Again, thanks to Matts and Ari for betaing. Please enjoy!

Micky and Davy were both silent for a moment, both trying to process what they'd heard. They'd thought it'd be a fairly easy fix, really. Davy hadn't cared much, of course, but Micky'd been dead set on finding a way to fix things. And, of course, being a good friend, Davy'd played along. Had done research of his own, and, though he'd gotten interested in it, he hadn't planned on doing much with the information. A few long moments passed, before Micky asked, "He what?"

"He shot himself," Peter repeated. "Right through the head. We all were so… confused. Micky was just so upset, he was crying so much… The other guy who lived with us, David, told me he just left, but I knew. It's the sort of thing you know. And they buried Micky right next to Mike, just like they wanted. They… they never wanted to be apart."

There was a beat of silence, before Davy spoke up, voice soft. "That's sad." It was painfully sad, no matter which way you cut it. It was just depressing, knowing that two people who loved each other were suddenly forced away from each other. Died together, no less, and were buried together despite the fact that they never got to exist that way.

There was another moment or two of pure silence, a soft form of agreement between the three men. Things always had a bad ending, it seemed.

"David left that night," Peter continued, breaking the silence with his soft, sullen tone. "I never saw him again, I think he went back home to his grandfather. And I tried to tell the cops what had happened, but they didn't listen. I was a real... pothead... back in the day, but I know what happened. A man killed Mike, and then Micky killed himself. He had to've, y'know? He didn't just run off. And the rumors that came after… everyone said it was a suicide. A forbidden love, where they both took their lives."

"Hey, yeah," Micky nodded, though no one could see. "That makes sense, that's what everyone was talking about when I first heard 'bout this place."

"The two lovers that killed themselves, too scared to die alone and knowing what would happen if they lived," Davy supplied, a helpful agreement.

"The perfect love story," Micky finished.

"That isn't what happened," Peter stated, leaving no room for argument. The voice of a man who'd been told one too many times that he was a liar, and didn't have time for it to happen again. Didn't have the heart to, maybe; he was doubting himself.

"I know," Micky replied immediately, not wanting to sound like he didn't trust Peter's words. "I believe you. 'N we all know how it was, back then."

"That still raises the question as to why Mike is still around," Davy protested a bit. "Ghosts only stick around when they have a reason to. Like… to watch kids, or something. Or to get revenge on someone. Why would Michael not move on? If Micky died too, I mean. Unless he had someone else behind the curtain, if you know what I mean."

Peter stayed silent, before asking, "Who are…?"

"That's Davy," Micky replied, rather than making Peter ask or Davy answer. "He likes ghost stuff, he just won't admit it."

Peter made a soft 'ah' noise, but didn't reply for a moment or two. "Michael didn't cheat, he didn't believe in things like that. And he didn't ever break anyone's trust. He was loyal to a fault, never did anything he thought would hurt someone else. He took care of all of us."

"Did you recognize the man who shot him?" Micky asked, getting almost a bit excited with his curiosity. "Was it just a stranger? Or someone you knew? Did you not know him? Did Mike know him?"

Peter was silent. "I think I should go. Talking about it is…"

"It's okay," Micky cut him off, though he couldn't help but to feel disappointed. "We can talk some other time, okay?"

Peter smiled over the line, though only because of the unusual familiarity of the man. "Of course," he agreed. "Goodbye, Micky."

And with that he was gone.

"They're the lovers everyone talks about there, huh?" Davy asked, trying not to flaunt his excitement. "The Beachwood lovers."

"I think so," Micky agreed. "I think Peter's telling the truth, though, and that they didn't just kill themselves together."

"What?" Davy asked. "Why?" He believed the same, of course, though more because he wanted it to be like that than out of any real logic.

"Everyone around here thinks he was shot," Micky replied. "And it makes more sense. Why would he be a lingering spirit, if he had nothing to stay alive for? We need to find the guy who killed him."

Davy paused, before deadpanning, "You want to search out a murderer."

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Micky protested, shoving a cookie in his mouth. "He wouldn't stay behind for other-Micky, if he's gone. So it has to be the murderer."

