you be embarrassed to be seen with V?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Helen.

“No!” said Rowan, horrified, and inched their chair away from their mother slightly.

“Would you be embarrassed to…dammit, Rowan,” said Copia. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Rowan’s eyes went wide.

“Copia!” V exclaimed. “You don’t need to do that. That’s mean.”

“Yeah, well,” said Copia. “You’ve been hiding here in your apartment because you’re afraid you won’t be perfect enough for some fuckers at Walmart?”

Rowan swallowed hard, and looked down. “I never…thought about it that way.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you had,” he said, but he saw how their shoulders were up again and realized how he was sounding. The realization shot through his gut like cold fire, and all his frustration spilled out in its wake. “I’m sorry,” he said, and they looked up, surprised. “Now I’m bullying you, too. You don’t have to do shit.”

Rowan blinked at him, and then shook their head. “It’s okay,” they said.

“It’s not,” said Copia. “You’ve got enough fucking problems.”

“Well, that’s the truth,” they muttered, but they hesitated. “I wasn’t a shut-in at first, y’know. I tried to go out, I did go out, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, about everyone staring at me, everyone…” And then they trailed off, eyes going wide. “Except it wasn’t me thinking about it.” And their eyes drifted past Copia to find the shape of their mother again. “It was you.”

“I was telling you the truth,” said Helen sharply. “You went out and people did look at you. People did comment about you using one of the carts, remember? You were in the way. People are busy, they don’t have time to work around you. You’re better off staying home where you’re safe.”

“No,” said Rowan. And for a moment there was a spark to their eyes, something brighter than Copia had seen. “No. Because…because Copia doesn’t mind working around me.”

Copia was startled at being brought into this.

“He helped me to bed when I didn’t have my cane,” they said. “And he doesn’t care that V has a mask, either. And he doesn’t care about my scars.”

“He’s one person,” said Helen.

“So was the person who said something,” said Rowan. “That was one person. Dozens didn’t care.” There were two bright spots of color on their cheeks, one slashed through with white scar tissue, and their eyes were shining. “How long are we going for?” they asked Copia then, looking at him.

“I—I don’t know,” he said, still taking in not only the sudden fervor, but how Rowan looked. They did not look like they had on stage, young and pretty in a way that challenged nothing. But they looked…

“Maybe a few weeks?” said V. “I’d pack for a few weeks. Just in case.”

Rowan was breathing hard, like they’d just run a marathon. “I’m…look, I’m still me. I can’t easily do stairs and I need accommodations and I have hardly spoken to anyone in years so I’m probably weird and awkward and embarrassing.”

“I talk to people everyday and I’m not much better,” Copia said.  

Rowan let out a laugh, then swallowed hard. Those red patches on their cheeks faded, and for a moment they looked pale and fragile with fear. “Okay,” they said.

“Okay?” said Copia, not quite sure what they meant.

“I’ll do it. When do we leave?”

There was some talk of logistics, and packing, and what to do. Copia and V both offered to stay and help them pack, but they shook their head.

“Just come get me when you’re ready,” they said. “I’ll try to be quick.”

“Don’t, uh, hurt yourself,” said Copia.

He and his brother went back to his own apartment. He would lose his job with the landscaping company, probably, suddenly needing to take off for an unknown amount of time, but it didn’t matter. He worked on packing clothes, and getting his rats into their travel cage, and shoving some food into the freezer so it wouldn’t all rot by the time he got back. And he would be coming back. He was going back to the Ministry to help Rowan and, maybe a little, to spend time with his brother, but he was not staying there.

But as he got ready, he found himself thinking about Rowan’s determined face. Bug glasses, scars, short hair, no makeup. Bright-eyed and brilliant and standing their ground, if only for a moment.

Helen might think Rowan used to be beautiful. Maybe they had, but Copia hadn’t really seen it, not on those old still and posed photos, just the bland prettiness of a person cultivated for a certain image.

But at the kitchen table, with fear and anger playing over their features, and resolve settling in where it had not often been, Rowan had been stunning.

Chapter Text

It was all well and good to make a declaration.

It was all well and good to pack up some bags. Clothes, toiletries, medication, backup medication, heating pads, their spare collapsible cane, anything they could think of.

And it was even all well and good to text Copia that they were ready to go.

