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The proprietor of A. Z. Fell & Co. Book Sellers is unexpectedly intimidating. He'd seemed like a nice old man, a little spacey, over the phone. Ryan had imagined... well, probably someone who looks just like Mr. Fell, but... The man just has a weird presence. He seems somehow powerful, bigger than himself. Standing next to him feels the same way Ryan would guess it feels to stand next to a Nobel Peace Prize winner and know that you can never be as good as them and that they know it too. It's in the way he carries himself, Ryan supposes. Like absolutely nothing can touch him, or would even dare to try. Ryan certainly wouldn't, that's for sure. He wonders, briefly, why Mr. Fell would even feel the need to call them. But he puts it out of his mind, forcibly orienting himself to the job, regardless of how unaccountably nervous he is.
"Please do sit down," Mr. Fell says. His voice is just as kind and friendly as it was over the phone, and Ryan does his best to let it relax him. "Would you boys like some tea? Biscuits?"
"Um, no thank you," Ryan refuses, thinking for one hysterical second about fairies and how you should never take food from them - not that he believes in fairies, obviously, but most legends are based on some truth somewhere.
"I'll take some!" Shane accepts easily. He's all but lounging, just shy of rudeness, in one of Mr. Fell's plush little armchairs in the window of the bookshop.
"Oh!" says Mr. Fell, and he seems absolutely thrilled about it. "Lovely! I'll just nip to the back and bring some up, shall I? Make yourselves comfortable, won't be but a moment."
"You truly have no soul," Ryan hisses at Shane as soon as Mr. Fell is out of earshot. Shane gives him a half-startled, half-amused double blink. "You seriously don't feel that?" Shane blinks again, and then his eyebrows jump and he grins.
"Don't tell me you're gettin' the vibes off of Mister Vintage Dandy," he teases. Ryan glares, and Shane huffs a quiet laugh, at least being careful not to alert Mr. Fell that they're gossiping about him. "C'mon, Ry, he's like someone's sweet old grandpa. Betcha five bucks he's gonna offer us caramel candy next."
"Who even says 'dandy'? It's twenty-twenty, Shane," Ryan mutters, but he can't respond any further than that because he can feel Mr. Fell approaching them again from behind what seems like endless dark shelves. Mr. Fell sets down a plate piled high with cookies and pastries and settles himself with a little wiggle into the third armchair, his thighs pressing out the perfect crease in the legs of his beige pants. Ryan drags his eyes away from Mr. Fell's lap, wondering uncomfortably why he noticed that. Shane catches his eye with a subtle gesture and when Ryan glances over at him Shane smugly holds up what is undeniably a caramel flavored salt water taffy. Shane unwraps the candy and pops it into his mouth, leaning back in his chair like he's won something. He hasn't won shit.
"So, Mr. Fell," Ryan starts.
"Yes, my dear boy?" Mr. Fell says, and Ryan stutters to a halt with red cheeks. He squirms a little, clears his throat.
"Uh," he tries again. "So, you requested that we come investigate your bookshop. Would you please restate for the cameras why you did that?"
"Oh, of course, yes!" Mr. Fell sets down his tea. He sits up straight with his hands flat on his knees. "I believe that my bookshop is infested with a demon." He widens his eyes just so, emphasizes the word 'demon' exactly right, just as Ryan would have directed him to if this was a scripted part.
"Can you tell us what makes you think that?" Shane asks delicately, concealing his doubt so that they can get the full story and keeping the interview on a smooth rhythm. Despite his apparent numbness to all things paranormal, he's at least mostly good with living people.
"Well," Mr. Fell continues, solicitous and on-cue. "The lights come on and off without my ever touching the switch, and my wine goes missing, and my books get reshelved all out of order when I haven't had any customers, and there's often a snake hissing, and-" His voice turns a little here, wry maybe, not quite sour, but... pointed. "-I do believe I've seen him once or twice." Ryan's breath catches and his throat goes dry. He hopes Mr. Fell just means, like, a shadow around a corner or something like that and not...