"You haven't even seen the ghost," Davy insisted. "It might not exist."

"He exists," Micky promised, mouth full of cookie.

"The murderer is probably already dead," Davy tried again. "Besides, how are you supposed to find it out? Are you going to ask the ghost?"

"I might."

Davy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're bloody insane, is what you are. You're going to get yourself killed."

"I won't," Micky answered, slightly whiny. "I'm just going to help him move on. He needs to find peace, otherwise he'll never see his love again." He said the last part almost dreamily, caught up in the romantic drama of it.

"That's insane."

"Is it?"

There were a few beats of silence, neither man talking.

"I'm going to bed," Davy decided. "Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Sure, sure," Micky replied, though his voice was distracted. He was, certainly, going to do something stupid..

Davy sighed, but hung up the call. Micky shut his laptop a moment or two later, and carried the plate of cookies and bottle of coke to the small table in front of his sofa. He straightened up the seat, then, and fluffed up the pillows, making it look as comfortable as possible.

"Alright," he called out to the room, sitting down on the floor. "D'you like cookies? I got you some. I dunno if you can eat them, I dunno what ghosts eat."

The room was silent, the only sound being the ticking of Micky's clock. He stayed silent and listened to it for a solid minute, the ticking being both a distraction and a comfort.

He stayed silent a moment or two longer, tapping his feet anxiously. "Ghostie?" he tried again. Maybe the ghost was sleeping, or something. Or was busy doing something else, Micky wasn't sure. Different people did different things, probably. But was a ghost a person? Probably. Maybe?

There still wasn't a response, causing Micky to hum. He grabbed one of the cookies and put it into his mouth. He bit down on it, chewing slowly, waiting for something to happen. Something had to happen, didn't it? The ghost was supposed to be an extremely active one. So where was he?

Mike watched the stranger from a distance, staying in a far corner of the room and just watching. He didn't take kindly to people in his house, really. His and Micky's home. They'd agreed that they'd grow old in it and die there together.

Well, they certainly had died, hadn't they? But Micky wasn't there. Mike was alone, was scared, was confused. Was angry, now; he hated everyone who came in. Hated everyone who thought they could just move in and live where Mike lived. Where Mike and Micky were supposed to be, and where they were supposed to move in.

He'd hated the first family, a group of people who seemed to do nothing but break things. They'd broken the window, had had the fridge ripped out and replaced with a big, ugly one. Had put down an ugly carpet on the floor, and had acted as if it was all okay. Had destroyed his and Micky's home, and acted like there wasn't a single thing wrong with it.

And, so, naturally, he'd started making a fuss. Slamming doors, mostly, though that was enough to scare them off. And it'd been enough to get Mike used to how things worked, when you were dead. How physics worked, and how he could touch anything if he did it right.

The next family was when he found out how to make it so people could see him. All it took was focus, really. Though by that point, it wasn't much more than a thought. The little girl had spilled paints all over the floor, made a mess everywhere. Destroyed the guest bedroom.

And then there was the third family. The ones who'd found the door to the small attic, where Babbitt had shoved everything all those years ago. And Mike had appeared, had scared them off and caused them to board up the door to try and trap Mike in there. It didn't work, of course, but Mike's things were safe, all he had left of Micky was safely boarded up and alone. He couldn't stand losing the last few items that Micky had left; it was all he had to keep him going, nowadays.

And then there was this new guy. Someone who was freshly out of college, for something or other. And he'd come in, and he'd put all the furniture where it was supposed to go. He'd cleaned things up, had fixed up old paint with the original colors. He'd just come in with nothing more than the intent to fix things up, and Mike couldn't argue with it.

Still, he couldn't help but to be curious. Especially now that he was close, and got a good look at the man's face. His Micky-ish face. No… it was Micky. Strong jaw, bright eyes, flat nose. It was Micky. Or a damn close lookalike.

Mike slowly made his way closer, though didn't let Micky see him. He had no clue what Micky was doing, really. He was offering him the sofa, maybe; it looked like it. And food, though Mike didn't see why. He didn't want food. He didn't want anything other than his boyfriend. He wanted to get married, to have kids. He'd spent countless nights dreaming about having a baby that looked like Micky.

