#And then promptly seeing stars and So Much Light when he looks at Danny

[bongo-clash]

The first time Duke brings up Danny, it’s February 13th, and Tim is making his inability to think of fun things to do with Bernard the problem of everyone present. Everyone present just so happens to consist of Steph, Damian, and miraculously Jason, along with the aforementioned Tim.

“Just get him some flowers and chocolate or something, I don’t know what the big deal is.�� Jason scoffs, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth before promptly throwing another at Tim. 

“I don’t want to be cliché,” Tim whines, not even flinching when it nails him in the forehead. “I just… it’s our first Valentine’s together, you know? And I reallylike Bernard, I want to do these kinds of things with him.” 

Damian crosses his arms, looking increasingly bored with the conversation and trying very hard to keep his focus on the nature documentary they’d been watching before Tim had entered the living room and thrown himself between Steph and the arm of the sofa with the most pitiful sigh they’d heard from him in months. “Drake, if he has somehow managed to see past your innumerable faults and date you regardless, then I assure you that being cliché is not going to deter him.” 

For some reason, this doesn’t seem to comfort Tim at all. “Why not do something we did for Valentine’s day way back when?” Steph suggests with a sharp smile. “That stuff was fun!”

He looks at her blankly, gaze reeking scepticism. “Steph, we covered the Batmobile in heart-shaped confetti, I cannot do that with Bernard. You guys give terrible advice.”

There’s a brief silence in the room, where everyone kind of agrees with him but doesn’t want to lose any dignity by admitting it, before Duke walks through the door. He spends about half a second processing the scene before him, before coming to a conclusion and sending them all a wry smile. “Something up?”

“Yes,” Tim heaves. “I’m trying to think of something cute to do with Bernard for our first Valentine’s day together, but these guys know literally nothing about functional romance. I don’t want to be cheesy, but I am not going to be taking him on a glittery joyride in the Batmobile, because that will only end in disaster.” He finishes, sending a very pointed look at Steph. Steph, to her credit, only grins in response, not an ounce of regret on her face. 

Duke hums contemplatively. “Okay, I need to hear about that joyride but, yeah, I know how you feel. I was so nervous on my first Valentine’s with Danny. I mean, if you need inspo, we got the bus down to the Bowery and ate pastries at that one vegan bakery? I wanted to take him stargazing but neither of us had the money to get that far out, so we just sat in the park when it got dark and he told me where all the constellations would be; it was sweet. I’m pretty sure you can see at least some stars in Bristol, though, so maybe you two could do it properly?”

He says it so casually, but everyone else in the room is sitting stock still by the end of it, blindsided by shock. Steph is the first to break out of her stupor, rocking forward wide-eyed in her space next to Tim, effectively crushing him between the arm of the sofa and either not noticing or entirely uncaring (and considering the Bat-training, it’s definitely the latter). 

“You have a boyfriend?!”

Duke looks at her, slightly bewildered. “Have I never mentioned Danny before? Yeah, I have a boyfriend, I have no idea how this hasn’t come up.”

“Damn, congrats man.” Jason whistles. “Since when?”

“Since like, a few years ago. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known any of you.”

Damian suddenly looks a little more interested in the conversation. “And you managed to keep the secret of your paramour from us this entire time?”

“I- what? It wasn’t a secret or anything! My love life must’ve just never come up. I don’t think you’ll have met ever him, ‘cause he’s pretty shy, but he’s so sweet. He’s obsessed with space- s’why I wanted to take him stargazing that Valentine’s; he mentioned doing it a lot in his hometown since the light pollution wasn’t so bad over there.”

“Dude,” Tim starts slowly. “You are literally the most stable person in this house that isn’t Alfred.”

Duke, for some reason, snorts at that. “Sure, why not?”

-

The second time Danny is brought up, it’s because Damian told Dick that Thomas has a boyfriend, and Dick decides that he has an obligation as the older brother of the family to be teasingly nosy. Ever since he found out, he’s been waiting for the chance to say something to Duke- he figures talking about relationships is a good way to bond. (And he also figures that if he can find out more about this mysterious boyfriend before anyone else does, he gets bragging rights about being Duke’s favourite brother, but that’s neither here nor there.)

An opportunity arrives at about eight in the morning on a Sunday. Dick’s up early for the drive back to Blüdhaven, and Duke’s up for the beginning of his vigilante dayshift, eating a breakfast bagel with lox and cream cheese.

“Morning!” Dick chirps, taking a seat on one of the stools next to him, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of cereal in the other. 

“Hey, Dick, what’s up? You’re not usually in the kitchen this early.” He greets.

Dick turns his stool just a tad to face the boy better, sending him a smile over his mug. “I’ve got work in the afternoon so I wanna give myself enough time to get back.” He explains lightly, before giving him a slightly mischievous look. “And I thought it’d be a good opportunity to talk to my second littlest brother.”

“Should I be worried about what that involves?” Duke laughs, somewhere between joking and wary. Fair enough- bonding in the Wayne household does tend to come with a note of foreboding. 

Not this time, though, if Dick has a say in it. “Well, a little birdie told me you have a boyfriend I didn’t know anything about! How’d you even meet him?”

“Oh, right, probably should have expected this,” He huffs, gaze drifting towards his bagel again, recalling something with soft eyes. “We met a little bit before the whole Zero Year thing- quite literally ran into each other and, I don’t know, we just got talking- clicked I guess. We started dating a while after. We’re kind of long-distance, since he doesn’t live in Gotham, but Danny’s stuck around through a lot of mess, and it’s just… nice, you know? I like that we can just be normal together even if everything else is weird.”

Admittedly, this is melting Dick’s heart a little. He can’t say he’d actually dwelled much on what Duke’s life was like before being taken in as a Wayne Ward even if he’d heard about him meeting Bruce during the Zero Year and helping the We Are Robin movement. He feels a little guilty for not considering it before, but… he’s really glad Duke had something normal and consistent to help him through it. Lord knows finding out he’s a meta and then having to deal with the paternal baggage that came with it must have been rough. 

Speaking of which- “Does he know you’re a meta?” Dick asks, tone broaching on something more careful, hoping it isn’t a rude question. 

Duke smiles, fondness lilting the edges. “Yeah, I told him first chance I got- wanted all the help I could get figuring everything out. Plus, it was kinda cathartic having a freak out with him about it; you just can’t do that kind of thing with B.”

Dick nods sagely. “He’s way too emotionally stunted for it.” And then, quieter. “I’m happy he’s good to you, Duke. You sound like a really great couple.”

“Yeah,” Duke replies. “I like to think so too.”

-

Inevitably, Bruce finds out. 

There’s a lot of things he could say to begin this conversation. Many tactful, sensible openers in order to ensure an honest and healthy discussion about the relationship he’d been wholly unaware Duke was in. There are many reasonable ways to go about this.

“Don’t you think telling your partner about your meta abilities is a risk to your vigilante identity?” Is what he says instead. 

Duke heaves a heavy sigh, turning around from where he’d been looking at the poetry section of the manor’s library to face him. Already, Bruce wants nothing more than to rewind to five seconds ago where he hadn’t opened with that. Never let it be said Batman knows how to start a conversation. 

“He doesn’t live in Gotham, so he isn’t as familiar with the abilities of all its vigilantes,” he begins slowly, tinged with an exasperation. “Plus, I trust him. I haven’t said anything explicitly, but if he knows, he knows, and if he wants to talk about it, we’ll talk about it. Simple as that.”

Good Lord, why is his second youngest ward more emotionally mature than him?

The part of him that’s stuck perpetually in Dark Knight mode wants to keep questioning him, but miraculously, the awkward father cowardice wins out- it’s not like he can’t find out more later. Feeling distinctly out of his depth, he asks “…Will he be invited to dinner at some point?”

Duke looks starkly bewildered at how easily he dropped the interrogation, and Bruce doesn’t want to navigate what that says about his communication skills right now, so he files it away to have a crisis about later. “Uh- I don’t know if it’d be anytime soon? He’s kinda shy, and the whole ‘billionaire family’ thing is pretty intimidating, B.”

“Oh,” Bruce stilts, looking lost. “Right, of course. Well, tell him he’s always welcome anyway.”

The conversation ends there, mostly because Bruce wanted to run away from the situation before his foot could go any further into his mouth. He really wanted to find out more about this ‘Danny’ character, but a first name isn’t enough to go off of when he doesn’t know what the boy looks like. Maybe he shouldn’t worry so much, though. The boy is a civilian, after all, and has apparently known Duke far longer than they have- maybe he should lay off the investigation a little. 

-

A few months pass by in the interlude of vague details and brief allusions to Duke’s boyfriend, but eventually, it comes to a head. In a warehouse they’ve been taken hostage in, with ominous sigils scattered circular about the floor. 

Nightwing, Batman, Robin, Red Robin, and Signal- all tied around individual support beams outside the summoning circle, each of them struggling with incensed fervour, unknowing of what the occultists are attempting to unleash and unknowing of whether they’ll succeed. Damian hasn’t stopped cursing everyone in the room out since he woke up, resulting in him muttering darkly beneath a tightly-bound gag. 

It should’ve been easy for them to break out, the restraints look like nothing but rope and none of their armour has been taken, but the binds must have been enchanted, because for all the struggle, they’ve yet to break free. It seems like all they can do now is wait for the others to find them and get them out. 

They fall silent when the chanting begins, focusing solely on trying to escape their bounds, only becoming more desperate as the sigils begin to glow an irradiated green. The room turns dark in contrast, specks of dustlight becoming stars and walls becoming unseen void. Symbols appear to lift from the floor like layers of paint or aurora borealis, and it’s fitting to the way that gravity seems to disperse, feeling as if their restraints are the only thing keeping them grounded. 

Duke is the first of them to go still, but all of them freeze when the entity emerges. 

Lifting from a single point and expanding outwards like a primeval atom, the being unfurls into shades of white and searing emerald, frilled layers flaring out and shifting like feathery limbs beneath invisible waves. Their presence alone fills the whole warehouse, stretching out infinitely beyond. What feels like a thousand eyes stare, and stare, and stare. 

“My Lord,” One of the occultists call out- seemingly the leader- desperate reverence coating their voice in sickening honey. “Balance of the Ether, Door Between Realms, King of Stars Dead, you have answered our call! An honour it is to be in your presence.”

The entity is silent. The weight of it is a universe pressing against their backs. 

Warier now, the leader continues. “We called upon you for great cause, my Lord! This world has forgotten their worship of your gift, has become impure without the light of your power! We offer you a vassal to walk this Earth and lead us!” 

Something in the air sharpens at the declaration, and the expression of the entity is impossible to discern, but suddenly they feel interested. 

“A vassal?” The being croons, voice of glaciers snapping and the sound galaxies make unheard by human ears. “You believe the universe is in need of a vassal? Do I not already walk? Am I not already witnessed?”

The leader gestures a silent command, and another occultist goes towards them, heading straight for where the Signal is restrained. His binds are cut with an intricately patterned knife, and he’s brought up before the entity. Batman’s pleas for them to use him instead are lost to some unknown solar wind, but Duke seems nothing but calm. Catatonic, surely, Bruce thinks, but there’s nothing he can do.  

“Perhaps not a vassal, then, but a sacrifice to your grace nonetheless, my Lord!” The leader exclaims, grabbing Signal in what would be a bruising grip if not for the body armour. The weight of the entity’s stare is utterly crushing. “One of Gotham’s sacred knights, an offer to your Realm!”

There is a brief moment where nothing happens and then, all at once, what appears as the being’s face is very, very close.

“You make him bleed,” The entity whispers, rage shaking like tectonic plates in the prelude to an earthquake. “You make him bleed, and I promise you, you will never stop bleeding. You will be sent to Eternal Rest, and you will not rest; I will tear you infinitely apart.”

“My- my Lord?!” The leader trembles, as his followers begin to back away on unstable feet. 

The being’s voice is strangely quiet, but they suppose that the Big Bang wouldn’t have been all that loud to them, either. “Leave.”

Hair-trigger compliance, every single occultist runs like God is chasing them out that warehouse, snapping at their feet. They don’t so much as glance at the Bats they’re leaving behind, and the room feels less pressurised at their absence, tension leaking away even as the entity remains looming before them, quiet and still. Batman is about to say something, call out to Signal or thank the entity for their mercy or something, but before he can do more than open his mouth, the voice lilts, softer than earth. 

“Starlight, are you alright?”

The fear in the room is replaced by naked shock and bewilderment. The entity has eyes only for Signal, and he doesn’t seem afraid or confused in the slightest. His posture is easy, relaxed. 

And then he does something insane. 

Duke leans forward, and kisses the cheek of the entity’s incomprehensibly large face, and with a tone utterly fond, tells them. “Yeah, I’m okay, Danny.”

Hold the phone. Hold the phone now. 

“DANNY?!” Dick shrieks, completely throwing away his concern for his brother’s life in the face of an eldritch monster at the revelation. “You- no way- what- I—that’s Danny?!”

The others not already present pick that precise moment to burst in through the doors- Red Hood wielding guns, Spoiler wielding Batarangs, and Black Bat dropped low into a fighting stance. “The cavalry has-!” Jason starts, before pausing and taking in the scene they’ve jumped into. Four out of five Bat-hostages in binds, the last of them leaning affectionately into something straight out of a sci-fi horror, and no occultists in sight. “Uh, what?” 

“Y’know, this really isn’t how I was expecting to meet Duke’s mystery boyfriend.” Tim breathes airily, either going into shock or just completely emotionally retreating from the situation. No one even bothers to scold him for using names in the field. 

Steph blinks, straightening up, looking at Duke and the entity and then back at Tim’s pallid complexion. “You’re joking.” She says, voice flat. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“If it’s any consolation,” The entity- Danny, apparently- interrupts, making everyone else in the room barring Duke jump. “I also wasn’t expecting to meet Duke’s vigilante family like this?”

Dick splutters. “I—how were you even expecting us to meet then?!”

“Well—“ Danny begins, before pausing. A sound between a hum and a thousand ringing bells fills the air, and that’s all the warning they get for the flash of searing light succeeding. Like it’d never been there in the first place, the entity folds back into himself, shrinking and fading into more comprehensible colours, until all that’s left in the wake is a completely normal looking teenage boy. Black hair, blue eyes, casual T-shirt and jeans, accentuated by a bright yet sheepish grin. If they hadn’t just seen him towering over the whole warehouse and frightening the life out of those occultists, they’d have never expected anything was wrong with him at all. As it is, though, the image is hard to unsee. “Maybe looking a little more like this?”

“Duke,” Tim says sombrely, slumping against the support beam he’s still tied to, resignation written over every inch of him. “I can’t believe you let me think you were the normal one in our family.”

Duke just laughs at them. “Hey, that’s on you. I never said Danny wasn’t the King of the Dead- I just said he was shy.”

Another Duke & Danny prompt curtsey of me😚 yw💖

Basically Duke and Danny already know each other and started dating before Duke officially got taken in by Bruce and became a part of the Batfam. The Batfam is vaguely aware that Duke is seeing someone but whenever it's brought up it's shut down with a "he's very shy" or a "he doesn't live in Gotham" all the know is his name is Danny.

Flash forward a couple of weeks/months half the Batfam's captured by cultist trying to summon the ghost king, they succeed but the Eldritch being they called upon just appears disinterested and bored asf. The cult leader starts to panic abit and presents one of their many sacrifices to him, unfortunately for them it was Duke that was presented to him and the monster goes ballistic. By the time the rest of the Batfam gets there, the cultist have already been taken care of (whether they passed out from shock or ran away) and the monster turns it attention back to Duke not paying any mind to the other bats

The Bats can only watch in fear as a being of unimaginable horror picks up the second youngest member of the team and smiles at him with a grin far too wide and sharp for pure intentions. Their fears grow as the monster brings their teammate up to it's face and-

"S̸̯͇͝t̸̢͌a̸͇͑r̶̜͋̊l̴̖͔̀̋i̶̛̮̚g̵̥̺̃͗h̵̯̒ͅt̵͈̝̚!"

Pulls Duke into an impromptu face hug? Ok weird. Even weirder when Duke starts softly laughing and when pulled away from the creature, the Batfam can see he has a fond smile on his face

"Hi Danny"

-Record Scratch-

Hold the fucking phone-

DANNY? As in DUKES MYSTERIOUS BOYFRIEND DANNY?!

Jaws are dropped, tears are shed, minds are fucking blown over the fact that, Duke Thomas, 2nd youngest member of the Batfam, is dating a fucking Eldritch God

[youalexturnermeon]

Chasing the Past Pt. 1(Johnny Lawrence x Reader)

Request by Anon: Could I please get a Johnny Lawrence imagine where he and the reader (who is daniels sister) are secretly dating. Maybe like an old flame back in the 80s and now they reconnected?

A/N: Soo, I decided to split this int two parts since I think nobody wants to read 56746 trillion words in one go on here. This is set about 7 years after Karate Kid and Y/N and Johnny hooked up again. Please let me know if you’re up to part 2

Warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, drugs and sex, reader is of age

Wordcount: 1709

It felt odd to be back again. After all it has been more than five years ago since you set foot onto the Los Angeles’ ground for more than just Christmas or a weekend since you moved to New York. Your mom and Daniel stayed in LA and it looked like a forever solution for them, but unlike your family you were never bound to California. And yet after going to college in New York City and working there for two years the tables have turned and you lost your job. And since New York was a pricy city you had no other way than moving back to your family for a few months before you found another job. You could either stay with your slightly neurotic mom or with your over-protective brother. And although the decision was tough at first because you love both of them as much as they went on your nerves, you decided to stay at Daniel’s last minute. After all, only two years separated you and you had a lot in common.

“What are you doing tonight, (Y/N)?” Daniel asked you as you unpacked the last bit of your suitcase “Because I thought, since it’s your first day back home, we could maybe go out for Sushi.”

“Oh Danny” you sighed and laughed “Are you still not over your Karate and Japan obsession?”

Even with you being the long grown-up younger sibling you still loved to mock your brother. He stuck his tongue out and gave you a light shove.

“Fuck you!”

You shoved him back and then he shoved you again, going back and forth like 10-year olds until eventually you both got tired of it and started laughing.

“No seriously, do you have any plans or – “

“Probably going to a party on the beach, like the old times, catch up with some old friends, Linda asked me. I’m actually leaving in about an hour. We can go tomorrow” you answered casually und started picking out a suitable outfit, you never knew who you could be running in from the past.

“I never understood what you all had with the parties on the beach. They’re lame” “Just because you got your ass kicked during a beach party ‘cause you just couldn’t stand not being the centre of attention for once and simply had to play a noble hero, doesn’t mean the parties are lame” “And just because you had the biggest crush on Lawrence since that day doesn’t mean I was wrong for protecting Ali”

Daniel tried to mock you; but you could hear how hurt he was still, thinking back of his teenage years filled with rivalry and heartbreak. You tried to hide a laugh, if he’d also knew that you and Johnny Lawrence hooked up a couple of weeks before you went to college, he’d probably just kill himself out of pity.

“Still hurts, huh, Danny?” you voiced immediately, and he just shrugged it off.

“Just be careful later, okay? I can also pick you up if you want to.” “I’m not 15 anymore, you don’t have to pick me up. You can also just come with me.” “Nah” Daniel shook his head, “I never liked your friends”

“Your loss, it’s never too late to deal with your past” you joked. When your brother left the room, you put on a tight crop top, slipped in your jean shorts and tied a sweater around your hips in case it got cold. You thought, you looked great – you were ready to go.

____

At first, it felt even weirder to be included in your old friend group that it was being back in L.A. But with the alcohol flowing and joints passing and dancing and talking and goofing around it became more and more natural. You weren’t teenagers anymore; you were all young adults and yet if felt like being 16 all over again. Reconnecting felt great. Maybe after all these years of you telling yourself that you didn’t need California and all the people belonging there, convincing yourself that not one cell in your body longed after the warm climate and carelessness, you finally understood that it was a big lie you told yourself. You missed Reseda and you missed all your friends. With all the sentiment finally catching up after five years of chasing you plus the booze and the exhaustion, you had to take a moment for yourself. You took a short walk along the beach and stood there with your feet being caressed by the waves. You drunkenly smiled to yourself, you could finally be happy again.

“(Y/N) fucking LaRusso!”, you suddenly heard a familiar voice behind you which immediately pulled you right out of your thoughts, “Am I dreaming or is that really the girl that broke my heart?”

You didn’t even have the chance to turn around, you were promptly spun around by strong muscular arms and landed in a tight and warm embrace. A natural laugh echoed through the night. You inhaled the familiar scent of the person with the even more familiar voice and when you looked up you saw this face that could’ve been an angel’s if it wasn’t for the bright blue eyes filled with all the mischief in the world. He looked older than the last time you have seen him, his face was more edged than five years ago; and you might’ve been imagining it; but he also got a little taller.

“Johnny!” you shrieked and wrapped your arms even tighter around him “What are you doing here?”

“A little birdie told me the better LaRusso in back in town and I decided to go and see for myself. Since I couldn’t get a hold of you in over five years. It seems like you have been avoiding me at all costs, no letters, no calls, no visits. And it was successful until now.”

He let go of you and stepped back to get a better look at you. You, too, have changed a lot but now you were the hottest girl in town for Johnny.

“Now you can’t escape me”

“To be honest, I have been avoiding everybody since I moved to New York. I didn’t think Johnny Lawrence had a heart in the first place and especially not one to break it” you said; and you bluntly took his hand and started dragging him back to the gathering where everybody still was drinking and dancing “Let’s go have a drink and catch up”

“What do you mean, you didn’t know if I had a heart and that you broke it” he laughed and devotedly let himself being hauled behind you. He would let you do anything to him, right now. He missed you and never wanted this moment to end.

“At first, the little LaRusso seduces me, gives me some kind of victory over the shit LaRusso, gifts me the best month of my life with the best sex of my life and without a word disappears to the other side of the country. This shattered my little heart into pieces”

“Fuck off, Johnny Lawrence” you grinned “As if this somehow tickled you in any sense. Let’s just get drunk and forget about it”

Johnny was hurt you didn’t believe him because for once he did not lie about this. You leaving, really left him all broken for a few weeks and he still loved to remember the time you spent together. But since this was ancient history now, he was okay with just getting drunk with you.

“Hey guys, look what the cat dragged in” you loudly exclaimed when you and Johnny, still holding your hand, arrived in midst of all the partying people “Johnny fucking Lawrence! Can you fucking believe this???”

“That Johnny Lawrence you were crushing on since you first saw him kicking your brother’s ass?” Linda, your oldest friend from high school, the one who took you to that party, asked sarcastically whilst handing you and Johnny red cups filled with booze. You excitedly nodded.

“Yeah, I was the one who told him that the less famous (Y/N) LaRusso is back”

“No way!” you shrieked and threw your lightly drunken self on Linda, hugging her “Thank you!”

“Jesus, I didn’t know, (Y/N) would be that happy to see me” Johnny whispered to Linda when you let go of her and shifted your attention to other friends wanting to know about you and the infamous Johnny Lawrence who still seemed to be a star amongst all although everyone finished high school years ago.

“To be honest, I thought she’d jump on my throat just like her big brother if she sees me here”

“Don’t worry, I got her drunk enough before you arrived” Linda said.

“Thank you!” Johnny mouthed; he was the happiest he had been in years. He took a deep breath and spun you around, so for the second time today you laded directly in his embrace which now turned into a dance. And to be fair, the night couldn’t get any better for you either. Johnny and you laughed and talked and drank and danced, getting closer and closer to each other with every song. And the rest of the night turned into a big wonderful blur.

___

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was your terribly aching head. You didn’t even open your eyes yet and you already knew how terrible of a hangover that would be. You tried not to move but even the slightest motion that involved nothing more than breathing shot a bullet of pain right to your brain. Finally, when you dared to slightly open your eyes you realized that your head was resting on a muscular chest, softly falling and rising. You were not alone and were not in your bed and especially not in Daniel’s apartment. Curiously you lifted the covers that were lazily thrown over two bodies and a silent “FUCK” escaped your lips. You were completely naked and the athletic man on whose chest you were resting was too bare ass naked.

“Fuck!” you whispered again; and you would’ve had laughed if you knew that it wouldn’t cause you any pain and blurry glimpses of the night came suddenly back to you.

Click for Part 2

[five-rivers]

Stars Aligned Chapter 2

Here’s the thing.  Danny knew this was a dumb decision.  At least as dumb as stepping into the ghost portal (but at least he’d gotten some nifty powers out of that, hey?).  Whatever reason his bio-dad had for chucking him out the door within days of his birth couldn’t be good.  Putting himself within reach of the man…  Yeah.  Not his brightest thought.  

(Not to mention the wizards.  And witches.  That was so weird, how they had two different names for essentially the same thing. Then again… actor, actress…  Why were people so weird?)

On the other hand, twin brother.  Twin brother who had to live with aforementioned baby-abandoning bio-dad.  Twin brother who wasn’t allowed to visit America.  Or, Danny suspected, a family of squibs.  

Yeah.  

Yeah.  

So, here he was.  Getting everything in order for a wizard passport and wizard international travel, because bio-family refused to even look at an airport.  

Danny had a suspicion that, based on how they spelled the word and a few other comments in that particular letter, that they weren’t entirely clear on what an airport was.  

Fun.  

On the other hand, in comparison to the actual, normal, legal passport he’d gotten, just in case bio-family left him somewhere, wizard passports were much, much easier to get.  The wait times were practically nonexistent.  He could, in theory, get the passport on the same day he traveled.  All that was needed was proof he was a wizard and his adoption papers.  

Of course, ‘proof he was a wizard’ actually meant ‘wand.’  Wands being something they used as personal ID, despite the fact that they were a) sticks, and b) didn’t actually carry any personally identifiable information.  Sure, Jack said that they were somehow connected to their owners, but unless there were, like, giant books of details about everyone’s wands at every place that would, conceivably, need ID, and had people trained to identify all those tiny little characteristics…  Danny just couldn’t see how it would work.

Danny’s current theory was that all wizards were just insane, which meant that his twin would most likely fit right in with the rest of Danny’s family, right as soon as Danny figured out how to legally kidnap him.

(No, Danny didn’t have a ghostly Obsession, and it definitely wasn’t family related.  He was only half-ghost, after all.  Why do you ask?)

Anyway.  Wizard passport.  Wizard ID. Wizard sticks.  

Wands.  

Wands meant a nerve-wracking trip to the nearest wizarding town with Jack.  Evidently, he’d lived there a couple of years after his parents sent him away from Britain when he was around fourteen because of ‘the war.’

Abruptly, many of Jack’s stories about his childhood made more sense.

(It had always been something of a joke between Jazz and Danny to try and figure out what ‘the war’ was supposed to be, and if Jack’s parents had just… Conned him into thinking he’d eaten horse meat.  For some reason.  Even if the Fentons hadn’t seemed like that kind of people, no matter how eccentric.)

(Also, evidently Jazz and Danny had never met Jack’s biological parents, who were not named Fenton, although his adopted mother was also a witch.)

(Why was everything so complicated?)

 The “wizarding community” was a small town accessible only by a train line invisible to ‘no-majs.’  And also flying brooms.  Which wizards used.  Danny had seen the train before, not realizing that he wasn’t supposed to. Several times.  Usually while flying to Wisconsin to deal with whatever Vlad had done that week.  

If Danny was a wizard, was Vlad?  Was being half-ghost somehow tied up in being magical? What did that mean for Dani?

(Hey, maybe this whole affair could be used to bring Dani into the family safely.  Who was to say that he didn’t have a secret twin sister?)

Danny could admit that the town itself, which had almost a Ghost Zone vibe with how all the architecture seemed to be from fifty plus to a hundred years ago and also the physics breaking magic, was sort of cool. It was… cute, he guessed.  He didn’t really like how everyone was staring at Jack, their clothes were just as weird, but it wasn’t a new thing.  People always stared at Jack.  

That’s what happened when you wore hazard-orange jumpsuits twenty-four seven.  

The shops all had names out of a fantasy novel, and at one point they got turned around and wound up on a residential street where they had to ask for directions, but eventually they made it to ‘Willoughby’s Wand Emporium.’

The interior of Willoughby’s Wand Emporium reminded Danny strongly of a shoe store.  The shelves were all lined with boxes of approximately that size, and the employees all carried measuring tape.  It also smelled like a shoe store: musty and dry, with a hint of polish.  Or maybe it was wood varnish?  Or some kind of paint.  

A young woman bounced up.  “Hi, how can we help you today?  Replacement wand?”

“First time, actually,” said Jack.  

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman.  “You’re just so tall for your age.”

“I’m fourteen,” said Danny.  

The woman began to turn red.

“He was missed,” said Jack.  “It happens.”  He smiled, but it looked far more strained than usual.  

“Oh,” said the woman.  “Ahem.  Well, if you’ll come right this way, I can start taking measurements, and start trying out wands.  The wand chooses the wizard, they say!”

“Okay,” said Danny, shrugging.  That was… interesting.  Were the wands sentient?  Did that somehow make them acceptable IDs?

Seemed really weird to keep sentient things stored in boxes.

… Said the kid who stored sentient beings in a soup thermos.

A really high-tech soup thermos.

Didn’t make it better.  

Except he didn’t keep them in the thermos indefinitely.  Except for Dan.  

Danny didn’t know if the wizards kept the wands in boxes indefinitely, either.  Maybe he should stop assuming things.  That had gotten him in trouble with ghosts more than once.

The woman took her measuring tape from where it hung around her shoulders, held it out in front of herself, and promptly dropped it. It did not fall.  

As basic as levitation was for ghosts, it was really weird to see a human do it.  (Especially when it always took so much concentration for him to levitate things other than himself—Hence why he never really used the ability in battle.)

The measuring tape flitted around Danny’s head, shoulders, arms, and body, taking measurements.  He had to sit on his reflexes hard to prevent himself from trying to catch it or knock it out of the air.  

He was so nervous.  Was it normal to be nervous?

The measuring tape snaked back through the air to the woman, who smiled.  “Alright,” she said, “we can start with that.  Uh, to explain the process, we usually start out with wands in the appropriate size range and try and zero in on the ones that respond best to you from there.”  She flicked her own wand, and several thin boxes slid themselves off the shelves.  “We use a wide variety of wand woods from a variety of wandmakers.  Just about any tree that grows in North America is probably represented here.” She paused.  “Except for palm trees.”

“That makes sense,” said Danny.  Palm trees were quite different from other trees.  

“Alright.  Let’s start with pine.  The core of this one is dragon heartstring—Harvested humanely, of course!”

“Core?” said Danny, latching on to the familiar word even as he regarded the wand itself dubiously.  

“Yes.  As with our woods, we also stock a wide range of wand cores.  Each wand has a core made of a small part of a magical creature.  Dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, and phoenix feather are the standard ones…  But that standardization is rather British.  We have a few others available.  Thunderbird tail feather—Only taken during molt.  Wampus cat hair.  Dittany. Rougarou hair.  Jackalope antler…  Those are the more common ones, though we do have others.  Even some kneazle whisker, although most people don’t want those.”

“Why not?”

“Ah, they tend not to be very strong.  But sheer power isn’t everything.  Some prefer control, need lower power output…  or are worried about accidents while they’re learning.  We do see some adult learners every now and then.”

That actually sounded sort of appealing to Danny, but he supposed he’d better go about this normally.  At least at first.  

He picked up the pine wand and immediately dropped it.  

“Ow,” he said.  

“Ow?” repeated the woman.  “Oh,” she said, catching sight of the burn on his hand.  “That’s… not supposed to happen.”

“Y’know,” said Danny, conversationally, “I’ve only held, like, two magical things in my life, and both of them have damaged my hands. Is this, like, a common thing, or am I just ridiculously unlucky.”

“Second one, I think,” said the woman.  “Cynthia’s good at minor healing charms.  I’m going to go get her.  Okay?  Okay.”

Shortly thereafter, phoenix feather wands were also eliminated as a possibility, not because they burned Danny, but because they seemed intent on burning everything else around him.  Pine wands were also a definite no-go (“Don’t worry about the lifespan thing,” said the woman, “that’s a myth.”).  As was everything but elder, apple, pear, hornbeam, thorn, and yew (this list got another mention of myths from the shop assistant).  

At this point, the shop owner, Mrs. Willoughby, was drawn out from the back room to observe the mess Danny was making.  

“My,” she said, “I haven’t seen anyone have this much trouble in a while.  Heather, why don’t you go get some of the specialty cores.”

“I thought the unicorn was working well,” protested the woman who’d been helping Danny so far.  She winced as Danny picked up a new wand and exploded a light.  “Comparatively.”

“Yes, we could probably eventually find a unicorn hair wand that would work for him, but all things considered…  I feel like we should explore other avenues.”  She sniffed.  “Nothing associated with fire.  Perhaps kelpie mane?”

“I’ll check,” said Heather.  

.

Kelpie mane, it turned out, did the same sort of thing as phoenix tail feather when it came to Danny.  Only with a lot more water involved.  

“I didn’t think that would work, anyway,” said Mrs. Willoughby.

“Then why,” said Danny, wringing water out of his shirt, “did you have me try it?”

“Oh, cases like you greatly improve our understanding of wandlore,” said Mrs. Willoughby.  “You’re not likely to have noticed this yet, but the population of wizards and witches is so small compared to the no-maj population that everyone who gets very far in a profession has to be a bit of an innovator.  I’m recording this for future reference, and I’ll be looking forward to seeing what you do in life.  If anything.  It would be very helpful to me if you became famous.”

“Hard pass on that,” said Danny.  

“Or at least come back at some point.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Danny.  “But, like, we were really hoping to do other things today, so maybe…”  He made a circular motion with his hand.  “Or at least, ugh, I don’t know.  I feel like everything you give me is trying to kill me.”

It was a very familiar feeling, and a very unwelcome one, nonetheless.  

“We really aren’t,” said Mrs. Willoughby.  “But perhaps… from now on, we’ll limit to the woods to the Rosaceaes.  The others tend to be called unlucky.  Well, except for the hornbeam.  Is there anything you’re singularly passionate about?”

Singularly passionate?  “Not really,” said Danny, who did not think about ghosts or helping people or space. He shifted, uncomfortable, and squelched.  

Screw it.  He was supposedly a wizard, now, right?

He phased the water off himself.  

“Oh my god!” shouted Heather.  “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Uh,” said Danny.  “No?”

“Calm down, Heather.  Don’t act like you’ve never seen accidental magic before.”

“Not with a teenager doing it!”

They were now attracting a crowd.  Yay.  

“He’s not trained, yet,” said Mrs. Willoughby, unconcerned.  “Don’t be rude.”

“Yeah, can we get back on track, here?”

After a few more tries, Mrs. Willoughby had determined that the wood that reacted the least badly to Danny was hawthorn.  Then she sent Heather into the storage room to fetch more.  

“I don’t know why we even have these,” said Heather, under her breath, carrying several boxes marked with stamps that read ‘THESTRAL.’

“Because some people have trauma, Heather.”

“He’s a teenager.  I seriously doubt he has deep personal experiences with death.”

“Wow, way to assume, Heather,” said another shop assistant, who was passing by with a far-too-curious customer.  

“Here,” said Mrs. Willoughby, handing Danny a box.  “Try this one.  It’s hawthorn.”

With some suspicion, Danny slid the cover off the box and gingerly picked up the wand inside.  

It didn’t do anything like what the other wands had. Instead, the slender length of wood gave him a faint echo of the feeling he got when he was on an emotional high and engaging in either extreme mischief or obsession-adjacent activities (because he did not have a real, ghostly, capital-O Obsession).

Danny declined to hold it with all five fingers, lest he be overcome with mania.

Yes, he was paranoid.  But when touching things can go as badly for you as they did for Danny, paranoia was justified.  

“Oh, it looks like you’ve found your match,” said Mrs. Willoughby, clapping.  

With the ease of practice, Danny did not let any trace of horror or unease show on his face.  He ignored the surge of glee from the wand, and carefully placed it back in the box.  

Yeah.  He needed a wand for passport purposes, but there was no way he was going to use that.  He’d just fake magic with ghost powers.  It had been working out okay so far.  

What was the worst that could happen?

A rather relieved Jack paid for the wand, and they made their way, slowly, to the government building.  

“So,” said Jack.  “You want to save getting those beginner magic manuals for another day?”

“Absolutely,” said Danny.  He wondered if his twin had gone through anything even remotely like this and if it was really worth all this trouble to meet a person he would have basically nothing in common with other than blood.  

Blood that likely meant less than usual, considering that his was diluted with ectoplasm.  A fact he would have to hide.  With no allies or back up.  In England.

(Again, this whole endeavor was not his greatest idea.)

.

Draco supervised the house-elves as they cleaned out the room next to his own, feeling rather blank.  He had campaigned vigorously for his twin to come, but now that he was…

The boy, for all that he was as much a Malfoy as Draco, was an American for all intents and purposes.  What did Americans even like?  What did they call their bastardized version of Quidditch?  Would Deneb even know about wizard games?  According to the woman from the agency, he’d been raised as a muggle by those squibs he’d been placed with.  

Slowly but surely, Draco’s heart sank.  He had no idea what his twin would be like.  Deneb, despite being his brother, would essentially be a stranger.  

He was beginning to understand why his mother was so angry at his father.  

[anthropwashere]

deadfic: Get Out, Get Gone

Yet more deadfic for @goodintentionswipfest! And also another giftfic I never finished, because that’s just who I am as a person! \o/ 

@ghostfiish did this truly excellent art of Danny’s transformation rings as a galaxy way back when that I promptly lost my whole entire shit over, and also took it as an opportunity to get some kind of manic with the writing style. That, combined with my sort-of accidental, sort-of intentional smashing yet more rad headcanons into it until the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. Still, I remain very fond of this one and what I was trying to do back in 2014, so here we are. 8.7k’s nothing to sneeze at, at least.

Oh, and! While we're at it, have an old Danny playlist I never got around to sharing that fits the mood this fic is going for. Title comes from To Kill a King's "Bloody Shirt (Bastille Remix)," which is unfortunately not included on the Spotify playlist.

=

There’s a weight to you now that wasn’t there before. You’d think with your powers—

(and doesn’t it feel strange to call them that, when you shake and shiver at the sight of your bones under your meat, when you walk down the stairs and your feet don’t touch anything at all)

—you’d weigh less, be less. A thing of smoke, and ectoplasm, and all that awful electricity arcing through your nerves. But that's not what happened. 

You remember that day with a surreal nightmare quality, memories fuzzing and skittering like white noise in your skull. Pain and green light and being so, so certain that had been it. Zap! That’s all she wrote. But it wasn't, and here you are, hovering three inches off the grass and praying no one will see, that no one will know.

You aren’t less for all that’s changed, for all that’s changed in you. Tucker and Sam haven’t said anything about it, and it’s clear they don’t have a clue. Your first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight against the Lunch Lady knocked you right out. They had to carry you all the way home from school after you failed to stop her. It’s a wonder nobody stopped them, dragging your sorry carcass across town. If either of them had noticed, if either of them could have noticed, they would have told you. Or worse, they wouldn’t have managed to get you home at all.

You noticed it when you changed. Not the first time, in the shadowed, silver throat of the Portal—

(electricity cooking you from the inside out, the Portal writhing, burning, tearing itself into existence, a physical hole ripped so cleanly between realities even your parents don’t understand it and they built the damn framework, boiling ectoplasm splashing on you, over you, inside you, changing you forever)

—but after. Changing back and forth without any control, cringing behind dumpsters and hedges, tossing desperate prayers skyward that nobody had seen the light, that nobody had seen you change from kid to freak. So much of you changes when this strange, alien light stretches across you, not just your clothes and eyes and hair, no, you’re different now down to your cells, down to the very structure of your DNA. You know, you’ve checked. So much of you is different, it’s a wonder you didn’t figure it out sooner.