"What- What did it look like?" he asks, not sure he really wants to know the answer. Not a little girl, he prays silently. Please not a creepy little girl...
"Oh, a very attractive young man," Mr. Fell answers cheerfully. Ryan struggles not to choke. "A little out of fashion, I suppose, but I'm not one to pass judgement on that, am I. Lovely red hair, yellow eyes, and a forked tongue." Ryan feels his eyes bugging out of his face. There's a strangled noise from Shane, just out of his view beside him.
"Mr. Fell," Shane wonders, his voice tight and high with amusement. "Do you like this demon?"
"Goodness," Mr. Fell dismisses with a flap of his hand. "Obviously, I could never consort with someone who works for Hell." He turns up his nose and sniffs disdainfully.
"Oh, obviously!" Shane says, unable to hold back a short laugh at that. "No, of course not. My mistake." Ryan thinks, maybe, Mr. Fell might wink at Shane then, but he can't be sure.
"So, um, alright," he says, trying to sound confident and official even though his voice comes out a little squeaky from the usual demon nerves, amplified by such a detailed and specific description of the demon's physical appearance, which means it must have fully manifested for long enough for Mr. Fell to get a good look. "So, what we'll do is come back later tonight, after close, and we'll investigate and whatever we find we'll report it back to you and you- you can, uh, get. Whatever needs to happen then, after that, uh, you'll know."
"He's exaggerating," Shane argues lightly. "We'll probably just annoy the bajeezus out of it."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Fell says, with a concerning flash in his eyes. "Yes, that will do quite nicely."
The bookshop feels infinitely bigger and taller and more expansive in the dark. TJ and Mark hang back with the camera to film Ryan and Shane unlock and make their way through the front door angled on the corner of the street, Devon rolling the boom from the side of the one-two steps. After everyone is in side and the door has been relocked, they set up in the same armchairs from this morning for a static intro. There are only two now, and the little table is gone too.
Ryan puts his voice on to describe the history of the place, not that there's much. A. Z. Fell & Co. sells rare antique books, specializing in religious and occult texts. He speculates that Mr. Fell might have performed seances or other occult rituals inside these walls, what with all the material he has on the subject, any of which could have invited in the demonic presence he's now apparently faced with. Or the demon could just as easily be inherited. A. Z. Fell & Co. is the longest-standing business on its block, and Ryan read several accounts that claim it doesn't make any profits.
"I mean, my first assumption would be money laundering," Shane interjects. "Not demon. But that's just me."
"Yeah, that is just you," Ryan agrees. "Shut up." Ryan uses the voice to refresh all of their memories on what Mr. Fell described as well. Most of that will probably get cut and replaced with clips from the interview instead, but just in case they need some filler.
"Don't hold out on the Boogaras, Ryan!" Shane instructs, gleeful and wicked, when Ryan finishes. "Tell them about how you think Mr. Fell is the demon."
"No, I don't think he's-"
"You got the vibes, Ry," Shane insists. Ryan glares at him until he gestures, oh so magnanimously, for Ryan to speak.
"I don't think Mr. Fell is a demon, I just think there was something weird about him," he explains, ignoring the semi-playful comments from too-familiar Shaniacs he can already see in his mind's eye. "He was- like. I don't know, he was just too perfect, and there was this, like, aura of power-"
"I mean, he was hot," Shane says with a careless shrug. Ryan blinks at him for a moment. One day Shane is going to get killed - maybe not even by something supernatural, just a regular run-of-the-mill psycho - because he clearly has no intuition whatsoever.
"You're an idiot," Ryan tells him, shaking his head.
They partially pack up so they can get their mobile shots next. The transient and limited spotlights of their mags along the endless shelves sets shivers running up and down Ryan's spine. There's just the indelible sense that they should not be here. Ryan can feel the consequences of trespassing pressing down on him, even though they were invited. The silence is so oppressive in here that it feels like his ears should pop.