"Ghostie," Micky called again, causing Mike to smile only faintly. It sounded like Micky, certainly. The joking tone, the constant smile to his voice. It just sounded like Micky. Looked like Micky.

Mike got down on his knees, then, next to Micky, and looked over his face. Whoever this was… well. It was Micky.

Micky sighed, and stood up. "I knew it was dumb," he mumbled to himself. Which was fairly fast to give up, in Mike's opinion; he'd only made Micky wait a half hour or so. "I'll just go buy a house, and waste all my money, and quit my job, just to wait for some stupid ghost. No wonder Davy-"

"I don't think it's dumb," Mike spoke up, voice soft.

Micky immediately jumped and looking around, looking right through Mike as if he couldn't see him. He couldn't, probably. "Ghostie?" He asked, eyes wide and voice breathless.

Mike couldn't help but to chuckle, and stepped up on the couch, his movements fluid and effortless as if he weighed nothing. "Hello," he greeted, sitting down on the back of the couch and putting his feet on the cushions.

Micky jumped as Mike appeared and looked up at him in amazement, looking both terrified and awed. "Ghostie," he repeated, though this time a statement.

"Alive guy," Mike countered. He couldn't help but to smile, a bit; he had no clue who this was, but it was Micky. It made him feel like it was Micky, at the very least.

"You, you…. aren't…." Micky mumbled, before looking back to Mike's face. "Hello."

"Howdy," Mike replied, his head cocking to the side. "Why are you in my house?"

Micky's eyes widened at that, the familiar pink tone rising to his cheeks. "Oh, well, I just… I thought I could live here, too. Is that okay?"

"I guess," Mike replied, jumping up and standing on the back of the couch. "Until you do something I don't like."

Micky swallowed but nodded. "I won't," he promised. "I made you cookies."

Mike's gaze traveled to the plate, before looking back to Micky. "I'm dead."

Micky paused, before replying, "Oh yeah." He stayed silent for a minute, looking at the small plate of cookies before looking back at Mike. "That's okay," he decided. "I like eatin' 'em, I'cn just do that, you'cn just… watch, I guess."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's my favorite thing to do," he replied, deadpan. Part of him was confused, really; this wasn't the Micky he knew. Or, rather, it was, but it was impossible that Micky was there with him. Micky was dead and gone, somewhere Mike couldn't seem to find.

"Sorry," Micky replied, awkwardly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He took a sudden drink of the pop, then, just to try and ease the tension.

"It's fine," Mike replied. "I'm used to being dead. Been this way for a long time."

"All alone?"

Mike stared, but chose not to answer, not seeing the point in it.

Micky stayed silent for a bit, as well, before asking, "Did you really date somebody? A guy?"

"Micky," Mike clarified, causing Micky to pause out of momentary confusion. Micky remembered a moment or two later, however, that Micky was the name of the man Mike had been with, and nodded.

"Yeah," he replied. "Him. Do you miss him?"

Mike blinked. "More than I've ever missed anybody, yeah," he replied, though he was starting to feel less sociable at the rather sudden interrogation.

Micky wet his lips and nodded. "I think… I think the reason you can't see him is because you still have unfinished business."

"Oh, yeah?" Mike asked, tone dry, raising his eyebrows. "And why do you think that?"

"Ghosts can't pass on to the next life unless they have complete peace," Micky replied. "So… you don't have that yet, I guess."

"And how do I get that?" Mike asked, his tone sounding more like he was entertaining a kid than actually listening to Micky. He was, maybe.

"I dunno," Micky replied. "I think it's the guy who killed you that's bothering you."

Mike paused at that, his eyebrow furrowing and lips pulling into a frown. "Why?" he asked. He hadn't ever cared about the man, since he'd died. "I don't care about him."

"Not lovey care," Micky agreed, nodding. "But you've got beef with him, you know? He killed you, you want revenge."

"He's probably long dead, by now," Mike replied, shrugging. "Burning in Hell, where he belongs."