When you change, you’re heavier. Heavier. Not like ten pounds or something any normal kid might stress over. You become the kind of heavy that leaves brushstroke smears in asphalt, reduces sturdy brick walls to dusty rubble, punches craters through solid ground. It hurts when you fall, god does it hurt. But your bones never shatter. Your guts never liquefy. Your brain never dribbles out your ears. How? How can you possibly survive the beatings every new ghost is so eager to give you? 

Ah, but there's never any time to think about it though, not really. No time for anything but a raw, thready panic and clumsily scrawled homework copied five minutes before the bell. Your chance to tell your parents came and went, and now there’s always another ghost attacking the city.

Mom and Dad are so happy now. You’ve never seen them happier than this, with the stuff of your grade school nightmares on the rampage. It’s proof they aren’t crazy, proof they haven’t wasted their whole lives on a pipe dream, proof that everybody who ever called them quacks were wrong. Good for them, you guess. Meanwhile you’re picking yourself out of the wreckage of another storefront, glass needled all down your spine, and you can’t help but marvel at the damage your body has done. Can do. Will do.

Because you’re stronger, you’re getting stronger every day. The weight in you that your Sam and Tucker don’t—

(can’t)

—notice grows more noticeable, and after a few fights you're quicker, too. And perhaps you're changing still, perhaps the accident isn't done with you yet, because one day there’s sickly green light at your fingertips, and in no time at all you can manipulate the energy buzzing inside you—

(the electricity and hot ectoplasm from the accident screaming through you, out from your palms and striking down the things that used to scare you as a little kid, back when door knobs and faucets were out of reach of your tiny fingers and there was so much dark in your big big house, and now your hands trail light like after images from staring at the sun too long, now you can patch your hurts up by the light of your own blood, now you're learning that you don’t need to be afraid of what hides in the dark anymore)

—in ways you never thought possible. Sure, lots of what you do is learned the hard way, mid-battle against sizzling green things with teeth like hunting knives, running on instinct and adrenaline and terror all tangled up in your throat. Lots more is later, when it’s quiet and safe again, practicing things you’ve seen other ghosts do again and again and again until you can mimic it, improve it, make it yours.

But no ghost you fight has the same heaviness as you do. No improbable weight that defies the logical mass of their ectoplasm. If it’s big, it’s heavy. If it’s small, it’s light. Unexpected logic from creatures that defy logic in every other way. 

There’s a lesson you learn the hard way, testing the strength of these invaders against your bruised and splitting knuckles. You learn caution. You learn restraint. If you punch them hard enough, some ghosts, the little formless ones your parents have captured once or twice now, burst like water balloons—a hard pop of searing green, an overwhelming smell-taste of citrus and hot pennies. Too much of your supernatural strength pressed into the soft hide of a monster and the end result is a glowing puddle where someone used to be. 

You learn this lesson quickly. You learn that even when you’re fighting for your life, you’ve got to hold back. You defend, you protect. Death scares you too much to risk killing—

(is it killing when it’s already dead, where does a ghost go when it dies, is there something more to the Ghost Zone than what you’ve glimpsed with your own eyes or is that it, is that all, have you erased someone from reality forever, these are the questions that make your stomach hurt, that make it hard to breathe, that make it hard to fake a smile when Jazz asks if something’s wrong)

—something so much like yourself. Even if it’s got teeth like hunting knives.

You think you’re an anomaly, a freak, the only one stupid enough to walk into a Ghost Portal and zap yourself full of juice that by rights should have killed you—

(and a little part of you wonders if that isn’t just what happened, if you’re just a dead thing walking around in your body, wearing it like a meatsuit and waiting for the rot to show, but it’s been a month, it’s been months, and you eat more and you sleep less, not because you don’t need it but because there’s never any time, and you’ve grown another inch and there’s new definition to your muscles, and that all must mean you’ll be okay, that you are okay, it has to)

—until Wisconsin. Until Vlad.

He’s in the same boat as you, plus twenty years of experience and enough self-made loneliness to turn him bitter and crazy and dangerous. He wants Dad dead and Mom his, like she’s some kind of carnival prize he can win if he throws his weight around enough. Swing the mallet, hit the bell, and congratulations! The woman you haven't spoken to in twenty years who has made her own life without you is now yours to take home! Ugh.

But god, he can hit hard. Lightning, real lightning, nothing like the weak little zaps of electricity inside you, rattles at his fingertips like a living thing, furious burning strikes of pain, and he knocks you aside like he’s bored. You have a thousand questions, but he won't give you a single answer unless you concede defeat or whatever he wants, so it looks like you’ll just have to beat the answers out of him instead. Who cares if he’s got twenty years on you? He’s not out most nights pummeling wayward ghosts back into the Ghost Zone. He’s not out most days saving people from ghosts with bloodthirsty, power-hungry vendettas. What you lack for in time and experience you make up in rooftop fistfights and stolen first-aid kits. 

Sure you managed to outwit him—

(barely, hardly at all, he just wanted to save face in front of Mom, if he hadn’t cared about that, if he’d just tried overshadowing Mom instead it all could have turned out so differently, and doesn’t that thought make it hard to sleep the first few nights back home)

—but you can’t stop thinking of what it had been like to fight him, of what it was like to see another person do all that you can and so much more. You remember every second of each fight, like it’s been burned across your eyelids. You replay it all every time you blink for days, for weeks. It’s easy as thought to recall the light arcing around his waist as he’d transformed. Just like yours, and yet nothing like yours. The color, sure, that had been the obvious difference. When you change it’s a white light, sharp and searing enough to leave stars in your eyes if you look at it. His transformation—

(black like cave darkness, black like a power outage, black like the vastness between stars, sucking in light like a hungry thing, like it’d swallow you whole if it had had the chance)

—had been like a punch to the gut even before he’d buried his fist in your gut. You’d known without words, known in some primitive bit of brain that still looked up at the night sky and thought magic before science, you had known. You and Vlad were made out of the same mess, but maybe, just maybe, those twenty years were stacked against him.

Trouble is, the transformation is so quick you can’t make much out but the light/non-light of yours and his, and luckily—

(unluckily?)

—he’s all the way in Wisconsin so you don’t have many opportunities for a closer look at his. You ask Sam and Tucker to take pictures and videos, change back and forth so often you almost forget which side of you is which, but the quality is never good enough to see what you know is there—

(but can’t explain, not with words, even though you try for the benefit of your friends because they’re the ones there for you when everything else has gone topsy-turvy, but you’re just a kid who leaks green when dead people hit you too hard, just a kid with bad grades and a lot of questions to evade, and what you’re trying to pinpoint frame by frame is something so beyond your vocabulary you can only shrug, can only say you want to know more about your powers and hope this is one of those white lies nobody catches you in the act of)

—so you stop.

Do you give up? No, but there are more important things to focus on. It isn’t shelving your questions so much as putting them on the backburner. There are ghosts to deal with. Ghosts that want to hurt you, ghosts that want to hurt humans, more and more ghosts with strange and terrifying abilities pouring out from the Portal all the time. Closing the Portal doesn’t slow them any, which doesn’t make any sense to you. Then again, Dad was up to his elbows in most of the Portal’s guts and wiring, so applying logic to any inch of it is pretty pointless. You’ve learned not to ask too many questions about anything with a Fenton sticker slapped on it.

You’re busy now, busy all the time, bruised and burned and even stitched up all the time. Super strength is only so good when you’re fighting things with teeth like hunting knives. But it’s whatever, it’s no big deal, really. Because you’re keeping people safe. You’re learning more about the Ghost Zone and the things that inhabit it. You’re learning more about yourself; your powers, your weaknesses, how quick you can be with a snarky quip. Yeah, your parents are aiming guns and questions at you. Yeah, teachers with red pens and detention slips are hounding after you. And yeah, you’re fourteen years old bare-knuckle fighting monsters and no one ever says thanks because they think you’re just like every other ghost out there or maybe that you’re some human-loving freak—

(and when you think of your life like this, in lists of who wants answers and who wants to see you bleed, it sounds so bad, it sounds like you should be one inch away from a complete breakdown, but is it weird to say you’re happy, is it weird to say you couldn’t imagine your life any other way)

—yet you grin through a mouthful of red-and-green and keep going. Elated? Maybe, sometimes. Scared? Absolutely, sometimes. You’re just a kid with eyes that flare like headlights when somebody’s pissed you off. 

It’s only right to be scared, sometimes.

Still, it’s the weight of you that keeps you grounded, keeps you human when you need to be. Sit in a chair, walk across a bridge, it all makes the same creak under you as it would for Sam and Tucker. But take one of Skulker’s shoulder rockets to the face, you leave a crater in Central Park so big they decide to just turn it into another duck pond. A permanent new addition to the park, and all your face gets is a nasty bruise Dash takes the credit for. You let him, because Lancer overhears. Dash is the one getting detention for once, and there’s a nasty satisfaction to be found there.

You and Jazz share a bathroom, and she’s got a scale she keeps in the towel cupboard. Curious, you take it out one day after school and try to weigh yourself. Last time you checked, you were somewhere near 120, puberty stretching you faster than your appetite can keep up. This time, the numbers whirl past 280 pounds before the scale makes a metallic groan and crumples like tissue paper under your sneakers. Sheer reflex launches you into the air, and you bounce off the ceiling with your knees hugged so tight to your chest you can hear tendons creak, your heart a thundering jackhammer in your chest. Thank god you’re home alone, because you hover there for who-knows how long, too scared the floor will crack under your illogical, impossible weight, too scared you’ll plummet straight down to the hard steel of the lab if you try to stand, too scared you might plummet even further.

When you finally do scrounge up the courage to touch down, an air bubble in the old linoleum crackles under your heel and you damn near jump out of your skin. After that, all you can do is laugh and laugh until your sides hurt. You throw Jazz’s scale out in a dumpster a block away and never tell her what happened to it.

What does this mean? Is the weight of you optional? If you think about it too hard, does it become real? What about when you’re fighting, causing all that property damage the city hates you for? You’re not thinking of the strangeness of your mass during a brawl, you’re thinking in terms of survivability. Punch this hard to win, get punched this hard to lose. What about when you’re thinking about it at school? Why don’t you break your desk, or the floor, or the stairs?

You don’t know. Your parents might be able to figure it out if you told them, but you don’t. Knowing about you, about what you really are—

(a freak, a monster, an accident, an anomaly bleeding out energy with every burst of green light you bury into the spiny hides of other monsters, who knows how long until your white rings burn black, if one day you’ll look in the mirror and be no different than Vlad, not because you didn’t try your hardest but because there was never any biological choice, what kind of choice can a species of two even make)

—would just scare them. It’s easier, keeping them in the dark, even if it means they’re trying to hunt you down and take you apart molecule by molecule any time you’ve got white hair.

But it’s not just flying and invisibility and energy you can summon with a thought—

(ray or bolt or fire, you don’t know what to call your power, you never really did pay attention when your parents got going even before you had to worry about all their blinking tech going nuts around you, but sometimes your green light is cool and wispy and other times it's hot and sizzling, sometimes you know which one will bloom between your fingers and sometimes it’s a surprise, sometimes it’s almost like your body knows what to do in a fight better than you, sometimes it’s easier to stop thinking and just let it happen, to just be the freak that you are, to burn white-hot and damn the consequences)

—you have to worry about. You’re stronger every day, stranger everyday too. You feel a little bit more at ease as a ghost as time goes on. It stops being a strain and starts being an ease, even a comfort, and some days you dread the thought of going to school because a ghost might not attack and you’ll be stuck as a human all day. 

That kind of thinking should worry you, probably. 

But so what? You could sneak into your parents’ lab in the middle of the night and try more tests, more experiments, but really, what would that do? You’re a freak, plain and simple. You and Vlad poked your noses in places you shouldn’t have and paid the price, and that���s that. 

Eventually you get sick of worrying and just let it be. You’re a freak who can walk through walls, disappear, and fly. You’re the freak protecting a town full of people who pretty much hate you. Really, what can you do? The same old same old, that’s what. Try and get a little more sleep outside the classroom, maybe. As for the townsfolk? Well, you can’t always avoid the property damages, but you can at least save a few lives along the way.

People even start to say thank you, even if it’s from a distance, even if they think you're some crazed vigilante ghost, and doesn’t that make this whole superhero thing worth it?

But then of course something has to come along and ruin even that much, ruin this budding chance at gratitude, at finally feeling like a real life superhero. And it isn’t a ghost this time. It’s a human. You hadn't ever considered humans to be dangerous the way a ghost can be.

Freakshow happens, and all that hard work is undone in just a few short days. Days you can’t remember with any clarity, just blurs of color and noise, your hands full of stolen money and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t let go, you couldn’t stop. Attacking the cops when they pursued, terrorizing any humans that got too close, puppeted by that grinning, painted maniac who treated you and the other ghosts like animals, like slaves—

(minions, he’d called you all, and he didn’t even bother to learn your name before he sunk his fingers into your brain, and you never did find out who any of those other ghosts were, what their names were or who they had been before that crystal ball had pulled them under, and they were gone before there was a chance to even ask)

—and tanked Invis-o-Bill’s reputation to a whole new low. Trashing nearly every car the Amity Park Police Department has and robbing the city blind at the behest of a psychotic ringmaster would have done that even if you’d been considered the hero you try so hard to be. Oh well. At least nobody was hurt in all that, unless you bothered counting Mr. Lancer getting left in the custodial closet for a weekend. You mostly don’t feel guilty about that. Mostly.

Sam says you ought to count yourself too, but you try not to think about any of what happened—

(all that time spent exhausted and hungry, he never let you rest, not once, because ghosts don’t need sleep, ghosts don’t get tired, ghosts don’t need friends, but it’s over, it’s all over now, you don’t have to hear yourself laugh as the little humans scream below, you’ll never have to watch Sam fall and wonder if your body will listen to you in time, you’re yourself again, you’re in control again, everything’s alright, you’re alright, you’re safe, you’re home, you’re yourself again)

—and try to pass yourself off as fine afterwards instead, just confused, just tired, just sorry for everything that’s happened.

For weeks after the police shoved Freakshow into the back of a car, your dreams are red. Not with blood, thank god for that. No, it’s like a filter. A stain. Strawberry candy red, saturated fire engine red, the color Sam said your eyes were when you were under his control. It doesn’t matter if you’re having nightmares—

(more common than you’d like, but you’ve never been one to shout after a bad dream and you don’t intend to start now)

—or regular old brain dump dreams. It doesn’t matter if you’re dreaming of broken bones and monsters or forgetting to study for a test; it’s all filtered through that darkroom shade of red.

What does it mean? You don’t know. You don’t bring it up to Sam or Tucker. They’d just worry, and they worry about you enough as it is. Besides, you’re fine. The Circus Gothica billboard is up for two weeks after Freakshow’s arrest, and it doesn’t do anything to you, not like before. You don’t lose time, you don’t say anything creepy. Your eyes stay blue or green, depending on whether or not there’s a ghost in need of wrangling nearby.

It’s just a weird, harmless after effect, that’s your best conclusion. Then you do your best to stop thinking about it. Who you were under Freakshow’s control wasn’t you. It wasn’t. You tell yourself that until you almost believe it. Eventually, you dreams return to their factory settings. Huzzah.

Meanwhile everywhere you go, people badmouth Invis-o-Bill like they’re getting paid to do it. They call him—

(you)

—thief and monster and dangerous, they call him—

(you)

—a menace and a bad influence on the children. A liar. Traitor. Conspiring with other ghosts to earn the trust of humans to terrorize Amity Park all the better. Kids at school spread awful stories about Invis-o-Bill, say he—

(you)

—was probably the ghost of a troubled teen who got in too deep with bad people and paid the price, and now he—

(you)

—spends his afterlife seeking revenge on humans and ghosts alike. They say a lot of bad things about you, for a while. You try not to pay much attention. You’re getting pretty good at that.

After Freakshow, there’s a lull. That doesn’t mean ghosts don’t stop attacking or causing havoc, it just means that, for a handful of weeks, it’s just the little ones. Hungry animals and disoriented blobs and the Box Ghost. Easy stuff. You actually have time to unwind, time to let the tension bleed from your bones, time to catch up on all your late homework and even squeak your grades up to passable. It’s nice. You’d almost call it relaxing.

Of course, the lulls never last. You know this, you’ve learned this, they made you understand this from your very first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight with the Lunch Lady. You have one fight with Sam the wrong ghost overhears, and everything that’s happened is wished away. You are wished away. For a couple of days, you never walked into your parents’ ghost portal. You were never torn apart and melted back together by heat and light and pain. You were never Phantom at all. Worse still, you have no memory of your erased past, not so much as the slightest disquiet to niggle in the back of your brain when Sam walks up to your locker and starts going on about imaginary monsters like they're real. 

Sam Manson—

(a stranger, a total stranger, just a bottle-black pretty girl you stare at because you’re fourteen and desperate for a connection you’ve never had and don’t understand, she’s nobody else, she’s nothing else to you but a chance at your first kiss and later you will hate yourself for thinking of her like that, not as a girl because of course she is that, but as a prize you might earn, and who cared if she was crazy because she just might have kissed you for some unfathomable reason, and Sam is so much more than the sum of her body, Sam is worth so much more than that, Sam is worth so much)

—is the vehement Goth girl who's in half your classes and is [unfinished]

=

In those stumbling, halting days of dismissal followed by doubt followed by a desperate curiosity to believe that there might be more to life than growing up and settling for less, that movies haven’t lied and there really is something beyond the disappointment growing up has been for you so far. Sam’s purple mouth is a thin, grim line of—

(worry, guilt, fear, shame, envy, panic, uncertainty)

—complicated emotions you can’t parse as you zip up the jumpsuit your parents got you for your birthday. You’ve never worn it before, the fabric stiff and reluctant to bend at your joints. You don’t know how they’re comfortable wearing theirs all the time [unfinished]

=

Sometimes after a fight wears you out, leaves you bruised and smeared with shining green, you don’t fight the transformation. Not because you can’t, but because it feels good to have that fake pulse vanish, to hear real blood pounding in your ears. The weight of you shifts too, and even though you’re so much weaker when you’re human, it’s easier to sink your fingers into the dirt, to haul your meat out of the mess your ghost left behind, easier to duck out of sight before the news vans and curious bystanders get too close. Nobody ever sees you. Nobody ever puts your bruises and Band-Aids and the trashed Dunkin’ Donuts together. It helps that nobody’s ever heard of a half-ghost, that Vlad was cunning enough to hide his powers. Everybody’s heard of the Wisconsin Ghost, but Wisconsin is a big damn state and unlike you, Vlad and Plasmius hardly look like the same man.

Everybody at school just thinks you’re the football team’s personal punching bag, which is definitely true. Thing is, after spending a couple months fighting ghosts, a gut-punch from a junior is kind of a joke. You’re getting ganged up by a bunch of guys in letter jackets behind the auto shop and you have to mime pain to get them to leave you alone. 

Is this real life? Yup, and it’s hilarious.

Time passes, as it does. You get stronger, faster, heavier. You hone your powers. You stop losing control, mostly. New ghosts terrorize the streets. Old ghosts do too, they’re just smarter about it. They all know who you are by now. Hell, a whole other plane of reality knows your name by this point, knows who Danny Fenton really is. Funny though, none of them ever spill the beans to any humans. What better way to take down the one person standing in their way of world domination or an army of hypnotized teens or whatever they’re trying to score than to oust his secret identity?

You don’t ask. Maybe they haven’t caught on that humans have no idea you’re trying to keep a secret. Maybe there’s some kind of code among ghosts; don’t spill a guy’s weakness, even if you hate his ectoplasm. Maybe especially if you hate his ectoplasm?

You’ve had a couple more run-ins with Vlad too. Each time he changes, transforms, you breath hitches, because you can almost see it. Whatever makes up the both of you, piecing the mystery together through the differences—

(light and dark and it’s cliché as anything, it’s so transparently Star Wars, but maybe there’s something to clichés, because you might be the one wearing mostly black but he’s the one with a sucking core, a void, something more horrific for its absence, like he used to be full of stark white light too but it’s all been burned up and whatever’s left is just playing through the motions, pretending at being something else, who knows what it means but you know that it scares the hell out of you)

—between you and him. He goes on and on about how you’re more like him every day, but he’s wrong. He’s so wrong. You’ll never be like him, and it isn’t just a matter of morals.

What you are, down to the complex disaster of your DNA, is different than what makes up Vlad, and you don’t need to slide a piece of him under a microscope to see that. You thought differently once, but now you know better. A glance is all you need. What you are and what he is, has become—

(powerful yes, but ugly and hating and cruel, the rings that flash at his waist are just shadows reflecting light, trying to hide a black mouth brimming with hungry teeth)

—well, you might as well be different species.

Vlad’s crazy and Vlad’s a jerk, but he is right about one thing. There’s so much about the Ghost Zone you don’t understand, and it’s this ignorance that just might get you—

(or somebody else, and isn’t that an old favorite in the nightmares)

—killed. You don’t know if it was fate or a simple coincidence that your parents were working on the Ecto-Skeleton when Pariah Dark woke up. You’re fourteen years old and you can shoot lasers out of your fingers; you don’t have the wherewithal for philosophical theology. You’re just glad they got it functioning in time to stop the King of All Ghosts from overrunning the city, even if the stupid thing nearly kills you.

You don’t fret much about the Ecto-Skeleton vanishing after you pass out. You do, however, remember Pariah’s nasty grin—

(having that much power, it’s a burden, isn’t it child)

—when you stumbled under the strain. You don’t know if he meant what the suit enabled you to do or if he meant the power in your own two hands. Either way, you remember those words, like they’re branded onto your brain, and you don’t have a choice but to hear it over and over every time you try to sleep. They rang in your head like bells in the days after you’d pushed him back into that sarcophagus, stuck in bed aching and weaker than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Because it is a burden. Everybody hates and fears you, but at the same time they happily expect you to protect them from hordes of skeletal ghosts. Sometimes you panic, so aware of how young you are, of how little comic books and video games have prepared you for a life like this, hiding bruises and spinning bold-face lies to everybody from your parents to the U.S. government. Teenagers are supposed to rebel, sure, but if you ever come clean you’d be thrown in a cell and they’d never, ever let you go. Not just because you’re a criminal—

(and you are, thanks to Freakshow and thanks to dozens of ghosts, and you’ve left an imprint of your tiny, impossibly heavy body all over the city, and you’ve done your best to protect everybody but you leave rubble and shrapnel wherever you go, ambulance sirens wail through the streets every day, and everybody’s just as scared as you are, just as fascinated as you are, and yet so many students and teachers have left Casper High, so many faces you used to see everyday in the hallways have vanished, so many business and restaurants and homes sit empty, gathering dust and graffiti, and it’s your fault, if you hadn’t walked into the Ghost Portal none of this would be happening, none of this would ever have happened at all, and you’re too much of a coward to show your face, to tell anyone but your best friends what kind of a monster you really are)

—but because you can phase through solid objects, you’re considered a monster with less rights than a dog.

Sometimes you wish Sam wasn’t a budding ghost-rights activist. You’d probably have an easier time studying if she didn’t rattle off all these statistics and news articles, stories of government agents in white suits quarantining whole city blocks to purge the ghosts inhabiting them, of ghost attacks stopping all at once in little towns after strange men with guns and knives and felonies like grave robbing and murder slunk through in the night. Ghosts are dangerous, there’s no questioning that. But so are bears. So are people. Just because something is dangerous doesn’t mean it should be destroyed.

Maybe that’s why the ghosts have never spilled your secret. You’ve never tried to kill them. You just want them to leave Amity Park alone. Who knows for sure though? You don’t have the guts to risk asking any of them.

Still, this whole mess is worth it. It is. You can fly, for god’s sake. If you’re careful you could juggle minivans, mimic all your favorite action movies and outdo even the craziest Hollywood stunts. What kid hasn’t dreamed of doing any of that? But you’re not being selfish. You’re not. It’s like Dad says; you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Progress is a disaster when you’re living it, when it isn’t past tense, when it isn’t all tidied up in a few short paragraphs in a high school history book. What’s happening now is worth it, for the future.

If you ever do tell Mom and Dad—

(you’re not afraid of what they’ll think, you’ve never worried about that, not really, they’re your parents before they’re scientists, and any experiment or test would be to ensure your safety and your health, because that’s what parents do, that’s what good people do, and they’re the best people you’ve ever known)

—you know they’d be able to break down your powers into reams of clinical data in no time. They’d figure out how you survived the accident, how your abilities generate and develop in power, maybe even pinpoint the how of your strange, mutable weight. They’d tell you what that light is, when you change, that light that reminds you so strongly of the stars. After all, just because they’re too oblivious to realize their son is the infamous Ghost Kid doesn’t mean they don’t know what they’re doing. They aren’t known as the leading scientists, engineers and weapon smiths in the paranatural fields for nothing. Mom’s practically got more letters after her name than there are in the alphabet, and while Dad may only have a fraction of that he thinks like nobody else out there. Most Fenton tech are his designs, wild and absurd and covered with stickers of his beaming face, and Mom’s the one who works out the bugs with fond exasperation.

Still, they have to get their knowledge from somewhere, and you’ve seen what they do down in the lab to the formless, red-eyed ghosts, the ones too weak to do much more than snarl wetly. Sometimes they snare something bigger and stronger, something fond of curling prickly tendrils around the nearest human and squeezing. More often than not it’s Dad that’s the unlucky one, always so eager to parse the secrets hidden in each fanged little beastie they’ve fished out of the Ghost Zone. He’s got nearly as many as bruises as you do, some weeks, but he’s never happier than when he’s holding a bag of frozen peas to his head.

After a good wrestle with something that wailed and whistled like a boiling kettle, Dad’ll limp up to the kitchen and settle heavily into a chair, grinning and running his mouth nonstop, talking about how much progress they’ve made today—

(wait ‘til the boys over at the GIW hear about that one, he’ll say with a bray of laughter, makes the piddly little Class Threes look darn near cuddly, didn’t it Mads, why Danny you should’ve seen the fangs on this fella, nearly bit through the exam table in one bite, y’oughta come down to the lab more often, Danny, seeing these spooks up close and personal’d be a great way to help you get over that silly fear of ‘em, and there you are, smiling meekly and holding up your hands and making up any excuse you can think of off the top of your head to keep you out of the lab when your parents have all their equipment up and humming, just in case, aw Dad I dunno, I’ve got this essay due, not today Dad I’ve got like six pages of algebra I haven’t even started yet, sorry Dad I’m sleeping over at Tucker’s tonight and his mom insisted I come early for dinner)

—and every time, Mom will smile indulgently, like she’s falling in love with Dad all over again. She’ll push him back into the seat and tell him to quit fidgeting so she can clean up the nasty cut behind his ear, and every time you smile behind your hand and think, how could Vlad ever hope to break your parents up? They only thing they might love more than each other would be you and Jazz and ghosts, and you’re all so much of their lives they can’t help but love you all completely. How they love each other and their kids and the ghosts they’ve studied all their lives, well, that’s like saying they love breathing. They love each other because without each other, they wouldn’t be themselves. It’s sappy as hell and like any kid you hate seeing your parents get all lovey-dovey, but you can’t help that secret smile as you walk out of the kitchen to give them a little privacy.

Seeing Mom and Dad so hard at work, so happy at work, is why you don’t tell them. They think you’re slacking off, they think you’re getting bullied, and they’re worried about you sure, but better they think their son’s lazy than a freak. If they knew what you did, what you could do, if they knew you were the one facing up against ghosts that made the ones they picked apart in their lab look like kittens, if they knew you’d heard all the awful things they want to do to Phantom once they finally nab him—

(you know they wouldn’t say it if they knew you and him were one and the same, you know you know you know, but sometimes you can’t help but be hurt anyway, to see all that fierce dedication focused on seeing whether or not Danny Phantom has bones, and if he does, how much pressure could they withstand before breaking)

—they wouldn’t know what to do or say or think. They’d be so eaten up with guilt, why hadn’t they known, why hadn’t they realized, what if they’d finally gotten a lucky shot in, what if one of all those cruel ghosts had gotten a luck shot in, what if what if what if—

(and you’ve pictured it a hundred times, it’s so easy to imagine the looks on their faces, the horror the shame the fear, and you know they’d love you all the same, you know this like you know the distance between the Sun and every planet, even little Pluto they just declared wasn’t a planet at all, but you’re young and selfish and definitely some kind of stupid because sometimes you can’t help but feel they’d shun you for the freak you are, turn you over to the GIW because they couldn’t bear to look on the thing their son’s become, and you know that couldn’t ever ever ever happen but still, it’s so easy to imagine)

—and you couldn’t do that to them. You won’t do that to them, no matter how many times Sam or Tucker try to convince you otherwise. How it is now, secrets and lies and detention slips and broken curfews, can’t last forever. You know that. But until then, it’ll have to do, and you’ll have to parse all your growing weirdness without all of Mom and Dad’s knowledge or experience, fingers crossed that their ticking and glowing machines won’t reveal your secret before you’re ready to do it yourself.

=

But you’re turning out stranger in ways you can’t even recognize, and for all that Sam and Tucker are by your side to help you as you change and burn brighter and hotter and faster and heavier, they don’t see it either. Jazz is the one who points it out, one day not long after the Spectra… thing, all out of the blue. She’s been noticing lots of things lately, and acting so strange, like she might have pieced it together. But she can’t have, of course not, you’re so careful, you are always so careful. Jazz is just clever, Jazz got all the brains and you got the leftovers. Everybody knows that. Even you know that.

She comes into the kitchen one morning with a curious little spin to her step, craning her head around and around like she’s running late for school and can’t find her keys, but it’s a Saturday. You’re there by the fridge, cobbling together something that might resemble an edible breakfast, moving slow because you’ve got a bruise all down your right side that makes it hurt to do more than breathe shallowly or raise your arm more than a couple inches. You sniff the milk and instantly regret this decision, and while you’re pouring the lumpy mess down the sink Jazz asks if the kitchen’s always been on the second floor.

You stare at her, too tired and baffled to give her the proper what the hell a question like that deserves, but she drags you over to the kitchen door and pushes it open, and since when has there been a door to the kitchen and oh my god the kitchen is on the second floor.

She gapes at you and you gape right back, and the rest of that morning is spent going over every inch of the house and seeing what else has changed compared to your shared memories.

Everything has, in some way or another. Doorknobs have shifted, cupboards have lowered, doors moved from one part of a room to another. Even chairs have changed their heights. There’s a whole new door neither of you can remember ever existing before connecting the upstairs bathroom directly to your room. Thinking back—

(staggering through your open window, mouth thick with the hot penny burn of ectoplasm and blood, your right hand pressed against the throb all down your side, and aren’t you grateful for your weight, your sturdiness, because before you finally peeled the faceguard off of Skulker’s exoskeleton and sucked that little jerk into a Thermos he got a good shot in with a rocket that hit you hard right in the ribs, and if you’d been normal there would have just been a dark wet hole where your torso used to be but lucky you, you’re every inch the creepy little freak Spectra called you, so you get to limp home and clean up as best you can on your own since it’s four in the morning and no way are you gonna wake Sam or Tucker up again, and you have to be quiet, you have to be so quiet, biting down pain, you can’t make a sound or Jazz might hear, grabbing the first-aid kid from your underwear drawer and slipping into the bathroom, and for once the hinges didn’t squeak, thank god, you think, thank god)

—you hadn’t even noticed last night or even this morning that a door had sprung up where there’d just been NASA and Nat Geo posters before. And your windows have moved, and your bed has moved, and you and Jazz just stare and stare. Why had neither of you noticed any of this until now? Why haven’t your parents? How long has this been going on? 

What could cause something like this?

It takes half an hour to convince your mom that something’s off about the house, and even longer to get your dad to grasp what you both are trying to say. Their eyes just keep glazing over the differences, even something as huge as the kitchen being on the wrong floor. Once they finally do see though, it’s a whole other story. After the initial shock, they drop all their experiments and spend the next week measuring and scanning every inch of the house.

Their conclusion, a week and some change later? The Ghost Portal leaks. 

Even with the huge steel door locked up tight, it seems there’s enough residual energy slipping through to warp, literally warp, the house. Somehow. The way your mom’s lips thin as she says all this means she’s not satisfied with this conclusion, but she puts on a wide smile when Jazz asks if you’re all in any danger. A smart question, one you think you might’ve asked yourself. Y’know, if you still needed to worry about something like exposure. Your dad just laughs big and loud and says not to worry about it, says if there were going to be any creepy side effects they would have manifested by now. Everything’s fine, they assure you both, but you look at the crease between your mom’s eyebrows and you wonder.

Later, when they’re out taking readings from the ectoplasm-damp wreck you and the Lunch Lady made of a McDonald’s and Jazz is studying at the library, you creep down to the lab and pull up all their documentation of the house. Most of it is dry as dirt; neatly typed spreadsheets and tidy, color-coded graphs (clearly your mom’s handiwork), but there’s also nearly a gigabyte’s worth of photos. Clicking through them, you can see Dad’s sloppy angles and the occasional square pinkie slipping into the frame. Most of the first hundred photos have been untouched, but the two hundreds have been filtered all to hell, like Mom and Dad went through the house a second time, trying to find something the human eye can’t see. Just shy of 300, the photos turn a dusty black and white, splattered in places with an all-too-familiar starkly glowing green.

No. Not splattered. A few spins of the scroll wheel zooms in on a crooked picture of the kitchen. There’s green all over everything; the fridge, the microwave, the drawers and cupboards, cluttered thickly at the kitchen table. These aren’t splatters. They’re handprints, slapped in layers and layers over themselves, like somebody dipped their hands in neon paint and went to town.

Every photo taken in that black and white filter shows the same thing. Handprints on doorknobs and railings, footprints on tile and carpet, green smeared and stamped everywhere, tracking the movements of something—

(somebody)

—for what must be as long as the Portal’s been active.

Why didn’t Mom and Dad say anything about this? Why haven’t you sensed it? There’s a ghost, an entity, some thing lurking around your house like it has every right to be there! Green gathered on the couch, on every table and sink, even the upstairs shower and your room and—

(the pictures of jazz’s room are nearly clean, the pictures of Mom and Dad’s room are spotless, but your room is practically bathed in green from floor to ceiling, your bed and desk nearly washed out by a poisonous haze, and no wonder Mom had looked so worried and no wonder Dad had laughed so loud, they know something’s wrong with you, they’ve always known you were messed up thanks to the accident but now here’s irrefutable proof, how can you lie your way out of photographic evidence, how can they look at you and not see you for the freak you are)

—oh.

You close the files, power down the computer, and walk quietly out of the lab. That’s… that’s all you can really do. Sooner or later your parents will knock gently on your door and ask you to come downstairs. Just a few tests, they’ll say. It’s for your own good, they’ll say. We’re worried about you, they’ll say.

But they’ll find out. They’ll find out what you are, and it’ll go one of two ways. They’ll either accept you as the freak you are, or hate you for the freak you are. Either way, there will be no more hiding. It’s… it’s almost a relief, to know the other shoe is finally going to drop.

Except it never does.

You wait, quietly, patiently, expectantly. They don’t treat you any different. They never say a word. When they call you down to the lab, it’s just to show off the latest in Fenton ghost hunting technology. Why? Why don’t they ask? Why don’t they administer tests, if not on you than on the house and the Portal? Why does nothing change?

=

They’re wrong on nearly every count, sure, but you’ve got hurts aplenty to hide. Sam and Tucker have seen the lightning splashed across your skin dozens of times by now, and when they hear the A-listers spreading this bad joke of a ghost story and see you laugh, they laugh too. There wasn’t much chance of hiding it for long from them, after all, when it’s so much easier to patch up the nastier cuts when you’re bleeding sluggish ectoplasm instead of blood pumped by a heart full of adrenaline.

The first time Sam had insisted on unzipping your suit to get a good look at the slash on one shoulder, Tucker cracking a half-hearted attempt at a dirty joke with hands shaking so bad the first aid kit rattled like a live thing, they’d both stopped cold. For ten long seconds, they just stared, pinning you down with matching expressions of horror. It was the longest ten seconds of your life. You’d been scared before, of being found out for the freak you are, of being overwhelmed by powerful ghosts, but this, you’re pretty sure, was the first time you were ever terrified.

But then Sam hugged you, and Tucker had smiled and squeezed your good shoulder, and that had been enough. There wasn’t anything to worry about after all.

They understand now why you gasp when your ghost sense goes off—

(shock like plunging feet first into a frozen lake, shock like drowning with a chest full of dead air, shock like electricity buzzing hot and cold and terrible through your nerves, leaving you breathless and tingling, your fists clenched so tight your knuckles burn white, teeth clenched and grinding as you dart for the nearest lonely corner to gather up your heaviness and summon the starlight in your heart)

—and they know why it took you so long to realize you don’t have a heartbeat when you’re a ghost. The first few times you changed, you’d felt it, felt it like a rush of blood flow to a sleeping limb, but it took weeks to put it together. To realize the stinging, cool pulse radiating from your hand to your chest wasn’t your heart but something else altogether. All that star-bright scar tissue pulses. Involuntary, but without any reaction to how much energy you exert. A constant, steady [unfinished]

=

Breathing is optional too, when you’re a ghost. You’d found that one out the hard way, choking on mud in that stupid duck pond and tangled in one of Skulker’s nets.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: You definitely won’t trust now, but I hope to see y’all in two weeks anyway, please don’t hate me -Danny

Words: 5,048

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Book 5

Listen to: I Only Wanna Talk To You -by The Maine

Chapter Thirty-Seven: A New Vow.

Many things changed as the school year came to an end, none of them was good. 

Students would avoid her in the halls, they would stare at her and Harry carelessly, some frowning, some just plain scared. That wasn't new and it didn't hurt her anymore.

What hurt her was the way Harry grew distant out of the blue. He wouldn't touch her, not even sit beside her on accident. He would talk to her as if nothing had happened but she could see it in his eyes, some kind of distress, she had the ugly feeling that he resented her.

Mel was talking to Erick one morning in the courtyard, where they used to hang out during her first year. She was there to deliver Dumbledore's message and to thank him, it was their first time talking since the first task.

"I don't know what I would've done without the watch... it saved us."

Erick shook his head. "I merely confirmed his suspicions, Dumbledore was already looking for you when I got to him."

"You got him when I fainted during the task, you stood guard outside the tent while we were inside and I was..." She didn't know what to call it, her first thought was always directed to the word 'dying' but she knew now that those weren't her feelings, it was Harry who'd been dying, not her.

"You looked possessed. I thought you were... that you had..."

"That I was crazy," Mel sighed.

"...How's Harry?"

"We don't talk about that," Mel frowned, not wanting to go there. "Dumbledore has a message for you."

"Tell me."

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

"He said you could be of help," She replied carefully. "That if you're willing, you could join us."

"For what?" Erick asked in puzzlement.

"He didn't explain... said you could search for rogues."

After ten seconds, Erick spoke timidly. "Rogues like me?"

"I think so..."

"He wants me to dig around, see if any other Slytherin shares my... views."

"He kept saying how we have to stick together," Mel shook her head. "I think he's expecting us to try harder next year, unite the houses while we can..."

"I..." Erick started to stress. "It's too dangerous for me, you know that. Half of my friends come from Death Eaters or you-know-who's supporters. It's like walking on thin ice."

"You don't have to do it," Mel said promptly. "I know how your parents feel about this, and if they catch you doing something like that, trying to speak in Dumbledore's favour... I know that in comparison to me, you're on your own. I can't make you risk your well being like this."

Erick stared at her, he remained silent for a while, Mel didn't know what to do.

"Did you know, Miss," He finally uttered, "that Rapunzel isn't saved by a prince?"

She tilted her head and waited for him to finish.

"Found her way out of the mess, rebuilt her life on her own," Erick continued calmly. "I believe we'll do too."

"Bin havin' a cuppa with Olympe," Hagrid said as they settled around his table. "She's jus' left."

"Who?" said Ron curiously.