"So, we're hunting a demon," he says again, for the benefit of the cameras following close behind them as they make their way down an aisle that disappears into impenetrable darkness.
"A demon," Shane qualifies, his voice loud in the quiet, all traces of delicacy completely abandoned, "which is definitely not here."
"You can't be completely certain of that," Ryan reminds peevishly. Shane makes a considering, disagreeable noise in the back of his throat.
"I am even more certain tonight than usual," he claims. "And, as I'm sure you know, that's saying a lot." Grudgingly, Ryan's interest is piqued. Shane may be a pain in the ass, but he has a compelling enough thought process even when he's totally wrong.
"How can you be more sure there's no demon when Mr. Fell's description was so detailed?" he presses with a narrow-eyed look up at Shane, hoping for one of those oh-so-satisfying gotcha moments.
"Ryan, I'll be real with you," Shane says, gentle condescension rounding and softening his words in a way that Ryan hates that he likes. "I'm pretty sure what we've got here is a deeply repressed Catholic who had some gay thoughts and now he wants us to exorcise them from his house." Ryan coughs out a nervous, surprised laugh.
"So anyway, Mr. Fell forbade us from bringing in any holy water for fear that we'd damage the books-"
"It's an impressive collection!" Shane cuts in, enthused. Ryan can't help but smile at the bright look on his face. Nerd. "He said he's even got sections that are temperature and humidity controlled. This place is practically a museum."
"You would be into that," Ryan teases. It takes him a long moment to drag his eyes away from Shane's shameless enjoyment. Fear licks at the bottom of his spine from being in this possibly demon infested shop without anything to defend himself with, but even that can't stop him from admiring the enraptured way Shane skims the titles of the oldest books Ryan has ever seen as they pass by.
They don't get much activity in the shop, but Ryan has hopes that the audio recorder might have picked up some stuff they can't hear. Other than that, the only real point of interest is the books left open on the checkout counter. One is in a language no one on the crew can recognize and that gives Ryan an instant headache to look at; one is full of unmistakably occult symbols, completely unlabeled; and the third is an absolutely gorgeous illuminated Bible opened to a double page illustration of the snake in the garden of Eden, red-bellied and hanging from the tree with an apple in its mouth. There's a signature in pen ink and a thin-lipped kiss stain in the corner.
"Weird guy," Shane remarks.
"You should be friends," Ryan banters distractedly, unwillingly captivated by the bright yellow eyes of the snake in the illustration, looking up out of the page as if to tempt the reader themselves to eat the fruit on offer. No way the demon here could be... No, it's just a drawing. He shakes himself and they make their way into the back room.
"Okay, so Mr. Fell said it was the most active back here," Ryan says weakly. "So we'll do a spirit box session, and solo shut ins here."
"In the effort of full disclosure," Shane adds, giving the camera an amused and knowing look. "Mr. Fell said that the 'demon' drinks the wine he poured for himself back here. I think we can pretty safely assume maybe Mr. Fell just drinks a little bit more than he'd like to admit. You know, shamefully gluttonous." For that last part Shane puts on a faux-pious tone of voice, no doubt calling back to his earlier evaluation of Mr. Fell. Ryan snorts another helpless laugh.
"Leave the poor man alone," he chides without meaning it.
"No, you're right," Shane agrees, equally insincere. "I'm sure he's a saint. A demon's the much more reasonable explanation."
TJ wants some establishing footage of the infamous back room for B-Roll, so Ryan and Shane hang back a moment to stay out of Mark's shot as he makes his way around the room alone. When it's their turn, Ryan takes a long moment to take it in as well. The space is just as filled with obvious antiques as the bookshop up front, a mismatched couch and wing-backed chair atop an intricately woven rug. Between the seating there's a clawed coffee table, shining dark wood, and beside that a well used and full-to-bursting writing desk. Lamps, papers, books, and empty crystal wine glasses and whiskey tumblers are scattered on whatever surface they can fit. There are two pairs of identical dark sunglasses and a set of car keys in a wicker plate on the table. The silence is, impossibly, even heavier back here, but to Ryan's relief he no longer feels hunted and out-of-place. It's... comfortable. It reminds Ryan, almost viscerally, of tamales at Christmas. If he wasn't so worried about the possible demonic presence, he could fall asleep on his feet and probably dream about- about whales. Not that Ryan has ever dreamt of, or been comforted by, whales before. He's just anxious and it was his first thought.
