needlebomb | inbox.

i think american youth of the 1980s are only going to survive in a future stacked against them if they move into it with a tight grip on a healthy amount of skepticism.

prove it.

how the fuck am i supposed to do that, genius?
recite a ghostly oath?

you really want me to prove it?
i can, if you do
but just think about what you're asking
hate for you to not like what happens

go ahead.
skinny blond dudes with mommy issues haven't scared me before.
you're not gonna be the first.

[We'll see about that, skinny little street rat. Tate doesn't respond simply because he doesn't see the point. There's nothing he can do via text; but there are other alternatives coming to mind. He's half annoyed he has to get up and get to it, but there's pride on the line. And a little bit of pleasure to come out of this, since he so rarely gets to freak anyone out anymore. He pulls on his sweater and takes the quickest route to the Down.

He's not fast enough with it to startle Marcus in any way should he knock on the door, so he skips that. He just straight on enters the motel room, staying out of sight in the process. He lingers like a transparent shadow against the wall and watches Marcus as he's laid out on the bed. He tilts his head for a second, then reaches sidelong to flick off the light switch. Subtle, possibly explainable, but this is just the start.]

[ By this point, Marcus figures Tate has just - ghosted him, forgive the pun. Once Tate's silently, invisibly infiltrating his room, Marcus has mostly forgotten about the conversation they had a good half hour ago; he figured the mommy issue thing might have crossed a line, and rather than apologize for saying it, he just lets things die. There'll always be time to talk to Tate later.

He's wearing his new sweater when Tate arrives. Wrapped up in it like it's keeping him warm, eyes only half-open as he lays in bed, knees curled up and attention largely focused on his phone. The light goes out and Marcus doesn't move, doesn't think anything of it - a hotel like this, he's only surprised the lights haven't gone out sooner. It does cause him to sit up, though, sighing as he looks at the curtains over the window, wondering if it's worth going over there and opening them up. He clearly decides it's not, but still takes the time to fish out a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a match, his hand cupped around the flame. ]

[Tate approaches the bedside while the lights are off, having dismissed the idea of playing with them further. He watches Marcus impassively for a second, leaning in to blow out the flame of his match before he can get his cigarette to light. He smiles to himself, sight unseen, and concentrates a bit to manifest a cool chill to the air; the lights flicker again and the radio across the room rumbles on with a cacophony of static. The bulb tv too; static rising on its surface as it shudders on and off in quick succession.

While he leaves Marcus to react to those how he wishes, he walks to the other side of the bed and stretches himself out on it. Settles right against the bedding, arms tucked behind his head, grinning as he waits for the moment to show himself. In the meanwhile, he watches Marcus to see his responses. To gauge his fear level.]

[ The shit Marcus has been through, the shit that he's seen, have given him something of a steel spine. His matchstick fizzles out and he just feels-- annoyed, rather than suspicious, looking up at the closed curtains again and wondering, briefly, if the window is open. It's not - so he blames it on the shitty, dirty vent high above his bed, off-center in his ceiling, next to a smoke alarm that hasn't worked since before he moved in. He gets out another match, cups it around his hand, and lights his cigarette again.

The radio whirs to life while the TV attempts to do the same, and that's when Marcus's reaction becomes a little more concrete. Other than the distant blue from outside and the incomplete white from the TV, the only real light source in the room, by this point, is the little glow at the end of Marcus's cigarette, lighting him up in a sickly-warm orange just long enough to see the suspicious, curious frown on his face. He stands up from the edge of the bed and heads over to the TV, clicking old, thick dials to try to shut the power off. It doesn't work, and that doesn't make sense, and Marcus takes another long, long drag.

He heads back to bed and sits back down again, unknowingly close to Tate, almost skin to skin. He watches the radio, listens to it try to produce any kind of legible sound, and when he grabs his phone from beside him, it's pretty obvious that things are clicking into place. He lazily smokes with one hand while he taps out a message to Tate with the other. ]

is this you?

Yeah. Boo.

[Tate answers without even having to pull out his phone - he sees Marcus type with a tilt of his head, following the words as they're spelled out with a sickly little smile. He likes that he's got a bit of an edge here, reappearing with a sudden heft of weight against the mattress and his head still inclined towards Marcus and nearly resting on him. He's shifted more onto his side to better face him, arm tucked under his head and his expression a mix of passive excitement.

He doesn't sit up or otherwise move, but the TV screen stops flickering and everything settles back to normal. With a few flickers of the bulb next to the bed, for good measure. It's always a bit of a gamble 'coming out' as dead to someone, so he's curious how Marcus is gonna take it.]

Did I scare ya?

[ Marcus gets kinda spooked, jumping slightly and clutching at his phone, looking down at Tate with wide-eyed alarm. He doesn't make a noise - just stares at him like a goat that's about to faint - but when he realizes that it's just Tate, realizes there was some truth to the bizarre shit he told him over the phone, it kind of calms him down, oddly enough. He exhales, breathes through his nose, and looks far more annoyed about being scared than anything else. Not that he was. ]

No.

