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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.

[There's a flash of something on Tate's face - amusement, in part, maybe a feeling of victory as he thinks back to that night so far back in the past that he's started to really doubt his own recollection of it. Started to tell himself he could blot out the truth with a few lies, ignoring the real reasons to better suit his own narrative when he told it to other people. But he knows, deep down, every gory little detail. In his dreams he can still taste the metallic sting in his throat.

'I hope you got what you wanted' is an odd thing to say - but Tate kind of appreciates it. He cants his head to the side and looks at Marcus for a long beat. He's not sure if he did or didn't. He got the victory he wanted but he's always been shortsighted. And after everything he did and the mess he made? He's still conflicted over what was worth what.]

I definitely ruined Christmas that year.

[He smiles, a little humorless.]

I also haven't told anyone that so - keep a secret for me.

[ A family thing, then. Coming here so soon after killing Gene makes that resonate with Marcus in a way that it might not have, otherwise. After losing his parents, Marcus was pretty fucking bitter and resentful towards anyone who took theirs for granted - but he's seen how bad they can get, now. Maybe Tate was in a similar situation. ]

Okay.

[ A pause. Marcus isn't sure what to say next. He kind of wants to apologize, offer hollow, empty sympathy that would just make Tate feel uncomfortable. There's more thinking than there needs to be before he finally settles on something that he hopes sounds both simple and sincere. ]

Thanks for telling me.

[Tate lays still for a beat, watching Marcus passively; there's something about this moment that he likes. It's the trust, maybe. The fact that he doesn't feel like Marcus will break said trust - it'd probably go against what he believes in and if there's one thing Tate believes, it's that Marcus is pretty good about keeping his morals in check. At least when it isn't about killing other friends due to blackmail and paranoia.

Tate slips both hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling.]

I'm wanna hang here tonight. You cool with that?

Yeah, okay. Just...

[ There's a beat, here, with Marcus looking at Tate for a long few seconds like he's about to say something different to what he ends up going with. He shakes his head, dismisses whatever was in his head, then stands, heading to grab some water. Kind of needs it, after that. ]

Don't possess me or whatever.

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