"Okay," Ryan breathes. He tugs the spirit box out of his pocket and sets the portable speaker down on the coffee table.
"Ugh," Shane groans, but doesn't complain further, diligently catching Ryan at a different angle than Mark with his hand-held.
"This device might help you communicate with us," Ryan explains into the quiet, and then fires up the spirit box. It's too loud at first as it always is, filling the cluttered room up with its jerky grey noise. Ryan hurriedly turns it down to a slightly more manageable volume, but not before a few garbled consonants seem to come through.
"Hello?" Ryan asks shakily. "My name is Ryan and that's Shane. Can you say our names back to us?"
W̷̤ẖ̷͛y̴̰̑ ̷̬̀s̴̰̄h̷͎ọ̴̃u̴̻̚l̵̝̍d̶͎̎ ̸̱I̷̦͆?̵̜̐ demands the spirit box. Shane raises his eyebrows, gestures for Ryan to answer.
"Demon entrapment," Ryan whispers accusingly to Shane, but he answers anyway. "That will let us know you want to communicate with us."
Ä̴̱̼́n̵͕͚͌d̵̦̘̐ ̸̫̝̚w̵̨͂h̶̲̚a̴̠̻̕t̴͖̊ ̷̗̃i̴̺̅f̴̗̘̀ ̶̨̮̓̂İ̴̮͓͘ ̷̢̎͘d̸̩̳̋̅o̶̢̫̔̓n̸̯͐͒'̷̧̡̌͂ṫ̵̳̲̑?̸̜̀ͅ
"Yeah, Ryan," says Shane with a laugh. "What if the demon doesn't want to talk to us? We've never considered that."
"God, shut up, Shane," Ryan snarks back shakily. They've never gotten this much, this clear, twice in a row before and of course it's a fucking demon... Ryan breathes slow, out through pursed lips.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
I̷̯͇͠ ̴̪̌̂ļ̴̇̓i̷͚̱̎v̷̹̟̀e̵͖̅͒ ̵̝̃h̶̨͔͗͗ẹ̶̯̽r̷̨͓̈́e̴̥!̷̥̉͘ the spirit box snaps after a few splutters, sounding almost indignant through the static.
"Fuck," Ryan hisses, and Shane laughs at him lightly. He swallows hard, and keeps going while the going is apparently good, no matter how much he wants to quit and get thee to a church or whatever. "Mr. Fell asked us to find you. Why are you haunting him?" There's a long pause where the static seems to quiet down for a moment, and Ryan assumes their luck is over and they won't get another answer. Shane must figure the same thing because Ryan sees him take a breath like he's going to jump in - probably with some kind of taunt - before the box interrupts him.
Ò̸̢̖h̶͉̎,̵̹̒ ̵̮̤͐t̸̞̟̒h̴͍̫̋a̷͉̖̍t̶̻̑͝ ̶̽ͅb̵̳͐̋á̴̙̞s̸͖̾ţ̸̳͊́a̵̰̐ȓ̷̭͝d̶̪͔.̷̰̦͘ it murmurs. It's said all low and lilting-smooth, with the s drawn out long. Shane laughs again.
"Ryan!" he scolds playfully, completely unconcerned. "You got the helpless ambiguously gay bookseller in trouble with the demon!" Ryan squats down to put his face between his knees in an effort not to let too much air get to his head, swamped with fear and a little bit of guilt. It's not like they can actually do an exorcism after all. A sharp sound snaps out of the spirit box that could be a laugh or could just be really nasty interference, and Ryan leaps up to his feet. His heart leaps up a foot or so higher than it should have, pounding in his throat.