"Madame Maxime, o' course!" said Hagrid.

"You two made up, have you?" said Ron.

"Dunno what yeh're talkin' about," said Hagrid. When he had made tea and offered around a plate of doughy cookies, he leaned back in his chair and examined Harry and Mel closely. "You all righ'?"

"Yeah," said Harry.

"All right," Mel smiled.

"No, yeh're not," said Hagrid. " 'Course yeh're not. But yeh will be. Knew he was goin' ter come back. Known it fer years, Harry. Knew he was out there, bidin' his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has, an' we'll jus' have ter get on with it. We'll fight. Migh' be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That's Dumbledore's plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore. 'S long as we've got him, I'm not too worried."

Mel looked down to her cup, frowning.

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," He said, patting her shoulder gently. "What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did. Yeh did as much as yer fathers would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

They smiled, the very first glimpse of their old self coming to the surface.

"What's Dumbledore asked you to do, Hagrid?" Harry asked. "He sent Professor McGonagall to ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him — that night."

"Got a little job fer me over the summer– Secret, though. I'm not s'pposed ter talk abou' it, no, not even ter you lot. Olympe — Madame Maxime ter you — might be comin' with me. I think she will. Think I got her persuaded."

"Is it to do with Voldemort?" "Migh' be," Hagrid grimaced. "Now... who'd like ter come an'visit the las' skrewt with me? I was jokin' — jokin'!"

Mel's eyes found Harry's and he quickly averted his gaze. She frowned, a resolution already forming in her mind that she would clear things out with her best friend before they were back home.

She walked into his room when she knew he'd be alone packing up his things.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" He said, gaze fixed on his trunk.

"I want to talk to you. You're the only one I want to talk to, but you keep avoiding me..."

"What d'you mean?"

"Can you at least look at me for just a second?" She frowned.

Harry did as told, his face remaining neutral as Mel approached. She looked into his eyes and pulled him in for a hug.

"I'm sorry," She mumbled against his shoulder. "Whatever I did– Please don't be mad. I swear all I wanted was to help you–"

Harry stepped away from her, not returning the hug.

"What're you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about! You don't... you won't–"

"I'm not mad at you!" Harry said exasperated. "Don't you see this is all my fault?"

Mel blinked.

"What?"

"I saw the bruises... What happened to you during the time Voldemort got me– you could've died!"

"Harry," She looked at him in disbelief. "You could've died."

"This is about you," He replied firmly. "It's my fault. I've dragged you to all of my mistakes and you end up hurt–"

"Those were my choices–"

"It was never your idea," He stated. "Dumbledore said that we're too close..."

"No! That's not... I did all that because I need you to be–"

"This was a mistake," Harry was breathing heavily, he was in distress. "What we did was a mistake."

"What, exactly?" She said in a shaky whisper, knowing where this was going.

"You know," His eyes hardened.

"That's rubbish!" It felt like holding sand, desperately trying not to let him slip away from her fingers. "This is not the solution–!"

"I don't think I ever liked you for real," He blurted out, "it wasn't my choice..."

"What?"

"I... I mean it," He turned around, hastily packing the last bits of clothing. "I think it might be the lifeline stuff... didn't like that you were getting close to other people– It sounds selfish, but it makes sense... some kind of instinct– doesn't mean it was real..."

"Harry, don't be stu–"

"I don't want you," He insisted. "I can't have you."

"Glasses–"

"My name is Harry!" He yelled, turning to face her. "Stop calling me that! I hate it! I hate the stupid nickname and I don't like you!"

Mel felt cornered, Harry had never spoken to her like that before. He turned back and slammed down the lid of his trunk.

"Just leave me alone." He said, abandoning the conversation as well as the room.

She stumbled back to his bed, falling heavily on it. Without being able to control herself, she burst into tears.

Mel avoided him for the rest of the term, spending most of her free time with the twins like the old times. It was good for her spirit, they knew how to make her laugh. During the feast she was seated between them, Dumbledore stood up to give his farewell speech and they fell silent.

"The end of another year. There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight," said Dumbledore, fixing his eyes on the Hufflepuff table, "but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here, enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory."

And so they did. Every student in the room.

"Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house. He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about... Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort."

George looked down at her and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so — either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory. There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedric's death," Dumbledore went on. "I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter."

She refused to look for him and kept her gaze on the old man ahead.

"Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort. He risked his own life to return Cedric's body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honour him."

She lifted her goblet and said his name, but found herself saying it with a new resentment that had never been there before. It didn't feel right.

"The Triwizard Tournament's aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened — of Lord Voldemort's return — such ties are more important than ever before. Every guest in this Hall, will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again — in the light of Lord Voldemort's return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemort's gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open. It is my belief — and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken — that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst."

Her fists were closed tightly, there was still a faint greenish shadow were the bruise on her forearm had been days before.

"Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory."

" 'Arry!" Fleur Delacour was hurrying up the stone steps, Joseph was beside her.  "We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope. I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my Eenglish."

"It's very good already," said Ron clumsily.

Mel had her attention on Joseph.

"It was nice," Mel smiled fondly. "You're ten times funnier than your cousin."

Joseph laughed.

"Don't judge him too hard, it's the way he's been brought up. He used to be a lousy kid, very loving too... people grow out of it, unfortunately."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Maybe," He smiled sweetly at her. "Take care, will you?"

"Yes."

"Will you watch after my cousin too?"

"Not like I have a choice..."

He chuckled. "See you, Mel."

"Good-bye, 'Arry," said Fleur, turning to go with Joseph. "It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!"

As Mel watched them leave, she had the reassuring feeling that maybe Erick wasn't entirely on his own after all.

"Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting back," said Ron. "D'you reckon they can steer that ship without Karkaroff?"

"Karkaroff did not steer. He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork." Krum said behind them. He looked at Hermione. "Could I have a vord?"

"Oh... yes... all right," said Hermione.

"You'd better hurry up!" Ron called loudly after her. "The carriages'll be here in a minute!"

"Oh shut up, Ron," Mel scolded. "Let her have one moment in private with him."

"What, is not like she'll be missing him lots, they didn't even date."

"You don't need to date someone in order to miss them," She snapped. "Or like them, for that matter..." She felt Harry purposefully look away as she spoke. When Krum returned, he talked to them.

"I liked Diggory. He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang — with Karkaroff."

"Have you got a new headmaster yet?" Harry asked.

Krum shrugged. He held out his hand as Fleur had done, shook Harry's hand, and then Ron's. Ron looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, "Can I have your autograph?"

Hermione turned away, smiling at the horseless carriages that were now trundling toward them up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of parchment for Ron.

The trip back was good enough, even if Mel and Harry couldn't look at each other in the eye. Dumbledore's speech had given them energies, and just like he'd said before, they still had to remain together, for the greater good.

"There's nothing in there," Hermione signalled to the Daily Prophet Harry was staring at. "You can look for yourself, but there's nothing at all. I've been checking every day. Just a small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They didn't even mention Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me, Fudge is forcing them to keep quiet."

"Of course he is," Mel scoffed, "he's an idiot, but not that kind of idiot."

"He'll never keep Rita quiet," said Harry. "Not on a story like this."

"Oh, Rita hasn't written anything at all since the third task," said Hermione delightedly. "As a matter of fact, Rita Skeeter isn't going to be writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she wants me to spill the beans on her."

"What are you talking about?" said Ron.

"I found out how she was listening in on private conversations when she wasn't supposed to be coming onto the grounds," said Hermione.

"Oh, right!" Mel said. "What was that about?"

"How was she doing it?" said Harry.

"How did you find out?" said Ron.

"Well, it was you and Mel who gave me the idea, Harry."

"What? How?"

"Bugging," said Hermione happily.

"But you said they didn't work —"

"Oh not electronic bugs," said Hermione. "No, you see... Rita Skeeter" — Hermione's voice trembled with quiet triumph — "is an unregistered Animagus. She can turn —" Hermione pulled a small sealed glass jar out of her bag. "— into a beetle."

"You're kidding," said Ron. "You haven't... she's not..."

"Oh yes she is," said Hermione.

"Holy Godric," Mel laughed loudly for the first time in days.

"That's never — you're kidding —" Ron mumbled, examining the jar.

"No, I'm not. I caught her on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very closely, and you'll notice the markings around her antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she wears."

"There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!" Harry exclaimed.

"When you fainted there was a beetle in the curtain as well," Mel replied, her eyes fixed on the tiny creature. "And when I talked to Cedric before the first task..."

"Exactly. And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair after we'd had our conversation by the lake. She's been buzzing around for stories all year."

"When we saw Malfoy under that tree..."

"He was talking to her, in his hand. He knew, of course. That's how she's been getting all those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They wouldn't care that she was doing something illegal, as long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us and Hagrid. I've told her I'll let her out when we get back to London. I've put an Unbreakable Charm on the jar, you see, so she can't transform. And I've told her she's to keep her quill to herself for a whole year. See if she can't break the habit of writing horrible lies about people."

"Hermione, I love you," Mel grinned.

The door of the compartment slid open.

"Very clever, Granger," Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing there. "So, you caught some pathetic reporter, and Potter's Dumbledore's favourite boy again. Big deal." He stared at them with bright eyes. "Trying not to think about it, are we? Trying to pretend it hasn't happened?"

"Get out," Harry tensed.

"You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this! Too late now, Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well — second — Diggory was the f —"

It was as though someone had exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of the spells that had blasted from every direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry blinked and looked down at the floor.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all on the ground and they were on their feet, all four of them having used a different hex. Nor were they the only ones to have done so.

"Thought we'd see what those three were up to," said Fred entering their compartment.

"Interesting effect," said George, examining Crabbe. "Who used the Furnunculus Curse?"

"Me," said Harry.

"Odd– I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn't be mixed. He seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let's not leave them here, they don't add much to the decor."

Ron, Harry, and George pushed them out into the corridor, when they straighten up, Ron turned his head slightly towards her.

"Er... Mel?"

She walked out of the compartment and found Erick standing there, looking down at the three Slytherins.

"Oh," She smiled. "Hello. Don't worry boys, I got this."

Erick had a sort of exasperated look on his face.

"Why don't you turn around and forget you saw this," George ignored her. "We promise not to hurt you if you do."

"You promise not to hurt me?" Erick let out a dry laugh. "Right..."

"He's not here to report us," Ron said, pushing his brother back into the compartment. "Listen to Mel..."

"Don't annoy her, the year's over and so is the committee," George insisted.

"George," Mel sighed. "It's okay."

"Listen, we can clear all doubts in a moment, but can I talk to her first?" Erick frowned. "In private."

The boys entered the compartment reluctantly, they had just closed the door when he spoke.

"I'll do it. Whatever Dumbledore wants me to do."

Mel was taken by surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"What he said during the speech... he's right," He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's time to make a choice."

"But your parents–"

"Don't have to know. If there's any chance that there are more people like me... if I can convince them... it'll be worth it, right?"

Before she could stop herself, she held his hand.

"Come."

"What?"

"Come in for a second, meet the Weasleys."

"So they can kill me? No thanks–"

"They won't," She dragged him inside. Everyone stared at them. "Erick won't report us."

"Good for him," Ron replied in disinterest.

"I think it's time we clear things up," She continued with determination. "Erick and I are good friends. He doesn't need to prove his loyalty to anyone, but he wants to help my uncle, so it'd be brilliant if you could, you know, be nice to him."

"No need to look so outraged," Erick said, staring at the twins' faces. "Being a Slytherin doesn't equal being a monster. I could've reported you to Professor McGonagall thousands of times during the school year but I kept my mouth shut. Why?"

"Because you knew we could've kicked your arse?"

"Very classy," He rolled his eyes. "I did it out of consideration for Mel. Now Dumbledore asked for my help and that's what I'll give. All I want is for you to stay out of my way and stop acting like I'm the danger. I assure you, Mel's the bad influence here. All I care about is being of use."

A heavy silence surrounded them as the boys processed the news.

"All right then, be of use," George shrugged. "Close the door and sit down, we've had enough visitors for today."

"Exploding Snap, anyone?" said Fred, pulling out a pack of cards. "Be of use, Flint, open the window before you sit."

"I'm going to regret this..." Erick groaned, doing as asked.

She purposely seated Erick between her and Harry for the rest of the trip.

"You going to tell us, then?" Harry said to George after a while. "Who you were blackmailing?"

"What?" Erick looked around in confusion.

"Long story," Hermione said over her book.

"It doesn't matter," said Fred. "It wasn't anything important. Not now, anyway."

"We've given up," said George, shrugging.

"Come on!"

Harry, Hermione, Ron and her insisted so much that Fred lost his patience.

"All right, all right, if you really want to know... it was Ludo Bagman."

"Bagman? Are you saying he was involved in —"

"Nah. Nothing like that. Stupid git. He wouldn't have the brains."

"Well, what, then?"

"You remember that bet we had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?"

"Yeah."

"Well," He glanced at Mel, "The git paid us in leprechaun gold he'd caught from the Irish mascots."

"So?"

"So," said Fred, "it vanished, didn't it? By next morning, it had gone!"

"So I guess, you could say I told you so, Lady," George scowled. "We were idiots."

"But — it must've been an accident, mustn't it?" said Hermione.

"Yeah, that's what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote to him, and told him he'd made a mistake, he'd cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to get away from us."

"In the end, he turned pretty nasty," said Fred. "Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn't giving us anything."

"So we asked for our money back."  

"He didn't refuse!" gasped Hermione.

"Right in one," said Fred.

"But that was all your savings!"

"Tell me about it," George scoffed. "'Course, we found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan's dad had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he's in big trouble with the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still wasn't enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He's lost everything gambling. Hasn't got two Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins back?"

"How?"

"He put a bet on you, mate," said Fred. "Put a big bet on you to win the tournament. Bet against the goblins."

"I knew it!" Mel exclaimed.

"So that's why he kept trying to help me win! Well — I did win, didn't I? So he can pay you your gold!"

"Nope– The goblins play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, and Bagman was betting you'd win outright. So Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after the third task."

"My Grandad's a big fan of Zonko's," Erick mentioned casually, placing his cards on the table. "And he relishes on supporting young inventors, reminds him of the old days. If you send me samples I'll show them to him and he might help you... What? Don't look at me like that, it's not dirty money!"

"Sorry," Fred said, raising a brow. "It's weird to see you acting like... well, like a good person."

"Unexpected, you mean," George suggested. "You have the looks of a conceited prat."

"Give it time," Mel muttered.

"Shut it," Erick nudged her arm. "Anyway, I better leave and finish my rounds before we arrive... I'll write if anything comes up, Mel."

They waved him goodbye, the twins looked at her with their eyebrows raised.

"What?"

"Nothing," Fred smirked. "Bad influence you are then, aren't you?"

"You've corrupted Slytherin's Prince!"

"Careful Harry," Fred teased. "Don't let him get too comfortable or he'll think he's got a chance!"

"Shut up," Mel interrupted harshly. "Erick doesn't like me that way..."

"Sure thing, and Krum's nothing but a good mate to Hermione," George grinned.

"Fred — George — wait a moment."

She heard Harry said after leaving the compartment. She froze, curiosity winning over her.

"Take it," He said, and she could hear the distinct sound of coins inside a sack falling onto someone's hands.

"What?" said one of the twins.

"Take it. I don't want it."

"You're mental–"

"No, I'm not. You take it and get inventing. It's for the joke shop."

"He is mental."

"Listen, if you don't take it, I'm throwing it down the drain. I don't want it and I don't need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I've got a feeling we're going to need them more than usual before long."

He was giving them the tournament's money. Her heart did that odd flip it hadn't done in days.

"Harry," she kept hearing, "there's got to be a thousand Galleons in here."

"Yeah, think how many Canary Creams that is– Just don't tell your mum where you got it... although she might not be so keen for you to join the Ministry anymore, come to think of it..."

"Harry–"

"Look, take it, or I'll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favour, okay? Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they're from you."

Harry left the compartment and faced her. There was a moment where she caught a glimpse of something, for a second he looked like he wanted to speak. It disappeared right away though, taking all her hopes with it. He scowled and walked past her without uttering a word.

"See you, Harry," said Ron, clapping him on the back.

"'Bye, Harry!" said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Harry — thanks," George muttered, while Fred nodded fervently at his side.

Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle Vernon, and followed him silently from the station. There was no point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the back of the Dursleys' car.

As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come... and he would have to meet it when it did.

Mel entered her mother's car in silence, she was still trying to understand how things had gone to the dogs between her and Harry so quickly. There was something pressing on her chest and she wasn't sure she wanted to plug it out.

Her mother spoke for the first time in the day.

"We're not staying at Privet Drive this summer."

"What?" Mel asked absently.

"We'll go there to get your clothes, then we'll leave first thing tomorrow morning to Remus' place," Her mother explained quickly. "I know you want to stay and make sure Harry's fine, but I have things to do and you can't be left alone–"

"Okay."

Her mother stared at her.

"What?"

"I know Harry's going to be safe, surrounded by muggles and all," She tried to keep her voice neutral. "If we're of use somewhere else, I want to go."

Emily knew right away that something was wrong, but whether if she thought it was about Harry or not, she didn't comment on it.

"All right. It'll be a long summer, this one..."

"Yeah," Mel looked out the window as the car left their parking spot.

The girl felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she'd been dreading to go back and have no one to talk to but Harry. Not that he'd be visiting her house at all, but at least now she had an excuse to stay away from him. To leave him alone, just as he'd requested.

Mel thought, very bitterly, that her biggest dream and worst nightmare had come true at the same time. She made a vow not to wish for anything ever again.

Next Part —>

Taglist.

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[instasiswetrust]

The hand around Nea's neck tightened, words choking up and dying inside her throat. Eyes that used to be blue now glinted red in the dim atmosphere of her kitchen, illuminated only by the light coming from the setting sun. No mercy or compassion could be found in those eyes, just a deep-seated hatred that scared her down to her very core.

"I think that's enough of your inane babbling, Nea." Dwight's voice was a purr, low and dangerous, filled with thinly veiled intent. She still manages enough spite to glare back at him.

"Now, now darling, no need to be like that." Dwight clicks his tongue like a disapproving parent. "None of this would've happened if you'd kept your dirty little mouth shut instead of talking shit about MY BROTHER."

The slap comes as a surprise to her, a second going by before the pain finally hits. She tastes something coppery and metallic at the back of her throat and realizes she has bitten her tongue. His hand around her neck has relaxed just enough for her to speak again so she does.

"It's not shit if it's the truth, Dweet." She sneers, eyes hard and flinty with anger. “Your beaner of a brother is a filthy slut who likes to suck PsychoMyers dick - Ack!"

"Shut. Up." Dwight watches her choke on her breath as his hand tightens once again. He's about done bothering with this bitch, and if he wastes any more time he was going to be late for dinner. And while mom could understand murder quite easily, being on time for dinner was a mandatory rule.

Without letting go of his holds, he turns to glance at the boy sitting on a stool by the kitchen island, watching him with an enraptured expression. There are two points of red high on his cheeks, and the hunger in his eyes sends a tentative shot of arousal through Dwight's spine.

"David, the bleach if you will?" The boy shook his head like a dog would before opening the cap of the gallon next to him and handing it over to Dwight. "Thank you."

David only offers him a shaky nod, his gaze shifting briefly to what Dwight thinks might be his lips before returning them to his face. It's a little funny how out of everything, this is what gets to David.

Turning back to Nea, Dwight doesn't even bother being flashy or dramatic. He forces her jaw open and pours the bleach, watching her choke on it. It burns her eyes, her throat, and the stench is absolutely disgusting but he doesn't stop until the gallon is half-empty and Nea Karlsson lies limp in his hold.

------

After the party, when he had called Nea out on her bullshit in front of everyone and promptly vomited on her expensive Adidas sneakers, he had assumed he wouldn't ever hear about the cheerleader clique again. Had even been fine with that. David was with him now, and he would always have Danny in his corner. He could let Nea think she had won, just this once.

Thing was, bitches never quite learn how to keep their mouths shut.

Dwight had gone to her house planning to fake an apology, David in tow telling him how it was a waste of time bothering with someone like her. But of course, Nea had had to mention Danny. Make fun of his little brother, of Michael, even mock Joey, and Susie. His friends. His pack. His family.

He remembered everything of course, to the smallest detail. How he had forged the note saying Nea was running away with another Alpha, thinking she would be hated if she stayed. David helped him carry the body to Max's pigpen. The way David's cock tasted on his mouth and the muffled sounds he had made as Dwight sucked him off in the back of his car.

It had been fun. The kind of heady high he had only felt once before when he had to clean up one of Danny's scenes because he had gotten himself stabbed.

And of course, no one at school suspected a thing. The student body ate up Meg's fake note so easily it was almost laughable. Dwight had assumed that had been it, and focused on his grades, filing everything that went through with Meg, Nea, and Kate to the back of his mind.

That was why Kate’s call took him by surprise.

"Dwight, please, you have to help me." Kate's pitchy, worried voice begged almost as soon as he accepted the call.

Dwight knew Kate, had become accustomed to the different shifts in her voice that marked her emotions more clearly than her expressions did. She wasn’t just worried, she was terrified but there was also an undercurrent of guilt there that made him take her words with a grain of salt.

"It's 11 pm, Kate. My heat only broke yesterday." He said flatly, not at all in the mood for her bullshit. Despite his heats being a mellow affair, his body was still sore and he wanted nothing but to bury himself back in his nest.

"Please." She was begging now and Dwight swore he could hear Ace's and Ash's drunken babble in the background. "Meg left me alone with Ash and Ace as one of her pranks, and they are really drunk. I'm... I'm really scared Dwight, please."

Oh. Yeah okay, he couldn't say no to that. Out of the three of them, Kate had always been the nicest, relatively speaking. She went along with whatever the other two told her to do sure, but that was about it. He was gonna regret this later for sure but right now all he knew was that he needed to get her out of there.

"Fine, okay. Lemme grab my mom's keys and I will be there. Text me your address in the meantime."

She thanked him profusely before cutting the call and Dwight sighed. With luck, Uncle Herman might be awake and could lend him two bottles of vodka laced with sedatives.

------

It had only taken a day. Just one. Now all the school was gossiping about how much of a slut Dwight was, having spent his heat with not one but two Alphas.

Ash and Ace had no proof of course, other than their words but this was high school. The veracity of things didn't have to be proven for people to believe them and as it was, Dwight had become an absolute social outcast in the last party. If the star Alphas of the football team claimed it was true, of course, it was.

"Danny, leave it. They are not worth it." He said for the second time as a group of cheerleaders went past their pack's table and made faces of disgust at Dwight.

"But Dwickyyyy ..." Danny pouted, and Dwight knew this was his brother's best front. Knew that there was fury and venom in his brother's dark eyes. Knew there was already a plot brewing there too. "I d-don't wanna."

But Dwight was adamant about this, shaking his head again and turning to face the whole pack who had different expressions of anger among them.

"No one gets to lay a hand on those two, you hear me? I will personally deal with them, myself. Is that clear?" Some of them nod, but others like Frank and David still snarl. This made Dwight frown, holding their gazes until they lowered their heads. "Good."

It was only later when Dwight was heading out of the locker room after a particularly tense cheer practice, that things started to get out of hand.

"What the bloody fuck did ye say about my boyfriend, ye git?" David's accent was unmistakable but the kind of vitriol that filled his voice was completely new to Dwight. It had him instantly separating from the team and making his way over to the source of the commotion.

There was a throng of people gathered around the base of the bleachers making it unable for Dwight to properly see what was happening. He was about to push his way through when the crowd suddenly parted, giving him a perfect view of the bloody mess that was inside.

Ace was bleeding profusely from a broken nose, his left eye was swollen almost shut, Ash was next to him, knuckles scraped and bloodied. He seemed fine, for the most part, his lip was split and there was a smear of bloody saliva on his cheek. Dwight didn't care about them though. It was who he saw in Joey's arms, nearly unconscious, that caused him concern.

From what he could see David had ended up almost as bad as Ace, blood running down his nose, lip split, right eye already swelling up, and knuckles scraped. If the way he seemed unable to walk straight on his own was any indication, Dwight fears he might have a concussion too.

"Fuckers started it," Joey said as soon as Dwight was close enough to listen to him. "Caught up with us just at the start of practice and started spouting shit about you. Bet they just wanted to get a rise out of him."

Dwight sighed, helping Joey sit David down by the benches. The younger Beta left to go pick up their things and Dwight busied himself cleaning off the blood caking his boyfriend's face and knuckles. He was frustrated, bordering on angry, and David must've scented it off him because he managed to frown despite the obvious pain it put him in.

"Ain't gonna say sorry for showing those gits what they get for slagging you off." He rasped, having to stop midway to spit a gob of congealed blood into the grass.

"Wasn't going to ask you to," Dwight said simply, prodding at his nose with careful fingers to make sure it wasn't broken. "But you need to trust me when I say I will take care of it."

"I trust ye, sweetheart. But I can't just sit back and do nothing when they come looking for a fight." David shot back, wincing slightly despite the softness of his boyfriend's touch.

"Technically, you can." David gave him a glare that Dwight matched with equal intensity until the Alpha looked away first. "Look, I'm not mad at you. They provoked you knowing full well you would react. I just hate it when you get hurt because of me."

"...Even if it's kinda hot?" David grinned.

"Even if it's kinda hot," Dwight confirmed, offering him a small smile.

-----

Three days later, Dwight finally enacted his plan.

He'd left a note for Ash and Ace to find, inviting them to the cemetery so they could reenact their threesome fantasies with him. The idiots had believed it all, hook, line, and sinker. It was almost funny how easy it had been.

Flattering clothes, and heeled boots, things that would look sexy but would be easy to clean afterward. Danny had done his make-up, something deadly that would match his leather gloves, brimming with excitement because Dwight finally got to enjoy a little murder.

So now he waited patiently for them to arrive, sitting primly on a headstone like the image of a proper Omega one would see in cheap romantic novels. David waited in the car, parked by the entrance of the graveyard, only because he had refused to allow him to do this without any backup.

At last, the two of them appear, looking awkward and nervous and a little drunk already. They reek of interested Alpha pheromones, which in turn threatens to make Dwight throw up but he kept his pleasant facade for now.

"Boys, you're here! Fantastic. We can finally start this." He chirped, voice high and happy.

Ash and Ace smirk, step closer, crowd him in the middle of the two like Dwight would try to escape or something. It irked him but he remained calm, rising a bit to wrap his arms around their necks and pull them closer. Neither of them noticed the thin syringes until it was too late.

"What the-" It was the only thing Ace managed to get out before he stumbled on his feet, falling on his ass. Ash didn't even manage to say anything before his knees gave and he fell to the ground face first, body a messy heap.

They were still conscious of course, his mom's special brew numbing their limbs but allowing them to stay awake. It was not something that showed up in general toxicology reports either, and thus had quickly become Dwight's favorite.

"You tried to rape Kate, almost got away with it even, had I not come help her out. Not satisfied with that, you chose to slander my name in front of the whole school." His voice was flat, emotionless, clinical. Rage simmered under the surface but there was no point in letting it drive his actions. Passion crimes were always the easiest to spot, and Dwight was not about to get caught over two idiots like these.

"That was the biggest mistake you could make." He positioned Ash's body so he was sitting with his back to a tombstone, facing Ace. Their terrified eyes stared at him horrified but he once again felt nothing, his mind an unperturbed lake. "Don't you think so too?"

When he was satisfied with how the two of them were posed, he slipped a folded note inside the pocket of Ash's varsity jacket, glad that his leather gloves would leave no remaining evidence on the soon-to-be corpses.

With the same overwhelming calm, he pulled out his custom-made colt 45, a gift from his mother. It was black with a white grip, engraved with golden vines over the barrel. A pretty little thing he rarely ever used, but it seemed fitting this time.

No more words left his mouth as he placed the gun in Ace's hands, making sure he'd got a proper grip on it before raising the gun to Ace’s head. There was no dramatic pause before he pulled the trigger, no tentative build-up. One moment Ace was alive, the next the left side of his head looked like hamburger meat.

Dwight made sure that none of the blood had gotten on him before moving over to Ash and doing the same thing. Worldless and instant. There was no point in stalling or watching them try to beg for mercy.

Once he'd triple checked the scene was flawless, he silently made his way back to the car where David was waiting for him. The swelling in his eye had gone down at last but he still looked worse for wear. Still, he grinned when he saw Dwight slide into the driver's seat.

"All done?"

"All done," Dwight confirmed, allowing his body to relax. He required a serious shower and even then he wasn't sure he would be able to scrub the hideous Alpha scent those two had covered him with.

"C'mere..." David murmured, pulling him closer so he could nuzzle firmly at both sides of Dwight's neck, marking him with his scent. It wasn't enough to completely dispel Ash's and Ace's scent, but it managed to take the edge off and settle Dwight's stomach.

"Thank you." He said honestly, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend's uninjured cheek. "Um..."

"What is it, darlin'?"

Dwight didn't want to appear needy or like he needed to be babied after kills. But the way Ash and Ace had crowded him, rubbed their scent over him, bothered him greatly. The Omega in him protesting with the hostile scents.

"Do you think you could stay over tonight?" He asked quietly, face once again tucked in the crook of David's neck. "I'm not bothered after killing them, it's just... I feel dirty with their scent all over me."

David hummed, threading his fingers through Dwight's messy hair. "Sure, sweetheart. Ye just need a little scenting, I can give ye that."

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Day 18: Ancient -  Adulting: But Ghostly Chap. 2: The Chronic Age Changer

Screwing up in the Fenton Lab was a pretty normal regular thing, but screwing up in such a way to botch someone’s age and humanness without actually changing said age and humanness was a weird one. The trio mess with the school, ClockWork messes with everyone, and Danny? Well, he is the mess.

Sam and Tucker are effectively ransacking Danny’s closet for clothing. Considering he was the only one that worn clothing in the triple XL size even though he was a medium on a good day. Though Sam has some fish netting to work with, shit was stretchy as Hell. So she cut out the crotch of a pair to make for a decent long sleeve fishnet crop top. Thank the Zone her bra cup size hadn’t changed. She’d also ripped up one of Danny’s older SlipKnot shirts -why did he even have this? He didn’t listen to SlipKnot?- and fashioned a nice skirt out of it with safety pins. The arm sleeves made for nice little pockets. And by nice, she means bigger that what girls' clothing usually came with.

Tucker was pretty well feeling stuck with a pinstriped green sweater and Tripp pants that were way too bloody long. Oh well, the bottoms were already torn to shit. In fact, did Danny own anything that wasn’t in questionable to piss poor condition?

The two turning to Danny, rolling their eyes at him still wearing the sweater sweats combination from yesterday. Him nodding curtly at the mirror, “this will have to do”, before turning to his friends and jabbing a thumb towards the door. Both of them walking out with him to go get breakfast.

Maddie grins at the trio of ‘teens’, “sleep well? No problems with your bodies?”.

Danny grins, “nope”, and honestly? It’s a pure miracle he wasn’t wakened up by some ghost or another. Sam and Tucker both immediately pointing at Danny and nodding. Maddie grinning at them, “good. I’d like to give you guys a very quick check over before you head out though. If that’s alright?”, while setting the pancakes down on the table.

The trio glance at each other and shrug. Looking to the Fenton Matriarch and speaking in unison, “sure”, making her smile more as everyone -mostly Tucker- starts stuffing their faces.

-

The whole getting checked over thing had been smooth sailing and show precisely zero change, which was technically good. More or less anyway. Maddie waving bye to them as they head out the doors. Danny glances between his to friends, “so, the shit you telling your folks? Because I doubt just not going home even resembles a plan”.

Sam rolls her eyes at him, “that’s literally one of your emergency plans”.

“Sam, no one is going to try murdering us over this”, Danny tilts his head, “or at least now that we don’t look like ghosts anymore”. Tucker inspects his hand, “actually I think we do but the spray stuff just cast some illusion shit”.

“Tuck, if that were the case then my hair would feel like fire. It does not feel like fire”. Both his friends grimace slightly but nod in agreement. Though Tucker hums, “I think the illusion includes feeling. Because that would be one mind fuck otherwise”. Sam just groans loudly, effectively communicating that he should shut the fuck up.

Danny rolls his eyes, “anyway, I’m going to run off and see Clocky pretty well as soon as we’re out of sight of FentonWorks. Not like school matters much for me and they can’t be bothered calling my folks any more”.

Tucker points at him, “and we still can’t decide if that’s depressing or not. Though yeah, you go do that”. Sam nodding, “and really? This ‘adult’ thing could easily be used as an excuse why you’re not there and a reasonable one at that”.

Danny blinks, genuinely looking pleasantly surprised, “huh. Who would have thought I ever would have a really good excuse to use?”.

The other two deadpanning, “no one”.

Tucker throwing his hands behind his head, “but who the heck’s going to believe this at first anyway? I’m mean I know I’ve always been good looking but this? Ho boy those poor ladies”. Sam predictably smacks him.

Danny shoves Tucker gently, “honestly man?”, pointing at Sam, “it’s her that’s gonna shock people. Ancients, just the hair alone will shock”. Sam lifting up the end of her hair and muttering, “true. This is going to annoy the heck out of me”, which everyone’s laughs at a little.

Danny glances around before saluting his friends, “whelp, I’m off. Enjoy the Hell of school!”, then switching to an almost comically singsong voice, “🎵Well I’m off to see the wizard🎵“, then promptly falls through a purple portal.

Sam blinks, “I still can’t believe they respond to that”. Tucker snickers, “eh they just like making him break out into song randomly”. Sam just snorts at that as they turn to go the little ways further before entering the school doors to death-Hell.

-

Danny stretches his arms up before dropping them and grinning wide as he spots his mentor, who looks fairly pleased with themselves. “Enjoying the view?”.

“Very much so, Daniel”, ClockWork turns to him and changes to their child form, moving to shit on his shoulder. Danny eyeing them and chuckling, “damn Clockpops, you are tiny. I mean, you usually are in this form but now it’s like, extra tiny”. ClockWork just chuckles faintly, their small smile growing ever so slightly. Which makes Danny smiles himself before gesturing his hands up and down himself, “so....about this....”.

-

Meanwhile. Sam and Tucker walk down the Casperhigh halls getting stared at by every person which was only making the pair of them smirking. None of the teachers looked to be trying to stop them, so obviously Danny’s folks went and called the school. Which was surprisingly responsible coming from them. Neither are surprised when Valerie’s the first to ask what the literal fuck is going on here.

Valerie slams her locker closed as the two come up next to her to open their lockers. She looks them up and down, managing to sigh and scowl at the same time, “okay. What did Danny’s crazy parents do know?”.

Sam points at Tucker and blocks his face off with the locker door, “actually it’s bad luck Tuck’s fault”.

“They invented the stupid spray stuff! And they’re the ones who didn’t make an undo button!”.

Sam outright ignores him. “He knocked over some spray stuff that made us look like adults. The hair’s pissing me off, wanna help me whack it off in the bathroom?”. She didn’t seem to have nerves -ghost nerves but still- in her hair now, so it should be fine.

Tucker sticks his head over, “well I think I look great”, and nods curtly. Sam muttering, “switch places and then we’ll see how you would feel”. Which makes Tucker tilt his head, “I’d be a girl then. Which could be fun”, which of course gets him immediately slapped by both girls.

Valerie grabs Sam’s arm and starts dragging her off to the bathrooms, scowling, “looks like you’re only physically adults”. Making Sam laugh as they get into the bathroom, while Valerie produces a pair of scissors from somewhere. No one bothered questioning how or where she always magically seemed to get sharp pointy things. Sam and Tucker though, are pretty sure her suit just makes them with its nanobots.

Paulina and Star glance over and watch the scene of Valerie yanking out one of the under sink stools and starting to hack at Sam’s hair. Both popular girls grimacing. Paulina eventually sighs, “okay no, machetona (tomboy) honey. You use scissors like peinabombillas (someone who combs light bulbs); are you trying to make her a complete pescada (butterface)?”, and stalks over, Star leaning against the counter.  

Valerie and Sam both turn to roll their eyes at the popular girl, “are you offering to cut my hair? You?”.

Paulina rolls her eyes and huffs, but it’s a dainty pretty huff, “well you can’t have hair longer than mine. Think of how that would make me look? Basura (garbage). And I’m in here so people will simply assume I was involved in this current hair disaster, which would be even worse to be associated with. I want to be a hair fashion hairdresser you know. After all-”, flipping her silky smooth flawless hair, “-clearly I know a thing or two”.

Sam and Valerie exchanges glances, speaking in unison, “figures”, but Valerie does push the stool over to be in front of the mirror. Paulina producing her own scissor from her purse, they’re small nail scissors though.

Paulina looking her over and humming, “pixie cut that’s a little more high fashion? That would piss that annoying mother of yours”, it was no secret, the entire student body hated Pamela Manson, though Sam has no idea how they all still didn’t know her family was stinking rich. Neither did Tucker, Valerie, or Danny. But considering the school still hadn’t figured Danny out, they were probably just supremely oblivious... or stupid.

Star taps her chin gently, “if we had clippers then an undercut would really do it”.

“Her hair is thick enough for it”.

Both popular girls blink at Valerie producing one, Sam snickering, “I’m all for this. Fuck my hair up”.

Paulina sighs but motions for Valerie to come over and starts pointing out where to shave and where -for the love of everything- not to. Star speaking up again while digging in her purse, “well could also put that red moulding paste on the tips of a spikier look”, looking at Sam and Valerie, “we brought it for the boys to look more intense at the game”.

Paulina hums, “pretty sure Dash just wants to mess Fenton’s hair up with it”, pointing at Sam and Valerie, “but you didn’t hear that from me, chica (girl)”.

Valerie tilts her head at Sam, “where is that boy anyway?”. While Sam scowls at Paulina but answers Valerie, “doing shit with his parents to fix this. Also-”, pointing at the bottle of red, “-why not”, smirking, “I wouldn’t recommend going after Danny though. I doubt Dash could even reach Danny’s hair effectively”.

Valerie blinks and laughs, almost fucking up with the clippers, “so the shortest boy in the school is now the tallest? That is hilarious”. Sam just smirks.

The clipper noises wind up attracting curious girls in which just leads to a hair party in the bathroom. None giving a damn about first block. Meanwhile, the teachers are all just very confused and annoyed. They’d heard one or two of the Defect Quartet were involved though and thusly stayed the Hell away. Especially since none of them knew where Daniel was, meaning he might be involved. Mrs. Suspensekee was the most on edge about that considering she had both male halves of the quartet in her biology class and only one was here, his feet up on Daniel’s chair and getting his facial hair ogled by all the boys around; he was clearly enjoying it very much.

Kwan looks overly excited as he speaks, “goddamn that’s so manly! You guys so have to sneak this stuff to school. I want to know adult me too!”, which predictably encourages a round of cheers.

Tucker waves everyone off like he’s calming a group of cheering fangirls, “now now, it only works around Danny and does more than just adultify you”, finger-gunning stupidly, “also ghostifies you but we fixed that, not without getting a face full of ecto-weapons though”. That absolutely makes the entire class cringe, some even experiencing flashbacks to their own unfortunate run-ins with armed Fenton’s.

Jesse waves him off right back, “dude, I’m down to see ghost me too”, which gets more cheering. Nobody questioning why this stuff only works around Danny, he was weird, that was practically expected. Jesse pointing at him, “and does Danny have facial hair too?”, because honestly? no one could imagine that.

Tucker laughs, because again with the fire hair, not that he’s going to mention that. He’s not about to Danny-dude dirty like that, “he totally took after his ‘uncle’ for that. Rocking a spikey goatee”. He’s also pretty sure he saw Danny put his hair back in a low ponytail without even realising he was kinda copying Vlad. Maybe adult Danny looking slightly Vlad-like was a sign the guy’s current trend of not being a villainous psycho constantly was going to be a long term thing. Vlad surprisingly didn’t suck at being a mayor. Guy might get re-elected without overshadowing everyone. He knows Danny’s so going to have to have a talk with him over where all the funds came from to keep up with town repairs. Vlad was an experienced bank robber after all.

