When they pull into the drive behind the pickup truck belonging to her father, there is a crinkling sort of silence between them as Gideon shuts off the engine and everything begins to settle, to shift back into place uncomfortably. His sweatshirt scratches the fabric of the seat as he leans back, and Lacey's nail audibly scratches the skin of her cheek. While she's been catching her breath for the past three speeding tickets he should've gotten by now, he's been swallowing down his words, starting and stopping when they don't come out right. Sitting and processing. In all honesty, so has she: for the first time in her life, someone knows about the ghosts, and for the first time in her life, someone believes her.

It's a lot to choke down when it's fistfighting oxygen for space in her esophagus.

Gideon's sweaty fingers tighten on the rubbery steering wheel and they create a squeaky crunch together as he leans forward again. Lacey raises her brow at the way he seems to rock, unsure of whether to lay back and admit defeat or to keep rigid and ready to spring. His fingers splay out from the wheel. He breathes deep. They tighten again.

"I don't even know where to begin," he says. His voice trembles with something deep in his throat. Fear, excitement? "I just, I'm just...I mean, holy shit, Lacey!"

He releases his hands from the wheel entirely in favor of a rapid sweep through his hair, pushing back the mussed brown and pulling his brows up with it. "I mean, ghosts are real? They're real! And so are demons! We just escaped two whole demons, you said! Three, if you count Isaac's gross omnipresence. There's a whole world coexisting with us and nobody even knows about it. And on top of that! On top of that, as if ghosts being legit wasn't already one of the greatest things I'll ever know in my entire life, we found that map. We might've found Erie, I'm serious. Honest to God, I believe this is it. This is it."

His voice quiets near the end and he throws his gaze out the window, wondrous, like a puppy watching rain plunk against the earth for the first time. If nothing else, it puts Lacey's muscles at ease. This, this she can deal with, this she knows well. His emotional outbursts back there? Not so much. This is perfectly tolerable.

He turns his entire body towards her, eyes drilling into her own with excited need, and her stomach drops. Maybe the outbursts were better. She knows what's coming. "N-"

"How long have you been seeing ghosts? Are they all over the place, like, is the world just completely overcrowded with dead people or are there only a couple? Can you see any right now? Are they friendly? I know some can be real mean, trust me, I just learned that firsthand, but some are decent, right? And how do you know which ones are friendly and which ones are blegh? Do they look different? Actually, what do they look like? I used to watch a lot of ghost hunting shows on TV, and they're always these weird floaty orb things or light streaks, and they use these little mechanical devices that click through different stations and ghosts supposedly pick out words to say what they want. Is that actually real or is it just another hoax to deceive the populace and contribute to the capitalist machine that the media has become? Speaking of spooky television, can't spirits attach to you?" His face fills with horror. "Are they stuck to us? Is it like an umbilical co-"

She pinches the bridge of her nose, hard. Hard enough to leave crescent-moon imprints. Her other hand waves out rapidly, silencing him. "Shh, shh! Okay? Slow down, I'm only one person."

When her words are met with sweet calm, she lets herself lean back and swallows a warm lungful of breath. She's gonna need it. "I'll explain, but give me a minute to get my thoughts straight. We just committed a crime, escaped death by, as you said, two and a half demons which I don't wanna even think about because they were that ugly - by the way, that answers one of the many questions you're throwing at me that I've never had to answer before. At least let us get inside first." She pops open the car door, one foot already outside. "I'm craving hot cocoa and other various comfort foods to help me forget."

The rain pours down, cold and heavy, but her legs burn too much to sprint to the two-stepped porch. She takes her time, letting those tears of plenty wash away the sweat, the exhaustion, the sting. Sure, it cleanses the first, but what of drooping limbs and hands that flinch when she wraps them around the doorknob?

A wall of warmth spreads through the threshold and engulfs her. The moisture on her clothes becomes that much more noticeable, and her skin is sticky with dampness. Nothing a warm mug can't eventually fix - except for the fact that her father's lounged on the couch, a book held close to his face. A flutter strikes her chest as she tries to move beyond the wall and up the stairs before he notices, but Gideon's annoying "oomph" as the door she didn't hold bonks against his arm on the way in and alerts her father to their presence.