Y̸̳̬͐̎ọ̴̲͌ṳ̶͕̓̑ ̶̧͂̌ͅc̵͔͌ȃ̸̻̃l̵̙̮͝l̵͈̇̕ ̷̞͆̈́͜t̸̻̻̆͝h̸͆̆͜a̴̳̾̇t̴̲̀ ̴̧̫͑ȧ̵̳m̸̢͈͐b̸̩ȉ̵̭̳g̸͈͈͐̓u̶̫̩͂ö̵͎̟́u̴̦ṣ̸͐ͅ?̴ it asks. Shane's smile wilts a little and he tilts his head.
"Hm," he says.
"'Hm'?" Ryan repeats incredulously. "How do you explain this, Shane! How would it say 'ambiguous' right after you, please, tell me how you fucking explain that, dude."
"It's weird," Shane acknowledges with a shrug. "I don't know. Maybe there's a radio in here somewhere and there's feedback."
T̵̃ͅh̸̙̄̓ê̶̬r̴̺͊͒e̸̻̾ ̸͍͐ȋ̷̧̠s̷̫̣̋,̴ agrees the spirit box. G̶̯͑̇a̶̘̱͋̃v̸̯̗̓͗ë̴̹͉́̄ ̷͔̱̍̕i̷̭͂̏t̷̡̩̊̃ ̴̦͋͒t̴͚̣̅͑o̶̭̒̅ ̵͖̗̔̐h̷͚̐̀ȋ̶̝̬̎m̸͔̥̈́ ̸̘̒ḅ̵̰̿à̶̞c̷͈̟̍k̸̰̗͋̓ ̸̣̃i̵̛̭̒ń̸͙̔ ̸͇͘͝ṯ̵̀̀h̶̤̑̈e̸͈̎ ̶̦͐̂f̷͕o̸̩̳̿̉ȑ̵̗̦͝ẗ̷̪̰́ỉ̵̻̪e̴͇͍͒ș̴̇.̶̈ And then We Are The Champions is god damn blaring into the room. Ryan shrieks and drops all of the equipment he's holding. Shane also, finally, visibly startles, his eyes gone wide and searching for the source of the noise. Ryan is too terrified to appreciate it though. Freddie only gets through a few lines before the radio cuts off again. The comparative quiet is almost painful, even with the hiss and spit of the spirit box still on.
"Oh God, oh fuck, holy shit," Ryan babbles. He lets his weak, shaky legs drop him onto the floor. Shane is still at his side, frozen solid and just breathing silently. "What do we do, what do we do whatdowedo-" No one answers, not even - thank fuck - the spirit box. Ryan scrambles forward over the floor to turn it off, but before he can get his sweaty fingers to grip onto the smooth plastic it speaks again.