Mrs. Suspensekee has to snap for the class to pay attention at this point or nothing’s going to get done.

-

Danny blinks at ClockWork, “you’re joking? Seriously?”, and bends over laughing.

“Indeed I am, they were quite upset”.

Danny laughs some more, “to be fair, Dan getting free and looking human would be pretty upsetting”, sighing, “not that I really appreciate that I look just like him”.

ClockWork doesn’t look away from their screens, “he is you, Daniel. Personalities and choices may differ but genetics and bodies seldom do. You’ll have his suit too, excluding his cape, as an adult ghost as well”, continuing over the boys groan, “it is far better than the green accented monstrosity another timeline featured”.

Danny tilts his head, “oh? That bad?”, and walks over. ClockWork changing the screens to show him and Danny instantly cringes, “okay yeah that’s bad. Why would I do that? What would make me think that looks good? What’s up with the lines all over my neck? Ancients that clashes horribly. And what’s even the point of the wrist blaster? I can shoot ecto-beams already. And the green circle over my crotch? I don’t even want to know. Ew”. ClockWork chuckles lightly and nods in agreement.

ClockWork floats around and fiddles with things some, “how your suit looks isn’t truly up to you I’m afraid. It is much like your skin, a natural part of you that will grow and develop as you do. A human can alter the appearance by tanning or dying their hair, but it never truly changes. Ghosts, however, can not truly alter their base form at all beyond putting things on”.

Danny nods, “like Ember putting clothing over top or Skulker’s suit, right?”.

“Precisely”. ClockWork turns to face him, “now for your current appearance-based predicament, unfortunately your parents are correct, Daniel. This is not something they can correct. Unless of course, you feel like being a full human again”.

Danny immediately blurting out, “Zone no”, honestly? he probably couldn’t handle being a regular human again. Having to actually open doors to go through them? The shame. Having to walk everywhere? How barbaric. ClockWork smirks, “as I thought”.

Danny sighs and slumps down into the purple plush couch, leaning his head back comfortably, “so I’m stuck with this then?”.

ClockWork hums, “think about Dan and I believe you’ll come up with something”. Which makes Danny groan and grumble about never getting straight answers. “Though to answer your friends concerns, no this hardly damages time in anyway”, floating over and wagging their finger in his face, “if it did I would have showed up before your parents saw and that spray would have mysteriously disappeared”. Danny nods and waves his hands around, acknowledging that that was probably pretty accurate and probably should have been obvious to him. ClockWork does something close to a fond sigh and pats his head.

Both turning to the sound of shots, “CLOCKWORK!”. ClockWork turning to Danny, “sounds like it’s time you head back”, holding up a finger, “and I think I might just join you”, promptly changing to their child form and unzipping Danny’s backpack.

Danny screws his face up and starts laughing at ClockWork sticking their small head out of the open top, Danny picking up the backpack, “you know, I don’t think there’s a such thing as bring your ghost to school day, but fuck it, I’m making one”, both of them smirking while Danny puts on his backpack and ClockWork spins their staff to make a portal. The two disappearing through it over the backdrop of screaming Observants.

-

Tucker knocks over his third pan in home ec, tilting his head back and sighing, “being tall is slowly becoming a pain in the ass”.

Ms. Relish sighs, “language, Tucker. Though yes, I would appreciate only having one student that damages practically everything they touch”. Tucker holds up the pan, “but I didn’t dent it?”.

“Which thank you for, but do try to be.. more...”, the teacher trails off as a freaking giant of a man walks in.

Tucker looks around at everyone with a wicked grin splitting across his face, eventually bending over and laughing his ass off at Ms. Relish muttering, “hot damn”.

Danny makes a few facial expressions before settling on a smirk, “why Ms. Relish are you hitting on a student?”, and gives a very overacted charming smile. The teacher chokes, while the rest of the class put together the context clues and scream, “FENTON!”.

Danny bows dramatically, “the one and only”. Then moves to join Tucker, swinging his backpack off his shoulder as he goes. Tucker actually has to sit down on the ground to wheeze when freaking ClockWork pokes their head and arms out, resting their arms on the top of the backpack and throwing a small subtle smirk Tucker’s way.

Practically half the class mutters, “oh yeah that is so Fenton. The fuck is that kid doing”. While Danny waves everyone off over his shoulder, “ignore the little guy, they’re helping sort out some issues in exchange for hiding them from some ghosts annoying them”. The entire class blink at him and shrug after a bit, because come on? it’s Fenton. Lily grumbling, “of course he’d strike a bargain with a ghost”.

Tucker gets up and eyes Danny, “eyeballs?”, while the rest of the class continue to eyeball Danny; and Tucker a little bit but they were at least somewhat used to the guy being tall and sporting dreads. Danny being a brick shit house was a whole different story.

Danny has a ridiculously hard time keeping a straight face as he helps Tucker make the little stir fry dish -like always he was banned from actually touching the food due to multiple ‘food coming to life’ incidences- as everyone starts whispering.

“I can’t believe that’s Fenton, I feel like I’m committing a sin by saying he looks actually good”.

“Do you think literally anyone disagrees? ‘Cause the teach is totally right, damn. Puberty is gonna full body fuck Danny. Hot damn”.

“What the heck caused him to be so.. muscly though?”.

“I honestly wouldn’t even believe this if his dad wasn’t, like, the size of a freaking double-wide door. That man’s bigger than my little buggy car”.

“His dad could also throw your car. And have you seen his mom? Saw them at the swimming pool once and she had a solid pack of abs. Nice rack too”.

“Dude, no. How many times have I told you not to go after people’s moms”.

“Fuck. He could crush my head like a watermelon”.

“I just want to know if he even can use the muscles. Or is it just a looks muscular thing?”.

“Who cares. All I care about is seeing Dash and those other jock jerks cry and go home weeping and begging into their pillows to look like that someday”.

“I’m telling you, Dash is gonna have a beer belly. Totally gonna happen. And what? You gonna climb up to their windows to watch? Break in to collect their tears?”.

“Yes”.

“Doesn't your dad work for a Modeling agency? Should totally sneak a photo and get them to snatch him up early. Age matters you know”.

“Amber... you just want photos”.

“So?”.

“Think I should ask him if he, like, has some secret workout routine he does? ‘Cause no way that all built up in two or so years”.

“Dude, he probably doesn’t even know what he did to get that. You’ve seen that skinny ass twink in gym class, he does not work out. Probably started doing it hardcore after Dash really pissed him off or something”.

“Even if he did freaking steroids he wouldn’t build up that much muscle in two years, you idiot. And the kid makes a point to never change in front of others. Maybe he’s got stuff going on under his baggy ass clothing”.

“Oh fuck, wait, so you think that’s why he wears baggy ass shit? To hide it? But why the Zone would he do that?”.

“Why the Zone did he agree to bring a ghost to school? Why the Zone did he eat a screaming ghost Hot Dog? Why the Zone does he do anything. Don’t question Fenton logic, man”.

“Oh this so has to be his parents fault. Maybe started forcing him to work out to be a hunter. Not like his sisters going to take over their company or whatever”.

“His friends are all pretty fit too though, so must be some kind of group effort”.

“Goth chics always been fit af though. Tucker’s is surprising though. So maybe”.

“Oh whatever, I am so subscribing to whatever the fuck the Fenton family workout is”.

“Its ghost hunting, idiot. Wait, you don’t think-”.

Danny decides to butt in randomly at that, before people start getting ideas, “we have a helmet ghost fighting simulator thing. Makes for an okay workout on low mode”. Tucker pats his shoulder, seeing as the trio knew he never used that thing. No, all this was actual ghost fighting. Danny’s weird-ass biology probably played a part though. Danny was way more muscular than Tucker thinks a person actually can be. Someone would have to dedicate their life to being a muscle builder to achieve something close to this probably.

One of the girls hums, “they should sell that then. ‘Cause clearly it works. Mr. I Could Throw An Entire Brick Wall At Someones Face”.

“That is oddly specific”.

“Could he not?”.

“I didn’t say I was disagreeing”.

Tucker elbows Danny, “Sam got her hair cut by the way. She’s rocking the undercut again”. Danny quirks an eyebrow, “by who??? You cut like you’re drunk and Valerie is more experienced with curly hair I think”.

“Paulina”, Tucker raises and lowers his eyebrows rapidly with a smirk. While Danny raises both of his own eyebrows, “well damn, didn’t see that coming”.

ClockWork gives a cheery, “I did”. Earning chuckles and eyerolls.

ClockWork pipes up again after a while, pointing at the stove, “you're about to burn your food”. Tucker jumping a little, “what? Oh shit!”, and yanks the pan off the stove promptly burning himself and thus shoving it at Danny in a panic, “here! Mr. Cold Touch”. Though due to Tucker’s longer arms he winds up smashing the pan into Danny’s chest and dumping everything on his chest.

Danny stares down at the steaming stir fry covering his chest before dropping his arms to the side -one hand holding the hot pan and thus dropping whatever was actually left in the pan onto the floor- and gives Tucker a deadpan look, “really?”. Tucker bends over laughing immediately, though giving Danny his hand to chill; which Danny takes with an eye roll while mouthing, “you fucker”, down at ClockWork.

Ms. Relish walks over with a sigh, “put the pan in the sink before you burn yourself. And obviously I can’t mark this, but at least it’s not burnt”, that last bit sounds a bit sarcastic. So both boys shrug awkwardly at her; Danny does throw the pan in the sink though. ClockWork just smirks more, which the teacher makes a face at.

No one is surprised when Ms. Relish shoos the boys out, “I've had enough of your destructive tendencies. Out you go”. Though when Danny mumbles, “nice, now I can go change my stir fry covered shirt -fuck you Tuck”, everyone shoots up and over to the door. The teacher sighing and putting her head in her hands as the gaggle of teens poke their heads out the door and shush each other.

Danny and Tucker have their backs to the door but obviously know they’re being watched. Tucker elbowing Danny, whispering, “looks like you’ve got some adoring fans to please”. Danny blinks at him, “I feel like a stripper”, even ClockWork chuckles faintly as Danny hands off his backpack to Tucker.

Literally everyone gapes as Danny pulls off his shirt, rolls his shoulders, balls the shirt up like he’s very used to getting his shirts very messy, and looks over his shoulder to wink at them. Both Danny and Tucker bending over laughing right after while a couple girls fake faint, putting their arm over their foreheads and everything. The noise getting another teacher to stick his head out the door and sputtering in disbelief at Danny. “The Picture Of Dorian Gray! Put on a shirt Mr. Fenton!”.

Danny and Tucker exchange glances. Tucker chuckling, “I like how he doesn’t even need to question who you are”. While ClockWork pulls out a shirt from the backpack and hands it over. Mr. Lancer looking to the tiny ghost, “and for the love of Frankenstein, why do you have a pet ghost?”. The two boys absolutely laugh over that.

-

Valerie chokes in art class after checking her phone, someone having posted a photo of who was apparently Danny and with his clearly messy sweater off halfway. The sweater at least looks like something he owned. Her blurting out, “Danny what the fuck!?!? And how?!?!?”. Mrs. Remi just smiles to herself, Danny was one very interesting student to have. She likes interesting though. Oh yes she does as she watches him rush through the door, “I’m not late!”. Of course he actually was but she currently doesn’t care.

Basically the whole class sputters disbelievingly at the boy but not over his comment.

“WHAT!”.

“Oh Zone that wasn’t a photo edit”.

“Why do you have Thor’s voice? Better yet why do you get to have Thor’s voice?”.

“Holy damn”.

Mrs. Remi stands up, putting her hands on her desk and leaning towards the class, “alright, change of plans. Today we’re doing model studies”, pointing at Danny, “find a pair of shorts, a speedo, or strip”.

Danny blinks at her, “what???”.

She grins meanly, “it’s that or next month we’re having Mrs. Testlaff in here to do it”. The entire class immediately pales.

“Fenton get that sweater off now or so help me”.

“Dear Zone no”.

“For my sanity Fenton, please”.

Valerie stands up loudly, “off or I get the flamethrower. There are some things I don’t want to see”.

Danny just sighs, his life was some serious bullshit. Though Valerie might actually do that. Walking over to Valerie and dropping off his backpack, “you're watching them then, and not going murder happy”.

“What-”, Valerie cuts herself off at ClockWork popping their head out, also sticking out the end of their ghostly tail to wave. Valerie blinks, “what the fuck”. While ClockWork grins, “I’m providing the boy a little advice in exchange for some amusement. This has quite effectively infuriated some annoyances I have the slight misfortune of knowing”.

Valerie looks almost painfully slowly to Danny, “the fuck?”. Danny just smirks, finger-guns and disappears back out the door. Returning seconds later in shorts and just lets Mrs. Remi move him into poses all class.

Danny grumbles as class ends, “this was ridiculous and I feel judged”. Valerie walking over and shoving the backpack at him, “I don’t know why. Your body looks stupid good and that’s honestly freaky”, poking him after he pulls the backpack over his shoulder, “you are like a fucking rock. How, when, why”.

ClockWork pops out of the top of the backpack, “you are quite the rough one, aren’t you, Valerie Gray”. She squints at the ghost before looking to Danny’s face, “okay, and why did you tell It, them, whatever, my name?”.

Danny shrugs, “didn't need too”, glancing at ClockWork, who gives him zero sign to shut the fuck up, so he shrugs again, “they're omniscient”.

Valerie stares at him for a bit, “WHAT”. Making both boy and ghost chuckle and give slightly malicious looking smirks. Which she hits Danny over, “stop being creepy, and fuck, do you have fangs?”. Danny grins toothily over that. Her leaning up and forward, “well damn”. Making him laugh.

Danny readjusts his backpack to bring attention to ClockWork, who helps in that regard by messing up his hair, “and their all-knowingness is helping fix our ageing issues. Being all-knowing and shit, they know the fix which my parents do not”, glaring over his shoulder somewhat fondly, “not that the riddle has been all that helpful”.

Valerie blinks as they head to their last class, “so that’s why they’re with you? You’re bribing a ghost”.

“I already told you that. Less bribe, more equalish exchange of services. As for how this all happened”, gesturing his hand over himself as he skilfully avoids bumping into people, “pretty sure Sam and Tuck already explained”.

She scowls at him, “not that you idiot, the muscle. The height’s obviously your dad, but the rest? The Hell”. Danny honestly doesn’t know how to answer that, “well-”, he thankfully gets saved by Dash; which makes this probably the only time he’s happy to hear someone angrily shouting, “FENTON!”.

Danny very intentionally makes his voice noticeably deep and threatening sounding, “what?!?”, even putting a little fang into it. Even Valerie jerks a little.

Dash skids to a stop and just stares at him. So Danny quirks an eyebrow, sneering, “the fuck do you want, Dash?”. Dash blinks once, twice, and three times, “alright, I’ll bite. How?”, then scowling a little and seemingly regaining some of his lost bravado, “how’d a weak scrawny loser like you get to have this as your adult self or whatever your parents screwed up hairspray thing does”.

ClockWork leans over Danny’s shoulder, holding up a finger, “if I may, Daniel here is simply nice to you and lets you push him around. He’s been stronger than you for a while now”. Danny wants to smack ClockWork.

Dash immediately blurts out, “bullshit”. Danny rolls his eyes and points at Valerie, “Val could surplex you. It’s not that difficult. My dad can throw cars, Dash, and mom can kick a tree in half; this feels like this should have been expected”, rolling his hands, “and you’ve seen the shit Sam can do”.

Dash mutters at the ground, “that girl does scare me”, before looking back to Danny and glaring, “you ain’t no gym freak or anything, Fenton. Just a wimpy weak loser and losers don’t turn out like this. At best they wind up like the mayor, skinny suit-wearing and shit”.

Danny blinks and chuckles, “Dash? Vlad is lowkey ripped. Lean yeah, but he could whoop your ass so fast”.

Valerie gives him a funny look, “how do you know that?”.

Danny rubs his neck, “I may have been responsible for that whole incident where he got recorded on the news live naked”. ClockWork chuckles meanly while Valerie and Dash blurt out, “THAT WAS YOU!?!?”. Danny holds up a finger, “maybe. I’m not confirming or denying shit”.

Dash shakes his head and scowls, attempting to shoulder past Danny, who of course doesn’t move resulting in Dash muttering, “ow”, and very pointedly not rubbing his shoulder.

Valerie and Danny shake their heads but getting going to their class again. Valerie elbowing him as they sit down, “if your folks can’t make something to reverse this then why not something that can just make you guys able to change your physical ages at will or revert time to when you were younger”.

Danny blinks at her, “okay, how much thought did you put into that?”, that was actively creative and super out there. Ironic with ClockWork being here though.

She shrugs, “oh since Sam mentioned all this shit. Speaking of Sam”, she points at the door just as said goth strides through. Danny very pointedly looks her up and down, then whistling as she sits down. The faux hawk plus undercut did actually look good, the red tipping worked well too.

Sam rolls her eyes and shoves his head, then eyeballing ClockWork, “for the love of everything, why? Who are you trying to make suffer?”.

ClockWork looks to her and grins, waving a hand around, “everyone. I am rather Ancient, I get my kicks where I can”. Danny just chuckles.

After a while, Danny’s drumming his fingers on his desk and ignoring Mr. Trent’s constant glances. Thinking of it, Valerie had a decent idea. The time messing thing was probably a no go, somehow he doubts ClockWork would go for something like that. The age changing at will though...

Danny smacks his desk, “that’s it!”, making the entire class jump and snapping his desk in half. Him looking down at the broken desk, “shit sorry”. Mr. Trent just sighs and ClockWork pats his head. The whole class watching as he just shrugs and walks out of the class.

Sam, Valerie, and Tucker exchange looks and shrug. But Sam throws her hands up, Val chokes, and Tucker starts laughing as a little five foot four Danny saunters back in like the proudest thing ever with his clothing basically hanging off him. The rest of the class erupts into various freak-outs and descends into utter chaos. Mr. Trent is left grumbling, “I can’t wait till the lot of them get the Hell out of this entire school, please end my suffering”.

Sam scowling, “how?”. Danny smirks as he sits back down, leaning back, “modern problems, Ancient solutions”, leaning closer to Sam and Tucker, “also alternate timely ass could get up to all the age-related tomfuckery”.

They grimace a little but nod. Tucker throws his arm around Danny’s neck, suddenly noting how weird and funny it was how small he was, “guess we got to avoid your tiny ass now”.

Valerie looks at them and sighs, “do I even want to know?”.

The three exchange glances before smirking and speaking in unison, “no”; while the class continues to lose its collective shit in the background. How were they even supposed to explain that Danny’s evil older full ghost self could age shift meaning Danny just so happened to have that ability too? And that ClockWork, being a being that frequently age-shifted, was the best teacher, even if they basically did jack shit, for the ability? Plus, who would want to ruin the glorious beauty of the chaos going on around them right now with silly factual explanations? Bathe in the chaos. Accept that nothing makes sense. Regret baring witness to weirdo trio living up to their name. Worship Satan. Go nuts.

ClockWork, meanwhile, has slipped off comfortably back to their lair. Utterly unsurprised by the two Observants waiting for them with steam basically boiling off their eyes.

End

[q-gorgeous]

Danny Phanturd?

fanfiction

Prompt by @phandom-phriend​ false hope

Words: 1591

this is a more light hearted false hope but i hope its still fun sdvfygah

Dash was walking home from school. No football practice today, no Nasty Burger hangout. So he had to walk all the way home and start working on his dreaded homework right away. He wished that everyone wasn’t so busy. 

Just as he was about to cross the street, Dash saw a figure gliding through the sky. Looking up, Phantom was flying through the air, looking this way and that. Probably looking for some ghosts to take care of. What a guy, protecting the city like he does.

Suddenly an idea crossed his mind and a grin spread across Dash’s face as he started waving Phantom down from where he stood on the sidewalk.

“Phantom! Phantom! Hey!”

Phantom looked down at Dash, an indescribable expression on his face, and flew down to meet him.

“Uh, hello! Citizen… What can I do for you today?” Dash squinted at him. “Did you forget my name?”

“Huh, what? No, of course not.”

“When we got chased by that hunter robot you knew my name. Why would you not be using it if you didn't forget it, hmm?”

Phantom scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… Professionalism?”

Dash nodded vigorously, his mouth the shape of an O. “Ohhh okay, that makes sense. Anyways, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out later? At the park or something?”

Phantom looked away. “I don’t know… I’m sort of busy, and I have a lot of stuff I have to do…”

Dash clasps his hands together. “Please, Phantom! All my friends are busy and there’s no football practice right now. Please? Can’t we hang out for just a little bit?”

“I guess…” Phantom sighed. “Did you have anything in mind that we’d be doing or would we be chilling?”

“You like stars, right?” Dash asked. “I thought we could meet at the picnic table near the big tree around nine and stargaze or something.”

Phantom smiled and his freckles lit up a soft green. “Yeah. Stargazing does sound kinda nice, actually. See you later?”

“Yeah! See you later!”

Phantom waved goodbye and shot back into the sky. 

Dash turned back to face the crosswalk again, smiling. Finally, something to look forward to today. He just had to get his homework done first. 

QQQQQQQQQQQ

On his way to the park, Dash was smiling big and bright. He got all his homework done for once, he had a nice dinner, and now he was on his way to hang out with Phantom! Danny Phantom! He couldn’t believe he got the ghost boy to agree! When he got to the park he was prepared to point out the big dipper to Phantom in display of his constellation skills. 

As he walked up to their meeting spot though, Phantom was nowhere in sight. He wasn’t sitting on the bench or floating in the air nearby. 

Ok, ok. Maybe he's just running late. Phantom’s a busy guy, always disappearing to who knows where all the time. He probably just got caught up in something. 

Dash sat down on the bench and started picking at splitters in the table. And waited. 

After he had gathered a hefty pile of splinters, Dash checked his phone to see the time. 

10 pm.

Where was Phantom? Did he have to go fight a ghost or something? He hoped he’d be alright. 

Dash moved to lay on top of the picnic table and looked up at the sky. His eyes traced the constellations that dotted the black abyss until he finally found the big dipper. He looked around more, taking in the other stars. Perhaps he should have looked up more than one constellation. 

Another half hour later, Dash lay on his stomach, reaching down towards the grass and plucking it up and whistling with it. Phantom still wasn’t here. What if he forgot? Yeah that could be it. Maybe he’d remember soon and they could finally hang out. 

11 pm.

Dash sat on top of the picnic table, feet resting on the bench below him looking somberly at his phone. Shoulders hunched, his grip tightened on his phone before he sighed and tucked it in his pocket. 

Maybe Phantom really didn’t want to hang out.

Slowly, Dash stood up and started his trek home. What a waste of a good couple of hours. He could have been at home playing video games but instead he was here chasing some false hope he had. Why would the town hero wanna hang out with him? There’s nothing special about Dash Baxter. He’s just a normal civilian. 

He trudged the rest of the way home, where he promptly flopped directly on top of his bed. 

QQQQQQQQQQQ

The next morning Dash woke up, blearily blinking until he could see. He didn’t get much sleep last night and his face hurt in tired. 

He throws back his blankets and stomps his way downstairs. Once in the kitchen, he pours himself a hefty bowl of cereal and grumpily chomps it down. 

Why’d he have to get his hopes up? This is the problem with that whole “dream big” phrase. This dream wasn’t even that big of one! What’s the point of dreaming big if it goes nowhere?

Maybe today would be better once he got to school, if you could imagine that. Today’ll be some prime nerd wailing. He could get a few rounds in with Fenton, that’d be nice. 

Finishing his cereal, he plops the bowl down in the sink and gets ready for school. After gelling his hair back and brushing his teeth, Dash smiles in the mirror at himself before running down the stairs and out the door, pulling it closed behind him. 

QQQQQQQQQQQ

Slamming the door shut, Dash fumed and threw his backpack on the ground before falling onto the couch in front of the tv. Fenton wasn’t even at school today! His favorite nerd to wail on! It wasn’t the same as beating up the other kids, they didn’t make it interesting. Now he’s been building up steam all day, with nowhere to let it go to. Angrily, he hits the power button on the remote and watches as the news flickers on. 

Dash leaned his head back onto the couch. Did life just hate him? Why was it making him suffer?

He glanced back at the tv and furrows his brows when he saw the tree he had been waiting by in the park last night. Did somebody get mugged? That’d be tragic. He turned the volume up. 

“-Fenton boy was found passed out in this tree all the way at the top. A passing couple found him this morning and called the fire department when the boy did not wake up to their calls. When helped down and asked what he was doing up there, he simply replied ‘tired’ and went on his way home.”

Huh. What a coincidence. When did Fenton get into the tree last night? The exact tree that he was supposed to meet Phantom at. Fenton surely couldn’t have known Phantom was going to be there. So why was he… 

Slowly, the cogs in Dash’s brain began to turn and he held his chin in his hand. 

“Phantom… Danny Phantom. Danny… Fenton?”

His eyes blew wide open. 

“Danny Fenturd is Danny Phanturd?!”

How the hell would that even be possible?! It would explain how Fenton got to the top of the tree, coincidentally in that exact spot. Ghosts are supposed to be dead! Not still alive and going to school and getting the breath knocked out of them when they got punched in the stomach. 

“How the FUCK!” Dash yelled, ignoring the call of his name from his mom upstairs. How’s the dude even still alive…? He’s fighting ghosts all the time and getting knocked into the pavement and through walls! 

Hurriedly, Dash pulls his phone out of his pocket and brings up a contact with a picture of a black haired boy giving him the bird and pressed the call button. 

It rang a few times until a voice spoke.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck, Fenton!” Dash yelled. “You, Phantom. Tree! The park!”

“Dash?” Danny sounded confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You were supposed to meet me in the park yesterday! Well, Phantom was. But then they found you in that tree this morning! How the fuck did that happen?”

Dash heard an intake of breath over the line and a nervous chuckle followed. “What do you mean, Phantom? I’m not Phantom.”

“No, you can’t deny it now! You guys have the same name and everything! Why else would you have been in that tree?”

“Didn’t you hear? The fire department had to get me down. Phantom wouldn’t have needed that help, no siree! Haven’t you seen how brave he is? I’m sure not brave!”

Dash groaned. “Why can’t you just admit it? It’s not like I don’t already know now. Heh, maybe I’ll go easier on you when I’m… When I’m-” Dash’s face falls and he stops talking. 

He’s been wailing on his hero. All this time. All this time! Dash has been beating up the guy he’s looked up to since freshman year!

“Uh, Dash?” Danny’s voice called. Dash didn’t respond. “Well, uh, I’m gonna go. I, Danny Fenton, not Phantom, have lots of homework to get done. I’m a very busy man, so I gotta go.”

Just before Danny hung up, he could hear a yell and the cackle of that… techno ghost? Over the line and then the call was over. 

Dash gaped at the phone and just sat there.

[archadianskies]

19 + 18 + 17, Simarkus!

(soulmates + tattoo artist + skin hunger)

→ on Ao3

It isn’t the flashiest, slickest tattoo parlour but for Simon and Daniel ‘Jericho’ is the place where they can truly be free. It’s a place that’s all theirs, a place they carved out with hard work, with blood, sweat, and tears- so so many tears. 

At first it had been just the two of them, as it had always been ever since they were sixteen and kicked out by their parents, and then Josh joined them, and then North, and since that day they have been known as the Jericho Four. They each have a speciality: Daniel specialises in painterly techniques, of colourul swathes that washed over the skin; Josh specialises in minimalism, of crisp, strong black lines; North specialises in text, of a thousand fonts at the ready to speak their mind. 

As for Simon, well, Simon has never been good at any of that stuff. He’s much better at caring for others, at nurturing and soothing and so that’s why Jericho has a cafe inside of it. He cooks, he bakes, he brews for both the customers being tattooed and for any family or friends hanging around for support. Sometimes they don’t come in for a tattoo at all, and Simon finds himself serving students and workers on their lunch break. 

It isn’t ever going to make them rich, but it’s enough to get by comfortably and really, that’s all Simon could ever want. 

 “Got a pretty complex booking tomorrow.” Danny whistles low as he scrolls through the email on his laptop. Simon looks up from his book, interest piqued, and scoots closer to him on the couch. 

“Oh?” His twin tilts the laptop slightly, showing a beautiful geometric explosion at the heart of a glowing blue triangle, as if it were in the midst of shattering outward. 

“He’s asking for white ink for some of the lines, so it’ll glow under black light. This is a seriously massive piece.” Danny nods, impressed. “Multiple sessions, with extra surcharge for the white ink. He’s already sent the down-payment, so he’s definitely committed.”

“That’s a crazy amount of work.” Simon reaches over to click on the image so he can zoom in. “It’ll be stunning when it’s done. Where does he want it? On his back?”

“No, over his chest. The fragments will spill over onto his shoulder too.” Danny clicks onto the next image, of the design overlaid on a male silhouette. “I blocked off the entire afternoon for this.”

“Then you better rest up.” Simon taps his temple. “Big day tomorrow.”

 It’s a slow going day but Simon loves those best. It’s even raining outside, which only adds to the soft cosy mood inside Jericho. With no other clients booked except for Danny’s new one, Simon finds himself sitting at a table with the other three sharing a freshly baked pear tea cake. The tattooists have their sketchbooks out, and Simon loses himself to the sound of the rain and the scrape of their pencils. There’s some semblance of inner peace to be found, he thinks, just in these sounds. 

The door opens, and the muffled pattering of the rain turns into a roar momentarily as someone rushes in. Simon stands automatically, switching back into his hospitality role. 

“Good afternoon, welcome to Jericho.” He greets the hooded man neatly securing his folded umbrella.

“Hi, I’m a bit early for my appointment but I thought I’d come in out of the rain since I was around anyway.” 

“Mark S., booking with artist Daniel Lambert.” Simon nods. “Would like a coffee and something to eat while you wait?” The hood falls back and that’s definitely not some stranger named Mark S. “Oh you’re-”

“Markus Manfred.” Josh finishes behind him, standing in surprise. “It’s- wow. You’re really here. I saw your thesis at the Museum of Modern Art. I marched with you last Fall. I thought you were in London researching for your upcoming mural?”

“Just got in last night, actually.” Markus grins, offering his hand for Josh to shake. There he is, Markus Manfred, adopted son of Carl Manfred; artist and activist in equal measure. “A little jetlagged and still adjusting to the timezone, but I’m here in one piece.”

“You did that portrait series on the Eden Club workers.” North adds, offering her hand to shake.

“With my brother Leo, yes.” Markus shakes her hand firmly. “They needed a medium to tell their stories, and we were honoured to oblige.”

“So what’s the story about this tattoo, then?” Danny pulls up another chair to their table, and Markus takes a seat. 

“I want to build on one I already have. I want to make it mine, because the original wasn’t my design.” He shrugs, leaning back comfortably in the chair. “I actually intend to commission tattoos from each of you, to tell my story. I use cloth and brick walls as my canvas, but I want my body to be a canvas for you.”

“I don’t know if you’re being eloquent or cheesy as fuck, but this is the most interesting commission I’ve ever been given so I’ll let it slide.” Danny smirks wryly and Simon smacks his shoulder.

“Behave.” He turns to Markus, and this close he can see those famous heterochromic eyes. “Coffee?”

“Yes please. And a slice of whatever this cake is, if there’s any left.” Markus grins, tapping the closest plate. “Smells divine and I bet it tastes just as heavenly.”

 He’s seen a lot of half naked bodies. It comes with the job- not his in particular, but well, Danny’s and the fact the parlour is tucked just behind the cafe. Simon’s gotten used to seeing people in various states of undress, so used to handing nearly nude people coffees and slices of cake. 

He’s not ready for Markus Manfred to take off his sweater and shirt, revealing a body surely identical to the grandiose marble sculptures that used to grace the ancient world. Not wanting to delay his tattoo appointment, the artist had picked up his cup after finishing his cake, carrying it to Danny’s station at the back and promptly undressing. Simon doesn’t know why he followed, but his feet seemed to carry him after them.

“Fuck.” Danny exhales. “That’s a Kamski.”

Markus looks down at his chest, at the glowing circle at the end of his sternum. His grin is sheepish as he scratches his nape and takes a seat. “Yeah, it is.”

“No way, an original Kamski? Not a Camden?” North follows into the room, Josh behind her. “From before he left CyberLife?”

“Thirium ink. I thought I’d never see one up close.” Josh breathes, voice tinged with awe. “When he left CyberLife he took the formula with him. Their tattoos use an inferior ink with a lower thirium ratio.”

“Well we definitely don’t have pure thirium ink here, sorry bud.” Danny pats his shoulder and Markus laughs. 

“No, I know. I don’t want another tattoo like this one. I want one I designed.” Markus clarifies. “This is my story.” 

 Josh has a thousand questions, and Markus seems happy to answer them. Selfishly, Simon goes to the front door and turns the sign to say ‘Closed’, locking the door so no one else will disturb them. He makes another round of coffees and carries them to the back. Danny has his noise-cancelling headphones on to tune everyone out so he can work. Josh has dragged his chair closer, and North is sitting on her tattooist bench. Simon hands everyone a new cup and takes a seat at Josh’s vacated bench.

“Do you think we’ll ever reach that stage though? Artificial intelligence that can think for itself?” Josh asks curiously and Markus hums in thought.

“I think so. It’s the issue with making them look human, though. The moment we make androids is the moment we divide the world.”

“What do you mean?” North frowns. “Wouldn’t that, I dunno, be a good thing? People get attached to roombas. What more when there’s robots that look like us?”

“That’s what I mean though.” Markus clarifies. “Half of us would anthropomorphise them, and the other half would reject them completely, unable to bridge the fact they are different from us. Humans find it hard enough to treat each other with compassion, what more when there’s an android that looks just like them but is a machine?”

“Then I suppose an android revolution would happen.” North shrugs with a laugh. “If we ever treated them like shit, then we’d deserve the revolution coming for us.”

“I don’t believe it would come to that, I believe we are an intelligent, compassionate race.” Josh argues. “We would achieve integration and acceptance through dialogue.”

“And you- Simon, isn’t it?” Markus turns his head slightly to catch his gaze. “Where do you weigh in, in this theoretical android revolution?”

He wrings his hands, frowning. “I wouldn’t really ever want to take part in it.” A confession of cowardice, but an honest one at least. “I’d just want those I love to be safe. I’d- I’d go somewhere and wait it out, I guess. But if they needed help, I’d help them. I’m not sure how I’d help with caffeine and baked goods, but...I suppose if they needed a place to stay, a place to hide I could give them that much.”

“He’s a softie.” North pretends to ‘whisper’, shooting Simon a grin. “But he’s got grit, and will get the job done.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” Markus smiles at him, and Simon, honest to god, hand over heart, swears the world slowed for just a moment so he could enjoy it. “Kindness in the face of a cold, cruel, apathetic world is an act of bravery, of defiance.”     

 They talk and they talk and Simon loses track of time until Danny takes off his headphones.

“Ok Christ I need a pee break.” He bins his gloves and makes shooing motions at Markus. “Go on, you too, before I start the next part.” He leads him away and North crosses over to sit next to Simon, elbowing him.

“I’m a flaming homo but that boy is…” She clicks her tongue as she makes an ‘ok’ sign with her fingers. “Gorgeous.” 

“Who cares about that, he’s so-” Josh struggles to verbalise his thoughts, making a frustrated gesture with his hands. “He’s so beautifully compassionate and driven. He spoke at the protest I marched at, but only briefly. Hearing his thoughts, hearing his opinions here in private is just...something else.”

“Simon has stars in his eyes.” North teases, poking his cheek. He bats her hand away.

“I do not. I’m staring a healthy amount. Surely no one should look that beautiful and still be human, right?” He asks, exasperated. “He has freckles. Everywhere. He has the body of a marble statue. He speaks like a Roman orator. Or some Greek philosopher. He has one blue eye and one green eye for god’s sake, who let him loose on the world?”

“The more important question is,” North jabs his side, causing him to yelp “is he single?”

“Oh, yeah, because he’s going to be so interested in a coffee boy at a tattoo parlour.” Simon rolls his eyes. “I have so much to offer.”

“You do, Simon.” Josh frowns. “I do take offense to that. You’re a wonderful person, you gave North and I a chance when no one else would. You found us at our worst and helped us become who we are today.”

“Pretty boy would be lucky to have you.” North pecks his cheek. “I mean it.”

 They end up ordering Mexican because it’s already six o’clock the next time anybody checks and Markus seems content to stay a little longer. Somehow in the span of an afternoon he feels like he’s always belonged right here in their little quartet. Even if he’s sitting there half naked with cling film wrapped taut around his freshly inked chest and shoulders. 

“Ok Danny,” North fixes him with a serious look, “important question: where do you stand in the android revolution?”

“In the-” Danny makes a face. “Is this the shit you guys were talking about while I was working?”

“Well not the whole time.” Markus laughs. “Though I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“I dunno. Would we be able to afford one?” Danny scoops salsa onto a chip and pops it into his mouth. “I’d treat them well, I guess. Make ‘em feel part of the family. If you treat them badly, they could snap and then you’d deserve what’s coming to you.”

“We’re years- decades away from that kind of tech.” Simon shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter right now.”

“It does.” Markus objects. “They might not be real now, or maybe not ever, but how we treat anything not human is a reflection of ourselves. They’re mirrors held up to test our humanity.”

“This is way too deep for Mexican on a Wednesday.” Danny declares through a mouthful of food. “Just putting it out there.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry!” He laughs, expression apologetic. “I swear I’m not like this all the time.”

“Pineapple on pizza?” North demands, pointing an accusing finger. “Wrong answer sends you out the door.”

“Can I abstain from answering until I finish my dinner?”

“I’ll allow it.” A pause as she narrows her eyes threateningly. “But only just.”

 Markus Manfred takes a taxi home at about 8pm and Simon doesn’t quite know if any of it’s real, if any of it actually happened. It has to have happened, because there’s another session booked to occur in exactly three weeks. He loads the dishwasher as Danny takes out the trash, waving to Josh and North as they take their leave. Three weeks and Markus will return. How will he fill his time until then?

He doesn’t need to wait three weeks, in fact, because Markus comes back the very next day.

“Hey.” A greeting paired with a thousand kilowatt smile, easy and charming. 

“Good morning Markus.” Simon blinks in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Is something wrong? Did you need Danny to have a look at the tattoo? Is it bleeding too much?”

“Actually,” he grins and oh it’s far too early for Simon to process such a sight “I was hoping for a cup of coffee and some breakfast?”

“Oh.” He nods numbly. “Y-yes of course. What can I get for you?” 

“Strong black with honey, and something bread-y.” Markus takes a seat at one of the tables. “I thought I’d get some work done here. It’s wonderfully private.” A nice way of saying it’s not a bustling Starbucks, Simon thinks wryly, but he’ll take it. He serves him a large mug of coffee and a thick slice of banana bread and tries not to stare too much at Markus’ elegant hands as he takes out a sketchbook and thumbs through it idly. 

“What gave you the idea of this tattoo?” Simon asks curiously as he spots early sketches of the tattoo design. He takes a seat opposite him, nursing his own large mug of coffee.

“I wanted to shatter through the wall of self-doubt, of anxiety that held me back.” Markus smiles softly, eyes roaming the page. “Growing up in Carl Manfred’s shadow wasn’t easy but a lot of it was all in my head. Dad has never been anything but encouraging to us, as Leo and I both branched out on our own artistic journeys. What held me back was my own fear to leave the safety of his name and stand on my own.”

“Shattering the red wall.” Simon nods slowly. “I guess we all have that moment, don’t we? A moment where we have to decide whether to stay behind it where we’re safe but also changeless, or fight and shatter it, to find our own way.”

“Did you have one, Simon?” He seeks his eyes with such an earnest expression. “A moment where you had to choose to shatter the red wall?”