Pages smack to a close. She slaps her palm against the stair newel. Great.

"Hey, kids," Jeremy says, jogging to meet them. Gideon greets him with a chipper tune. As anticipated, the man stops at the wall between the stairs and the front door, crossing his arms across his chest and doing one of those tight-lipped dad smiles. "What's the news? Oh, Lacey, take those off. You're tracking mud all through here."

Begrudgingly, she walks back to the door mat and forces her once-yellow, now-shit-brown shoes off with her feet. Gideon follows suit. "We're gonna hang out a minute," she says.

Jeremy's face lifts. "Oh! Well, uh, I could-"

"C'mon, Giddy Boy," she says, effectively deflecting her father's imminent suggestions, "we've got work to do." And, for good measure: "He's gonna help me with my trigonometry."

Although his voice is weak and his tone devoid of color, Jeremy seems to accept this and pushes himself off the wall, back to his book. Good. She grabs Gideon's wrist with her good hand and tugs him forward, practically dragging him up the stairs.

Their socks slip across the polished wood. Lacey's managed to remove most of the dust in her room, so when she slides in, Gideon in tow, debilitating clouds don't fog the ground. She should've left them be - if she had, Gideon might've had a brief distraction before blurting out as soon as he crossed the threshold, "So about the ghosts-"

In an instant, her wet socks have twisted up against the floorboards and she's throwing herself at Gideon. She claps her hand over his mouth so roughly his head bumps against the wall. He groans. She throws out an aching leg and kicks the door to a close. Her nostrils flare. "You need to be quiet about this," she hisses. Although delayed, Gideon nods aggressively against her salty palm, and she finally unclasps her hand from his face, stepping back.

He sucks in an exasperated breath and puffs his chest. "You mean to tell me your dad doesn't even know about this? How? I've only known you like a week, and I've already figured it out."

Oh no. He's right. It has been like a week. She sends her best steely-eyed gaze his way. "It's complicated and I don't feel like getting into it. Are you really gonna keep your voice down? Because I don't see you acting on that."

With a melodramatic shrug, he seems to give in, locking his lips. The act of his back rubbing against the wall brings a sharp wince to his otherwise steady features, though, and he pinches his eyes to a close. A hand reaches back and feels under the collar, which earns him another cringe. "That thing got me good." Quietly.

Good. She can deal with him now. But with the lack of frustration at his volume, she's got nothing left to feed her agitation except guilt. He wouldn't've gotten scratched if he wasn't with her. Even if she'd just stood in the way and took it like a real not-coward, he wouldn't be rubbing at what she'll safely assume is a long red welt running from spine to side.

She's content to turn away from him - out of sight, out of mind - and crawls onto her clean blankets, forcing her jeans to adhere to her sitting position of choice (criss-cross applesauce). A fleeting whim crosses her mind when she sees a square grey pillow with a daffodil stitched into the front. She hugs it close to her chest. Sure, she's probably soaking it this way, but she doesn't care. Warmth is one hell of a craving.

Gideon saunters into view, evidently absorbing his surroundings with the way his head cranes around. "Am I really helping you with trigonometry too? I don't know if I can."

"No," she says, "I'm great at math. I just needed to give him a reason to stay out."

"'Course you're good at math," he mutters. She wants to ask him what that's supposed to mean, but the place beneath her chest feels like it's stretching and knotting, leaving her throat lump-filled and dry. Theoretically, she could just kick him out now without consequence and avoid laying herself bare with this deep, personal secret entirely. She doesn't owe him anything. He likely would've gleaned a scratch like that on his own anyways, doing the crazy things he's been doing.

But then he's sat down on the floor beneath her, mimicking her position, chin lifted with expectation. She'll tell him. Better now than later, when he's gone and gotten himself possessed trying to ghost-hunt with those annoying radio boxes.

"Tiny in here," he comments. "How many ghosts can you fit in this room?"