Ÿ̴̨́̕o̴͉͒̌ů̵̪̔ ̸̲̆k̶̹͛̈́n̵͈̼͆o̵̳̟̒͠w̵͇̆,̸̝͓̔͊ ̵̮̕i̷̢̳̓̑ţ̴̈́'̵̦͈̽ṡ̷͙̗͒ ̴̗͘w̸͍̉͘o̸̠̓̓r̸͙̊t̷͔̐h̵̡̓ ̸̩͌i̶̬͛́t̶̥͝. it says. It seems a little softer than before, maybe, but even still Ryan yelps and instinctively drops the box again. J̸̜̀͑ȗ̷̻̍s̸̡̭̈t̸͎̒̉ ̶̤͉̐̔a̸̜̓ŝ̸̝̦̐k̵̠̦̿ ̷͈̑̚h̵̖̞͊̇ḯ̷͈͉̏m̷̩͊͠,̴̯̈́ ̴̜̣͊͠I̵͇̿͂ ̷̖̳̆m̴͙̳̀̽ȩ̵͈̒́a̸̛̬ñ̷̞̋.̸̲̭́̀ ̶̠͗B̵͎̞̑̎u̴͇͆̃g̸͒̽ͅg̷̢͖̽̉e̷̡̗͊͋r̵̝̋ ̷̬̓w̴͎̘̿̋h̸͙̩̑̑a̶̐̓͜t̵̟̔ê̵̱̗v̷͈͍̾ë̴̬r̸̟͛͘'̷̱̓s̴̭̺̈́͗ ̶̺͓̓͛h̶̹̞̽o̸͍͉̾͝l̶̫̳̔d̶̞̉̐i̷̧̳̍̆n̶̦̓̃͜g̶̜̓͋ ̵̤y̸̼͊̊o̶̝̩̽ṵ̷̝̽ ̴̛͕̙̈b̷̯̂̕- Finally Ryan manages to turn the spirit box off, cutting the demon short, not that he was listening anymore - not through the panicked ringing in his ears. He sits there on the floor, shaking like a leaf. Shane is still a statue, staring straight ahead of himself, a short distance across the room now from where Ryan had to crawl.
"We have to get the fuck out of here right this fucking second," Ryan rasps into the silence. Shane doesn't so much as blink. "Shane?"
"Cut," TJ says quietly when Shane doesn't answer. Mark instantly starts taking down his tripod. Devon simply swings the boom out of her way in her rush across the room to help Ryan to his feet. He gratefully accepts her help, and then her quick hug too. TJ has gone over to Shane in the meantime, to tug gently at his shoulder until Shane seems to come back to life. He shakes his head, and then leaves the room without a word.
Swaddled tight in the extremely luxurious sheets at the swanky hotel that had miraculously been within their budget, Ryan is still shaken. He doesn't sleep a wink, and for once he thinks Shane doesn't either.
The next morning they go back to the bookshop for their follow-up interview with Mr. Fell. Ryan is nauseous with nerves before they step inside, hasn't had breakfast, couldn't even stomach coffee. Shane is close and warm at his side, the same comfort he always is no matter what may or may not have changed for him. Mr. Fell is waiting for them. The table is back in front of the window, surrounded again by three armchairs.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" He calls them over with a jaunty little wave, his gold cuff-links catching the sunlight that struggles to make its way through the yellowed window. "I made coffee this time, I hope you don't mind. It's not my preference, but you boys had a late night so I thought it would be best."
"Thank you," says Ryan. The normalcy of minding his manners, and the muted beauty of the floating dust motes sparkling over the nearest shelf helping him to release a little leftover tension. He sinks down into the same armchair he occupied yesterday with a grateful sigh. Mr. Fell is just as intimidating as he was before, but he watches Ryan from behind the rim of his mug with a smile and Ryan can admit to himself that intimidating is not necessarily the same thing as frightening. He breathes in another sigh, and reaches forward for the coffee Mr. Fell had set out before they arrived. It's exactly the right temperature to drink, and once the warmth and the caffeine wake him up a little more Ryan notices that there's a plate of croissants on the table. He takes one, and gives Mr. Fell a shy smile in thanks.
In short order, the equipment is all set up, the shot perfected, and the count down given.
"I believe we found your demon, Mr. Fell." Ryan breaks the bad news gently, but Mr. Fell looks delighted. He gives another little wiggle in his chair and plucks up his own croissant.
"Did you?" he asks, seemingly eager for more details.
"Uh-" Ryan stutters, taken aback. "Yeah, um. In the back room, like you said. It-"
"He," Shane suddenly interrupts. "You said 'he', right?"
"At the moment, yes," Mr. Fell confirms, strangely enough. Ryan decides to just go with it. He's more interested in Shane right now anyway. It seems like he might have, maybe, accepted at least some of the truth, finally. Ryan wants to gloat, but not if Shane is, like, traumatized or something. Shane coughs, and quirks up one side of his mouth. It's a little weak, but it's genuine and Ryan breathes a little easier.