“We didn’t have much choice.” A heavy sigh. “It was shattered for us, by our parents. We got kicked out at sixteen, and there was no red wall left to hide behind safely. We only had each other, and the only way was forward.”

Markus reaches over and squeezes Simon’s hand. “I’m so sorry.” He says with such sincerity Simon believes it. 

“It’s alright. Jericho is where we can be truly free.” He smiles tiredly. “This place is everything to us, and Josh and North are like family. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“Why call it Jericho?” Markus picks up a pencil, turns to a blank page and starts sketching.

“It was the name of an old freighter.” It’s been almost fifteen years, Simon thinks, but the memory is still sore. “We hid there for a while, when we didn’t have anywhere to go. It was falling apart but it was dry and safe. It was home.” And now home is here, home is just upstairs and it’s dry and safe but also warm and full of love. Simon props his chin on his palm. “Feels both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday, to be honest.”

“Grief and trauma are not linear experiences.” Markus shakes his head, eyes candid. “What you experienced at sixteen will always be valid. Our growth is measured in how we cope with that pain, with all we’ve learned over the years.”

It stuns him to hear it, and he feels his mouth open and close as he tries and fails to reply with something coherent. Markus scratches his nape sheepishly.

“Sorry, I’m doing it again aren’t I? Sounding like some cheesy self-help inspirational poster.” 

“I’ve just never been told that before.” Simon admits, smile wobbly. “I guess I’m just so used to taking everything in stride and carrying on. I bury everything deeply, in the hopes I never really have to process it.”

“Then it just rots, Simon.” Markus reaches out again, placing his hand over his and giving a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no chance for growth if the roots are rotten.”

He looks down at their hands, and it’s as though his heart wants to soak up the contact, wants to drink it in as though he’s parched. It’s not as though he lacks affectionate touch, they’ve always been an affectionate quartet of friends, but it’s more like he can never get enough. Markus very gently rubs the back of his hand with his thumb in slow, light strokes. Heat pools in his cheeks.

“I’m alright now. I’m much much better here.” Simon smiles, and though it’s a little shaky it’s real and heartfelt. “I’m happy and I’m safe, and we’re financially secure, so what more can I ask for?”

“I’m glad.” He says, and Simon knows he means it.

 Though he knows it’s selfish, Simon finds himself hoping Markus will drop by for breakfast often. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to him, and his heart leaps into his throat every time the handsome artist opens the door and strides to the counter with confident, purposeful steps. He always has a kind word for all of them, always has a brilliant dashing smile and Simon’s been very careful with heart over the years, but he’d be kidding himself if he said he wasn’t head over heels for Markus. 

“How’s the mural coming along?” He asks as he sets down a steaming mug of coffee.

“Pretty good. Most of the underlayer is down, but it’s forecast to rain for nearly the whole week so I’ve got to postpone it a bit.” Markus sighs wearily. “That’s alright. I’ve got another piece I’m working on in the studio, so I don’t really mind. How’s things here?”

“We had another customer with an original Kamski.” Simon tells him, and Markus raises his brows in surprise. “I know right? What are the chances of having two of you come within the span of a fortnight? She’s a ballerina. I’m pretty sure North’s in love with her.” 

“That would be Ms. Chloe Hersh.” Markus smiles. “I’ve met her only once at an art gala but she’s very lovely. She is the original Kamski. The recipient of the very first thirium tattoo.” 

“That’s amazing. How lucky we are to have the two of you stumble upon our tiny little parlour.” Simon muses as Markus laughs softly. 

“Simon we didn’t find this place out of luck, we sought it out.” He says knowingly, as if it’s always been a fact Simon overlooked. “There’s talent here, and warmth and kindness and really good coffee and the most amazing tea cakes ever.” He finishes with a wink, and Simon knows he’s absolutely done for.

*~* 

When Markus arrives for his second session, there’s barely any preamble before he’s hanging up his coat and stripping off until he’s shirtless. The linework has healed, meaning Danny can progress with the colour. Simon sets down his coffee and a berry muffin on the little table by chair, and tries his very best not to stare. 

“We dropped by Greektown to see the mural yesterday.” Josh says from across the room. “It’s coming along beautifully.”

“Thanks.” Markus smiles. “Weather finally cleared so I’ve been trying to cram in as much as I can before it turns bad again.”

“You’re doing the backdrops for the ballet next, right?” North hops up onto her bench. “Chloe told me.”

“Yeah, it’s my next project and my brother is doing the promo shoot for it.” He settles into position, taking a gulp of coffee before Danny guides him to stay still so he can begin. “It’ll be fun, it’s a modern Anna Karenina.”

“Small world huh? Or maybe you Kamski originals are all like, telepathic because of the fancy ink.” North teases, and Markus chuckles.

“Oh no you’ve figured it all out. That’s the real reason Elijah Kamksi invented a new ink- to make a group of improved humans.”

“I’d believe it.” North snorts back a laugh. “His house looks like a supervillain lair.”

They fall into easy conversation, and Simon leaves occasionally to serve a customer at the front or bring more drinks and food. North eventually moves off to start working on a client, and Josh finishes his final session on another. 

It’s as the afternoon is winding down that Simon starts to see the small telltale signs of pain on Markus’ face. Over the sternum is one of the most painful areas of the body given the thinner layers of fat, muscle and skin and as Danny moves to start layering the colour, sweat begins to bead on Markus’ forehead as his brows pinch together. 

Automatically Simon reaches for his hand, returning the reassuring squeeze he’d given him the week before. Markus tilts his head slightly and gives him a grateful look, grip tightening the longer Danny works over the sensitive area. 

“Hey, you’re doing great.” Simon murmurs, mimicking his earlier actions as he rubs his thumb over the back of his hand soothingly. “And it’s looking beautiful too. It’s all worth it, I promise.”

Markus nods numbly, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as Danny progresses further down his sternum. Simon doesn’t leave his side, and it’s only when Danny sits back and removes his headphones does he realise he hasn’t let go of his hand either.

 They order burgers and fries from a diner not too far away, Markus joining them for dinner after the parlour is closed. With each visit it feels less and less like he’s a stranger and more as if he’s family. 

Discussions and conversations flow, and he’s interesting and verbose even if tonight he’s a little more tired than usual: a marathon tattoo session definitely does that to a person, and Danny is much the same. When he’s wiping down the table, he sees Danny pull Markus aside just before Markus leaves. He says something, his expression serious, and Markus nods solemnly before leaving to catch his taxi.

“Did you tell him about the aloe vera?” Simon asks as his twin brother returns to his side to help him clean up.

“Uh yeah. Definitely needs a higher level of care this time around and I told him to send me photos if his skin acts up so I can tell him what it’ll need.” Danny shrugs, not bothering to hide his yawn. “Next session will be the last unless he wants further detailing.”

“I think it’s your best work yet.” Simon compliments, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I mean it.”

“Thanks Si.” Danny smiles tiredly, bumping his forehead to his. “C’mon. Dying to go upstairs and sprawl on the couch with a beer.”

 *~*

He hopes like last time Markus will appear for breakfast, but it’s not to be. He tries not to get his hopes up, tries not to look too eager every time the door opens. Markus doesn’t stop by for over two weeks, in fact, and Simon tries not to feel despondent as the days go by without his presence. 

The mural for Bellini Paints at Greektown is announced as complete on social media, and they go to see it during lunch on a sunny Tuesday. It’s a beautiful piece, taking up an entire wall at the entrance to the arcade where Bellini is housed. Sweeps of colour streak across the brickwork in graceful arcs, coming together to form a pair of hands holding a palette and paintbrush; a work of art about a work of art in progress. Simon thinks it’s stunning, and the sheer scale of it is enough to leave him awestruck. He takes a photo and sets it as his background, so he can admire the colours whenever he wants.

When Markus arrives for his final session, he brings a large canvas with him. It’s covered with a sheet, and tied carefully with twine to secure it.

“Hey, Simon.” His smile has an apology in it. “Sorry I haven’t dropped by recently. It’s been pretty crazy trying to finish the mural and I had this other project on the side.”

“We went to see the Bellini mural yesterday, it’s stunning.” Simon finds himself smiling wistfully. “The colours are just so vibrant, it suits the store perfectly.”

“Thanks, I’m pretty proud of it.” He holds out the canvas. “This is for you.”

“...For...me?” Simon gawks at him, unmoving. Markus Manfred is handing him a canvas. Markus Manfred. The artist leans in.

“That means you have to take it from my hands, Simon.” He ‘whispers’ and Simon scrambles to take the canvas, laying it down ever so carefully on one of the tables so he can unwrap it. It’s a painting of Jericho, of his family; there’s Danny, there’s Josh, there’s North and yes, even him. It’s a beautiful flurry of colours and exaggerated brushstrokes, and they’re crowded around a table eating tea cake and drinking coffee, with sketchbooks laid around.

“When I first came here, it was like coming home.” Markus lays his hand over Simon’s and it’s only belatedly that he realises he’s shaking. “I felt welcomed, and I felt at peace. I felt like I’ve always been here. That’s the magic of this place, Simon. That’s your magic.” 

“Markus I- this is too generous, I couldn’t possibly-!”

“You can. I painted this for you.” Markus moves to hold his other hand too, coaxing him to face him. “Because you are the heart of this place. You may not have had a choice to break through your red wall, but you persevered. You are so much stronger than you think, Simon.”

The tears come even though he gave them no permission to, and Markus gently draws him into a comforting embrace. Over the years he’s only ever had Danny, and more recently Josh and North. There was never any time to dwell on the hurt, there was and is only the path forward; if he stopped for even a moment to think back on what he survived it would swallow him up. To have Markus affirm his strength, to have him acknowledge the pain and his progression is far too much for him to process. 

“Did you make my brother cry?!” Danny demands, appearing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “What the fuck did you say to him?!”

“Danny, look.” Simon wipes his eyes clumsily, pulling back a little in Markus’ arms so he can point at the painting on the table. “Markus painted this for us.”

“...You what?” Danny’s brows nearly disappear into his hairline as he spots the canvas. “Is this- are you for real?”

“I mean, well, yeah. It’s real and I made it.” Markus grins sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to make your brother cry though.” 

“...Holyshit. Uh. Wow. Thanks?” 

“It’s 3pm, shall we get started on my session?” Markus seeks his eyes. “Is that alright, Simon?”

“Oh! Yes, of course! Sorry I’ll um- I’ll cover this up and take it upstairs so it’ll be safe.” 

He has to hide upstairs for a good fifteen minutes just to make sense of what just happened. He’s holding an original Manfred in his hands, and gifted to him no less. It’s not just a pretty painting, it’s a work of art of his family, making it absolutely precious and priceless. He resists the urge to hug the canvas to his chest, instead laying it on the coffee table before returning downstairs to the parlour. 

Danny’s already started, headphones on and brows creased in concentration by the time Simon brings in a tray of coffees and some black tea and honey cupcakes. Markus offers him a slightly pained smile, and Simon immediately sits beside him and holds his hand.

“Would you” Markus flicks his eyes over to make sure Danny isn’t paying attention “like to go to dinner with me on Friday?”

“...I’m sorry?” 

“Oh, does Friday not work for you? Wait, the parlour’s open longer on Friday nights, sorry.” Markus nods in understanding. “How about Saturday?”

“No I- I’m- the- Friday is- I mean, you’re...asking me to dinner?” Simon stammers, feeling his cheeks flush as Markus strokes his thumb over the back of his hand.

“I’m certainly not asking Daniel.” He cocks a brow, grin mischievous as Simon feels his cheeks grow hotter. 

“Um Friday is fine. I’d love to.” He frowns. “I can’t believe you’re asking me out to dinner while my brother holds a very sharp object against your skin.”

“He already knows. He threatened to stab me if I ever broke your heart.” Markus admits, and Simon realises that’s what Danny must’ve said to him last time right before he left. “Which is fair, really. If I ever broke your heart I’d deserve that. But I’ll do my best to look after it very well, I promise.” 

“Then I’ll see you on Friday.” Simon finds himself unable to stop smiling. Markus brings their clasped hands to his lips, kissing Simon’s knuckles.

“I’m really looking forward to- ow!” Markus yelps as Danny applies just a little more force than necessary.

“Don’t flirt with my brother until I’m done.” Danny orders, voice a little too loud to compensate for the music blaring in his headphones. He fixes Markus with a stern glare, and Markus nods obediently. “Good. Now stay still.”

*~* 

The finished piece is spectacular, truly Danny’s best work. The lines are crisp, the colours are vibrant, and it’s really as if the shards are exploding outwards from the ghostly outlined blue triangle. It’s taken just over a month to heal properly, with luckily only minimal scabbing. 

Simon admires the work, watching it come alive with each inhale and exhale, with each rise of fall of Markus’ broad, toned chest; a boy breaking out of his father’s shadow to forge his own path as a man of his own making. He traces the triangle carefully with his finger, touch featherlight. Markus hums, a small sound in the back of his throat as his lips curve upward in a lazy smile. 

“Tickles.” He mumbles, capturing Simon’s hand and bringing it to his lips so he can press kisses to his fingers. Opening his mismatched eyes, he blinks at Simon sleepily before rolling over and pulling him flush against his body. They’re delightfully, sinfully bare beneath the covers, legs tangled, and it’s somehow still almost downright scandalous to Simon every time it happens. “Hey gorgeous.” 

“Good morning, my love.” Simon greets in return shyly, and Markus smiles at those words, pressing their mouths together one, twice, thrice insistently. It’s a hungry, desperate beast, this thing called love; selfish and needy and somehow never sated but that seems to suit them just fine. They’ll drink each other in and drown wholly, completely, in the wonderful chaos; two halves of one whole. 

This is the freedom they found, this is the freedom they earned, and the red wall lies in shards at their feet.     

*~*~*

(Markus’ tattoo is similar to this, something like the moment when androids deviate in the game)

[deuynndoodles]

read on ao3 or click read more!

suspicion increase by deuynndrabbles and @whimsicalweast

chapter summary:

It's their first day out looking for ghosts, and it's a great day to be suspicious of Danny.

He glances back at his sister and Danny, who are still talking about space. Well, it’s more the latter who does so, rambling passionately while Mabel struggles to stay focused on one topic for this amount of time.

As Dipper realizes the irony of the situation, he stifles a laugh with his hand.

TW FOR DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF A PANIC ATTACK

3.8k | ch three

It’s the next day, the sun high in the sky. Birds are chirping, wild animals scurrying through the trees, and three kids are walking through the woods with one certain great uncle trailing behind them.

Dipper is in the front, a now fixed ghost tracker sitting in his hands and a bag of a dozen more sliding off his shoulder. (Dipper mentioned the problem to Ford a couple nights ago and he agreed to fix it. It’s even upgraded so it won’t break the way it did last time.)

Mabel is close behind, her baggy sleeves trailing behind in her graceful yet clunky movement. Today she wears a navy blue sweater with a cartoon ghost resting on the center surrounded by itty bitty stars. Her headband is white and her skirt a lighter grey, with her own ghost device settled in her sweater pocket. She’s ignoring the faint buzzing in favor of watching the scenery.

Danny is about a couple meters behind the twins, his own beeping device shoved into his big jeans pocket. He’s watching the scenery like Mabel, trailing a hand along the grass and occasionally picking a long piece to fiddle with in his hands.

There’s a long groan, and Dipper glances behind him to see Mabel leaning her head back to stare at the clouded sky, her feet planted on the dirt and unmoving.

“Why are we all just quiet?” She says, prolonging the last two syllables and sticking her bottom lip out a little. She takes a lock of her hair and begins to twirl it around her finger. “Let’s do something that isn’t just staring at those silly devices.”

There’s a quick shout of indignation from Dipper, but Danny interrupts by giving a slight nod and saying, “Yeah, it is kinda boring.”

Danny catches up to Mabel, his eyes drawn to the sweater she has on. He isn’t really sure what else to say (he’s not the best at small talk) so he compliments, “Nice sweater.”

It earns a toothy grin from said girl and she twirls in place as if to show off her creation. “Thanks! I made it myself!”

“I like the ghost, it looks pretty cool.”

“I thought it was fitting!” Mabel chimes, still grinning.

“Are those stars around it?” Danny asks, because his brain always comes back to the topic of space. Mabel nods, and Danny smiles widely, saying, “I love space!”

Mabel draws out a gasp, pressing her hand to her chest right on top of the ghost’s eyes. “Me too.”

Dipper’s pretty much sure that Mabel’s just saying it to make Danny happy. It works, as Danny’s eyes light up. She always does this, and Dipper won’t barge in this time.

Anyways, he’s paying attention to the pad in his hands more.

“Isn’t it just so cool?” Danny grins. (His face is full of excitement and he knows he’s going to rant about his special interest now. He’s practically prompted.) “Stars are amazing, and just so beautiful. But honestly, I’m super excited about space travel and all that stuff.”

Mabel nods along as if she understands every word that makes its way out of his mouth when Danny simply continues to rant on and on about astrology and other topics about space with an intense passion.

Dipper is more focused on the device grasped in his hand. His eyes dart about the monitor, looking for any sort of ectoplasmic signal but comes up empty. Dipper makes the quick hypothesis that ghosts are more active at night.

He glances back at his sister and Danny, who are still talking about space. Well, it’s more the latter who does so, rambling passionately while Mabel struggles to stay focused on one topic for this amount of time.

As Dipper realizes the irony of the situation, he stifles a laugh with his hand.

Mabel constantly tries to steer the conversation away from scientific aspects, preferring creative or ‘girly’ subjects like glitter and rainbows. She’d likely come out here in the hopes of finding a ghost cat and cuddling it or something. Probably to hang out with Danny too, maybe flirt with him or whatever the heck Mabel thinks she’s doing.

Instead she has to listen to the boy ramble on about various studies of space.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Dipper can tell how absolutely bored Mabel is with Danny’s speech, and he still struggles to hide his chuckles.

(He’d probably get along better with the teen better than his sister, if he weren’t so skeptical of Danny’s unknown intentions.

He is still a stranger, after all.)

Mabel’s hands are fiddling with the loose threads of her newly made sweater. Her attention had clearly drifted off elsewhere a while ago, but Danny still hasn’t noticed, ever so caught up in his one-way conversation.

Dipper catches her eye, throwing a smug expression her way as Danny continues to speak animatedly, and his sister returns a raspberry as she slumps over.

‘Very mature’, he thinks.

Dipper rolls his eyes with a smile, about to return to examining the machines when Danny mentions a topic that Dipper had recently heard about.

“The Apollo missions inspired an entire generation of people to pursue math and science careers, and it’s amazing! Our society continues to become more technologically advanced and dependent, and the general populace need to become more scientifically literate to keep up.

“I’ve always dreamed of being an astronaut,” he says, his excitement slowing as he gazes down at the floor. “I’ve just- I’m not what you’d call a star student.” He gives out a chuckle, a chuckle that is absent of actual humor, and it makes Dipper hesitate in his step as well. “And outside of school, I’m pretty busy with other stuff. Uh- extracurriculars, and all that.”

With those last few sentences, it finally clicks, and Dipper whirls around.

“It was you!”

-

“I’m sorry, what?”

It’s the first thought that runs through Danny’s head, and apparently it spills out his lips too.

“You-You were the guy who helped me back to camp a week ago!” Dipper exclaims, his finger still pointed at the confused boy.

(For some reason this makes Danny think of Wes.)

“What?” It’s Mabel who says this. She’s eloquently ignored.

“Y’know, when you- uh, when you fell from that tree, and pointed out the constellations to me?” Dipper stammers, and Danny’s eyes widen in recognition.

“That was you?” Danny asks, and Dipper nods slowly, as if he’s uncomfortable.

(Mabel looks on in pure confusion. She is still promptly ignored.)

“What a coincidence, huh?” Danny lets out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. “Well, uh. Nice to meet you? Again, I guess.”

(Danny truly does see it to be a coincidence. It’s so odd, how the universe chooses to dump on him in a place that isn’t Amity Park. Hasn’t he had enough?)

He stretches out his hand awkwardly, and cautiously, Dipper steps forward and shakes it. They’ve already met, but this makes it feel more official, Danny thinks. Maybe not quite that, but he imagines it’d make the scenario much more awkward if he jerks his hand back now.

Instead, Dipper is the one to pull his hand back, replacing his steadfast grip on the pad in his hands. It gives out a solid beep, and then returns back to its muted noise.

“Well,” Dipper starts, his face screaming the fact that he feels very awkward in this scenario. “How about we go back to looking for ghosts?”

“Sure!” Mabel chirps, and Danny shrugs, finally pulling out the device in his hands. He’s down for pretending that never happened.

Dipper pauses, and then says, "Hey, I can't see Great Uncle Ford."

Mabel pauses in her balancing act on a toppled tree trunk, glancing up to her brother. She takes a look back behind her. "Yeah, I guess so."

Mabel takes a seat on the ground, adjusting her skirt. Danny leans against a tree, and then a thought pops into his head.

“Oh shit, I pointed out the Big Dipper to a kid named Dipper.”

“Language!” Mabel sing-songs, blowing a small raspberry from her pleasant spot on the ground as Dipper's face reddens.

"Seriously?" Dipper bites out as Mabel gives a dorky snort, a fair imitation of the pig sitting back in her room.

(Ford can hear the tail end of the conversation as he settles his cane in a knot of roots and heaves himself over it. A fond smile tugs on his lips, and he lets out a chuckle.

He's glad the kids are getting along.)

"Go back to your dorky devices, guys." The last word is said even more dorkishly, and Mabel gestures to said devices. Danny imagines that she's already shoved her gadget back into her sweater pocket.

As Ford steps back into the small clearing that Danny and the twins are sitting in, everyone rises and Ford hands out snacks to each kid individually.

Five minutes later, they’re back on track and return to their task.

Danny this time trails in the back, stimming by shaking his hands, deep in thought.

Dipper is clearly wary of Danny, probably due to the fact that Danny said he fell out of a tree with little to no explanation. (He really needs to control what comes out his mouth.) Danny must seem pretty suspicious.

Or maybe it’s just how the kid acts. He can’t be entirely sure.

He’s still surprised that Dipper hadn’t mentioned his run in with Danny. The two don’t seem to be quite attached at the hip, but he can still tell they’re very close. He sees how they can just communicate without speaking, how comfortable they are around the other. It’s nice, he thinks.

(If later asked, he’d deny it. But Danny can’t help but secretly wish he was as comfortable around Jazz as the twins are around each other.)

What surprises him even more? It’s the fact that Mabel doesn’t question it. She’s been pestering Danny with questions non-stop since ‘inviting’ him over for a sleepover. Mabel is a chatterbox and it’s so odd that she doesn’t press, because it seems like it’s practically part of her nature to find out more about things.

The only reaction out of her hearing of Dipper and his meeting (aside from the earlier input) is a questioning glance at her brother, to which the boy shrugs halfheartedly in response.

Mabel throws him that look that Danny knows as ‘We’ll talk about this later’. He knows it well, having been on the receiving end of it countless times from his own sister. She then slows down, another grin on her face, and she strikes up another conversation.

To be honest, the constant conversation is starting to wear him out, but he still does it anyway.

“What’s your favorite animal?” Mabel asks, skipping happily.

Danny isn’t entirely sure. He says so.

“Me too!” Mabel grins, moving her hand to fiddle with her headband. “I just can’t decide! There’s cats, but dogs are really cute too! And not to mention koalas, and elephants and just. So many animals I can’t choose between them all.”

-

All in all, it’s a fairly uneventful day. All they seem to have done is walk through the forest, checking the devices, enjoying the scenery and engaging in small talk.

It leaves Dipper with a dissatisfied feeling sitting in his gut, but he doesn’t express it like Mabel does. Mabel sinks in disgruntlement with a roll of her eyes, slumped over slightly with her energy drained as much as it can be for Mabel Pines. That is to say, she has the energy of a normal person.

“Don’t worry, there’s still tomorrow,” Danny says, with an awkward pat on Mabel’s shoulder.

(Danny’s silently wishing they actually don’t come across any other ghosts. But alas, they’ll find someone, he’s sure. This woods has the same eerie feeling as the Ghost Zone, so he knows that there are supernatural entities in this place.

He’s not eager to find out what they are.)

Dipper’s head nods slowly in agreement, and it occurs to him that this isn’t the only day they go out to search for ghosts and he isn’t a failure-

Mabel elbows Dipper in the forearm, her mood having taken a 180 and a slight smirk resting on her lips. “Why you sad, bro-bro?” The brunette asks innocently, as if she wasn’t the one just dragging her feet along on the forest floor. “You still got a lot of-”

Mabel purses her lip, searching for the right word.

“Data. That’ll help, right?” She elbows Dipper again.

(Dipper’s sigh has a hint of disappointment, and Danny knows that Dipper is actually the one more disheartened in this situation. Mabel tends to exaggerate her feelings.)

“You’re right, Mabel,” Dipper mutters, fiddling with the pad in his hands again anxiously. “We have a lot of data now.”

Dipper glances up slightly, and sees the silhouette of the Mystery Shack illuminated in the near sunset, the sun beginning to slide behind the wide expanse of trees. He turns his head back to face the device, pressing buttons occasionally to change the view.

From behind him, Mabel straightens up, and pulls on Danny’s sleeve. “You ready for another sleepover?” She asks excitedly, her voice lilting.

“Nah,” Danny responds. “I’ll find somewhere to stay tonight.”

(Danny doesn’t want to bother Dipper again.)

Dipper doesn’t entirely care. He’s almost glad that he doesn’t have to sleep in the same room as Danny tonight, but he won’t say it out loud.

(Mabel huffs, and she has the social awareness to give a glance to the boy who is scouring the devices in his hand and in the bag on his back.) “Fine, just be okay, okay?” She pauses, and then giggles. “I said okay twice.”

Dipper inhales sharply, and Mabel instantly quiets. The next few minutes are pretty awkward, as all they do is walk. Dipper’s feet are tired and he’s more walking on impulse now, waiting for the moment to sit down. Mabel seems to be out of energy as well, as she doesn’t break the silence with her excited gestures or bubbly sentences.

The twins step up onto the slanted porch promptly, Dipper collapsing sitting on one of the stairs. Mabel groans and fans her face with her baggy sleeve, and Ford is a few meters behind them. Danny puts his hands in his pockets, staying a good few feet away from everyone, and gives a quick wave.

“See ya guys tomorrow,” Danny says, and as the two twins step inside, Dipper rushes to the nearest window to look out at Danny.

(He doesn’t see anything, as Danny is already long gone.)

-

Dipper sits in a fold-up chair as he watches Ford review the data they’ve collected that day, pouring over the gadgets. There haven't been very many ectoplasmic signatures, but any information is helpful and will allow them to know how to better handle it when they do come across a ghost for the first time.

The brunet still pipes in here and there with his own views on the data, but his mind has already drifted elsewhere.

(He does remember his first meeting with Danny. It was a week ago, and it’s still very fresh in his mind. The flimsy excuse of ‘stargazing’ had been so odd. But what other reasons could Danny need to climb a tree for? Was he hiding from something? Someone?

How had he even gotten up there in the first place? The branches on the trees in the forest are often placed far from each other, and once you do get a grip on them the brittle branches give up on your weight and you go collapsing back to the ground.

He’s seen Mabel try to climb the trees on multiple occasions. She’s never gotten past five feet above the ground.

And how does he just disappear into thin air? One second he’s beside Dipper and the next he’s nowhere to be seen. It’s also absurd how many times he hasn’t noticed the teen beside him; it’s like the teen has no presence whatsoever.)

He rests a hand on his forehead, letting out a sigh with a frown.

(Danny is such an enigma and it’s just so frustrating being unable to figure him out.

Though, he says this as if there’s anything to discover in the first place.

For all he knows, Danny could just be a regular teen with somewhat questionable hobbies. He hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary, ordinary for Gravity Falls at least. He gets along with everyone around him just fine with the occasional awkward sentence or body posture, fiddling with things when he’s nervous like Dipper does.

Dipper’s probably just going crazy overreacting.)

He glances up, combing a hand through his hair, letting out another unsteady breath.

(But if that's the case, why does he feel so uneasy?)

Ford pauses, taking a glance at his great nephew. He turns to him, devices still in his grasp, and asks, “Are you okay?” He cocks his head slightly to the side, eyeing Dipper’s tense body language.

Dipper nods sharply, rubbing his arm and staring down at the slick lab floor. “Yeah. . . Just, uh, thinking about some stuff.”

Ford seems unconvinced, his eyes still trailing on Dipper before he turns back to his devices. He hums in confirmation, making Dipper feel slightly guilty for the white lie.

A few minutes pass, and Dipper still can’t focus, catching more than one concerned glance from his great uncle.

"So, care to tell me what 'stuff' you're thinking of?" Ford questions, idly rifling through some papers.

Dipper fiddles with his lip with his two front teeth, rubbing his left arm. He winces slightly, refusing to meet his great uncle’s gaze.

“I-I dunno, it’s just. . .” He sighs, his hand dropping to rest by his side. “Danny’s been- He’s been super helpful and gets along with Mabel, but I- but I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something here.”

Ford’s eyes soften, and he sets down the papers on another tall pile of paper. He leans down and pulls out his own chair from underneath a table, twisting it to face his great nephew and Dipper does the same with his chair.

“I get how you feel, Dipper. I understand, really I do, but not everything needs a dramatic reveal.” Ford says, gently patting Dipper’s head. “Oftentimes, people are exactly who they claim to be and that’s rather normal. Just because something may feel off about someone, doesn’t have to mean they’re dangerous.

“Gravity Falls is indeed a strange place, but not everyone who steps foot into the town is a monster in disguise.

“Puzzles are marginally harder to solve when you can’t see each individual piece and fit them together, or when you refuse to see the pieces in front of you. I myself had a difficult time grasping this after so many years spent living here.”

("And in the portal" remains unsaid, but Dipper can hear the hint of it behind the words Ford speaks.)

"You certainly have a knack for picking out who or not to trust, so if you really believe Danny has harmful intentions, I'll listen. To me, Danny just appears to be a typical teenage boy, similar to yourself, but it's your call, Dipper. Just remember that putting your faith in others isn't always harmful."

(“Not as easy as it sounds” whispers in the back of his head, and he shakes it away by bobbing his mechanically and allowing the words his great uncle speaks replace the dread sitting in his gut for absolutely no reason-)

Ford is right; he’s getting worked up over nothing. Not everyone is out to get him.

Danny isn't out to get him.

(It's irrational to think Danny would do anything to hurt Mabel, or anyone else for that matter.)

Danny’s just a random teen who made his way into Gravity Falls, a teen obsessed with space and finding himself wrapped up in Dipper’s research. From the start, Danny has done nothing but help them, and he likely thinks Dipper is weird when he refuses to meet the teen’s eye, hands shuffling nervously.

Guilt rises into Dipper’s chest, and almost immediately Dipper feels terrible. He’s only made things feel more awkward for Danny. By making the teen feel uncomfortable during their outings. Disappointing Mabel by ruining her sleepover.

(‘You know they would've been happier without you there, anyway,’ his brain barges in, and he can’t find the heart to deny it.)

Dipper is always bringing people down along with him. It’s his fault Ford’s machine broke. If he hadn’t gone out that night, none of this would have happened, anyway.

(Dipper always needs other people to help him. He’s just useless by himself.)

(Why can’t his brain just act normal for once? Why can’t he ever seem to let people in?)

His eyes begin to sting, and he feels the panic taking hold, leaching into his chest and refusing to let go. He curls in on himself slightly, because he can only just live through it and mentally hit himself-

Is it really so hard to trust people again?

(Dipper already knows the answer to this question; he knows because of the being that frequently haunts his nightmares.)

(‘Trust no one’ echoes endlessly in his mind, reflecting off every boundary and always making its way back to the center-

Dipper’s hand burns, engulfed in blue flame-

His laughter, resonating within his ears-

There’s no escape-)

His lungs refuse to take in air, and his vocal cords won’t work to even choke out a scream.

(He can't breathe-) 

In a split second, there’s a warm hand resting on his shoulder. It’s vaguely comforting, but Dipper still jerks away from it and takes in a shaky breath as his lungs start working again.

His mind slowly clears, and he glances up to see Ford resting beside the chair on his knee, hand pulled back slightly with a concerned expression on his face.

(‘You did that to him. You're the one troubling your great uncle. You're just a burden’, his brain screams at him, and he can’t find the courage to scream denials back.)

“Dipper?” Ford asks tentatively, concern hidden in his eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah-Yeah,” Dipper manages to choke out, still taking shaky breaths and refusing to look the man in the eye. “I’m good.”

"Are you sure?"

Dipper pauses for a moment, but then nods slowly. “I’m okay, Great Uncle Ford.” His breath is starting to steady, and he takes his first deep breath. “Thanks. For everything.”

(Really, he’s okay.

‘Keep telling yourself that’, his brain taunts, and he sighs again.

He's fine.)

[thelastspeecher]

46 - Skies (maybe glowing alien!Gucks AU? How often do the kids want to go out flying when they're older? Does Angie? DO THEY END UP WITH CRAYON DRAWINGS ALL OVER THE CEILING?)

46. Skies

Uhhh this ended up a lot longer than I planned.  Sometimes I just can’t shut up.  And I wanted to write some fluff, since things are currently going down the drain.  So here are some flying glowing Gucks.  Enjoy.

Prompt List

——————————————————————————————

              Stan slapped a mosquito that hadlanded on his arm.

              “Damn bugs,” he muttered.  Fussing sounded from the baby carrier to hisright.  He quickly checked the infantnestled inside, Danny.  “Princess, youall right there?”  Stan held out hishand.  Danny grabbed his finger andgummed it excitedly.  “I get it.  You just wanted your chew toy.”  While Danny chewed on his finger, he watchedAngie pace back and forth on the lawn. “Babe?”

              “I’m goin’ to do it,” Angiemumbled to herself.  She clenched herhands into fists.  “I can do it.”

              “There’s nothing wrong with notturning into a giant bug and flying away,” Stan said.  Angie looked over at him.  “We’ve been perfectly fine so far with justbeing human.”

              “But I’m not human,” Angiesaid.  “Not fully human.”  She looked up at the night sky, filled withstars.  “Part of me has always been drawnto the skies, Stan.  Now I know why.  That’s where that part of me is from.”  Stan’s stomach churned.  “I know yer not that comfortable with all ofthis-”

              “That’s an understatement.”

              “-but I need to try.  If nothin’ else, it’ll help me make thingseasier on the girls when they get older. They’ll need to learn how to control their alien sides,” Angie pointedout.  Stan grunted, not willing to admitthat she was right.  “Okay.  I’m goin’ to do it now.  I’ll do it.” Stan watched with bated breath.

              Angie stood still on the grass,damp with dew.  She closed her eyes andleaned her head back, her posture relaxed. After a moment, a faint shimmer spread across her skin.  Immediately after that, color rippled overher features as her pale tone was replaced with a pulsating, faint pinkglow.  Her limbs, already slender, grewunnaturally thin, while her ears grew up and out until they resembled adeer’s.  Two feathery antennae sproutedfrom her forehead.  Angie opened hereyes, revealing that they had turned pure black.  The stars spilled across the sky reflected inher eyes.

              “Well, you turned bug, time tocall it quits,” Stan said brusquely. Angie looked over at him.  A chillran down Stan’s spine at her obsidian gaze.

              “No.”  The only good thing Stan could say about herother form so far was that her voice was the same.  “I need to try…”  Her pink glow became interspersed with alight turquoise.  “I need to try flying.”

              “Flying?  Ang, no!”

              “Ma can do it.  The girls can.”

              “They float, Angie.”

              “That’s flying.”  Angie looked back up at the sky.  “I need to try it, too.”  Stan pulled his legs closer to his chest,dread mounting.  Angie took a deepbreath.  She stared at the heavens asthough looking for an answer.  A momentpassed.  Then another.  Finally, right before Stan was about to tellher that they should definitely call it quits for the night, Angie rose off theground.

              “Fuck,” Stan swore softly,staring.  Angie’s feet hovered a fewinches above the tips of the blades of grass. Angie let out a joyful laugh, like bells chiming.  Her feet slammed back onto the lawn.  She promptly sat down.  “…You all right?”

              “Yes.”  Angie beamed up at the stars.  “I am.”

----- 

              It was balmy summer evening.  Fireflies danced in the air.  Once again, Stan sat between two babycarriers on the lawn, watching Angie tap into her extraterrestrial side.  But this time, two others were doing the samething.  Stan adjusted his hold on Emmett,who was going through an incredibly fussy phase and wouldn’t calm down unlesshe was being held.  In contrast, Emorywas fast asleep in his carrier, not caring about anything happening around him.

              Wish I could be asleep rightnow.  Then I wouldn’t have to watch mykids turn into bugs.  Stan hadlearned quickly to keep his opinions about Angie’s alien appearance tohimself.  Not only did it upset Angie,but it upset Danny and Daisy, too.  Astime had passed, he’d gotten more used to Angie’s alien side, as well as hisdaughters’, but he couldn’t help preferring them in their human form.

              “Okay, girls, time to shift,”Angie instructed, already alien in appearance. Danny and Daisy, standing in front of her, quickly morphed.  Their skin glowed a faint gold, antennae sproutedfrom Daisy’s forehead, and Danny’s eyes turned a solid, milky white.  “Good work.”

              “Now we fly?” Daisy askedeagerly.  Stan grinned at the excitementin her voice.

              “Yup!” Angie chirped.

              “How?” Danny asked.

              “Close yer eyes and imagine whatit feels like to be weightless.  Like yerin a swimmin’ pool, just floatin’,” Angie instructed.  Danny and Daisy closed their eyes.  After a moment, they both began to lift offthe ground.  Danny opened her eyes,yelped, and fell back down.  Daisy,however, upon opening her eyes, soared higher. She did an excited twirl in the air.

              “This is great!” Daisy cheered.

              “Don’t drift off,” Stan saidquickly.  While Angie checked on Danny,Daisy flew over to Stan.  She landed infront of him.  “Hey, pumpkin.”

              “Dad, did you see?” Daisysquealed.  Stan nodded.  “I love being part alien!”  Daisy spun around, her sundress billowingaround her.

              “Yep,” Stan said in a tightvoice, his smile forced.

              “How’s my brothers?” Daisyasked.  She peered closely at Emmett, whostared back at his older sister.  “When’she gonna start glowing?”

              “I don’t know, sweetie, he-”  There was a flash of light.  Stan blinked away the afterimages and lookeddown at Emmett still in his arms.  “…Nevermind, I guess he’s gonna start glowing now.” A moment ago, Emmett had been a regular human infant, with thick browncurls and a large, distinctive nose. Those two traits remained the same, but he now looked anything buthuman.  Unlike Danny and Daisy, who had amixture of human and alien traits, Emmett was looked exactly the same as Angie’sbrother Lute, when he was in his alien form. Stan stroked Emmett’s bangs out of the way.  Emmett stared up at him with wide,pitch-black eyes.

              “Wowie zowie, he looks likeUnclute!” Daisy gasped.

              “…Yep,” Stan mumbled.  One of Emmett’s antennae twitched.

              “Sweetie, come back, you can lookat yer brothers later,” Angie called. Daisy looked over.

              “Ma, Emmett’s glowing!”

              “Is he?  Good fer him.”  Angie sounded pleased.  “But we can look at him when we’re done learnin’to fly, okay?”  Daisy sighed.

              “Okay.”  She skipped back over to Angie and hertwin.  Stan looked back at Emmett.  Emmett made a mewling sound and stretched oneof his minute hands out.  Stan’s heartsoftened.

              “Hey there, sport,” he whispered,holding Emmett more tightly against his chest. Emmett nestled against him and smacked his lips in a satisfiedmanner.  His antennae twitchedagain.  Stan kissed Emmett’s glowingforehead.  “Wanna watch yoursisters?  That’s gonna be you someday.”