This is a nightmare. She buries her face in the rough synthetic fabric of the pillow, pressing it so tight she expects the weaving pattern to imprint itself in her cheeks. Of all the people I could tell about this. Of all the billions of people in the world. It takes a lot to muster the energy needed to lift her face out of that pillow, but when she does, there's no going back. Better to rip the band-aid off.

"Alright. I'll break it down real simple, starting with the basics. I can see ghosts."

"Yes, that's the only thing I already know."

"I'm just making sure because I don't know with you. There are three," she holds up three fingers, "types of ghosts. Benevolent, malevolent, and fading. The kind you just experienced was the malevolent kind, which, shocker, we call Malevolence."

"Who's 'we'?" he asks.

"Me and the ghosts, keep up. Anyways, the name is pretty self-explanatory. The deal with Malevolence is they have demonic roots. That, or a background so sinful they essentially gain this status and spend their time here, tormenting other spirits and yours truly. I've been told they do this to try and drag as many of these other ghosts down to their level. Basically, they're dicks. Dicks who take on a lot of different..." She twists her fingers around, trying to articulate with them alone. "...forms. The one I saw in the basement had twelve arms and a mouth. Last night it was a really hot girl. It varies. Do you follow?"

"I follow."

"Good." She inhales and holds up two fingers. There's something relaxing about this, something therapeutic in just...talking. "The ghosts they usually bother belong to Benevolence, but I like to call them salt-breathers."

"Why?" Gideon asks.

"Use context clues. They-" A sigh. "They're your typical ghost. They're pretty harmless, but that just makes them a target, which is why they need a defense. Thus, they conjure salt. It happens on accident sometimes, too, but the point is they do it. Their salt is a permanent guard against Malevolence. The bad boys of Hellville can't cross salt rings, but they can."

"Wait, wait." Gideon shakes his head, his wet hair flopping with the movement. "So lemme get this straight. They breathe salt to keep out demons, but...I don't know, I always thought salt was supposed to keep out all spirits."

"Well, you also thought they weren't real about an hour ago and now here we are. I'm the teacher, you're the student. I talk, you don't, and take the information because everything you know is probably wrong and I'm right because this is how it is. Kapish?"

He curls his face up sarcastically, but he can't maintain it for long because the wonder in his eyes permeates the whole of him. "So what do these ones look like?"

"Uhh...it depends since energy levels vary between them, so...some are full apparitions, some are just...misty fluffs, I don't know. The orbs and light streaks in your dumb TV shows are probably doctored, but it happens, so who knows." A wet swallow slides down the back of her throat. It's starting to get uncomfortable, being this open, but she doesn't necessarily want to stop, so she follows the impulse. "But with the energy thing. If Benevolence wanders the earthen plane-"

"You're using so many cool terms," he says.

"For the last time, shut up. If Benevolence wanders the earthen plane for too long, they start to fade out. Once they get to that point, they become bony fellas."

A laugh crinkles his nose, and his cheeks split into a grin. "Aw, now that's cute. Did you and the ghosts come up with that together too?"

She pegs him with a serious look. "We don't talk about the bony fellas."

"Oh. Okay."

She closes her eyes and allows herself to feel the release of this information. It's...soft. She could go on all day about this, about what she knows, even about the things she doesn't know, but they don't have all day, and this seems like enough for him to digest. Her lips flatten and she listens to his silent processing.

"Hm." A cough. "So...okay. I saw you putting salt all over the place earlier. You said salt was a permanent guard against the demon boys, so why-"

She holds up a hand, stopping him right there. "Okay. Let me clarify. What I had with me was table salt. That you put on fries and stuff. Table salt is manufactured, processed. It's essentially useless. Eventually they can force themselves over the line. Sea salt is better, since it's not processed, but again, same deal. Breathed salt is the only permanent solution. Unless the line's broken, I mean." A flurry of heat flushes through her chest, then, and her fists clench the edges of the pillow, squeezing the stuffing. "It's too bad I can't get my hands on any."

This statement makes him knit his brows together - he doesn't get it - but he doesn't press on, instead focused on a new thing entirely. "So you see dead people. You can communicate with them too, I'm guessing."

"Bingo." She stretches her back.