"He seemed a little cranky," Shane quips. Mr. Fell chuckles.
"Oh, yes, I imagine he was," he agrees, like it's some kind of inside joke. His smile goes a little sharp. Ryan shivers, glad he'll probably never have the chance to get on Mr. Fell's bad side. "Did he say anything interesting?"
"He- gave us some advice," Shane admits haltingly, looking disconcerted and avoiding Mr. Fell's eye.
"Oh, that wily old serpent," Mr. Fell says, but his warm tone of voice and wide smile belie the scolding words. "Probably tempting you to some mischief or other, hm? But you know..." Mr. Fell's voice goes even softer, drawing Ryan in, and Shane too from the way he tilts his ear closer. "A little mischief can do a lot of good, sometimes."
Mr. Fell walks them to the door when the interview is over. He hands each one of them a handwritten thank-you note which they will all later discover each includes a personalized book recommendation and has attached inside a gift card with the exact right amount for three courses for two to their favorite restaurant, which Mr. Fell had miraculously guessed. He shakes Ryan's and Shane's hands as well, Shane's first.
"I'm sure you'll make the right choice," Mr. Fell assures him nonsensically. He turns away from Shane, leaving him in a thoughtful daze, and turns to Ryan.
The moment Mr. Fell's bare hand touches his, Ryan feels a rush of heat through his whole body. He takes a sharp, startled breath, but Mr. Fell soothes him before he can jerk away.
"Don't be afraid, dear boy," he murmurs for Ryan's ears only. "It's just a little gift."
They load up the rental without much talking, all of them sleepy and feeling peculiar. Ryan doesn't feel up to driving and huddles in the back seat instead, Shane beside him. There's not enough leg room for the big guy, never is. His knee presses against Ryan's. Ryan turns to look out the window to hide his smile.
Across the street, there is a man leaning up against a vintage car. He looks like he's watching them, but it's hard to tell through his dark sunglasses. He's tall, red-haired, relatively attractive, dressed in slightly outdated dark clothing. He wiggles long, thin fingers in a negligent wave. TJ is already starting to pull the car away from the curb when the man tips his glasses down to reveal his yellow eyes and sticks out his forked tongue.
Ryan swears breathlessly and all but throws himself over the seat to get his face as close as he can to the back windshield, but when he gets the vintage car across the street from A. Z. Fell & Co. back in his sight there's no one there.
"Jesus, what?" Shane and TJ both demand, TJ swerving slightly in surprise at Ryan's sudden frenetic motion. Ryan ignores them at looks as best he can as they move steadily farther away, to the stoop of the bookshop. Mr. Fell stands in the doorway, opening up for the demon, and greets him with- with a kiss. The two rest their foreheads together, and then disappear as TJ turns a corner.
"Nothing," Ryan answers belatedly. He turns around and sinks back into the seat, deliberately pressing his knee back into Shane's, both of them pretending not to notice the touch.
Ryan wonders what kind of gift he was given in a quiet awe, all the way back to the hotel.
Ryan is napping on their layover, an airport-provided copy of Sports Illustrated from four months ago open over his face, when Shane nudges him awake boot to boot.
"Hey," he says, his voice strangely hoarse. Ryan peels the magazine away from his face and gives Shane his bleary one-eyed attention. "I- Do you-" Shane's mouth twists in frustration and he glances away, rubbing the long bridge of his nose. Ryan sits up straighter, dropping the magazine fully down into his lap. Shane only stutters like that when he really means what he's saying, when it's important, and usually a little bit vulnerable.
"What's up?" Ryan encourages softly. His own voice is a little scratchy too, from sleep. Shane gives him a helpless look. It's a look Ryan has never seen on Shane before, at least not in earnest like this, not when it wasn't put on and exaggerated for a bit or to weevil out a favor. Ryan isn't sure how else to make Shane more comfortable saying whatever it is that he has to say, so he just makes his own expression as open as he can and waits. Shane shifts in his cramped little airport chair. He presses one big hand into his (equally big) forehead until he's slouched way down and his head is tilted to rest against the back of the row of chairs.