----- 

              Stan sat on the grass, ignoringthe damp dew soaking into his pants and the blades tickling him.

              I’ve really gotta mowsoon.  Or better yet, get Daisy to do it.  He watched sixteen-year-old Danny and Daisydo loop-de-loops in the air, glowing bright pink.  They’re in good moods right now.  I’ll tell her to do it later.  Angie was giving ten-year-old Emory andEmmett the same instructions she’d given Danny and Daisy when they startedflying.  Emory bounced on the balls ofhis feet excitedly, already in his alien form, which looked identical to hishuman one, with the except that he was glowing. Emmett, however, was still human, looking down at his feet, visiblydreading what was about to happen.

              “Now, don’t worry if it takes abit to kick in,” Angie said.  Herantennae twitched in the faint spring breeze. “Just keep tryin’.  If nothin’happens tonight, we try again tomorrow.”

              “I think we can manage,” Emorysaid proudly, puffing out his chest. Angie chuckled and ruffled his caramel-colored curls.

              “I know you can, sugar-cube.”  Angie looked at Emmett.  “Emmett, you ready?”

              “I think…I think I’m gonna go sitwith Dad,” Emmett mumbled.  Angieblinked.  “I don’t- I don’t feel good.”

              “Okay, but-” Angie started.  Emmett walked away silently and sat down nextto Stan.  Stan put a hand on his shoulder.

              “You all right there, sport?” heasked softly.  Emmett pulled his legsclose to his chest.  “C’mon, kid, talk tome.”

              “I don’t like being alien,”Emmett said quietly.  Stan stared athim.  “I’m already weird enough, since Igot twelve toes.  I don’t like that there’sthis other thing that makes me so different.”

              “You’re only a quarter alien.”

              “Then how come I look full alien?”Emmett asked.

              “That’s just how things worksometimes.  If I’ve learned one thingabout genetics, it’s that you can’t predict it as much as you think you shouldbe able to.”  Stan scratched hischeek.  “Of course, I learned that fromlistening to your mom and Uncle Ford talk about the alien thing, but still.”

              “I don’t like it.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan’s hand fell to his lap.  He chewed on the inside of his cheek,debating whether or not to tell Emmett.  Hetook a deep breath.  “I didn’t, either.”

              “What?”  Emmett stared at Stan.  “Dad, what do you mean?”

              “When we first found out about thewhole alien thing,” Stan said, waving a hand vaguely, “I didn’t like it.  Every time your mom turned alien in front ofme, I wanted to leave the room.  I hatedhow sometimes your older sisters looked like…” Stan glanced back at Danny and Daisy. “Don’t tell them this, but I said that they looked like bugs.”  Emmett’s jaw dropped.

              “But yer so casual about all ofit!”

    ��         “It took a while before I couldbe casual,” Stan said.  “I didn’t wantany of this, I didn’t like it.”  Stantook a breath.  “But then I got used toit.  And after I got used to it, Istopped feeling so uncomfortable.  Andafter I stopped feeling so uncomfortable, I started liking how you kids lookwhen you’re all glowy.”  Stan ruffledEmmett’s hair.  “You being alien isn’t abad thing.  So what if it makes youweirder?  Is anyone in this familynormal?”  Emmett managed a small laugh.

              “I guess you’re right.”  Emmett took a deep breath.  Like when Angie transformed, there was aripple of color that passed over his skin as his human appearance was wipedaway.  In alien form, Emmett shifteduncomfortably.  He glowed a tense darkgreen.

              “Think you’ll take a stab atflying now?” Stan asked.  Emmett shookhis head.

              “I think I’ll just start bygetting used to the antennae.  It’s beena while since I’ve had them.”

              “No worries,” Stan said with ashrug.  “Take your time.  You can stay grounded with your old man.”  Emmett nodded silently.  Angie walked over.

              “Emmett, you ready to start flyin’?”she asked.  Emmett shook his head.  “That’s fine. When yer ready, just let me know. Emory ‘ll be happy to fly with ya.” Emmett nodded.  Angie turned toStan.  “Come with me, darlin’.”

              “…What?” Stan asked.  Angie grabbed his hand and pulled him up.

              “How’s that fear of heights ofyours?”

              “I don’t know how to answer that.”

              “Want to find out?” Angieasked.  She pulled him close.  Stan felt his feet leave the ground.  He looked down.  He and Angie were hovering a few inches abovethe lawn.  His stomach turned over.  He looked at Angie.  Her large, black eyes caught the lightemanating from her skin.

              I got used to Angie lookinglike this, I should be able to get used to heights.  I can always close my eyes if I need to.  Like he had when Angie first learned to fly,Stan quashed the churning in his stomach and grinned at Angie confidently.

              “Let’s do it.”

              “Gross, Dad,” Emmettmuttered.  Stan frowned at his son.

              “No flying, no opinion,” he retorted.  Emmett rolled his eyes.  Angie wrapped her thin arms around Stan’s torsoand rested her head against his chest, her antennae tickling his chin.  Stan returned the gesture, embracing her.  He closed his eyes as they ascended into thenight sky.

[amplesalty]

Christmas 2019: Day 4 - A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas (2011)

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Four rounds of sliders!

So, turns out I had the title of this movie wrong, it’s not just A Harold & Kumar Christmas, it’s a 3D Christmas! Which also answers the question of where we go from the second movie, apparently out goes all that racism and in comes just so, so many shots of things flying at the camera.

It’s 2011 by this point, have we not left all this in the past? Hell, they were doing this in House of Wax when I watched that last year and that was back in the 50’s. To their credit, they do poke fun at the whole 3D thing at times, like near the start Harold’s assistant brings in a big ass TV meant as a present for Harold’s father in law. Harold questions if the whole 3D thing hasn’t jumped the shark by now but his assistant disagrees, exclaiming that it’s going to be ‘amazing’ as he points down the camera for emphasis. Harold just dryly asks who he’s looking at.

Harold has been moving up in the world it seems, now a very successful businessman on Wall Street. Unfortunately this comes during the whole ‘Occupy Wallstreet’ movement and the streets outside his office is lined with protesters wanting to eat the rich. Perhaps with a side of eggs which they throw at him by way of the camera lens.

Like a good soldier though, his assistant steps into the line of fire and takes a barrage of eggs to the face. RIP in peace. They have this whole musical sting whilst it’s happening, I feel like this has to be referencing something but I’m not sure what, war movies aren’t my thing.

Harold’s father in law by the way is played by non other than Danny Trejo, which is a rather scary thought. Trying to impress the father in law is bad enough without factoring that into the equation. He’s predisposed to disliking Harold as well given that his mother was killed by a bunch of Korean street thugs when she came over to America.

We learn that in his youth, Mr Perez dreamed of celebrating Christmas with a Christmas tree but would never get his wish. It was only upon reaching America that his mother promised they would have one every year, only for his life to be cut short. That’s why he holds this season and Christmas trees in particular in such high esteem. We also learn that apparently he was born with his moustache, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me with Danny Trejo. Also, someone being viciously murdered by street thugs seems a bit dark for this franchise.

Speaking of facial hair, Kumar is still a layabout bum who got kicked out of medical school for failing a drugs test. I do dig the beard though. Vanessa has left him though and he lives in filth with a neighbor who rents out his bathroom to let homeless people take a shit. So yeah, little bit of a mismatch on how our two heroes lives panned out over the last 7 years. I’m digging the beard though, but he promptly shaves it off under the pretense of trying to finally mature somewhat when he finds out Vanessa is pregnant.

Although, he is a little distracted during this revelation by the unfolding scenes of A Christmas Story and Flick getting his tongue stuck to the flagpole. Clearly an Xbox man as well, seemingly playing some Crackdown and Gears of War recently. This isn’t like that time I kept seeing It’s A Wonderful Life everywhere, is it? I’m not going to start having A Christmas Story pop up in all these movies, am I?

H&K are reuinited for the first time in two years when a package turns up at Kumar’s apartment addressed to Harold, which turns out to be a massive joint. Kumar lights up, only for Harold to play narc and throw it out of the window. Miraciously though, it curves around and flies back in a different window, lighting up Mr Perez’s Christmas tree and nearly burning down the whole house. This only reinforces what a negative influence on Harold’s life Kumar is and it looks like our duo are going their separate ways again. But, this does give us our impetuous for another hour and a half of whacky shenanigans because if Harold doesn’t fix that tree, there’s a good chance Mr Perez might kill him.

So we get the odd foursome of Harold and his new white bread bestie, Todd (and his daughter) and Kumar and his neighbor, Adrian, out on the lookout for a tree. This does lead to perhaps the most racially driven portion of the movie as they head to a tree lot run by two African-American guys trying to do this ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing, the Fat Albert looking guy playing nice and the other wondering what a pair of honkey, cracker, white ass fools are doing coming up in their turf.

Turns out Mr Perez isn’t the only one out to kill Harold though, as the tree search takes them to a party by way of Adrian who has a hookup waiting for him that he met online. She’s a virgin because apparently all the guys at school are scared to go anywhere near her. Adrian realizes that’s because her dad is notorious Ukranian mobster Sergei Katsov. At first I thought this was Chris Meloni making his third outing in the series but no, it’s actually Elias Koteas who was Casey Jones in the Ninja Turtles movies.

After Adrian goes soft upon finding out this information, Mary will settle for anyone at this point and goes to start blowing Harold right in the middle of the party. An inopportune time then for Daddy to come home and find what looks like an Eiffel Tower situation going on.

Even after they barely escape though, the nightmare is far from over as they start tripping and think they’re in the middle of a multi storey evil snowman attack. And, this all takes place in claymation. This is a really awesome scene, the design of the snowman is great and the level of destruction going on is amazing.

I could do without Kumar showing off his clay cock though, I only dread to think how much worse this is in 3D with him waving it about in your face.

Luckily, old buddies Rosenberg and Goldstein are there to shake them out of their bad trip and take them to White Castle to relax. Man, they have a much easier time getting their this time. They’ve clearly learnt from their past experiences. Along with the whole 3D into the camera gimmick, the racism angle has been replaced somewhat with religion, notably here with a whole speech about how Goldstein’s wife had him convert to Christianity and him just going in on those ‘dirty Jew bastards’.

That and the use of his son as a distraction so Harold & Kumar can go steal a tree from a church. ‘Pillow fight in the altar boys room, last one there is a rotten egg!’. Going in on the Catholics as well, I see.

And of course, the big one, the main man JC. Apparently Heaven is like a nightclub and we get the story of how NPH was ushered in the front door following his altercation at the whore house. Only, Jesus didn’t take kindly to NPH macking on his ladies so put in a word to the big man upstairs to send NPH back down to Earth. I mean, it’s not 100% to the letter but I’ll take this as I fucking called it.

The third part of the trifecta of racism replacements in this movie is metaness. There’s a good example here how they call out NPH coming out of the closet in real life, only to reveal that NPH is as big of a poon hound as he’s ever been and this is all just a trick to get the ladies. David Burtka? He’s not his husband, he’s just his dealer!

There’s a couple of other moments like someone referring to Harold as ‘Sulu’ or Adrian saying he lied to Mary and said he was Robert Pattison’s acting coach and that Kumar worked in the White House.

NPH is starring in some big festive stage show and sweet talks one of the dancers back to his dressing room, suggesting she strip down so that he can give her a massage. Hey, it’s cool, we’re all girlfriends here, right? Now just give him a minute so he can squirt some of his special lotion on your back...

He hooks up H&K with a tree from the set but before they can head home, the gangsters catch up with them take them to a secluded part of town for an execution.

But as they make their escape, Harold finds his dick has become stuck to the pole they were tied to. Okay, firstly, between this and Office Chrstimas Party, I’ve seen just about enough dicks to last me til the end of the season. Secondly, maybe this is God’s way of reminding me that I have some unfinished business with A Christmas Story. Sure there was the original and that sequel no one asked for but there is another...

And just in case you forget this is a Christmas movie, Harold inadvertently shoots Santa out of the sky and Kumar has to perform impromptu surgery, because he always does. Santa being played by Richard Riehle who was in Grounded for Life and, relevant to this blog, Chillerama and the Rob Zombie Halloween II. Turns out he was the one who sent Harold the massive joint so that the two of them could reconcile. I never knew Santa cared so much about the friendship of two potheads. I don’t know if he’s a good fit for Santa though, a little too gruff and mean. Doesn’t have the heart of say, an Edmund Gwenn. That could have been an alternate way to do this actually, have a totally sacherine by the numbers Santa that gets corrupted by H&K when they get him to smoke with them, he’s on too much of a bad trip to deliver the toys like normal so it’s up to them to save the day.

I think I would have to put this above the sequel but behind the original in terms of quality. As one note and as fleeting an appearance as he is, the Ukranian gangster somehow feels more of a threat than the entire US government in the second film. Keeping this adventure local again makes it feel much more grounded and there’s just a more light hearted atmosphere to the whole thing when you don’t have that massively racist and oppressive tone pressing down on it.

[mutable-manifestation]

Part 9! Still Day 7! Meet the Family.

***

The room they enter is full of cozy chairs and couches and side-tables.

Inside sits a living shadow in the shape of a person, features only visible by the slight greyish tinge in the lines of their face and the empty whiteness of their eyes.

"Danny," the being calls out as it rises to approach them, towering over them both by a good two feet, "Welcome back. And you must be Jason."

"How do you know my name." He demands.

Spike remains unbothered, eyes crinkling in a smile as he nods to Phantom.

"Danny kept everyone updated by text." He nodded at Phantom - Danny? "It's nice to finally meet you, my name is Spike - or Illustrator if you want to be formal."

Jason remembers Dick on comms, complaining "But Jasoooon-" before he'd muted and promptly been kidnapped. Phantom must have heard his name then.

If Dick had accidentally sold him to the fae by speaking his name where one of them could hear because couldn't stick to codenames on comms, Jason was going to ring his neck when he got home.

"If you'll follow me, we can put the final touches on your room," Spike continues as if Jason wasn't busy mentally cursing Dick.

The sentence then registers.

"My…room?"

"Of course! I'm the royal interior designer. I've been setting things up all week." Spike begins, clearly winding up for the long haul as he leads them out of the sitting room and down yet another hall, Phantom following along with a silent smile.

"When Danny told us about you I started preparing immediately. I set everything up based on guesses about you from what I knew via Danny's texts, of course, so there's likely to be something you want changed.

Anything that's a simple matter of design or arrangement can be adjusted now, and if there's furniture you do or don't want we can get that removed or brought in by the end of the day, barring anything extravagant.

Of course, materials changes to things like the floors or walls will take longer but there are always guest rooms for the interim if you find the current setup unacceptable, though I doubt you'll want to change it too much just yet. Mass changes tend to be more common once the core settles and matures a bit. Still, if there's anything you want or need change, you need only ask."

Jason doesn't have a chance to respond before Spike is opening a door and ushering him in.

The floor is covered by a void-like black carpet that looks Incredibly Soft (he touches it with a hand to test it. It is).

The ceiling mimics the night sky as seen from Earth and the four walls depict the skyline of a city at night that looks only vaguely like Gotham.

In the center of the room is what's at least a queen size bed on a platform. The frame is four poster and looks to be cut from the same black crystal material as the third tower he'd seen outside. A sheer black canopy drapes over the posters leaving only the foot of the bed open. Inside are seven black pillows placed atop a dark red blanket and he can just see the corner of matching dark red sheets.

Jason can't find any light sources, and when he asks Spike says "Lights, 10%" and the stars dim. They hadn't seemed that bright before, but the room had had plenty of light.

A large double-door closet sits against the wall behind the bed and to the left. To the far right is a desk and chair. In between the two - with plenty of space between all of them - sits a vanity. All of them are made of the same crystal material as the bedframe.

The room is dark and enormous. Despite all the furniture it feels empty.

It also feels…cave like, almost, the overwhelming darkness of it.

Warm.

Welcoming.

Permanent.

This is not home, but it's clear they don't intend to let him leave.

He buries the fear on his face under the awe.

"What do you think? Anything jumping out at you that needs changing?" Spike asks after Jason finishes circling the room.

"N-no," Jason stutters uncertainly, wary of misstepping with whatever these people were. "It's-it's fine-Great! Thank you."

"I'm glad you like it!" Orange and blue lines ripple through Spike's form as he smiles, the first hint of color the being had shown. And a helpful tell.

"Just let me know if you change your mind at any point; there's no time limit for this. If you decide a decade down the line you hate the carpet I can change it."

Jason hated the confirmation that he was here to stay.

"I'm normally around the castle in between projects - everyone is, really - but feel free to hunt me down if I'm out! Jazz always says I need to take more breaks anyway."

Spike waves a hand vaguely and his smile turns fond. "And ssssspeaking of projects, I do believe I have a meeting with Hestia, Icepillar, Sir Joykillious the eleventh, Thalia, Algae, and Euphy soon. Lots to do, ya know," Spike winks conspiratorially at him but Jason most assuredly does not know.

Danny snorts, "Joykillious?"

"One of your annoying floating eyeballs, they want to 'ensure the proper decorum is observed, nyeh!'"

And with a final exchange of snickers, Spike was gone.

"You'll understand when you meet one, unfortunately," Danny answers his unspoken question. "But let's just put that off for as long as possible, yeah?"

He then leads them out of the door and back toward the sitting room.

"For now I have someone way less boring for you to meet!"

This time when he swung open the sitting room door, it contained a humanoid wolf the size of the yetis hovering not two feet beyond the threshold.

You know how whenever we see Danny accidentally kidnap Jason, he immediately explains what’s going on? What if Danny forgets to do that and leaves Jason wondering what the fuck is going on. Like usually Jason is in the know and the BatFam has to figure it out themselves, what if nobody knows what’s going on, not even Danny to an extent. Imagine Danny thinking someone else told Jason what’s going on because the sickly child ghost isn’t outwardly panicking/attacking anymore, and the only way Jason is getting any information on why this is going on is through Danny casually mentioning it in conversation and Danny isn’t even talking to him most of the time. Jason only knows one thing for certain, his weapons and attacks don’t work on them.

(Danny takes Jason to the Ghost Zone, unknowingly adopts him and leaves; Jason is in a horror mystery detective game and is thAT HIS ROBIN COSTUME ON HIM; and nobody knows where Jason is, his last known location was in Crime Alley)

[myheartmightexplode]

Love on the webways

Summary

"As a writer, Grant supposes he could have considerably worse habits than trolling his own message boards." A totally ridiculous AU vaguely inspired by You've Got Mail.

Kris would give him hell, but she always made him stay off the Barbelith boards unsupervised, too. He can’t help himself. It’s part genuine pleasure in seeing what readers make of his work, part morbid curiosity.

Right now, he’s spoiling for a fight, which is never a good way to go into this. The times he’s found it the most enjoyable were when he didn’t give a fuck, when he could let the vile shit people said slide right off his back. Right now, he cares entirely too much about everything.

It’s too easy to find the thread he’d been following last week. Too easy to notice all the new replies. And if he’d been really serious about swearing off this board, he’d have made sure he was logged out. And he’s not.

The thread’s instigator is the kind of bloke that Grant occasionally comes across at signings or conventions; highly opinionated, sure of himself, and a complete and utter arse. Grant always wonders where these people find the time to pay so much attention to something they hate. But at the moment, he’s being no better. The guy is a frequent poster. Most of the other posters clearly want to kiss his arse. Grant starts grinding his teeth after about the third inane reply.

Grant doesn’t give a shit about people disliking his work; everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. But there’s something uniquely irritating about the way this uppity fucker is deliberately misinterpreting, and denouncing, his last book. IMHO, the post starts. Grant snorts. This guy is anything but humble about his opinions. He’s already composing his belligerent reply in his head as he scrolls down the page, then lets go of his mouse.

The most recent post in the thread is from a user who goes by DannyTheStreet–clearly a fan of Doom Patrol, at least. There’s a little star beside the username, indicating that this person is one of the forum’s moderators. He’s interested that Danny chose to respond at length with his own argument rather than simply wield modly power. Danny is fucking sharp, too; Grant is selfishly pleased that he (Grant assumes) seems to really grasp what Grant had been doing with the story that this so-called “_DrManhattan” is being horrible about.

Danny seems to have softened his ire, so he goes downstairs to put the kettle on and hopes that by the time he gets back up, there will be a response.

*

Most of them must be Americans, he realizes when he wakes to a new flurry of replies. Including Danny, his defender even though he doesn’t know it. Danny’s responses to the other posters continue to be both well-reasoned and hilariously scathing. Grant finds himself laughing aloud more than once. Now, all thoughts of leaving for good are gone. He wants to see more of Danny’s conversations.

He types the username into the search bar, previous annoyance at the jackass commenter nearly forgotten. Danny, it appears, is not a frequent poster. But the posts he does make are more of the same: smart, funny, and oftentimes a bit snarky. Grant goes back to the original thread and starts a post. He almost wants to play devil’s advocate, just to see how Danny would react. But he doesn’t.

 DannyTheStreet has the right idea. Morrison has made it clear in dozens of interviews that he believes the exact opposite, and it definitely shows up in all the books Danny mentioned. Can’t think of anything else to add.

He sits back and laughs at himself, a bit ruefully. As a writer, he supposes he could have considerably worse habits than trolling his own message boards. And he can’t deny the pleasure he takes in discovering fans who truly seem to understand his work.

A few minutes later, there’s a response. Thank you, TheOldFox! It drives me crazy when people are deliberately obtuse for no fucking reason.

Grant chuckles and opens a private message. Nice of you to assume it was deliberate.

He gets a reply about twenty minutes later. I figure that when you pick that many fights, you’ve gotta be a deliberate asshole, you know? I’d love to just ban him, but I don’t want to be That Mod. Thanks for the backup, though.

Any time, Grant replies. He was starting to get on my last nerve. You were a ray of light in the darkness.

That sounds a bit daft, and Grant regrets it about five seconds after sending, but Danny replies promptly with a cheerfully punctuated

 Any time!!! :)

Grant laughs and clicks away from that window. He has tea, and he’s in an infinitely better mood than he had been. Now to start those revisions. He keeps checking back, though. At least once or twice an hour. Just to see.

**

Gerard hums under his breath as he shuts his laptop. He’s been online for…well. Longer than he should have been. He scrubs a hand through his hair and looks at the clock. Fuck, he’d meant to be in bed an a hour ago. But he’d gotten into a discussion with TheOldFox about Britpop and he can never fucking stop when someone gets him started about fucking Morrissey or Blur.

When he’d offered to mod for The City of Whispers, he’d been sure it couldn’t be any worse than wrangling a pit full of hormonal teenagers. He’d been both right and so, so wrong. But he’d never taken into account that maybe he’d make some friends. And maybe it’s stupid, but… he likes the anonymity. He’s a normal person on here; one who was never in a world-famous band that decided to call it quits after their most popular album.

Well. That’s not exactly true. He is those things all the time, but the people he’s talking to don’t know that. And it’s nice sometimes. He just gets to talk about comics. And religion, and politics, and art, and sometimes, well, Britpop. But TheOldFox started that.

Gerard grins as he gets up and herds himself towards the bathroom. He’s been trading messages back and forth with TheOldFox for a while now. The guy seems to be on Gerard’s wavelength in a way that a lot of other people aren’t. He’d checked him out out of curiosity when Fox had first messaged him, and found that he’s a longtime but sporadic poster. Gerard hopes he sticks around.

He finishes brushing his teeth, double-checks his stuff for tomorrow morning’s meeting with Scott, and gets in bed. He can’t stop thinking about Fox, though. He hasn’t had that much fun talking to someone in a long time. Not someone he didn’t already know. At least the asshole in that thread seems to have moved on to greener pastures.

The next morning, Gerard inhales a cup of coffee, pours himself a second cup to savor, and checks his email. There’s a new private message notification from the board. Gerard grins and clicks the link.

Thought you might like this if you haven’t seen it, it says, along with a link to a recent Morrison interview with some foreign blog.

Gerard saves the link and clicks ‘reply’. Awesome, thanks! I never would have found this, can’t wait to read it. Gonna save it as a reward for making it through this morning’s meeting with my boss.

Hope the boss doesn’t give you too hard a time, comes the reply. Any way to butter them up? ;)

Not being perpetually late with things would be a start,Gerard types back.

Funny how bosses seem to frown on that, Fox returns.

Seriously. And if I’m late, that messes with other people’s work and it’s all a mess. I’m getting better, but deadlines are killer, Gerard replies.

Good luck, Fox messages back.

Gerard glances at the clock, sighs, and downs the rest of his coffee. He packs everything in his bag and drives to Milwaukie. He has to parallel park on the street behind Dark Horse, which is never a good time, but he manages. He’s totally going to reward himself with a trip to TFAW for it, though.

Scott and Sierra are nice about his scripts being late, which makes him feel worse about it. “Make it up to me by coming to dinner Thursday,” Scott tells him. Scott and his wife are part of a network of people in Portland who have decided that Gerard needs looking after. It’s baffling, but it’s nice. And Elisabeth is a fucking amazing cook, so Gerard would be particularly stupid to say no.

“Okay,” he says. He should probably alternate playing Warhammer Quest and arguing with people on message boards with socializing, anyway.

Scott rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “Aren’t you glad you let us talk you into moving up here?” Scott asks.

“I like it here. It’s not too hot, and no one cares who I am. Was.” It’s not totally true, but things haven’t been too bad.

“The benefit of living in a city filled with hipsters,” Sierra laughs.

Gerard smiles. “That and the coffee. Pizza’s shit, though.”

“Cry me a river. What else do you have going at the moment, Gerard?” Scott asks, refilling his water glass and sitting back in his chair.

“The usual. Comics,” Gerard shrugs.

Scott lifts the script Gerard handed in and points out some words in the margin, something Gerard jotted down absentmindedly at one point. “Sure you’re not writing lyrics again?” he asks with a smile.

“Maybe a few,” Gerard replies. “Got some melodies stuck in my head. Or maybe they’re poetry. Dunno.”

“A Renaissance man,” Sierra says dryly.

Gerard shrugs. “I guess I can do both. Got nothing but time.”

“If you have time, maybe finish those scripts on time more often,” Scott needles with a fond smile.

Gerard fakes a sigh. “I’ll do better, I promise. I just get distracted real easy.”

“We know,” Sierra smiles. “Which is why we keep inviting you in here.”

“Well, it works. I get a guilt trip and new comics,” Gerard says with a grin.

“Everybody wins,” Scott agrees.

“Sadist,” Gerard says. “All right, I’ll get out of your hair now, guys.”

“See you at dinner, Gerard,” Scott says. “I’ll call you an hour before to remind you.”

When Gerard gets home, he makes himself another cup of coffee and settles at his computer, opening the interview Fox had linked him to. He’s smiling almost instantly. Fuck, Morrison is funny. This is a good one.

Gerard opens the message board and clicks the link to the private messages. That article was amazing. Haven’t laughed that hard in a while. Meeting went well. I even got an invite to dinner with the boss and his wife.

There’s no reply, but that makes sense; Gerard is pretty sure Fox is in Europe somewhere. He clicks over to another tab instead and tweets a quick “Good afternoon.” He answers a few questions from kids and gets to work.

**

If you’d told Grant that he would ever be a person who looked forward to checking his email- well. All possible universes, and all that. But he still has to laugh at himself a little. He has plenty of friends, there’s no denying that. But he tends to hermit himself away when he’s at his country house and it’s an extra little thrill after sitting at his computer all day, to have a nice conversation.

He thinks he’s finally discovered what it is that people love about the internet. Fifteen years late. It’s very sad how misguided you are, he types, grinning at his keyboard.

He doesn’t get angry at people on The City of Whispers anymore. He has a partner in crime. As a team, they shut down the stupid assholes and it’s fun. He suspects that this isn’t the kind of trouble people had warned him against, back when he’d first discovered the message boards dedicated to his work.

There’d been Barbelith, back in the day, and Warren had always had the WEF. Warren managed to meet some truly amazing people through that. Grant had never had quite the same success.

Now, he pulls up the PM thread that he and Danny have going and types, Nicely done. By the way, you were right about that band you linked me. Brilliant stuff.

Music is my thing, Danny replies. Well. When comics aren’t my thing. Or like. Obscure eighties cartoons.

Grant laughs aloud. And when art isn’t your thing? he sends back.

One of my supervisors called me a Renaissance man the other day, comes the quick reply. I feel like I need a costume for that, though.

Renaissance Man would be an interesting superhero, perhaps, Grant returns. Just mind the tights, they pinch.

Believe me, I know, is the reply. I was Peter Pan in a school play when I was a kid. I also dressed in drag in art school.

Grant almost starts typing the story of his own foray into drag, but pauses; that’s a story that he’s told in interviews before, and Danny will probably be familiar with it. Not the best strategy for maintaining his anonymity.

 Ah, art school. I never went, myself. You are quite the well-rounded chap, Danny.

 I try to be. Gotta admit, I fail when it comes to math any more advanced than basic algebra.

We all have our blind spots, Grant agrees. I’m quite terrible with technology, myself.

You’re on a computer, right? Danny asks. Not doing some mystic ritual or something?

Grant laughs. Would that I were. Perhaps I could more easily get other things done while chatting with you.

 So multitasking is also a blind spot?

 Like it isn’t for you?

Don’t make me give up all my weaknesses. That’s a total supervillain thing to do, Fox.

Grant laughs and rubs a hand over his head. If he only knew. Supervillainy is overrated. And I enjoy vices in my friends. Makes them more interesting.

I’ve got my share of vices, but I’m still pretty boring, writes Danny.

I doubt that. Grant realizes he’d be flirting if this was in person. That’s…he doesn’t know how to feel about that. People meet and flirt on the Internet all the time. He just never figured it would happen to him.

He laughs at the absurdity of the whole thing. At least Danny doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Anonymous flirting on the Internet is infinitely better than the alternative, he thinks.

*

A week later, he and Danny are in the middle of a heated back-and-forth about the X-Men when Grant’s mobile rings. He searches underneath a stack of notebooks until he finds it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Grant,” Janelle sounds apologetic, which is never a good sign. He takes a breath.

“Word from on high?” he asks, tone as light as possible.

“I’m afraid so. It’s not as bad as last time, at least?” Janelle offers, and Grant scrubs a hand over his face and sighs.

“I’m not going to put you in the middle of this,” Grant tells her.

“And for that, I thank you,” Janelle replies. She proceeds to outline the changes they want. Janelle is right, they’re not that bad, not really. But it’s the principle of the thing.

As they talk about the best way to edit the script, Grant erases the sentence about Magneto he’d started and writes, Apropos of a work call I am currently on: sometimes I don’t know why I bother.

He switches away from his browser window to make some notes. When he finally ends the call with Janelle, he’s a bit lost in his own head, but not so lost that he doesn’t click back, just to check in.

Tell your boss to shove it. Or at least imagine it in great detail, Danny has replied.

Grant smiles. I do. Frequently. They day I can actually tell him to shove it will be a banner day.

He turns his attention to the script, reading through it and deciding how best to effect the changes that DC wants and occasionally swearing under his breath. He doesn’t check his notifications for hours, but when he does, Danny has sent him a macro of Darth Vader force choking some unfortunate that says, “Good Luck.” Grant laughs and laughs, then saves it to his desktop so he can look at it whenever he’s feeling grumpy. And if he’s imagining Dan DiDio in the place of Vader’s victim– well. Probably best to keep that to himself. Grant has learned a bit about discretion over the years. Mostly when he did something dumb and Kristan rolled her eyes at him.

He smiles fondly. He misses her, misses her help, but it’s better this way. In the end. If she were here, she’d tell him to stop fucking working and get a bite to eat, so he pushes away from his desk and goes down to the kitchen.

**

Gerard pushes back from his computer and sighs, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes to try and stop his vision swimming. This is becoming a habit. Especially the past month or so. He’s going to end up wearing glasses at this rate.

The problem is, Fox gets up for the day while Gerard is still awake and they end up exchanging messages into what are the wee hours for Gerard. At least he sets his own schedule. Mostly. Except on days where he has meetings, or Skype calls with his collaborators.

He’s been finding it difficult to sleep much lately. His brain is very busy.

His therapist seems to find his friendship with Fox interesting and seems to think it’s generally good for him, though. So that’s something. Gerard happens to agree–though, he maybe hasn’t been completely honest with his therapist as to exactly why. But she’s not dumb, and she knows all about Kat and Eliza and Bert and Lindsey - and Frank - so he really has no reason to think she doesn’t have ideas about his reason.

He’s always been really good at self-sabotage and he’s really fucking determined that it’s not going to happen this time. Even if it is an anonymous cross-continental friendship. And it’s a fucking good friendship, anonymity and distance be damned. He doesn’t ask Fox super personal questions, because he wouldn’t feel right not being able to answer the same questions. So they talk mostly about other things - ideas, feelings, stuff going on in the world - and it’s nice, really. Despite the lack of personal details, it feels really fucking intimate. Like he’s never shared this much of himself with anyone before. Not really.

It’s even different than what he had with the guys in the band. They’re his brothers–always will be. And they’d known him at his worst, and at his best. With Fox, though, Gerard feels like he doesn’t have to live up to either of those things. He can just be Gerard. Or, well. Danny.

He likes being Danny pretty well. Danny can email Fox about politics in the morning and about Blade Runner in the evening and get a great discussion about either. Fox just gets him. He never has to explain himself to Fox like he does with others. Or well, he tries to explain himself and they misinterpret that too.

“The aftermath is secondary,” he mutters to himself.

He looks around. His apartment looks like the scene of a particularly colorful explosion. There are sketches, notes, random paintings that he’d done at odd hours of the morning when the inspiration struck. And every time he closes his eyes, he sees the story lit up in technicolor.

He texts “the aftermath is secondary” to Shaun before he forgets it and makes sure his laptop is plugged in before going upstairs to get ready for bed. He sets about ten alarms so he definitely gets up on time tomorrow and falls face-first into bed.

*

When he logs on to Skype at eleven AM Portland time, Shaun’s already online, and the first thing he does when the call connects is burst out laughing.

Gerard frowns at him. “What, dude?”

“Your hair. Also, you have ink on your face.”

Gerard wrinkles his nose. “As if you haven’t seen it all before.”

Shaun grins at him. “You’re a special kid, Geeway.”

“Shut up, Simon,” Gerard says. “Where were we with the outline?”

“We are…halfway through issue four,” Shaun replies. “What was that text from last night about?”

“Just something I thought of last night, I don’t know.”

“I know you, it’s either lyrics or dialogue. Hope you have a notebook handy,” Shaun grins.

“I think it’s…a slogan, maybe? For BLI? Maybe the Killjoys adopt it and subvert it too. I dunno,” Gerard says.

“I like it,” Shaun agrees. “Shit, yeah. That totally sounds like something BLI would try to spin.”

“We need like. A whole ad campaign, slogans like that that can go either way. I was reading this book that a friend of mine recommended to me the other day, about the Invisibles, you know? ‘Our sentence is up?’ That kind of stuff.”

“Totally,” Shaun enthuses. “Damn, this is going to be so fucking amazing.”

Gerard couldn’t hold in his grin if he tried. “Fuck yeah, it is. I’m going to start a file just for this, okay? Loop Jon and Becky in. Maybe we can make some cool viral shit.”

“Twitter accounts and a fucking badass website, maybe,” Shaun suggests.

“BLI merch,” Gerard suggests, laughing. “Fucking coffee mugs and shit. Gabriel and Fabio will want one, anyway. They love the Umbrella stuff.”

Shaun is grinning wide and Gerard grins back. He’s so fucking excited about this project. Even with the pain of deadlines and shit. Later, he writes to Fox. Meetings aren’t always horrible. I always forget how fucking fun it is, when a new project starts coming together. And I get to work with an old friend, which is going to be fucking awesome. Not for the first time, he wishes he could give Fox the specifics.

He can’t. He’s dropped enough specifics in the press that a bored Google will probably turn them up. It’s a shame. Maybe he can tell him something anyway. He’s not sure what, though. He’ll think on it. Maybe they can just discuss dystopias and corporate culture and shit.

There’s no response, which isn’t a surprise–it’s ass o’clock in the morning over in the UK. He comments on a couple public threads on the boards, instead. No truly interesting discussion going on, but Gerard hangs around for a bit anyway. Fox will wake up in a few hours. For now, Gerard closes out his browser window and pulls up his scripts.

Interviewers like to make hay out of him saying Black Parade was the last thing he had to say through My Chem. It makes the fans gnash their teeth, too. But this new stuff…it’s not that subtle of a middle finger, really. But he loves it. He loves it a lot. Working with Shaun makes him miss the band a little, but he calls them whenever that happens and they talk about everything under the sun. He gets stories about video games and producing, stories about D&D groups, stories about toddlers and demos played over the phone. He loves it. Loves them.

*

“Is it stupid that I wish I could tell him?” Gerard asks later, tapping his fingers against his phone case.

Frank laughs at him from three thousand miles away. “It’s not stupid. It’s just… you, Gee. All your alter egos turn into you eventually. Hey, you said he was an older dude, right? Maybe he’s never even heard of My Chem.”

Gerard has to laugh. Frank loves to deflate his ego. “Why do I even talk to you?” Gerard asks.

“You love me,” Frank replies. “And my diaper stories.”

“I do,” Gerard agrees, because there’s not really any point in denying it. “My love to Jamia and the girls too, okay? I should probably get back to work.”

Frank says goodbye and hangs up. Gerard smiles at the ceiling for a moment, with a little sigh. He’s lucky Frank loves him back, after everything. Learning how to be friends without the band to bring them all together had been hard for Gerard at first, but he eventually got the hang of it. And he’s really fucking glad of that.

Later that evening, Gerard’s clicking around the boards–there’s a user who’s been known to stir up trouble hanging around in a couple of the threads, and Gerard’s keeping an eye on it–when he sees that somebody’s posted a link to a new Morrison interview.

Typically, the next few comments are all jokes about not understanding a word he says. Gerard rolls his eyes and listens to the podcast carefully. It’s fucking fascinating. He fucking loves the way Morrison’s mind works. He’s always wanted to meet him, but has never quite been able to swing it. “Maybe next year,” he always says to himself after each Comic-Con where his schedule is too crazy or Morrison isn’t in attendance or…something.

Maybe this will finally be the year the stars align. He needs to bug Neil for an introduction or something.

“Rock star perks,” he mutters to himself. He ignores the voice that tells him he hasn’t been a rock star for two years. He’s still writing music, mixed in with everything else. It’s just..his, now. Maybe he’ll book some studio time when he and Shaun are done. Or something. He misses making music. Scott was right, those were totally lyrics.

He needed time. A lot of it, actually. His therapist spends a lot of time helping him to be okay with that. Mostly he is now. Sometimes he feels like he failed his guys, failed the kids, by not continuing, but they said what they needed to say.  

In the meantime, he pushes back from his desk and goes back over to his art table where he has a couple mock-ups in progress. He fiddles with one for a few minutes until he hears the ding of his phone indicating he has a new email. He sits back down at his desk and checks.

Can’t sleep, hello, Fox writes.

Hi! Gerard replies. I’m sorry you can’t sleep. I’m knocking around my house kind of aimlessly this evening.

 Not going out? Isn’t it Friday?

Gerard laughs and starts typing. I don’t drink anymore and my Magic group couldn’t meet this week.

I’m happy to keep you company, Fox replies, until or unless I fall asleep again, mind.

 I won’t begrudge you falling asleep, I guess. Any particular reason for the sleeplessness?

 Overwork, as counterintuitive as that seems. And too much tea.

I have trouble with insomnia. My therapist tells me I need to cut back on coffee, but since I quit drinking and I managed to quit smoking, I just can’t bring myself to.

I did a lot better when there was someone around to monitor my sleep schedule. I’m shit at it on my own, sadly, Fox writes back.

The confirmation that Fox doesn’t have anyone makes Gerard’s stomach flop over. This is really stupid. Gerard is still staring at the computer like it is going to tell him something else. He takes a deep breath and starts typing. I know how that goes. I have a cleaning lady, a therapist, and a boss who’s more like a big brother to me and I still suck at basic shit.

