The Sound of Silence

By Berry's Ambitions

author's note: So the nineteenth anniversary of Casper's theatrical release was yesterday, and I was totally excited about it. And then I realized that I've only posted a total one of Stretch/James fic on here, which is a shame because they're my OTP. So here you go, have some horribly depressing post-movie angst. :)

disclaimer: I do not own Casper.

Dying had an affect on him.

Stretch understood that, really he did. Death had a tendency to do things to people—make them detached, or forget how to feel. But most people didn't go through it twice. And more importantly, most people didn't return from that bridge once they crossed it.

After Kat's party, her father had taken to spending the majority of the time in his office. Stretch had gone in to check on him a few times—sometimes invisible, sometimes not—and often noticed James staring at pictures of Amelia. Which he also understood, given that most people weren't visited by the angel of their dead spouse.

But it wasn't just that.

James would look at those pictures, but it was as if he wasn't really seeing them. His gaze would be hollow, staring through the photographs rather than at them. He would sit there at his desk, body still and eyes empty, like he wasn't really present at all. Like all the life had been drained from him, despite the fact his soul remained in his human body.

Stretch was bothered by that. He was bothered that James wasn't acting like himself, and was even more bothered by the fact that he actually missed his company. Stretch didn't rely on anyone—the only exception being his brothers—and the thought of becoming dependent on a fleshie, even James, aggravated him.

Ectoplasm solidying without his consent, soft lips pressing against his cheek and the scent of alcohol on their breath. For the first time in almost one hundred years, he feels the sensation of warmth, starting from his face and flooding throughout his entire being.

It's gone as quickly as it arrives.

Stretch kept himself out of sight as he let himself into James' office, floating close to the ceiling to observe everything that was happening in the old library. It looked different now that there was a living person using it, he thought. Less dusty, for one, and far less creepy now that all the lights were on. If Stretch didn't know any better, he might have believed that Whipstaff didn't even look haunted anymore.

(But of course it still does, he scoffed. The Ghostly Trio made sure of that, and it's not like the Doc's brat brought a whole lot of friends over.)

Now, James really wasn't doing anything—not that he ever did anymore. He sat his desk, absent-mindedly filing some papers without really paying attention to them. God help him if he makes a mistake and gets himself fired, Stretch mused. He idly wondered who the hell was paying James now that Crittenden was six feet under, but quickly dismissed it, floating in front of his shrink's desk and allowing himself to materialize right in front of him.

"Boo!"

He's stumbling backwards, movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Stretch sees the open trench, but opens his mouth to warn him anyway, lifting a trembling hand and trying to force the words out—some kind of warning, any kind of warning.

It's too late.

The papers sent flying into the air were highly satisfying, along with James' sharp yelp of surprise. He almost fell out of his chair, and Stretch couldn't help but grin—partially because he found it genuinely amusing, and partially because he was relieved. So the Doc hadn't become desensitized to scaring after all. That was good.

"S-Stretch!" The living man straighened immediately, smoothing his hair and clothes back into place. Stretch's grin widened. "Was there, um, something you wanted?"

Stretch rested his elbows on James' desk, leaning forward. "Why do I gotta want any'tin'?" he replied with a shrug. "We're pals, ain't we? And pals talk to each other." He tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth turning upward in an easy smirk.

James' eyes met his only for a moment before hovering over Stretch's shoulder. He'd never had a problem with eye contact before, Stretch realized, smile fading slightly. Being skittish was one thing, but James Harvey was no coward.

"Where are...?"

"The other two?" Stretch waved a hand dismissively, pushing himself off of James' desk and folding his arms. "Eh, they got stuff to do, and besides, it ain't like they're attached to my hip." That being said, he knew it was strange for just one of them to show up instead of all three. They were referred to as the Trio for a reason.

James nodded slowly, scooting a bit closer to the desk. "Okay, well... was there something you wanted to speak to me about individually?" His tone was calm as ever, but it lacked the enthusiasm that would have been there had Stretch come to him during those first few days. The days were James tried so hard to understand Whipstaff's ghostly residents, and to learn about the afterlife.

There was none of that now.

For the first time, Stretch's smile dropped off his face. "Yeah, I wanna talk," he said bluntly, eyeing the doctor. "I wanna talk about you. You've been actin' real funny lately, and not in a good way."

Rather than responding, James simply looked away, and then Stretch lost his temper.

"Damn it, Doc, what the hell is wrong with you?" he exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. James froze on the spot. "All you do is hide here in this damn office all the time, and you won't hang out with any of us! Not even your spawn! You ain't actin' like yourself no more... y-you ain't even actin' alive no more, you're deader than I am! And it's pissin' me off!"

It felt good to get it all out of his system, all of those feelings that had been accumulating over the course of almost a month now.

As Stretch floated there, eyes blazing and nostrils flared, James stared at the ground. He looked ashamed of himself. "I... I'm sorry, Stretch. I wasn't aware it would matter to you."

Stretch felt it, then—the stab of guilt. "No shit it matters to me, pea-brain. You're my friend." He uttered the phrase as it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're one of us now. We look out each for other, just like you said."

James was quiet for a long time, jaw tightening and a sigh pulling deeply from his chest. And then he spoke.

"I'm just asking myself how I'm supposed to move on after everything that happened. I... I know what death is like, now. I'm a witness. People have been asking questions about it for years, and now... I finally know. I finally have a grasp what death is like, and I can't... tell anyone." He sounded as if he was somewhere very far away. "I can't tell anyone about my experience. I have no way of coping with it. There's no counselling for something like this, Stretch... I just have to live with it."

Stretch stared at him, processing everything that James had just confessed. He wasn't used to people spilling their guts to him, especially fleshies, and for a moment he wasn't sure how he was expected to handle it. And then he realized the answer, so clear and simple.

"There's me."

James simply looked at him. It seemed as if he'd aged five years during the small duration of time he spent living at Whipstaff, and Stretch could see the dark circles under his eyes. He probably hadn't helped, he realized. He had probably made it that much worse, and rather than feeling pride, Stretch felt something he hadn't in a long time: remorse.

"What's there to tell?" James asked, sounding tired. "You already know so much about death. I wouldn't be giving you any new information."

For some reason, the comment stung. It was unsettling. Stretch was not someone whose feelings were easily hurt, and not someone who permitted himself to feel much at all.

"Wait, Doc, I didn't mean—"

But James had already risen from his chair, still not looking Stretch in the eyes. "I should be getting to bed. It's late now." There was pain in his voice, sharp enough to break skin. "I'll see you in the morning, Stretch."

"Doc—" Desperate and beyond frustrated, Stretch reached out to grab his arm. When James jerked away, the ghost's eyes widened in shock.

"I said good night."

Stretch saw James shiver—probably from the drop in the room temperature—and was left alone, the sound of the slamming doors reverberating along the walls.

James is free now, and suddenly the drunken accident doesn't seem so bad. He can't remember any of the pain of his lonely life, and for the very first time, Stretch hears what his laughter sounds like. James laughs, and Stretch smiles, taking him by the hand and showing him the way home.

He knew better than to follow.

/end/