"You knew him, then?" Micky tried again, slightly annoyed at the fact that Mike didn't seem the sort to just talk and tell you what you needed to know. He kept himself calm, acting patient with Mike just because he didn't want Mike to get mad and leave. Or break things, or something.

"Of course I knew him," Mike replied. "Who the hell would go murder a stranger?"

Micky didn't bother to tell Mike that, in fact, a lot of people would, instead just looking down for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Who was he?" he asked, deciding to just flat-out ask. When he looked back up, however, Mike was gone.

Micky looked around for a moment or two, calling out, "Mike?" a few times. Mike didn't show back up, however, and didn't turn out to be hiding in some sort of corner or something. Which meant he'd left, for one reason or another.

Micky sighed, somewhere between annoyed and relieved. Seeing an actual ghost was spooky. One that he could talk to, no less; he wondered if there was a connection between him and the ghost, somehow. Or if he was special, like a ghost whisperer. That'd be neat.

He rubbed a hand over his face, before getting up and deciding to shower and go to bed. He didn't feel like staying up more, though only because he couldn't call Davy. It didn't seem worth it to stay up without someone to talk to.

He finished up the coke in a few gulps, though coughed and spluttered for a moment or two, drinking it a bit too fast. After collecting himself, he made his way up the stairs, not bothering to wrap the cookies. He was still a bit spooked, in a way, and he didn't want to.

He made his way up to the bathroom, and stripped his clothes off, though he stopped once he got to his underwear. It was silly, definitely, but he didn't want the ghost to look at him naked. Even if Mike didn't seem like too mean of a ghost.

He eventually got the courage to get his underwear off, though immediately stepped into the shower. He had to start up the water in there, because of it, and ended up yelping and backing away from the water, surprised at the cold.

The water heated up fast, fortunately, and soon enough he was under it, enjoying the warmth for a moment or two as he thought about what all they'd talked about. Whether he'd be able to save Mike or not, mostly.

He didn't actually have much for shampoo, not having bought any. He did, however, have hand soap, which he piled into his hair and set to scrubbing clean. It wouldn't do the job perfectly, of course, but as long as he didn't smell he didn't care.

Though he normally took long showers, typically taking time to sing and play around a bit, he didn't waste a moment in getting back out and wrapping up in a towel, still scared that Mike would show up just to be a peeping Tom or something. He ran to his room as fast as he could, as well, almost as if Mike was still waiting around in the living room.

He had to dig through a box to find his pajamas, once he was back in his bedroom, though he slipped them on the second he could. He went downstairs, though only to grab his laptop to carry back up to his room. He plugged it into the wall, before plopping face-down on the bed, exhausted from having to do so much in one day.

He did wonder what all he could do with Mike, though. What he could do about the murderer, or how to find out who that was. How to get Mike to talk about it, maybe, just because he didn't seem like the sort to openly talk about things.

Maybe the ghost was mad, he realized. It wasn't nice to ask someone their weight, so it probably wasn't okay to ask them other things. Like how they'd died. Almost in apology, he called out, "Goodnight, ghostie," hoping that Mike'd hear and wouldn't be as sore.

The next morning came all too quickly, Micky's phone blaring the loud Skype ringtone directly in his ear. Micky made a small, distressed noise, but reached around to find his phone. The name 'Davy' was written across the top of the call, showing who it was. Micky grunted and denied the call, typing over the chat, instead.

dude its 7 in the mornn go away

He yawned again, and rubbed his hand over his face. He settled back into his thick, warm blankets, his eyes blinking shut. It didn't take long at all for him to doze off, though it took just a moment or two longer for Davy's reply.

It's a whole lot later, here. Now wake up, I think I found something that you might need to see

Micky groaned, sitting up and reaching around for his glasses. Before he realized that he hadn't taken his contacts out from the night before, and flinched slightly, though he didn't actually have a way to fix it.

'I mean it,' Davy insisted. 'It's creeping me out.'

Micky yawned again, and propped himself up against the headboard.

'better be somethin good' he typed back, watching the screen as the small notification of 'Davy is typing…' popped up. He rubbed a hand over his nose, wiping a small bit of snot away. He wiped his hands on the covers, then, not really minding the fact that it was fairly gross.