But it was a whole different thing to do it.

Most of Rowan’s interaction beyond their apartment in the past few years had been limited to their porch—getting packages, leaving trash for the maintenance man who’d offered to take bags to the dumpster. They had a mail slot, so they didn’t even need to leave to retrieve mail. They exercised when they could in their own living room, where no one could gawk at them, and they ordered their groceries. Most of their appointments were online.

Once or twice a year they’d venture further, taking a cab to get to an in-person doctor’s appointment, or something else brief and necessary. The days before and after usually found them so anxious they threw up. Even walking down the parking lot to put letters in the outgoing mailbox could set their heart pounding for an hour after.

But now Copia and V were here.

Copia had told them they didn’t have to do this, and they believed him. They could say no, they could change their mind, they could wish them luck and stay in their apartment. They could stay here where it was safe, forever.

V took Rowan’s suitcase in hand, though, and brought it out to the car. Copia, sweet man that he was, double-checked that Rowan had whatever they needed.

“Yes,” they said, eyeing the door like it might grow teeth as soon as they crossed its threshold. Their knuckles were white on their cane; if they didn’t need it for their knee, they needed it for their soul that trembled and threatened to collapse under any pressure.

But Copia went around and made sure their lights were out, and then stood beside them. “Are you ready?”

No. “Yes,” they said, and took a breath, and opened the door to step out. One step, another, another, until they were no longer on their front stoop, but on the short sidewalk that led to the parking lot. V leaned on the car, waiting, and he moved to open the passenger door for them.

Behind them, Copia locked their door. “Take your time,” Copia said. “We aren’t in a hurry.”

But Rowan was.

Rowan took a few more steps, and fought down a wave of nausea and fear. It was not a bright and sunny day, the first day of their liberation, or whatever this was. The sky hung low and thick. The sidewalk was dappled dark from recent rain. They had to move carefully so their cane didn’t slip on the damp oak leaves layered on the concrete, sticking like corn flakes to the bottom of a bowl.

But then they got to the car, and took a breath, and got in. The passenger seat was pushed back so they had plenty of leg room, so they could stretch their legs if they needed on the long drive, and they set their shoulder bag down in their lap. Their cane they angled into the footwell where it would be out of the way, and they pulled the door closed with a sturdy thud.

Copia slid into the back seat behind them. Next to him was the birdcage with his pet rats; they were burrowed together in one of the boxes he’d placed for them to hide in, not used to something new, something unfamiliar. Too bad Copia couldn’t pack a box big enough for Rowan to do the same.

“Ready to go?” Copia asked again, leaning forward, and then his hand was on their shoulder from behind. Big and warm and steady, and they took a breath, tried to concentrate on that instead of on their own adrenaline spiking.

“Yes,” they said again, and this time they thought maybe, somewhere behind their trembling skin and quaking heart, they meant it.

Copia nodded. “Good. It took courage, you know. You did good.” He squeezed their shoulder, then let go so he could buckle in and lean over to reassure his rats as well.

V got into the driver’s seat. Rowan wondered if his mask impaired his ability to drive, but assumed not.

“We’ll stop every so often,” V said. “We might have to stay somewhere overnight, but we’ll get there when we get there.” He started the engine. “Hey. It’ll be fun, too. A drive with my brother and my friend.”

That, as much as Copia’s hand on their shoulder, seemed to steady them. Rowan felt anxious out here in the world, yes, but they weren’t alone. Copia was there, and V was there. Friends.

In the mirror, briefly, Rowan caught a glimpse of Sam, and knew that their mother was there as well somewhere, somehow, ready to pop up whenever Rowan was in position to hear her poison. But in the mirror, they could also see Copia, murmuring reassurances to his pets, and next to them was V.

And they drove away from the comfortable prison of Rowan’s apartment.

It was Rowan’s first outing in a long time and in some ways it was delightful. Scenery moving past their window, signs and billboards for them to laugh at. V played music—not Ghost but a mix of 70s and 80s rock—and he sang along sometimes without any self-consciousness whatsoever. After an hour they stopped at a gas station, and Rowan was not brave enough to go inside where there were customers, but did walk around the lot a little bit.