And friends, Fox replies. Gerard’s not sure if it’s meant to be a question.

 And friends. Great friends. I moved away from a lot of them a couple of years ago. It was the best decision for me, but I wish I could see them more.

I’ve lived mostly in the country since my divorce, Fox writes back. It’s quiet, and I like that, but I understand.

Gerard takes a breath. You have one up on me. If I lived in the country I would die and my home would be invaded by a pack of wild dogs that would eat my remains.

That would be appropriately dramatic, Fox writes back. I’ve just scared a cat with my laughter, by the way.

Gerard grins. Sorry, cat. I used to think the only way I could possibly go out would be dramatically. I like to think it’s a sign I’ve grown as a person that I think I could just as easily have a boring death.

 You’re a morbid little bastard, aren’t you, my friend?

I like to think it’s part of my charm. If nothing else, I’ve kind of built my career on it, in a way. A part of him hopes that Fox will ask him to be more specific.

The rest of him knows that he’s being stupid, and is relieved when Fox’s next message reads, I understand finding your niche in places that others don’t necessarily like to look. It’s certainly served me well, though it can be difficult at times.

I’ve had a lot of difficult, Gerard writes back. and once I crossed the bridge of ‘alive past thirty’ I sort of had to look around to see where the bar was set.

The next message takes a couple of minutes to arrive, but when it does, it makes Gerard’s breath catch. I’m very glad you did cross that bridge.

Gerard considers, and discards, a dozen different replies before he finally settles on, Me, too. After a moment, he sends another message. I actually love my life, but I can’t get through a day without knowing I’m disappointing people. It’s easier to be anonymous guy on the internet, but.

I understand completely, is the reply. Gerard believes him.

The conversation turns to other things, and they end up in a discussion about the mythological functions of Lord of the Rings. Fox has a lot to say about mythology in fiction. He says he never went to college, but he’s clearly well-read.

For the first time in a long time, Gerard wants to talk about Parade and everything he was trying to do with it. Maybe someday, he thinks. Someday, he’ll be able to tell Fox everything. Maybe Frank’s right, maybe Fox has never heard of MCR. But he thinks of all their conversations about music and thinks he’s just fooling himself.

He’s working on another message, struggling to say something like what he really wants to say when another note pops up. Finally winding down enough to sleep, I think. Good night, my friend.

Gerard breathes out, not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. Sleep well, Fox, he sends back.

Be good to yourself, is Fox’s reply. Gerard smiles and takes a deep breath. Maybe he needs to zone out in front of Fellowship of the Ring.

**

It isn’t as though Grant hadn’t known that he was being a bit ridiculous about the whole thing. But when he finds himself contemplating buying a smartphone–something he’s avoided for years–just so he can more easily check his email while he’s in London next week, he has to laugh. It’s not like he can’t afford it, after all. Or figure out how it works. He’s not got one foot in the grave quite yet.

The more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea, which is even more ridiculous. His instincts say to go buy one now. He forces himself to think about it for a few days. Finally, a few days before he’s set to leave for London, he gives in.

He sends Danny a message that same night. Going out of town for a week or so. Sure to be tedious at times. Here is my email address if you’d like to keep writing. He includes his shiny new gmail address and hits send.

The next message he gets is from dannythestreet@gmail.com.

Grant grins. Perhaps this will be faster than going through the private message system on the board.

Possibly less distracting, Danny agrees. Where are you off to?

London for some meetings and to see some friends, Grant replies.

I fucking love London, Danny says. One of my favorite cities.

Grant grins broadly, pleased to discover something else they have in common. It happens frequently even without sharing specifics about themselves, which they’ve managed to do despite having been talking for a few months now.

He climbs into bed with his new mobile and starts a new reply. You never told me why Danny the Street, you know. Out of all Morrison’s characters, and well, a lot of other ones.

 I love everything about Danny. Honestly, Danny might be one of my favorite characters ever.

Grant knows it’s foolish, but he still feels a burst of pride in his chest. Not just the crossdressing thing, then? He holds his breath as he sends it, but Danny replies immediately.

 I told you my only crossdressing story already, Fox. There were some ladies’ jeans in my past, too, but these days it’s just jeans and plaid. Sorry if that’s a letdown ;)

Not in the least, Grant sends back. My own crossdressing days are behind me and I seem to confine myself to wearing sharp suits to special occasions these days. This is flirting, he’s almost sure. This is- there isn’t anything else this could be called.

Any special occasions in London? Danny asks after a nail-biting pause.

A party or two, Grant replies. One will be dull. The other may actually be entertaining.

 Let me guess–the first party is for work?

 I’d hate to speak ill of my employers. Actually, no. I enjoy my British team, it’s the American wing I find trying. No offense.

 None taken. I’m not even surprised. How about the other party?

Old friends, Grant replies. This party is the thing he’s most excited about during this visit. The chance of debauchery is high.

 Oh really? That good of friends? ;)

It will be an interesting night, Grant replies. No Magic: The Gathering, but I think you’d enjoy yourself as well.

 You’d be there. Pretty sure that would be guaranteed.

And oh, Grant feels that in the pit of his stomach. He’d do a lot to make it happen. Too bad he can never admit to Danny who he really is. Not that Danny has been particularly forthcoming with his own identity, but he could very likely be taking cues from Grant in that regard. Grant sighs.

He’s tempted to let Danny’s last email go unanswered– it wouldn’t be the first time that one of them had fallen asleep in the middle of a conversation. Wish you could be, he writes back after a long pause.

Danny doesn’t send a reply after that. Grant supposes one isn’t necessary.

He does fall asleep after a while, and he wakes up to a new email from Danny on a completely unrelated subject. Grant supposes that’s a pretty clear signal. He forces himself to get up, eat breakfast, and pack his luggage before answering. It’s the start of a long discussion, Grant can feel it. He’s suddenly even more glad he gave in to his flight of fancy and got himself a smartphone. He’ll be able to keep up on the train down to London.

A few hours later, he’s in his seat on the train, fiddling with his sketchbook in between answering emails. He’s just sent off a rather long one to Danny, answering a question he’d asked about dystopias, and somehow types in Kristan’s address instead. I joined the modern world.

I can see that from your “Sent from my iPhone” signature. comes her reply a good ten minutes later. Finally realize it’s necessary since I’m not there to carry a mobile for you?

He knows Kris and he knows she’s just taking the piss. He smiles. Something like that. I admit, it’s certainly making the train journey to London more interesting.

 You’re a menace, Grant. How are you doing?

I’m doing well. Working non-stop, as usual. He wants to tell her about Danny, but he’s not sure how.

A reply from Danny arrives in his inbox a moment later. Is it strange to be friends with one’s ex-wife? he writes to Danny before picking up the thread of their previous discussion.

I don’t think it’s strange. It’d probably be strange for me because I have a tendency to burn bridges, but I don’t think it’s strange in general. Who could possibly know you better? While Grant is still trying to process this, Danny sends him another message. Sometimes things end, but that doesn’t mean that the people who were part of them aren’t still important to you. Spoken like someone who’s spent a lot of time in therapy, right? Haha, another email adds, Everything okay, Fox?

Grant smiles softly at his phone. Yes, I think so. Just…contemplating the unexpected turns my life has taken.

He gets another email from Kris, then; a bit about her job and a play she and a friend had gone to see the week before. The kind of thing they would have talked about over morning tea, once. Grant is fiercely, selfishly glad that he still has her in his life, even though they’re both happier like this. Keep me posted on your life with 21st century technology, she closes.

Of course, he replies. I’d never deprive you of the opportunity to mock my failures with it. He sends the email, and sees that there’s a response from Danny in his inbox–more thoughts on dystopias, with a side-helping of post-apocalypse.

He’s so fucking smart. Grant smiles helplessly at his phone.

Grant manages to reply and then forces himself to put down the phone and pick up the book he brought for research. It’s amazing how quickly the train journey seems to go by.

Next station is mine, he tells Danny. Thank you for the conversation.

Any time, Danny responds. Talking to you is the best part of my day sometimes.

Mine, too. The train coasts to a stop, and Grant tucks his phone carefully away and gathers up his things. He’s reminded rather uncomfortably of something Kristan had said before their divorce, about how there were multiple ways to be in love. The giddy joy of of seeing an email from Danny in his inbox certainly reminds him strongly of what being in love feels like for him.

It’s ridiculous–has to be. He’s being ridiculous. He has no idea who Danny really is, where he lives, or what he does, or even his fucking name. He’s rather shit at this anonymity thing, it looks like. He shakes his head. It’s not worth thinking about, he decides. He’s certainly not going to stop and until Danny reveals himself, Grant will keep quiet. It’s all he can do.

The next few days are long, filled with interminable meetings. They’re necessary, and productive, but that doesn’t make Grant loathe them any less. He whines at Danny, who takes to sending him a series of photographs of random things around his neighborhood. His tennies, his coffee cup. A flower. Weird graffiti. Each one makes Grant smile. For all they’re strange and random, they’re weirdly compelling.

In return, he works out how to use the camera on his new phone and takes photographs around London. Danny replies with emails like, I like Selfridges better ;) or My favorite club in the city is down that street. He’s clearly spent a fairly good amount of time in London. Grant determined early on that he was on the west coast of the US, and then Danny kept talking about rain, so Grant decided he was probably in the Pacific Northwest somewhere. Grant wonders what brought him to London. He doesn’t ask.

He checks his email a lot, and tries to weather the teasing about his new enthusiasm for technology with grace. Danny helps him survive his work party with three hours’ worth of constant quips. It’s…above and beyond. There is no denying that. Grant adores him for it. When he’s finally back in his hotel room, he sends his thanks. You saved the evening. Thank you. If I can ever do similar for you, let me know.

That would most likely be in the middle of the night for you, Danny replies.

It doesn’t matter; I’d do it gladly.

You’re a good friend, Danny tells him.

As are you, Grant responds. If you ever need me, just tell me. I shall stand by with interesting conversation and whatever ridiculousness you desire.

*

Grant has spent much of his afternoon winding Danny up about the party he’ll be attending tonight, spinning tales of an orgy of debauchery the likes of which haven’t been seen since the Romans. His meeting this morning was irritating, and he’s dealing by trying to provoke Danny into some sort of equally provocative response.

What he gets makes Grant feel like an ass. My days of drunken debauchery are over, so you’ll have to party for me.

I’m sorry, Grant replies. I didn’t think.

Danny’s response is immediate. No apology necessary. I knew you were teasing. No amount of teasing can goad me into a relapse. It happened once and it was all me. All my own stupid choices.

There are a dozen things Grant wants to say in reply. I’m still sorry, he repeats.

You act like drunkenness is required for debauchery, Danny replies. Last I checked…

Grant grins at his phone. It’s true. Sober debauchery is highly encouraged at all times.

Well, maybe not all times, Danny returns. Although it certainly would have livened up those those meetings you’ve been stuck in.

I don’t think I’ll be trying to pull any of my colleagues any time soon, Grant replies with a laugh.

 Probably a good thing? I mean, having fallen for one of the people I worked closely with before, I can’t say I recommend that. Dunno about just hooking up, though. THAT, I have never attempted.

Either proposition would be a horrible idea, given some of the people I work with, and my own disposition, Grant replies.

He doesn’t get a return email for so long that he almost gives up on one. Then Danny writes back, What about tonight?

Tonight…tonight will be predominantly people I genuinely like and some I find rather attractive, but none I am particularly interested in beyond lively conversation. And it would be lively, especially if Kieron and Jamie were both there; no one had quite the same the talent for winding Warren up.

 The debauchery is a lie, Fox? I feel so betrayed.

Debauchery involving ME is unlikely. One never does know what sorts of debauchery will be witnessed, however.

At least there’s that, Danny agrees, and Grant tucks his phone away and goes downstairs.

Within an hour of his arrival at the party, he’s well on his way to drunk. He’s having an excellent time, truly. The company is infinitely better than the last party, the food is good, the alcohol is top notch. It’s Warren’s party, after all. He can’t help but wish he had someone here with him, though.

After the second drink, he’d moved his phone firmly into an interior coat pocket, difficult to reach. He’s lost track of the number of conversational gambits he’s made that have started with “I was talking to a friend of mine,” though.

He forces himself to pay attention to the party for now. Particularly when Warren and Jamie start taking the piss out of each other. Everyone is practically rolling on the floor at that point. He’d been right, Grant thinks. Danny would enjoy this. He wishes he could turn and share a smile with him, introduce him to the lads.

He can’t, so he might as well get drunk instead. It’d be a shame to let Warren have all the good whiskey, after all.

**

The problem with time zones is that, when Fox goes to bed, Gerard still has quite a bit of day still to go. Today that’s more of a problem than usual. He’s honestly not mad. Or upset. What he is, is - oh, such a problem. He’s jealous of everyone at Fox’s party, for one.

He wants to sip a Diet Coke while he listens to Fox talk to his friends. Wants to just…be in the same room with him. Their digital friendship has been fucking amazing. Unlike anything Gerard has ever really experienced. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. He just wishes it could be non-digital as well.

He wishes a lot of things.

It’s not late, and the Oemings probably won’t have put Ethan to bed yet, so he calls Michael. “Cup of coffee?”

“Sure!” Michael replies. “Meet at the usual place?”

The usual place is a little coffeehouse tucked away in a corner of a converted industrial building near the river.

“Hey, man,” Michael says when he walks in and sees Gerard sitting at a corner table. “Emerging from your lair?”

Gerard smiles. “I was feeling pretty restless, so I was like, hey, I can do something about this.”

Michael laughs, sliding into the seat on the other side of the table. “Naturally, your answer was coffee.”

“Wild and crazy, I know. Thanks for meeting me.”

“No problem. Anything specific making you restless, or is it generalized discontent? Or boredom?” Michael asks.

Gerard sighs and looks into his coffee cup. “Nah. Just… my head, you know?”

“Giving you grief?”

“In a weird way. It’s a long story,” Gerard replies.

Michael nods solemnly. “Sounds like I’ll need one of the big coffees, then.”

Gerard waits while he orders one, folding a napkin into squares. When Michael slides back into his seat, Gerard grimaces and says, “This is sort of a poor-me story. Fair warning.”

Michael chuckles. “Lay it on me.”

Gerard tells the whole fucking thing. His brother and the guys know, but this is the first non-family type person he’s told about this. “It’s stupid,” he concludes, head in his hands. “I don’t even know his fucking name. He could be a serial killer. I just…”

“If he’s a serial killer he’s playing a pretty long game,” Michael laughs. “If you’ve been talking as much as you say, you ought to be able to decide if you trust him and if you do, just…lay it out there.”  

Gerard nods. “The thing is, not having the baggage of who I actually am to be a factor has been really nice. I don’t want to scare him off now. What if he’s one of those assholes who hates my band for no real reason?”

“Ah, I see. You want to make sure he’s sufficiently wooed by your stunning personality and intellect.”

“I warned you this was a poor-me story,” Gerard says witheringly.

Michael is still laughing. “Way, take it from someone who met the rockstar and is having coffee with him on a Saturday night. You live up to the hype in lots of ways, but you’re the same kind of weirdo as the rest of us in this biz. He’s not going to judge you for your adventures in eyeliner.”

“Maybe not,” Gerard concedes. “But like. He hasn’t said anything about who he is either. I know he lives in the UK, but not London. That’s it. Maybe we’re just fated to be anonymous friends for all time.”

“Maybe he’s a spy,” Michael offers, thoughtfully. “Maybe he kills people for a living, and you’re the one connection he has left to his humanity.”

“Oh my god, I’m pen pals with Jason Bourne,” Gerard exclaims.

Michael snickers. “There, did I make you feel better?”

Gerard sighs dramatically and then grins. “Yeah. Thanks, dude.”

“Any time,” Michael says. “Are you good? Can we talk about comics now?”

Gerard throws a napkin at him. “Yes.”

Michael grins and launches into a story about a hilarious miscommunication between him and the colorist on the book he’s working on. After that, they talk about the good shit that came out on Wednesday. “You’re reading Joe the Barbarian, right?” Michael asks.

“As if I would miss it. Sean Murphy is hitting it out of the park, isn’t he?”

“He really fucking is. And the writing is great too. Though, can we talk about how even Morrison’s failures are more interesting than a lot of the stuff out there?” Michael says. Gerard has a moment of total defensiveness and he has to laugh at himself a little.

Michael grins, and Gerard squints at him accusingly. “You totally just did that to wind me up.”

“You’re just such a fanboy,” Michael smirks. “Spending all your time on Morrison message boards.”

“I’m a mod,” Gerard huffs.

“That doesn’t make you sound like less of a fanboy, dude,” Michael grins.

“Fuck off,” Gerard says, but there’s no heat in it. “You said it yourself, man, he’s got fucking fascinating ideas.”

“That he does. Anything else on your radar this week?”

“Been obsessed with this band called Sleigh Bells lately,” Gerard says. “Can’t stop listening to their album.”

“Cool. Send me a link later, you always find the good stuff.”

“This one might have been Frank, I can’t really remember,” Gerard admits.

Michael shrugs and says, “You surround yourself with people of excellent taste, I guess.”

Gerard laughs. “I assume you’re including yourself I that?”

“Duh,” Michael replies.

“Frank is extra good at finding new music I’ll like. I dunno how a kid with such a punk, do-it-yourself attitude about music, who has been through what we did with the band, manages to stay so fucking pure-hearted and enthusiastic about music,” Gerard says.

“You find good people,” Michael replies. He raises an eyebrow and Gerard knows what he’s trying to say.

They talk for a while longer, until Michael says he needs to get home for dinner. They say goodbye, and Gerard heads back to his apartment feeling a lot lighter than he’d felt when he’d left it. It’s good. And he managed to not check his phone the entire time he was out. He does now, though.

The bottle of whiskey had a hole in it, Fox writes. There was but one thing to do.

Gerard grins at his phone. Water, he types back. Lots of water. And painkillers, and maybe a banana.

I called room service for a banana. I’m fairly certain the young gentleman who brought it was laughing at me.

Poor Fox, all alone in your hotel room with your room service banana. Gerard is going to fall off his fucking couch laughing.

What a filthy mind, Fox replies. Perhaps my only consolation is that the other partygoers were just as done-in as I was.

That’s good. Being hammered alone is never fun. Are you drinking water? after a beat he adds, Also, are you actually surprised I have a dirty mind?

Absolutely not, Fox replies.And yes. No, reverse those. I must sleep, Danny.

Goodnight, Fox. Keep a glass of water by the bed, just in case. A few minutes later, Gerard gets a reply: a blurry photo of what is clearly a hotel room bedside table, and the glass of water sitting atop it.

Gerard smiles wide and settles onto his couch with his sketchbook. Strange that he’s taking care of someone from thousands of miles away. Or maybe not strange at all.

He doesn’t hear from Fox again before he finishes for the night and puts himself to bed, but that’s not too surprising, considering how late it was UK-time when Fox had fallen asleep.

The next morning, the first thing he does is check his phone. The message from Fox makes him laugh. My feelings upon waking can be best summed thusly: uuuuuggggh. But I believe it would be much, much worse had you not intervened. Thank you, friend.

Thank you for listening to me, Gerard writes back.

Fox sends him another picture message about ten minutes later: a white diner plate with a proper English fry-up, minus the meat. Hangover food. Proud of me? Fox asks.

Absolutely. And now I’m hungry, he replies. Maybe I’ll go out for brunch. Pretty sure I’m even out of pancake mix.

Tragedy, Fox writes back. Are we keeping one another company at restaurants now?

Gerard feels that same pang in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks about his talks with Frank, and Michael. They’d both seemed to think that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Fox figured out who he was. He doesn’t let himself think too much about it, just replies, Come to Portland sometime, and I’ll take you out for brunch like you’ve never had before.

 Portland. Home of Dark Horse Comics. I feel as if I should have known that. I have heard rumors that Portlanders like their brunch.

 It’s a religion. And a comics-friendly town. Good place to make a name for yourself if you can.

There. It’s not exactly admitting what he does, but Gerard is pretty sure Fox is smart enough to infer. Gerard feels weirdly giddy.

Someday, you’ll have to show me. What made you choose Portland when you moved?

I’ve always loved it. The atmosphere is great, the people I knew through Dark Horse are great, the coffee’s great… He stops typing, unsure of how much further to go. Maybe he’s revealed enough for today.

Coffee is important, Fox replies. I’m glad you’re living somewhere that can provide as much as you need, as often as you need.

Gerard laughs. That’s what it will say on my tombstone, Coffee Is Important.

He is hungry, so he starts getting ready to venture out to find breakfast. There’s a nice little cafe a few blocks away. They have wifi and free refills on drip coffee. Maybe he’ll take his laptop and do some work.

**

Grant figures he’s about as recovered as he can be from the Hangover from Hades when the bottom of his coffee cup stops looking like the most fascinating place in the universe. He’s incredibly thankful for the fact he’s finished with his damned DC meetings, and that he’s not taking the train home until tomorrow morning. He’s also thankful for Danny, and his intercontinental mother-henning.

He’s thankful for Danny full stop. And absurdly pleased that Danny told him a fact or two about his actual life. He’s involved in the comics industry somehow, clearly. Reason enough to withhold them, Grant supposes. Until now.

He contemplates his sketchbook thoughtfully. Why now, though? He supposes their conversations have become more deeply personal of late. Perhaps it’s inevitable. He certainly wants it to be.

Things are. Different if Danny is in the business, he thinks. Maybe he won’t be…maybe…. He sighs, frustrated, because he has no idea what Danny’s reaction would be to discovering who he is.

But…perhaps he can share a few details too. He doesn’t want Danny to think he doesn’t appreciate his disclosures.

 It was raining when I left home. It’s raining here, and it will likely be raining when I get back. I have the unique bad luck to travel most during the spring and summer, when Scotland is at its best.

He deliberates, but decides to leave it at that for now.

 It took me a long time to get used to the grey and the rain of Portland, but I kind of like it now. Honestly, I like the excuse to stay in my apartment.

Hermits, both of us, Grant replies. And if the lines he’s doodling in his sketchbook are shaping into a grey city skyline, rainclouds bursting– well. He smiles. It pleases him in a strange way that they both enjoy the rain.

 I can’t believe you never told me you were Scottish, by the way! I’m half-Scottish. I tell everyone I’m half-Scottish. I mean, fuck, it’s just cool.

Grant laughs aloud, and wavers before just making the obvious joke. Which half is which?

I’m rolling my eyes at you. Just so you know. The half that’s not Italian.

Ach, the fact that you like to talk so much becomes entirely clear.

You know what they say about people in glass houses, Fox, Danny replies.

My house is made of stone, thank you very much, Grant returns. Also I believe what they say is “…are the most shameless exhibitionists.”

That saying must be different in the UK, Danny responds a few minutes later.

Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

A minute later, he gets a message with a picture attached. This is the front of my condo. Judge for yourself if I live in a glass house. Grant has to laugh. It’s basically one huge window overlooking a small park.

Are you an exhibitionist then, Danny? Grant writes with a chuckle.

I’m a bit of a performer, comes the reply, and oh, isn’t that interesting?

Grant blows up the picture and studies the bits of Danny’s condo that he can see. He can see the edge of a dining table on one end of the photo and one wall appears to be all bookcase. There’s a comfortable looking leather chair next to the bookcase, angled toward the view. Despite all the glass, it looks cozy. Cozy, but expensive. Grant would love to see the inside.

Biting his lip to keep himself grounded, to remind himself to move slowly, Grant decides that a change of subject may be in both their best interests at the moment. Speaking of performers, he begins, and goes on to tell Danny about a performance he’d seen at the Fringe Festival the previous year.

Danny returns with a story about seeing Bon Jovi in New Jersey one time. I’m sure they put in a decent show in other places, but there’s nothing like a Jersey crowd for a hometown band.

Everyone from New Jersey talks about it the same way, Grant replies. It reminds me of home.

They trade stories back and forth. Grant does his best to avoid anything that he’s talked about in interviews, but that leaves a surprising wealth of material. He talks ancient family history, ridiculous childhood stories, nearly anything that pops to mind. He shares the bad days with Danny, and Danny does the same.

*

One day, Danny is particularly quiet. Grant tries to draw him out with little success. Before he goes to bed, he sends one last message. I’m getting the sense that, for whatever reason, today is a hard one for you. Be good to yourself, friend.

When he wakes up the next morning, there’s a reply waiting. He’s oddly nervous about opening it.

 Two years ago, I was standing somewhere I never thought I’d be. Like, an actual dream come true. And I walked away. I’m not sorry about it, but I can’t help remembering how it felt. Sorry if I was an ass. It was…nice. To have someone to listen to.

Like many of the pieces of information about their lives they share with one another, it’s vague enough that Danny could be talking about anything. And yet, Fox gets the feeling this is one of the most personal things that Danny has told him. Any time, and I mean that, Grant types back.

Thank you, Danny replies. You helped more than I can say. You and the pint of ice cream I picked up from the store.

Well, now I’m a bit upset. I didn’t have any ice cream.

I’d offer to share, but aside from the obvious issue of distance, I may have polished it off last night while watching Labyrinth for the millionth time.

Grant smiles. David Bowie’s outfits being a main draw, I presume?

Maybe now, Danny answers. Then his email turns serious. In high school I was a chubby art kid with lots of Iron Maiden tee shirts. My survival strategy was being invisible. But I had girlfriends, even in art school. I didn’t fall for a guy for real until I was twenty-four.

Grant takes a deep breath and stares at the screen. That’s… personal. It’s probably too much to hope that it’s also pointed, but fuck if Grant doesn’t want to read it that way.

My younger years were full of experimentation. I’d do anything with anyone, just to say I’d done it. I didn’t fall in love with a man, really fall in love, until ten or so years ago. But he was married and then I met the woman I would marry and well. The love I felt for him faded away for a variety of reasons. I hate him now, he admits. I don’t hate her, in fact, I still very much love her. Relationships are…complex.

The answer, when it comes, is equally revealing. The guy I fell for was a good friend; still is. So is his wife. But there are other exes I’d be totally happy to never see again, so I know what you mean. Nothing is ever as simple as it is on paper, is it?

No, it never is, Grant replies. We can only learn from it, I suppose. Though, the lessons can be unimaginably painful.

I hope you haven’t had too much pain, Fox, Danny replies.

Grant thinks about it for a long moment. Then he types, I’ve had my share, but it was worth it to be where I am today.

I’m really glad, is Danny’s reply. I feel the same way about my own life. I don’t really have time for regret. Too many other things to think about and do.

What’s the most exciting thing you’re doing right now? Grant asks.

It takes a while for the answer to come. I’ve been working on a project with a couple of friends of mine, Danny answers. It’s pretty different than the work I’ve done before, but I’m really fucking excited about it. It launches in November, and I can’t fucking wait.

That…was telling. Given all the other things he knows about Danny, he’s pretty sure he can figure out who he is from that. He’s not actually sure if he wants to or not. He supposes he doesn’t have to decide right this second. Instead, he emails Danny back. There’s very little more satisfying than collaborating with people you like and work well together with.

 Oh, I definitely know all about that.

Grant thinks about the script currently waiting on his own computer. Speaking of which, I’m afraid I need to focus in on a project of my own, otherwise my collaborators may come after me with creative implements of torture.

I suppose I can let you get to it, then ;), Danny replies. Good luck!

To you too, Grant replies, setting his phone aside. He’s not going to be able to work on his script. He can’t concentrate on anything but Danny.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, and then another. He goes for a walk instead and leaves his phone on his desk. He’s the one who’s maybe said too much now. If Danny knew who he was, he’d know exactly who it is that Grant hates so much. No one knows that story in its entirety except for Kristan. “Trust,” he mutters to himself.

Mark hadn’t been deserving of his trust. But even with all the reasons that it’s absurd, he thinks that Danny is. He takes a breath. He doesn’t need to borrow trouble. The days are getting warmer and it’s nice to walk when the sun is out.

*

He doesn’t look. Weeks go by and he doesn’t make the searches, pull the strings he knows will get him answers. He just keeps talking to Danny, idle and meaningful and irreverent and sweet in turn. Then he gets an email from his publicist. Mentions of him in the press, mostly pre-San Diego press stuff, most of it interviews he at least vaguely remembers giving; but lost in the forest of links is “Rocker Gerard Way’s Colorful Future” and Grant - stops.

Something vaguely remembered is teasing at the back of his mind. He clicks the link. It’s an article from the Oregonian and the subtitle makes everything suddenly clear. Portland resident Gerard Way talks about life since the breakup of his massively successful band and how going back to his comic book roots has helped him ground himself.

He scans the article for where his publicist has highlighted his name. The ostensible villain of the series is an assassin named Korse, who Way admits is drawn to resemble comic-book scribe Grant Morrison as a kind of homage to his biggest influence.

Grant lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then, he scrolls back up to the top of the article, and reads it from the beginning.

The quotes from Gerard Way are what really give the game away. This is his Danny. Their words are the same. And the comic sounds like everything he would have expected Danny to write. The thing is, Grant knows this band. He listened to their last album for hours on end when he first started writing Batman. He even remembers when he’d read about their breakup, right after a - massive gig at Madison Square Garden, two years ago. His stomach feels strangely untethered, his insides twisting like snakes.

The pieces of Danny’s life that he’s gathered over the last several months, previously free-floating, slot neatly into place. His reluctance to share personal details makes sudden, perfect sense. His reasons have been the same as Grant’s.  

Well. Grant has the added embarrassment of trolling his own fan board, cannot forget that wee detail.

“Gerard,” he murmurs, trying it out. Before he can talk himself out of it, he does an image search. The majority of the photos are of Gerard Way, frontman; standing on stages all over the world, feet planted, arms raised. He remembers something that Danny had said once, about being invisible, and he can’t help but laugh. He laughs more when he remembers Danny–Gerard–calling himself “a bit of a performer.”

“Only a bit, eh?” Grant asks the man in the picture, the man so clearly in command of his audience. Grant is fascinated. As if he wasn’t before. He clicks over to a new tab and pulls up the video that had been his first introduction to the band.

He watches it again with the knowledge that the man with the white hair is also the man he’s spent the last few months talking to as often as possible. It’s a heady feeling. Danny finally has a face.

And fuck, why not; Grant does another image search, looking for something more recent. He finds photos from late in the previous year of Gerard Way at a signing, hair dyed back to black, smiling at the kid across the table. Grant’s breath catches in his chest. He’s fucking beautiful and his smile makes Grant feel all lit up inside. He can’t imagine what it will be like when it’s actually directed at him.

It doesn’t occur to him until later that if Danny - Gerard - meets Grant Morrison, he’ll have to lose Fox. Grant doesn’t know what to do. Should he come clean, and tell Gerard that he’s put the pieces together?

After a while, he gets so busy, he forgets to think about it and his days seem to revolve around work, preparing for travel, and talking to Danny. To Gerard.

**

Gerard feels like he spends most of the month of June prepping for Comic-Con. Scott wants Killjoys front and center in his fall lineup - not that Gerard blames him, and the third series of Umbrella Academy just gets pushed farther and farther back as Gabriel is more and more in demand - and that means all hands on deck. Meetings at the Dark Horse offices, Skype calls with Shaun and Becky, polishing what they’ve got until it fucking gleams. Gerard’s got permanent butterflies in his stomach.

He’s excited, though. He fucking loves Comic-Con. Loves that it’s a thing he can do every year, now. Loves that he meets new, awesome people every year.

Fox has been busy too, but a few weeks before the con, Gerard emails him. Do you ever go to Comic-Con?

I assume you mean the yearly madhouse in San Diego? Fox writes back. Yes. I’ve been many times.

Are you going this year? Gerard asks. I’ll be there. Maybe we could meet up? Have coffee or something?

I would love that, Fox replies. Before Gerard can reply, a second email comes on the heels of the first. I would, however, understand if you were too busy, or needed to keep a low profile.

My schedule is pretty fucking packed, Gerard replies. But if we can swing it, I’d like to meet.

Then he reads the email again. “Low profile”… does Fox know who he is? His heart kicks at the possibility. He’s dropped enough hints–fuck, this is what he’d wanted.

He can’t quite bring himself to ask. He doesn’t know why. He’s not ashamed of his past as an international rock star. But Fox is important to him in ways he can’t even define at this point. He realizes that this is something he’d rather talk about in person.

Maybe play it by ear? Fox writes back.

Definitely, Gerard replies, relieved. He’s got plenty of other shit to sort out before he leaves for San Diego. But he can’t deny that the butterflies just got a little bit bigger. He takes a deep breath and goes back to what he was doing. An hour later, Fox sends him a news article and they spend the rest of the time Fox is up and awake chatting about it.

Gerard is willing to put it all on the back burner, if only because he’s so fucking nervous about the promo. And Fox seems - not distant, exactly, but distracted. A few days before the con, Gerard writes to him again. Here’s my cell phone number, probably the best way to get in touch with me for the next week. Text anytime.

*

On Tuesday, Gerard’s phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. Flying is hell.

Always, Gerard answers. Hi, Fox.

Hello. Sorry for the lack of introduction, I had to get that out.

Gerard grins. Understandable. I have done more than my fair share of flying and I hate it basically every time. Time zones, also. Time zones are horrible.

Also jet lag, although I can’t even say I’ve even reached that point, Fox replies. Time to find my hotel and collapse.

I fly in tomorrow. Can’t tell you how glad I am it’s a fairly short flight. For once in my life, Gerard replies.

The next morning he wakes to a brief message from Fox, wishing him a safe flight. You’re up already? Gerard teases.

The meetings have already started, Fox responds. There isn’t enough caffeine in the fucking world.

Gerard frowns. Meetings? He supposes it wouldn’t be surprising if Fox worked in the industry. Scotland is almost as saturated with comics people as Portland. And it would be a good reason for him to want to keep his own anonymity.

I’ll think of you fondly as I drink my in-flight beverage, Gerard writes back.

May the shitty airplane coffee be marginally less shitty, Fox returns.

Gerard forces himself up, gathers his bags together, and goes downstairs to meet the car service he ordered to take him to the airport. His stomach is still full of butterflies and he’s pretty sure they’re just not going to go away.

When he touches down in San Diego, he turns his phone on as soon as they’ll let him. There aren’t any texts waiting, so he sends one. Friendly skies, flown. Can’t decide if my first stop is hotel, coffee, or tacos.

I’m sure there’s a place you can procure both tacos and coffee, Fox replies as Gerard waits for his bag.

"Thank fuck for San Diego, Gerard types, grinning at his phone.

There’s a reason they pay me the big bucks, Fox replies.

 For having the brains to remind your flight-addled friends they have options? Absolutely worth at least a few big bucks.

He does find burritos and coffee, and he sends Fox a triumphant picture. Fox sends him back a picture of a tea service set up in his hotel room, but nothing else for hours.

Gerard checks into his hotel room and texts five million people to see where they are. Scott replies first, so Gerard makes sure he has his all his con stuff together and heads down to the convention center. The floor is already bustling with people getting ready for preview night. Gerard finds Scott at the Dark Horse booth.

“Gerard!” Scott says, sounding pleased. “Come look at the graphic, it’s amazing. How was your flight?” He leads Gerard around the side of the booth to where an entire panel is taken up with Becky’s art.

“It was good. Way better than say, Portland to Japan,” Gerard says. “Or Portland to the UK. And anything is better than the flight to Australia.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “You realize there are only a few people in the world who have been all the places you have, right?”

Gerard grins sheepishly, and Scott claps him on the shoulder, laughing.

“What do you think of your big debut?” he asks, pointing at the poster.

“Shit, it’s gorgeous,” Gerard replies. “Has Becky seen it yet?”

“She and Shaun were in here earlier, and they both freaked out,” Scott confirms.

Gerard takes a picture of it with his phone. He’ll tweet it later if Shaun or Becky haven’t.

“What are your plans tonight?” Scott asks him.

“Nothing? Thought I’d get here and then find out where everyone is hanging out,” Gerard replies.

Scott laughs. “Well, I want to sit down with the three of you and go over some stuff before the madness begins tomorrow. And then maybe take you all out for dinner.”

“Hey, big spender,” Gerard teases, and Scott grins at him.

“Says the guy who can walk into any party he wants,” Scott says, and Gerard snorts.

“No, I can’t. But maybe…” He should call Jim and see if he can get an invite to the DC party.

Scott just laughs at him. “You really can. If you decided you wanted it, you totally could. I know you’ve never been that guy, but you could do it.”

Gerard makes a face at him. Before he can respond, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket instantly, but it’s Shaun. Where you at?

Dark Horse booth with Scott.

 Don’t move. We’ll be right there.

“Shaun and Becky incoming,” Gerard reports.

Scott nods, but one of his people calls him over so Gerard goes back to poking at his phone. I like seeing all the booths in disarray, he texts Fox. Makes how everything looks all set up more interesting.

He doesn’t get a response right away, which isn’t surprising given Fox’s radio silence over the past hour or so; he’s probably in another meeting. Gerard deliberates for a moment, and then he’s pulling up Jim’s name in his contacts.

Already busy working the con? he texts.

Feel like I’ve been in meetings for a year already, Jim replies. And they continue all day. You should come to the DC party so I can actually see you.

I guess I’m not doing anything else tonight, Gerard types back, grinning at his phone.

“What are you plotting?” Becky asks from beside him, making him jump.

He grins. “Got an invite from Jim to the DC party tonight.”

Becky laughs at him. “You dog! You’ll give me all the dirt, right?”

“Of course I will, what kind of friend do you think I am?”

She beams at him and pulls him in for a hug. “The best sort, usually.”

“Missed you too,” he mutters against the top of her head. “New York is a fucking long way away.”

“I barely see Shaun, and he’s just across the river,” she replies with a wink at Shaun.

Shaun grins and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m all work and no play unless it’s with my kids,” he says.

Gerard smiles and gives Shaun a hug. “It’s good to see you guys. I’ve missed you.”

“You’ll be sick of us by Sunday,” Becky predicts.

“I wasn’t sick of Frank after seven years,” Gerard points out. They both laugh.

“So. Discuss shit now, or wait and do some wandering while we still have the chance?” Becky asks.

It’s Scott who answers. “I still have some things to finish up here, but come back in an hour and we’ll talk.”

Gerard exchanges a look with Shaun and Becky. “Where to?”

“Coffee,” they say in unison.

Scott laughs at them and they go off to find the nearest Starbucks kiosk. This is why he fucking loves Comic-Con. So many things to see and do, friends to hang out with, new friends to meet. As he waits for Becky and Shaun to order, someone taps on his shoulder and shyly asks for an autograph. Gerard smiles wide and scrawls his usual “xoxo g” on the woman’s badge.

They wander around, watching the setup and stopping frequently when they run into people they know. Gerard knows it’s his last chance to wander around without a security person nearby. It’s kind of nice to feel like a normal person for an hour. At least Mehdi still comes out with him for this shit.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he fishes it out. Oh fuck, save me from this goddam meeting.

Gerard can’t help but beam. I would, except I don’t want you to get in any hot water with higher-ups.

I’m rapidly reaching the point of not giving a fuck, Fox replies.

Think happy thoughts? Gerard offers.

Haha, Fox replies. I’m forcing myself through today, but tomorrow, I want to play hooky and have coffee with you.

Gerard grins stupidly at his phone and replies, YES. Which is, of course, when Becky catches him.

“What’s got you so attached to that thing, anyway?” She prods his side where he’s ticklish.

He squawks and moves away from her. “I. Um. Have an internet friend,” Gerard admits. “We’re planning on meeting tomorrow.”

“An internet friend, huh?” Becky asks, raising an eyebrow at him. Gerard tries, and fails, to school his face into something less giddy.

“Frankie told me about this,” Shaun says, folding his arms over his chest with a matching eyebrow. Gerard’s friends are terrible. “I think that means I’m supposed to threaten this guy Jersey-style.”