'It is', Davy's reply came, causing Micky to care only a fraction more. 'Get up and get dressed and call me.'

Micky snorted, but got up, stretching again. He ran a hand through his hair, which was thick enough to still be slightly damp from last night's shower, before he got up, making his way down the stairs and to the kitchen. He just grabbed himself the plate of cookies and another pop, as it was all he had, before he went back upstairs, unplugging his computer and taking it to his bed.

He took a long drink of the Coke, before calling, though he was still just as sleepy.

"Hey," Davy greeted, anyways, voice just as happy as usual.

"Hey," Micky agreed in return. "You said you got somethin' to show me?" He took another drink of the Coke, hoping it'd make the caffeine kick in faster.

"Yeah," Davy replied. "Hold on, I'm sending you a picture."

There were a few moments that passed, before there was a small 'ding' noise, indicating the photo had arrived.

Micky looked down at the old thing, and for a moment was silent, before he sat up suddenly. "Hey, that's Mike!" he exclaimed.

"What, really?" Davy asked, slightly surprised. He knew it was Mike, of course; he just didn't think Micky'd know that it was Mike. "You saw him?"

"Talked to him," Micky corrected. "He's a bit of a grump."

"You'd be a grump, too, if you were dead."

Micky blew a raspberry, but continued looking over the photo. "Who's the guy with him?" he asked, noticing the fact that the photo was cropped and that Mike had some man's arms around his middle.

"Well that's the thing," Davy replied. "I was wondering that, too. So I looked up more pictures of him, you know? And look at what I found."

Micky paused, waiting, watching the clock slowly tick by. He clicked his tongue a few times, before replying, "There's nothing there."

"I know, I know," Davy replied. "I have to find it. Just… look at that one."

Micky humphed, but complied, looking over the photo of Mike. "He looks different," he commented.

"Happier?" Davy guessed, still clicking through his files.

"I dunno," Micky replied. "Maybe. Here, lemme see if I'cn get him to come here. Ghost! Ghostie! MIKE!"

"Stop!" Davy cried in return, having to pull out one of his earbuds. "Christ, man, you're going to put out my eardrum."

"Oh," Micky flushed a deep red. "Sorry."

"It's fine, just… warn a man," Davy replied, rubbing his ear with one hand.

"I'm Davy, and I can't handle noises in my ear," Micky mocked, once he realized Davy wasn't actually hurting. At that moment, Davy yelled loudly, causing Micky to scream, "Ow!" as he yanked his earbuds out. "That's cheating," he accused loudly, before realizing Davy couldn't hear him. He picked up the earbuds, repeating, "That's cheating."

"I heard you the first time," Davy replied. "You-"

"What are you doing?" A familiar voice cut off, causing Micky to look up sharply. He couldn't see anything, but cried out, "Ghostie!"

"The ghost is there?" Davy asked, small competition forgotten, raising his eyebrows. "Did he just appear?"

"He just talked," Micky replied. "I dunno where he's at, though. Probably hiding."

"I'm not hiding," Mike replied, moving to get on the bed as well though he was still on his feet. He bent down at the middle and looked over the computer, brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Talking to Davy," Micky replied, trying to cover the fact that he'd jumped when Mike had appeared..

"Yeah, it doesn't seem it," David replied, slightly annoyed. "Who are you talking to? Is this a joke?"

"It's not a joke," Micky promised quickly.

"Is David British?" Mike asked, causing Micky to pause before nodding. "Yeah," he replied. "He is, why?"

Mike looked back to the computer. "You're calling him?"

Micky paused. "Yes," he repeated. "Why?"

Mike continued staring, seeming almost attached to the small icon of Davy's face. "Come with me," he directed suddenly.

"And hang up on Davy?"

"Come with me or stay here, I don't care."

Micky didn't waste a moment, slamming the laptop shut despite the 'ping' of a new image being sent and Davy warning, "No, listen, Micky, you look just like-"

"Where are we going?" Micky asked, almost too excitedly.

"The attic."

Please R&R! I love feedback, and I love criticism on how to do better. Thank you for reading!