In other ways, it was not particularly delightful. Their back didn’t much like the shape of the seat, and while their knee didn’t hurt mostly, whenever they stopped it was stiff and needed some work to be usable again. V had gotten them all snacks at the gas station, which was nice, except Rowan spilled soda in their lap and their jeans were doomed to spend the rest of the ride sticky. And every now and again, the faint aroma of rat pee drifted up from the cage in the back seat.

By lunchtime the sky had cleared to stringy white clouds scraped across a faded denim blue. They hit a drive-through and took their food to eat in an otherwise empty park nearby. The picnic table bench was a little damp, but the air was warm, and Rowan cautiously enjoyed the touch of sun on their skin as they ate and listened to V and Copia bicker good-naturedly. Their gluten-free bun was dry, but the burger was good.

After eating, though, Copia went to try to spot-clean the rats’ cage and make sure they had food, and another car pulled into the lot. A woman and three kids came pouring out, with food bags of their own, and Rowan stiffened. They couldn’t run back to the car without passing them. The woman and kids came over to the picnic area…

And nothing happened.

They sat down nearby and didn’t even acknowledge V or Rowan. Barely spared them a glance.

Eventually, after some cage cleaning, throwing trash away, and disappearing to the park’s bathroom to wash his hands, Copia came back to their table. “Do you want me to drive a while?”

“Sure,” said V, and leaned over to dig his keys out of his pocket, then tossed them to Copia. Copia fumbled and dropped them, then groaned and bent to pick them up, then straightened again. “Do I need to do anything for your rats?” V asked.

“Nah, they’re okay,” Copia said. “Not happy, but okay. If I knew anyone I’d have left them and have someone take care of them, but…I don’t.”

“I thought you said you had friends outside the Ministry?”

Copia shrugged. “The only one I was close enough to ask a favor like that is Rowan and, I don’t know if you noticed, but they’re here.”

“I did notice.” V grinned at Rowan, who smiled back.

“I’d have taken care of them if you’d wanted,” Rowan said. “Leaving the apartment for an empty one wouldn’t have been too hard.”

“That’s okay,” said Copia, “this is better.”

They got back into the car, and Rowan survived their first close encounter with strangers outside their apartment unscathed.

The car ride continued uneventfully, although now it was Copia next to Rowan instead of V. They talked as they drove, not about anything significant. About music, movies, books. They talked a little about Copia’s rats, and having pets at all. Apparently Copia had owned rats off and on for the last couple of decades, but hadn’t been allowed pets as a child. Rowan vaguely remembered a childhood dog, but he had died soon before their father had. V hadn’t been in a position to have pets, but did have fond memories of a couple of cats in his Catholic school, and pigeons outside of it.

By evening, the novelty had very much worn off. They’d taken a few more breaks but Rowan’s back had shooting pain, and their knee was eagerly joining the party. Copia had gone from good-naturedly bitchy to irascible and sharp-tongued, particularly with V, and V himself had gotten sarcastic and withdrawn.

See? said Rowan’s mother’s voice. It won’t be long before they’re tired of you, too.

“Tell your mom to shut up again,” Copia said.

Rowan looked around but couldn’t even see where their mom was, but the voice was unmistakable and Copia had heard it, so they knew it was probably not true. Right?

“Maybe we should stop for the night,” said V finally.

“We aren’t that far from the Ministry now,” Copia answered.  

“I’ll pay for it, if it’s such a big deal,” V said.

“It’s not the money,” Copia said. “We’re almost fucking there.”

“It’s another four hours and that’s if we don’t take any breaks,” said V, “which we should. Just find a fucking hotel.”

Copia grumbled, but when he spotted a sign for an exit to the next town he followed them. “No hotel is going to be okay with the fucking rats,” he said.

“There are pet-friendly hotels,” said V.

“They mean dogs. People don’t like rats. They think they’re vermin.”

“Then pick any hotel and just don’t fucking tell them,” said V. “It’s not like you’re gonna let the rats out to piss all over the hotel room.”

“I should let them piss all over your bed,” Copia said.

“If you don’t both stop arguing,” Rowan said, finally fed up with it, “I’m gonna piss in both your beds.” As soon as they said it they felt heat burn their cheeks, suddenly afraid they didn’t know them well enough for a statement like that.

Silence rang out for a moment. And then from the back seat, V started to giggle, and then in the driver’s seat Copia chuckled, and the tension was broken, for now.