"So then...why can't we just, y'know, talk to Stella and ask her what happened and who took her?"

This delivers a painful shock to her chest, one that makes her breath hitch violently in her throat, one that sends her teeth digging into her lip hard enough to taste copper. It's a good question, and something she's considered often, but there are just two glaring issues with that solution. She tries to steady her breathing before answering, but ultimately, the words come tumbling out after one another.

"First of all, I technically have to wait for the ghosts to come to me first. They need to initiate contact and even if I tried, there's a big chance it'll be a waste of time because we don't even know if she's still here or if she's moved on elsewhere, wherever people go when they don't stay." Restlessness plagues her legs and she pushes them out over the edge of the bed. "Secondly, uh, and this is a real funny story, but I'm...kinda...The thing is, ghosts are sorta banned from talking to me at the moment, so uh? Yeah. Kinda negates the first part anyways."

He doesn't seem to register her words at first, but then he's struck with a round of profuse blinking. She's tempted to ask him if he's got something in his eye, but she's got a feeling he won't joke back. The imminent infringement on her privacy is definitely coming. The pillow becomes her brick wall against it.

"I'm sorry, you said they're banned? Who banned them? Who did you make angry? I mean, I don't doubt that you did, but how badly do you have to mess up to get a whole cluster of dead people to boycott your existence?"

That stings. Her jaw clenches and her lips purse. "Nothing. I was perfectly logical about the situation. It's just that this little ghost bitch wants me to go hunt down her 'murderer' from decades ago and she's blaming me for being selfish even though I'm just trying not to get myself killed or waste time. And I don't even know if she was really murdered but she seems to be stuck on it so now she's dead-set on screwing me over and even made a deal with a devil to do so!" Her lungs heave with adrenaline. "Now she's siccing demons on me and I can't protect myself. It's not fair and I can't talk reason with her. She's like an eighty year old radical in a five year old's body."

Gideon takes in the explanation carefully, entirely focused on her words despite the way she stumbles over them. After some deliberation on his end (and a lot of hair-tugging distress on hers), he sets his chin high and nods once, a firm nod. "We'll just have to unban them, then."

It's laughable. She barks a laugh. "Yeah? And how do you plan to do that, Ghost Whisperer? I've been dealing with these guys since I was seven, and if I couldn't come up with a way to fix it by now, I doubt you can after one day."

He glances at the stitching on her blanket, deep in thought. "Well, not now. I need to plan first. Give me time to sleep on it." She rolls her eyes, and this is his cue to jump to another tangent without warning. "Speaking of plans, I need the pictures you took of the map."

"Mm." Shifting awkwardly so she can yank the phone free of her pocket, she trains her eyes on the lock screen, ready to check the photo quality. "I hope these turned out. I can print out a few copies tomorrow and-"

"Or we could just exchange numbers so I have it tonight."

When she looks up at him, he's already got his phone lit up in front of his face. His eyes are big and blue and press her to accept, but she already feels like she's given him too much all at once. The corner of her mouth wavers between her neutral frown and a real frown. She chews the inside of her cheek. "Alright."

He hops up on limber legs, forcing himself into her personal bubble. They exchange numbers quickly - mostly so she can have her space back - and then she sends the pictures his way. His phone vibrates in his hands and he gives her one of those cheeky grins. "I can send you memes n-"

Another vibration rattles his phone, and he glances down, brows quickly furrowing once he squints hard enough to read whatever just came in. "Ah, crap. That's my mom. The gutter broke off from all this stupid rain and she wants me home to fix it."

Something sparks within her, a giddy sensation at the prospect of finally having a chance to lay back and soak in a night of alone time. At the same time, there's this null feeling that sits beside it, a feeling she can't quite place. The result is a genuine attempt to fake a smile, and an impatient kicking of her legs against the side of the bed. "You'd better go do that, then. This rain isn't getting any lighter."

He agrees, and he turns to the doorway, headed out. It seems he doesn't expect much else from her. Although she'd much rather leave him to it, a twinge of guilt still flickers between her ventricles, and she reluctantly stands to follow him. At the very least, she can walk him to the front door.