"I have feelings for you," Shane finally blurts out, his voice gone thready enough that it doesn't manage to be loud despite its abruptness. Ryan's heart leaps up into his throat again, but without any sudden rock music to blame this time.
"Feelings?" he squeaks, not sure whether to trust his ears or not. He's been so sure for so long that Shane doesn't like him back - not like that. He'd completely resigned himself to just being awkwardly in love with his best friend forever. But if Shane is really saying what Ryan thinks he's saying...
"Yeah," Shane croaks. "Romantic ones. If that wasn't clear."
"Shane," Ryan breathes. His heart cracks open, both good and bad, when he sees Shane squeeze his eyes shut tight underneath his pinky like he's - somehow - expecting rejection. Ryan shifts around onto his knees in his seat so he can lean over Shane's slumped form. He rests one hand on Shane's far shoulder, sliding it up to cup the side of his neck until Shane finally lets his own hand fall away from his face and Ryan can look down into his eyes. "Can I kiss you?"
"What?" Shane whispers. He seems just as shell-shocked, just as gut-punched with unexpected hope as Ryan was.
"Can I kiss you?" Ryan repeats. Shane's throat clicks quietly when he swallows hard, but then he nods minutely and Ryan forgets everything else.
The press of his lips against Shane's is just like Ryan had imagined it, but better. Shane's mouth is soft and wet, and the brush of his day-old stubble tickles. He hums out a moan so soft that Ryan feels it more than hears it. Ryan doesn't think he's ever tasted anything so sweet in his life. He pulls away for a moment, to check in, to see the way Shane's eyes have gone warm and dazed, the way he licks his lips. And then Ryan kisses him again, and again, and again.
"Why now?" Ryan asks a tiny eternity later. His legs are thrown up over the short metal arm of the chair to rest in Shane's lap and Shane is petting Ryan's ankle with one hand while he scrolls on his phone with the other. Ryan has given up on napping, occasionally rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip because his mouth is still tingling with the giddy memory of Shane's.
"Mm?" Shane says, distracted. His eyes haven't moved in forever, and Ryan grins at the thought that maybe Shane is still thinking about their kisses just as much as Ryan is.
"Why did you confess now?" he clarifies, poking his foot into Shane's belly to make sure he's paying attention.
"Oh, um," Shane mumbles, stuttering again. His eyes flicker in Ryan's direction, and then away nervously. "Just some advice from... Some advice I heard." Ryan thinks back to what Shane told Mr. Fell, that the demon had given them advice when Ryan was too scared to listen. His breath catches and he starts to panic for a moment - if a demon told Shane to confess does that mean their relationship is doomed? But then he remembers the other surprising kiss from today. The way Mr. Fell had seemed to melt at the sight of what surely was the demon in question, red hair and yellow eyes and forked tongue and all. The delicate way the demon had held Mr. Fell's hips. The way both of them had been smiling, the way they had seemed to forget the whole rest of the world the exact same way Ryan just had when he'd finally been allowed to have Shane.
And Mr. Fell had corroborated the demon's advice, or at least vouched for it. And Ryan is certain now that Mr. Fell isn't a demon. And if he's not a demon then he must be... Well. Something else. Something Ryan thinks he can trust the intentions of.
And, Ryan thinks, as he notices Shane watching him with a small smile. For Shane, maybe he would have been willing to risk just the demon's advice anyway.
For Shane, maybe Ryan would risk a little bit of anything.
"You could have just woken me up yourself," a demon murmurs into an angel's ear in a darkened bookshop, closed in the middle of the weekday. It's no matter; the work for the day has been done.
"What would be the fun in that?" flirts the angel, curling his hand into the demon's red hair.
And then they kiss.
And kiss.
And kiss.