[ In fact, he says that he wasn't, so. That proves it. Marcus goes straight back to his cigarette, squaring his shoulders and acting composed, like it's still more important to him that Tate thinks he's unphazed than it is to act impressed or afraid in any way. ]

Startled me, maybe, but. Anyone would get startled by your ugly mug.

I scared you.

[Tate restates with a smile, showing his teeth as he pushes up on his elbow and gives Marcus and his composed shoulders a light shove with his other hand. He then reaches for his cigarette, willing to chase it around if it's not surrendered easy, because he wants a puff off of it. He's also not afraid to invade Marcus' space for it. He leans on him if he has to.]

But yeah, be nice to me or I'm gonna haunt your ass.

Not the only thing you wanna do to my ass.

[ Marcus tilts with the shove, mumbling something else toeing the line between mean and funny under his breath, half-thought out and quick to disappear. He holds his hand away from Tate when he tries to go for the cigarette, moving his arm up further and higher when Tate just keeps chasing after it, but he relents, eventually, once Tate's practically got his fucking head in his lap. He just sighs, handing it over, trying to act irritated but clearly too intrigued and happy for the company for it to land. ]

... What else can you do?

[ He figures most people would ask how did you die, and Marcus doesn't want to do that. Besides - Tate's clearly having fun, spooking the shit out of him and very obviously getting the upperhand on him, try as Marcus might to pretend otherwise. As Marcus gazes around the room for something to test Tate's powers on, he figures Tate would probably like screwing around more than he would like going into whatever happened to him when he was alive.

Eventually, Marcus sees something, lifting his hand to point at it. ]

Lift that ashtray.

I'm dead, not fucking Carrie.

[That's Tate's reply to the suggestion, eyes on the ashtray in question while he puts Marcus' cigarette to his lips and sucks in a particularly long drag. He doesn't really care to get up either, but for the sake of underlining his point he sits up the rest of the way and tries not to sink into the center of the bed - fighting to put one sneaker over the side, on moldy carpet. He stares at Marcus for a second while handing him back the smoke, then says:]

This is the best I got. Not exactly what you pictured, I'm guessing, but...

[One blink of Marcus' eyes later and Tate's gone. Like he wasn't there at all, no dent in the mattress and not a plume of smoke to show for it. He's standing up, lifting the ash tray up as if to levitate it before tossing it unceremoniously toward Marcus when the novelty of that wears off. He reappears where he threw it from, nose scrunched.]

Haunting people's more work than you'd think. Your ass ain't worth it.

[ The second Tate tells him he's going to do something, Marcus braces himself, willing himself to stay still and stony-expressioned no matter what happens next, all in an attempt to look cool and unaffected. It doesn't work, unsurprisingly; Tate disappears and Marcus's eyes widen again, his hands darting out to either side like he's about to grip the bed so he doesn't fall off the edge. He nearly gets to his feet before he thinks better of it and changes the motion half-way through into rearranging himself on the bed, sitting up in the middle of it with his back to the headboard, focused and attentive.

He watches Tate lift the ashtray, cigarette between his lips, expression slack and kind of awestruck. Marcus doesn't blink at all, until Tate's throwing the ashtray back at him, which Marcus rushes to grab, thankful as fuck that he'd cleaned it out earlier as he juggles it between his fingers before ultimately getting a hand on it. Didn't need ash on the bed. ]

That's - really cool. You're really cool.

[ He sets the ashtray on the bedside table, putting out his cigarette in it. Nearly done, anyway. ]

I mean - seriously, incredibly cool. This is some fucking Twisted Tales shit.

[It's a stupid thing, how quick Tate seems to light up at that - his eyes widen a fraction and there's a warmth behind the brown of them that's more like a suddenly lit match. It's praise, sure, but it's more importantly praise from someone he's been seeking to impress. The only quicker way to give him a fucking boner would be to also admit he scared him, that he's the best at being frightening and that he's just, y'know, perfectly cool. But Tate can work with really cool too. He grins, wide and easy.]

You're not half bad yourself, for an alive normie.

[He plops back down on the edge of the bed, still watching Marcus before he crawls back to his claimed side - flopping on his back next to him, arm brushing Marcus' knee as he relaxes and stares back up at the weathered looking ceiling. Really cool still reverberating around the inside of his skull like it's keeping him warmed up.]

You took it better than most people do. So you're pretty cool too.

That, or other people are just garbage.

[ Still not good at accepting praise himself, apparently, Marcus resorts to deflection. He's happy that this played out well, though; Tate doesn't think he's a pussy, and Marcus got to act level-headed enough for Tate to give him a compliment. When Tate flops back down in bed, Marcus moves back, not to give him space, exactly, but to give him more room to lay where he wants.

There's a few seconds of silence as Marcus watches Tate relax against the sheets, pulling out another cigarette, deadset on making this a night of chainsmoking. He lights up and tries to ask what's on his mind as casually as possible. ]

So - how do you fuck?

Like anyone else... ?

[He's not going to out Noah's particular case, even though he could, because that's a whole other ballgame of ghost boning. And Tate's pretty confident there's nothing all that different when he's fucking someone besides a few points in time where his panic might've made him go a little less than tangible. But that hasn't been an issue lately. He looks at Marcus, imploring him to ask more specifics.]

My dick works just fine.

[ Like anyone else, Tate says, and Marcus hums, dissatisfied. He's not even sure what he's asking - just trying to wrap his head around this, he guesses. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks of that dream he had that night he called Tate over, and not for the first time, he opts not to bring it up. ]

You don't, like - I don't know -

[ Marcus waves his cigarette through the air, the trail of smoke underlying whatever it is he's trying to ask. ]

I mean, your load doesn't shoot straight through someone and out the other side, right? All - ephemeral? Wait, shit.

[ Marcus gestures with his hand again, his grin a little more shiteating than it has been. He points his cigarette at Tate, accusatory and maybe just a teensy bit playful. ]

Is that what ectoplasm is?

Fuuuuck off.

[Tate stretches out the word for emphasis while also backing it up with a solid middle finger. He rolls his eye but then laughs all the same. He really cracks up, too, because of the irony of it all. His dick and his cum is all very much real, perhaps too much so, if any future Michael Langdons are to be concerned. But he has no real grasp of his antichristal mistakes yet so he just smacks at Marcus.]

I will fucking throw you off this bed. Stop fetishizing my existence you freak.

[ Marcus goes back to trying to look way too cool for any of this bullshit, which - honestly, the more Tate knows him, the more affected it has to seem. He's just immediately rolling his eyes, leaning away from Tate's dumb smacks, trying not to smile. He holds his hands up like he's pretending to surrender, as if he's the bigger person here by pulling back from the joke that he made in the first place. ]

I'm not fetishizing shit. I'm just - you know. Asking.

[ For research purposes. He's a fucking scientist. ]

I hate you.

[There's no bite to it, just a dull glare before he clicks his tongue and wriggles a bit to get more comfortable on the bed - jiggling it a bit in the process. He reaches for the pillow and better slips it under his head. He's pretty committed to making himself comfortable, ready to defend his right to the room he's renting if need be. But really? He just wants to spend some time with jerkass Marcus.]

You really not gonna ask it?

[The Big Question.]

[ Marcus immediately puts his hand over his heart, pretending to act pained, eyes shut tight as his fist grips his shirt. Like Tate said something mortally wounding. I hate you. Even as a joke, Marcus doesn't like hearing that, and his hand lingers on his chest when Tate prompts him. Marcus opens his eyes, staring up at the wall rather than at Tate. ]

I figured everybody asks you that.

[ A pause. He wants to know. Of course he wants to know. But - ]

I don't want to overstep, so...

Not everybody knows I'm dead. It's kind of easier to go by without getting into it.

[But a few do. And they have been pretty tactful, all things considered, but he's spilled a bit of his past. Not all of the sordid details, naturally, because Tate's not a fucking idiot. He's not going to give anyone any reason to use what he did against him here, when he has the ability to build up a new life and keep impressions fresh. But if there's one person here that might be able to handle just a third of the grit of that reality... it might be Marcus. So he might end up telling him more than most.

He puts up his fingers in the pantomime of a gun to his forehead.]

Pew.

[ Marcus didn't really consider that just telling him that he's dead could be an intimate thing for Tate, and he suddenly feels like being marginally more respectful about all of this than he has been. Much less interested in getting him to throw ashtrays at him from across the room, at least.

He's not disturbed, exactly, by Tate's death, but he is - curious, especially now that everything's getting laid out for him. The only time his eyes break away from Tate's is when he finishes miming that gunshot, and that's just to try to glance at the side of his head, or as much of the back of it as he can, as if searching for damage. An exit wound. ]

... Suicide or murder?

Little of both.

[He snorts, like it's funny, even when it's really not. This is more than he's ever told anyone, including those close to him. He's always stressed that he killed himself and veered away from the subject past that point. Stiles got a little uncomfortably close when Tate's tongue was tied in telling only the truth but. Tate glances at Marcus and decides this last bit of information is something of a test, something to gauge his reaction by.]

I might've turned a gun on a cop so they'd shoot me. Works pretty well.

[ Marcus, as always, tries to keep impassive - but it's hard, hearing this. Harder, more than anything, to face the realization that Tate must have been going through a fucking lot to make that his way out. He can piece together a few assumptions in his head - robbery gone wrong, hostage situation, getting roped up into something awful beyond his will, that kind of thing - but Marcus can't really see Tate doing anything dangerous without real cause. If he hadn't been in King's, maybe Marcus would have been a little afraid of Tate, but... ]

Sounds like you wanted to go out with a bang.

[ He's been around death enough at this point to have something of a tolerance to it. He's been around killers enough to know, at this point, that they're not all cartoonish bad guys you're scared of when you're a little kid. Logic dictates that Tate was in over his head, or... wanted to hurt someone who deserved it, or... some kind of tragic, fucked up thing like that. I turned a gun on a cop so they'd shoot me implies Tate had power over his decision, so...

Marcus chews the inside of his cheek, hoping he's not stepping out of line here when he carefully, slowly says what he wants to say. ]

I guess I... hope you got what you wanted. Genuinely. Whatever it was.

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