Gerard laughs and rubs his cheek with his palm. “Frankie has a big mouth. And if he told you, that’s probably exactly what he intends. But like. We’re just friends. It’s not–” Except that for Gerard, it’s exactly like that.

“Mmm hmm,” says Becky, clearly not buying it.

“If coffee goes well tomorrow, I’ll maybe bring him to the panel,” Gerard says finally.

“And then I can go all Jersey on his ass?” Shaun asks hopefully. “I need the practice for my kids.”

“I’ll help!” says Becky, and she and Shaun high-five.  Gerard buries his face in his hands.

The next time they get distracted, he texts Fox. My friends are giving me a hard time.

In my experience, that’s what friends are for, Fox replies.

 That’s what they tell me. Anyway. I have a meeting and a dinner and then I have to go to a very fancy party and hope I don’t embarrass myself. So if I don’t talk to you again, have a good night!

You as well, Fox replies. We’ll hammer out coffee details tomorrow.

Definitely, Gerard agrees. Tomorrow. He can’t fucking wait.

The meeting and dinner with Scott - for which he manages to also collect Eric and some of the other Dark Horse people, which is cool - goes as well as Gerard could hope for, and when they’re done, Shaun walks back to the hotel with him and they catch up in person for a little while longer. It’s really great to see him. And Becky. He needs to get back east again soon. He misses a lot of people.

When Shaun leaves to go back to his own hotel room and call his wife, Gerard starts rifling through his suitcase. He comes up with a white button-down, a black waistcoat, and dark jeans. Totally fancy, at least for a party of comics people.

He texts Jim, Hope I’m on the list! and goes downstairs before he can get too nervous.

He finds the party easily enough and Jim is standing near the entrance, which makes Gerard’s life easier. “Gerard Way!” Jim waves, and the attendant at the door waves Gerard through.

“Jim!” Gerard beams. “I hope you weren’t waiting for me?”

“Only a little,” Jim replies. “I’ve got some people I want to introduce you to.”

Gerard frowns at him. “I thought you wanted to hang out with me! I see how it is.”

Jim just laughs. “Let’s get you something to drink and see who’s hanging around the bar.” He weaves through the crowd and Gerard follows. “I’d like a Diet Coke and a Jack and Coke,” Jim orders. He hands Gerard the Diet Coke and suddenly Jim waves his hand. “Grant!” he calls.

Gerard’s eyes go a little wide. Because that’s… That’s Grant Morrison, holy fuck. He struggles to keep his inner fanboy from freaking out.

“You two haven’t met, have you?”

“N-no,” Gerard answers automatically. Morrison comes over immediately, eyes sweeping over Gerard, face wreathed with a smile.

“Grant Morrison, Gerard Way. If you two have never met, it’s a crime.”

Gerard smiles and reaches out to shake Morrison’s hand. “Hi. I’ve been a big fan of your work for a long time.”

Morrison shakes back and his smile widens. He really is a fucking attractive man, even more so close up. And his suit is as fabulous as advertised. “I listened to The Black Parade for hours on repeat as I wrote Batman,” Morrison says. “And I fucking love The Umbrella Academy.”

“Your Doom Patrol was a huge inspiration,” Gerard admits. “I’ve always wanted to talk to you about -” He catches himself. “Jim, this was mean, I’m going to totally embarrass myself here and monopolize Mr. Morrison.”

Morrison leans in a bit, conspiratorially. “It’d be a favor to me,” he says, shooting a dark look across the room to a knot of people in suits. “And please, call me Grant.”

Gerard bites the inside of his cheek and grins. “Well, Grant, in that case, I have been reliably informed that I’ll talk someone’s ear off if given half a fucking chance. The Suits will never get the opportunity.”

Grant crosses his arms over his chest. “Do your worst, Gerard Way.”

“I knew you two would get along,” Jim says brightly.

“So did I,” Grant says. Gerard grins wider.

Gerard is pretty sure he talks Grant’s ear off for at least an hour. A couple of times he traces the outline of his phone in his pocket, but there’s no way he’s interrupting this conversation for anything. And Grant gives back as good as he gets. Gerard can’t quite tamp down the giddy thrill in the pit of his stomach, because not only is he talking with one of his heroes, but Grant is familiar with both the band and Gerard’s comics, and has plenty of questions of his own.

They literally spend the entire party talking. Gerard never wants it to end. Jim leaves them to it after a while, and Gerard never does find out who exactly Jim wanted him to meet. Their conversation isn’t without other interruptions either, but Gerard barely notices. He’s just delighted to have made such a connection with one of his heroes.

Fifteen-year-old him is breathing into a paper bag right now. Hell, thirty-three-year-old him is trying desperately to keep his eyes from going too wide. When someone with a camera comes around, Grant wraps an arm around his shoulders for the photo and Gerard tries not to squeak.

Grant grins at him. “I look forward to seeing that all over the Internet tomorrow: ‘international rock star Gerard Way with some bald guy,’” he says with audible air quotes.

Gerard rolls his eyes, though he’s pretty sure he’s blushing. “Yeah, right. ‘Comics superstar Grant Morrison with some emo dude’ is way more likely.”

Grant smiles. “A friendly wager? Perhaps the loser buys the winner coffee?” Gerard opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “No?” Grant asks quietly.

Gerard lifts his chin automatically. “Sure.”

The grin that splits Grant’s face is– fuck. “Tomorrow afternoon? Everyone needs a mid-afternoon pick-me-up,” Grant says.

Gerard smiles back. “Absolutely.” He’ll just arrange for the morning with Fox.

He realizes that if anyone is going to have to end this conversation, it seems it will have to be him. “I should probably call it a night soon,” he says, regretfully. “But it was, fuck, so amazing to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Grant replies with a grin. “I’ve felt as if we were ships passing in the night for several years now. It’s been a pleasure to finally meet you. Let’s meet at that coffee shop down the road at three, yeah?”

“Prepare to buy me a very fancy coffee,” Gerard says dramatically, and Grant laughs.

“We’ll see.” He offers a hand and Gerard shakes it.

He’s pretty sure he grins the whole way back to his hotel room.

**

Grant watches Gerard, Danny, walk away and grins wide. He’s charming and just as articulate in person as he is in his emails. About five minutes later, his pocket buzzes. You know how they say not to meet your idols because you’ll always be disappointed? So not true.

Sometimes not true, Grant corrects. I take it you had an enjoyable evening?

 I had a fucking amazing evening. What about you?

I also had a fucking amazing evening, Grant replies. Good food, good drinks, better company. But I’m looking forward to coffee tomorrow more than I can say.

Coffee twice, Grant thinks with a smirk. As long as he doesn’t fuck up the first.

He’d been idly wondering if he’d run into Gerard this evening, after Danny’s comment about going to a “fancy party.” But he couldn’t have hoped that things would have worked out as perfectly as they had. He slips out of the party and makes his way back to his hotel. Yes, it was the perfect evening. He won’t spoil the rest of the night by staying.

His mobile is lit up when he gets out of the bath after his nighttime routine. What time tomorrow?

 I’ll be able to escape my meetings by mid-morning. Would eleven suit?

That would be perfect, Gerard replies. Near the ATMs by the escalators?

Which ones? Grant texts back with a chuckle.

…Fair, Gerard replies, and texts again a moment later with a specific location, far enough off of the main drag that Grant isn’t terribly worried about being interrupted. Grant is betting he’ll have security with him if he has any sense whatsoever, at any rate. Grant hopes he has security with him, else he’ll start worrying about Gerard’s self-preservation skills.

Perfect, he replies. Sleep well.

You too, Fox, Gerard replies. I really, really can’t wait for tomorrow.

Neither can I, Grant replies and puts his phone down for the night.

He sleeps relatively well and dresses in his grey pinstripe suit for the day. He goes down for a couple of short meetings, chats with fans and fellow creators, but he can’t stop thinking about how in a very short time, all will be revealed.

He’s nervous as fuck, actually. He doesn’t think his worst-case scenario will happen, but it doesn’t stop him picturing it. If this goes badly, he’ll lose someone who’s managed to become one of his very closest friends. Someone, Grant thinks, who could very easily be much more than merely a friend.

When it’s nearly eleven, he takes a fortifying breath and makes his way toward where they agreed to meet. He catches sight of Gerard’s neon hair right away. He’s got a big guy in a black polo standing next to him who he’s chatting animatedly to, but no one seems to have spotted him yet, or else the red hair just blends into the sea of cosplay.

Grant sees the moment Gerard spots him by the way his eyes widen. Grant smiles and walks up to them. “Hello, Danny,” he says. Gerard’s mouth drops open.

“No,” he breathes. The big guy next to him shifts and Gerard lifts a hand, palm out, and says, “It’s fine, Mehdi, just - ” His eyes dart around the lobby and Medhi points.

“Maintenance corridor.”

Grant deems it wise to keep his mouth shut until they get the privacy Gerard is clearly looking for.

“…Fox?” Gerard asks, when there’s a door between them and the bustle of the con. “But- Grant? I don’t-”

“I was having a bad day and lurking the message board, because of course that’s a good idea when you’re having a bad day. And there you were talking as if you had a window into my head, and I couldn’t not talk to you,” Grant explains quietly. “I always wanted to talk to you, and after a while all I wanted was to tell you, especially after I figured you out -” Gerard twitches slightly, though he’d had to have known his own cover was blown for a while - “but best case is, I look like a self-obsessed twat, and worst case you hate me for lying, so -” he shrugs expressively.

“So you wanted to do it in person,” Gerard says, slowly. “I get that. I… had a feeling that you knew who I was, but I didn’t want to ask you about it until we met.” He’s still looking a bit wide around the eyes. “I- you’re Grant Morrison.”

“I am,” Grant replies with a smile. “And you are one of my dearest friends, and I’d dearly like that to continue.”

“We have a date later,” Gerard says. “Um. Or. Not a date, but.”

“Guess we do. If you’ll forgive me for…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” Gerard blurts. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t do, I mean, shit, I’m a mod on your board, I -” He’s turning as red as his hair.

“Gerard,” Grant says, testing out the feel of the name in his mouth. He finds one of Gerard’s hands and takes it in his own. “Everything I said last night, about how the things you inspire me? All of that was true.”

Grant sees Gerard swallow. “I…that means so fucking much to me. You mean a lot to me. As Grant Morrison the creator and Fox, my friend from the Internet.”

“Let’s edit that down to ‘my friend Grant,’” he suggests gently.

“Okay,” Gerard says softly. They’re staring at each other. Grant realizes that he’s still holding Gerard’s hand, maybe a little bit too tightly, but he can’t make himself let go. A grin stretches across Gerard’s face. “You’re Fox. Fuck. That’s amazing.”

“Amazing is better than any of the words I expected,” Grant says wryly. He can’t take his eyes off of Gerard. His fucking face…he’s beautiful, especially when he smiles.

“How could it be anything else?” Gerard asks.

“I was mentally prepared for any number of reactions and fully prepared to woo you with the promise of more coffee and maybe a script or two that no one has seen. Also begging, if need be,” Grant replies.

“Maybe I’ll hold out for the scripts,” Gerard said, chin going up in that same gesture from last night. Grant doesn’t think he’s imagining him leaning closer, though.

“Only if you show me this character based on your ‘biggest influence,’” he murmurs.

“Oh my god,” Gerard moans, scrubbing his free hand over his face, cheeks going even redder. “I knew that was going to come back to bite me.”

“I love it,” Grant replies with a big grin. Gerard hasn’t let go of his hand yet. “I seem to recall promising you coffee.”

“I seem to recall promising my friends that if coffee went well, I’d bring you to my panel this afternoon,” Gerard admits.

Grant thinks about his schedule for the afternoon, pleased when he realizes that he’s not got any meetings or panels of his own. “My panel is at five,” Grant says. “So I can accommodate that.”

Gerard beams at him. “Awesome.”

“Assuming coffee goes well,” Grant murmurs.

“Call me optimistic, but, uh. I’m pretty sure it’s going to,” Gerard says. He squeezes their joined hands.

Grant smiles wider. “That was my feeling as well. And don’t forget, we have a bet to settle.”

“I’m thinking of asking for higher stakes,” Gerard says.

“Oh?” Grant asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe dinner and coffee?” Gerard asks hopefully. Grant hopes he’s not imagining the breathlessness.

“Acceptable,” he nods with a small smirk he can’t quite contain. “Now, is your friend in the black polo out there cracking his knuckles or anything like that? It’s been -” Grant feels like it’s been forever, because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Gerard’s face since he hit the lobby.

Gerard grins. “Nah, it’s fine. He’s been giving me shit all morning because I couldn’t shut up about meeting Grant Morrison last night, or about meeting my internet pen-pal today.”

“I take it the two of you have a history?” Grant asks.

Gerard nods. “He was one of our security guys for several tours. He still comes to help me out when he can.” This is one of the reasons Grant is sure one Gerard Way will be buying him dinner tonight. Needing - and being used to - security guys trailing you everywhere is not in Grant’s playbook.

They should go back out. And, much as Grant is loathe to admit it, they likely shouldn’t be holding hands when they do. He laces their fingers together briefly and forces himself to pull his hand away. “Come on, Gerard Way. Let’s go get some coffee and find somewhere we can continue our conversation.”

“VIP lounge?” Gerard suggests, with the faintest twist of a smirk.

“Glass houses,” Grant replies, watching the smirk blossom and knowing they’re on the exact same page. He opens the door for Gerard and waves him through.

After the quiet of the hallway, stepping back out into the noise of the lobby is a bit of a shock. The man in the black polo, standing next to the door with his arms crossed, gives Gerard an exasperated look.

“Sorry!” Gerard says. The man rolls his eyes as if this is an oft-repeated exchange. “Mehdi, this is Grant Morrison. Who also happens to be Fox.”

“Convenient,” Mehdi says, offering a hand to Grant.

“I think so,” Grant says evenly, because he’s pretty sure Mehdi’s bicep is the size of Grant’s thigh, but he really does think so.

“Me too,” Gerard agrees, beaming. “Now. Coffee?” He sounds so hopeful that Grant has to laugh.

“Coffee,” Grant confirms. “Upstairs.” They walk toward the escalator and Mehdi follows a couple of feet behind. When a group of teenagers approaches Gerard, he steps in to keep them from mobbing him and produces a Sharpie for Gerard to sign with from the depths of his cargo shorts.

Grant stands to the side and watches until someone actually notices him. He poses contentedly for a photo and signs a Batman print someone pulls out of one of those giant bags, and Mehdi sighs and extends his efforts to keeping both of them moving. Gerard looks beyond amused.

“You’re the best,” Gerard tells Mehdi once they’ve made it into the VIP lounge. “I’m buying you the biggest coffee ever.”

“Damn right you are,” Mehdi replies. They go up to the small Starbucks kiosk and order.

Gerard hands Mehdi his coffee and Mehdi points at a chair near one of the doors. “I’ll be over there.”

Grant and Gerard just stare at each other over the tops of their coffee cups for a moment once they sit down. Grant can feel his lips twitching, and Gerard huffs out a laugh. “How long have you known it was me?” Gerard asks him.

“Since I came across your interview with The Oregonian in an pre-con email from my agent. I could have figured it out much sooner,” Grant replies.

“But you didn’t,” Gerard says.

“I…in so many ways, it didn’t matter,” Grant says. “Until it did.”

“I wanted you to figure it out,” Gerard admits. “I mean, not at first? But then talking to you was so good, and I felt like it would maybe be okay.”

Grant smiles. “I never really believed I could find a friend like you on the Internet. I’d seen too many like the arse who posted the thread where we met. I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong.”

“And the embarrassment -”

“I’ve made an arse of myself more times than I can count,” Grant says. “Risk versus reward.” He reaches across the tabletop and nudges Gerard’s fingers with his. Gerard taps Grant’s fingertips with his own once, twice, three times, grinning up at Grant through his eyelashes. Fuck. Seeing photographs hadn’t anywhere near prepared Grant for how stupidly attractive Gerard is.

Gerard takes a deep breath. “I keep thinking about how it was you all along and it’s blowing my fucking mind.”

Grant takes a sip of coffee and does not say anything dirty. What he does say is, “It’s a bit strange, to feel like you know someone before you ever find out their name. But… that made it easier, sometimes. To tell the truth.”

Gerard nods. “It totally did. I can just be…me. With you. I felt like that last night, too.”

“And I liked it. Like it.” Grant looks him over.

“Me, too,” Gerard says softly.

Grant wishes Gerard were closer, that they had a little more privacy. He settles for reaching out to squeeze Gerard’s hand again. “You’ll have to fill in some of the details of some of your stories for me at some point,” Grant says.

“Of course,” Gerard says. “You too, you know. I just want to - listening to you is -” he gets a little pink again.

Grant decides to change the subject, because otherwise they’ll both be blushing. He makes a mental note, though. This is absolutely a discussion they could come back to. He asks about Gerard’s panel instead. Which is the correct choice. Gerard even gets out his iPad and shows Grant a folder full of sketches and concept art. The character based on Grant is immediately apparent. Grant rubs a hand over his own head and grins.

“I also storyboarded a music video for ‘Mama’ in which I wanted you to play the devil,” Gerard says. “It would have cost too much money.”

“I would have said yes in an instant,” Grant says with a grin.

“Yes, that is the perfect expression right there,” Gerard tells him. His eyes are climbing all over Grant and he’s not bothering to hide it. All of the nervousness Grant had been feeling this morning has been completely replaced by warmth low in his belly. He can’t help but beam at Gerard. He can’t quite believe his luck. “What are you thinking?” Gerard asks him.

“I’m thinking about how stupidly fortunate I’ve been, that this is my life,” Grant says, truthfully.

Gerard smiles wide. “Good thing to think about.”

“Particularly,” Grant adds, “Because you are now part of it.”

“I was before too, Fox,” Gerard says with a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, but now I get all of you.” Grant only barely even attempts to keep the suggestiveness out of his tone. Gerard turns red regardless, which is entirely gratifying. He wonders how much of the remainder of the weekend he can get away with spending with Gerard. He won’t lie; he’s hoping for all of it. He’ll settle for a few meals.

They finish their coffees and keep talking for several minutes, until Gerard makes a face and fishes his phone out of his pocket. It’s buzzing somewhat angrily. He rolls his eyes. “Becky,” he says and answers. There’s a bit of a cacophony on the other end and Gerard laughs. “No, I’m not fucking dead in an alley. Yes, I’m having a good time. The twins? Lunch? Hold on.” He pulls his phone away from his mouth. “Wanna go to lunch with me and my friends?”

“Of course I do,” Grant tells him.

Gerard reports this back to his friend and glances slyly at Grant once he’s hung up. “They’re going to shit themselves.”

Grant grins back. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Gerard smiles and stands. He reaches out a hand to help Grant up. He doesn’t let go as he walks toward Mehdi. “Going to lunch,” he says.

Mehdi nods. “Cab or walking?”

Gerard laughs. “Cab, if only so you don’t have an aneurysm.”

Mehdi still walks them to the cab stand, which Grant finds amusing. Gerard seems to expect it, and he waves his phone as they get in and promises, “I’ll call when I’m on my way back for the panel, but I’ll be with Becky and Shaun so…”

“So you’ll be even more likely to wander off chasing a fucking butterfly,” Mehdi tells him darkly. “I’ve met you, Way.”

Gerard laughs. “Fine, fine. I’ll call no matter what.”

“I’ll pretend to be his surly, bald bodyguard should the need arise. I’m nobody away from the convention center,” Grant offers.

Mehdi eyes him. “Scrawny, but it might work.”

“I’m from Glasgow, scrawny is a technicality,” Grant replies with a smirk. Mehdi favors him with the hint of a smile.

“We’ll be fine,” Gerard insists, as he climbs into a waiting cab.

“I’ll believe it when I’m shutting you in a hotel room for the night,” Mehdi says.

A hotel room, huh, Grant thinks.

“He doesn’t really,” Gerard says when they’re on their way, cheeks stained pink. “I don’t get locked in. I’m an adult.”

“I certainly hope so,” Grant drawls.

Gerard looks straight at him, lips parted a little bit. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks determined. “You flirting with me, Fox?”

“I am absolutely flirting with you. Tell me to fuck off and I will,” Grant replies. He is almost certain Gerard will do nothing of the sort.

“That would be really dumb of me,” Gerard smiles, “since it’s all I’ve wanted to hear for months.”

Grant’s grin gets broader. “Me fucking too,” he murmurs, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Gerard squeezes back. The rest of the ride through the Gaslamp District is short and the cab pulls up in front of a small Mexican restaurant tucked between a chemist and a clothing store. There’s a noticeable lack of costumes, which makes Grant assume it’s enough of a hole-in-the-wall to escape heavy convention business. Also, it’s not the weekend yet. But a large round table in the corner is filled with people who immediately wave at Gerard - then start staring.

Gerard tugs Grant over, muttering, “Sorry in advance.”

Grant laughs. “They don’t scare me.”

“Good. Just…I’m pretty sure Shaun swore an oath to Frank that he’d give you a Jersey-style talking to, so. Watch out for that,” Gerard warns.

Grant laughs. “I’ve given a Glasgow-style talking to, I expect they’re much the same.”

Gerard grins. “Probably.” They keep walking. Gerard doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Well, this is unexpected,” says the redhead Grant assumes is Becky Cloonan.

“Everyone, this is Grant,” Gerard says cheerfully. “Grant, this is everybody.”

“Oh my god, Gerard,” Becky says and laughs. She holds out her hand and introduces herself and the rest follow suit.

“I hope I don’t need to introduce myself,” says a familiar voice behind them.

“Jill,” Grant turns and beams.

“Hullo, Grant,” Jill says, wrapping him in a one-armed hug.

“I’ve missed you, beautiful,” he tells her.

“Always the flatterer,” she replies with a grin and turns to Gerard. “You look like you tripped and fell into an anime. Looks good on you, Gerard.”

“Gerard decided to turn himself into a character from our comic for inspiration or something,” the guy who’d introduced himself as Shaun says. Grant snorts.

“You can’t talk,” Jill warns.  

“I can laugh precisely because I’ve done it,” Grant replies with a grin and runs a hand over his bald head. Everyone laughs, but Grant turns the conversation to Korse and Becky and Gerard are only too happy to go on about him for a while.

“Also, wait until you see Gabriel’s variant cover for him,” Becky says, gesturing at one of the twins.

“I’m familiar with your work,” Grant tells Gabriel. “I’m sure it’s stunning.”

“We’ll have to get you a print,” Gerard says with a grin.

“I would love that,” Grant replies.

No one actually brings up the elephant in the room - or on the message board - other than in sidelong looks and a few jokes, which makes Gerard seem to relax a lot. It’s nice to see him with his friends, but it’s nice to be a part of the conversation too.

Unsurprisingly, Gerard’s friends are a delightful, whip-smart group. He’s fairly certain he’s going to be spending a good amount of time with them over the course of the weekend, and it won’t be a hardship.

They split up after lunch, the twins and Jill choosing to walk back while Gerard, Grant, Shaun and Becky catch a cab as Gerard promised.

In the cab, Shaun turns a stern eye on Grant and says, “So. What are your intentions towards our Gerard?”

Grant laughs, utterly delighted. “To be an excellent friend and companion to him for as long as he’ll let me.”

He can actually see Shaun bite down on an additional question. “You realize that you’re never going to live this down,” Becky says, cheerfully bumping Gerard’s shoulder with her own.

“I’m okay with it,” Gerard replies. “Who else gets to say Grant Morrison was their pen pal?”

“Was?” Grant questions mildly.

Gerard takes his hand and looks up at him meaningfully. “I don’t think it’s still pen-pals if you’ve, like, met,” Gerard tells him.

“As long as you still write me, I don’t care what we call it,” Grant says.

He’s fairly sure the repeatedly clasped hands mean it’s something else entirely, but he’s being a gentleman. Such a gentleman. It’s…difficult. Dinner. Gerard has promised him dinner. What happens after that, well. They’ll see. Grant laces their fingers together again anyway.

“Shaun,” Becky whispers loudly. “They’re being gross.”

“I’m texting Frank. I’m out of ideas for threats, I suck at this,” Shaun mumbles from the middle seat.

“Does Frank know that Gerard is being gross with Grant Morrison?” Becky asks curiously.

Shaun grins at her. “Not yet. I’m trying to decide how to do it. Picture, you think? Or something else?”

“I know where you live,” Gerard tells him, but there’s no bite behind it.

Grant feels his lips twitch and can’t quite control it. “You could let me talk to him,” he suggests smoothly.

Becky and Shaun share matching expressions of unholy glee. Gerard laughs helplessly beside him. “Do it. Troll the fuck out of him.”

Grant doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone place a phone call so fast in his entire life. Then again, he hasn’t had a mobile for his entire adult life like these three. Gerard thrusts the phone at Grant, and he puts it to his ear just in time to hear a voice with a Jersey accent even thicker than Shaun’s. “Gee?” the voice asks. “I figured you’d be so deep in Comic-Con shit that you’d forget the rest of us exist.”

“He’s in the trenches,” Grant replies. “Fighting the good fight and all that shit. Frank, is it?”

“Who’s asking?” Frank replies.

“Grant Morrison.” Frank’s initial response is a scoff. “Also known as Fox,” he adds.

“Okay, now you’re really fucking with me. Did you lose a bet? Poker game? Gerard’s poker face is nonexistent, can’t be that. And who are you really? A Shrek cosplayer? Come on, you can tell me, I’m a nice boy.”

“I’m quite serious,” Grant says, solemnly. The other three are grinning at him.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“I’m going to have my friend Mr. Simon here send you a picture,” Grant tells Frank and slings an arm around Gerard’s shaking shoulders, squeezing him tight and blowing a kiss at Shaun’s phone.

A moment later, Grant hears, “Holy fucking fuck.”

Grant laughs and the rest of the cab does too. “I did tell you,” he says.

“How in the fuck was he writing to you for months and didn’t have a clue?” Grant looks at Gerard, and tries to think of something witty to say about his own intelligence, but Frank just keeps talking. “Never mind, it’s Gerard, of course he didn’t have a clue. You -” he hauls in a breath like he’s lighting a cigarette or something - “You be good to him,” he says, soft and far less intimidating that Grant had expected.

“I will,” Grant says, equally soft. Sure.

“Good,” Frank replies. “If not, I will fucking come all the way to Scotland or wherever it is you live and make your life hell.”

Grant smiles into the phone. “I have no doubt.”

“Now that that’s over with,” Frank says, “We3 is one of my favorite comics ever.”

“Mine as well,” Grant tells him. “Thank you.”

“Also, you made me like Superman, for which I will never, ever forgive you.” Frank sounds hilariously put out.

Grant laughs. “If it helps, it took me a bit to wrap my head around him and what he stood for.”

“But you did,” Frank says. “You understand - a lot of complicated people.”

“I try,” Grant replies. Gerard taps him on the arm, and Grant looks up to see that they’re approaching the convention center. “We’re about to get back to business. I’ll give you to Gerard,” Grant says. “It was nice to talk to you, Frank.”

“You too,” Frank says automatically, though he does sound a bit stunned.

Gerard takes the phone back. “Hey, Frankie,” he says, and then, “I know! I know, I know. Only me. Okay, I gotta go. I’ll call soon, promise. Love you too. Bye.” Becky and Shaun are still smirking, but Gerard looks different now. More - in command, like the man with the microphone in front of thousands. He smiles at Grant, serene. “Time to go work.”

Mehdi meets them at the cab stand and ushers all four of them briskly through the crowds. It’s rather novel. Not that Grant has never had security with him for anything, but it never feels quite this natural to him.

Scott Allie gives him a double-take when he walks into the staging area for Gerard’s panel, which is sort of gratifying. Gerard, Shaun, and Becky are standing in a tight knot, heads bent close together. Grant smiles and looks out at the crowd. The portion of young women in the audience is certainly higher than most of the other panels he’s been part of. It’s refreshing. He’s very much looking forward to talking with Gerard about his experiences, now that their secrets are revealed.

Gerard in front of a crowd is… incandescent. His smile lights up the entire room. He has the room in the palm of his hand. He makes them cry, makes them laugh, all while making sure Becky and Shaun say their piece as well.

“He’s so good at this,” one of the Dark Horse staffers murmurs.

“A born performer,” Grant agrees softly.

“Suppose it makes sense,” the staffer goes on. “He’s a great writer too. Some people get all the talent.”

She shoots a look at Grant after she says it and he snickers and shrugs.

He can’t take his eyes of off Gerard for the rest of the panel. Fuck, he wants– wants to tangle a hand in Gerard’s hair and pull him close. Wants to mouth at the skin of his throat. Wants to take him back to Grant’s hotel room and do wicked things to him. He smiles to himself. He’s fairly certain Gerard will let him. But one thing at a time.

His mouth twitches with a smile a few times during the Q&A when something out of Gerard’s mouth is particularly…Danny. And he can help his laugh at Gerard’s expression when somebody asks, “Does Grant Morrison know you’ve based a character on him?”

Gerard sneaks a look over at him with a wide grin. “I don’t know, does he?” Then he refocuses on the fan asking the question. “He probably does if he reads the papers.”

“I’m sure he’s thrilled,” Shaun adds, dryly.

Grant can’t help it. He walks up behind Gerard and leans toward the mic. “He is, thank you.” The whole crowd laughs and cheers. Grant waves and goes back to where he was standing. Becky takes over the mic and starts talking about character design, and Grant’s phone buzzes a second later.

 Exhibitionist.

He huffs out a laugh and responds, Glass houses.

Gerard gives no indication that he’s doing anything other than listening attentively to Becky. Grant fucking adores him.

The Q&A ends after two more questions. Grant watches as the kids come up to talk to the three of them. They stand there signing autographs and answering questions until a con staffer speaks to Mehdi and he moves in to get them. Becky breaks off from the rest of them to go back to her booth, but Mehdi deposits Shaun and Gerard, along with Grant, in the closest VIP green room.

“That was fucking amazing,” Gerard says. Shaun goes in for a high five, and then the two of them hug.

“From an outsider’s perspective, I thought you were all wonderful,” Grant tells them. “The first thing I noticed about the room was how diverse the crowd was, and they loved you.”

“I can’t fucking wait for November,” Shaun says, grin splitting his face.

“It’s gonna be great,” Gerard says confidently.

“I am more than certain that it will,” Grant says. “And I can’t wait to see the finished product.”

“You don’t have to wait,” Gerard says. “You’ve got an in.” He pours himself a cup of coffee from the bar in the corner. “So your panel is next.”

“It is,” Grant agrees. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. “I have some time. You’ll come?” Grant asks. He doesn’t want to let Gerard out of his sight. Not yet.

“We both will,” Shaun says, “if that’s okay?”

“Absolutely,” Grant says firmly.

Gerard beams at him and reaches over to take his hand again. “And then we have a bet to settle.”

Gerard smirks. “You mean you have a bet to lose.”

“We’ll see,” Grant tells him, smirking back.

Gerard leans close and holds out his phone to take a picture. “Selfie Friday,” he explains with a smile.

Grant laughs. “Twitter is too much pressure for me.”

“You gotta make it work for you,” Gerard tells him sagely, tapping at his phone. “I can say that because it took me a long time to actually use it. Finally I just said ‘fuck it’ and jumped in.” He looks up and smiles. “There.” He holds up his phone so Grant can see the picture.

“Gerard Way, International Rock Star, and some comics bloke,” Grant jokes.

“Whatever,” Gerard says, smiling down at his phone.

Grant rather desperately wants to kiss him. “You don’t believe me?” Grant pulls out his own phone and opens up his Twitter app. Gerard makes a show of tapping his fingers and checking the time as Grant navigates through the process of retweeting the photo, and Grant has to try hard to keep a straight face. “You have ten times the followers I do, mind, but we shall see.”

“You’re on,” Gerard agrees.

Shaun just laughs. “You’re both ridiculous. Though, for the record, my money is on Grant.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Shaun, but you’re not invited to dinner,” Gerard says.

Shaun pats Gerard’s cheek companionably. “I think I’ll survive.”

Gerard rolls his eyes, but his cheeks have gone pink. It only makes Grant want to kiss him more.

“I have a meeting to get to,” he says sadly after a moment. “You’ll come to my panel?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Gerard promises.

Grant stands and squeezes Gerard’s shoulder. “See you later, love.”

Shaun starts laughing before he’s even out of the room. Grant suppresses a smile.

**

Gerard watches Grant leave, aware that he’s probably smiling like an idiot but unable to muster up any ability to care. Shaun is laughing at him and he doesn’t really care about that, either, but he kicks Shaun in the shin anyway.

“Ow,” Shaun complains. “You gotta admit it’s a little funny, though.”

Gerard concedes the point, because, well. “This is kind of the greatest day,” he says, slinging an arm across Shaun’s shoulder.

Shaun grins and squeezes back. “I’m pretty fucking stoked on my life and I’m a little jealous of yours. Only you, Gerard Way. Only you.”

Gerard ducks his head and scrubs a hand through his hair. He’s really, really looking forward to seeing Grant’s panel. And to dinner. And… whatever comes next.

“So. Is this, like, serious?” Shaun asks.

“I don’t know,” Gerard replies. “It feels like it might be? But I don’t know for sure.”

“Guess you can take your time,” Shaun says, but he sounds dubious. Gerard can play a long game, but he’s really not all that good at being patient. In this case, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to have to be. Grant had been pretty forward, back in the cab.

“Guess so. He’s already my best friend, though. So like. I don’t know. We’ll talk and shit. Maybe even tonight,” Gerard says.

Shaun is still shaking his head. “Only you.”

“You love me,” Gerard says, laughing.

“I do, my friend. But ridiculous, amazing things happen to you,” Shaun replied.

“Call me crazy, but I’m okay with that,” Gerard tells him.

Scott tracks them down eventually, and they debrief about the panel a little bit. Then Scott gives Gerard shit for surprising him with “Grant fucking Morrison, Way, warn a guy next time, especially if he’s going to be a special guest.”

“In my defense,” Gerard says, “I had no idea that would happen until eleven this morning.”

Scott stares. “Eleven was your coffee meeting with your online pal.”

“Yes, it was,” Gerard murmurs. And waits.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Scott says, flatly.

“He’s not,” Shaun says. “His life is exactly that charmed and absurd.”

Scott tugs at his fringe. “Of course it is. Oh, Gerard.” Gerard just grins, aware that he’s probably blushing. Again. Dammit. Scott laughs and squeezes his shoulder. “Well, I’m glad it clearly went well.”

“Me too,” Gerard says fervently. So fucking glad he hardly knows what to do with himself. Gerard checks his watch. “I’ve got a panel to catch,” he says with a grin.

“Me too,” Shaun reminds him. “Let’s go.”

Predictably, the room for Grant’s panel is completely packed. Gerard peers out from the staging area in awe. It’s a much bigger room than the one Gerard’s panel had been in. There’s a higher percentage of dudes, but a not-insignificant number of women too. They all look as thrilled to be here as Gerard is. Well, maybe not quite.

Grant is standing at the other side of the staging area, head bent together with someone Gerard doesn’t recognize. Gerard stands back and watches him. He’s amazed at how familiar Grant feels to him. Having a conversation, yeah, that makes sense. But Grant’s physical presence feels normal to him as well.

Actually, most of the time it feels fucking distracting. He’d felt it last night, even when he hadn’t known that Grant was Fox. Now, it’s ten times more intense. He likes it, though. Likes it a lot. He wonders if Grant feels it too.

Okay, he doesn’t really have to wonder about that.

Across the room, Grant straightens up and turns. He lights up when he sees Gerard, and Gerard’s breath catches. Grant comes over to them immediately. “So glad you’re here.” He smooths a thumb over Gerard’s cheekbone. “Enjoy.”

Gerard catches Grant’s hand before he can pull away and squeezes their fingers together. Grant smiles at him. “Break a leg,” Gerard says.

Grant nods and stands there for a few more moments while he’s introduced. Then he takes a deep breath and bounds up onto the stage. The crowd fucking screams.

Gerard beams and spends the next hour listening to Grant talk, listening to every amazing thing that comes out of his mouth. Sometimes it’s touching and sometimes the entire room roars with laughter. Once or twice Gerard is pretty sure Grant is talking about him.

It strikes him all over again as he watches; Grant is Fox. The intelligent, hilarious, insightful man who’s become one of his very closest friends over the course of the last several months… is one of Gerard’s heroes. It’s a heady and incredible feeling. All Gerard can do is stand back and feel so fucking proud of and amazed by his friend.  

“Your face is really dumb right now,” Shaun tells him. “Like, in a sweet way. I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says, but his heart’s not really in it.

Grant answers audience questions and when the moderator indicates the end of the panel, he signs things and answers questions for several minutes. He glances offstage at them several times, and Gerard just grins and chats with Shaun.

Finally, Grant makes his way off the stage and back into the staging area. He doesn’t come over right away; there are people back here waiting to talk to him, too. Gerard tries to be patient. He can tell he’s failing when Shaun elbows him in the ribs. “You’re staring.”

“Do you blame me?” Gerard says.

“Nah, guess not,” Shaun laughs.

Finally, Grant takes his leave of everyone talking to him and comes their way. Gerard beams at him.

“Thanks for waiting,” Grant says. “That was a bit mental at the end. Nothing like yours,” he laughs.

“Whatever, big shot,” Gerard teases. “You were fantastic.”

“Thanks,” Grant says, running his hand over his head. It’s not quite a nervous gesture, but it’s in the same family and Gerard finds it completely endearing.

“What next?” Gerard smiles.

“I told Becky I would go bother her at her booth,” Shaun says. He holds out his hand for Grant to shake. “Great panel, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Grant smiles and shakes his hand. “I’m sure I’ll see you again over the course of the weekend.”

“Bet you will.” Shaun chuckles and squeezes Gerard’s shoulder and leaves the two of them alone. Well, not alone; there are still at least a dozen people milling around the staging area. But fuck if the way Grant is looking at him doesn’t make Gerard feel like he and Grant are the only two people here.

“So,” Grant says. “I’m mostly free the rest of the evening.”

“When’s the not-free part?” Gerard asks.

“I should put in an appearance at the Image Gala tonight,” Grant replies. “But other than that…”

“I could go with you?” Gerard offers, then adds, “Or you could skip it. We could just. Hang out.”

“I’d probably enjoy it, but I think I’d enjoy being with you more,” Grant says.

Gerard takes a deep breath, trying to settle the butterflies in his belly. “Then… We should see who’s buying who dinner.”

“What’s the best way to do that, do you think?” Grant asks.

“Retweets? Google ourselves for the last twenty-four hours and see whose name pops up in the search for the other more?” Gerard suggests. “Also see what the photo services have to say. Pretty sure that was a pro, not some random DC staffer.”

“Sounds like a lot of work. Coffee?”

“Always coffee,” Gerard agrees.

They make their way to the nearest VIP room and while Grant gets them coffee, Gerard pulls out his iPad and starts checking. And starts making more and more dismayed faces at his screen. “What the fuck.”

Grant leans over to put a cup of coffee in front of him and stays there. “You’re losing, aren’t you? You young, pretty thing, how shocking,” he murmurs in Gerard’s ear.

“But - you’re Grant fucking Morrison!” Gerard is aware that he sounds kind of petulant, but.

“But you are Gerard Way. Far more people in this world know your face, love,” Grant says with a smile.

“Well, I can afford to buy you dinner, anyway,” Gerard concedes.

Grant reaches over to pat his shoulder consolingly; Gerard catches Grant’s hand in his own. “It won’t be a hardship,” Gerard admits. “Even if I do think you should be way the fuck more famous than me.”

Grant just smiles at him. He seems perfectly happy with the outcome. To be honest, Gerard is, too.

“So. Where are we going?” Gerard asks. “I’m into anything.”

“Let’s go up to Old Town, find someplace quiet, yeah?” Grant murmurs.

“Yeah,” Gerard agrees. He feels like the air between them is crackling, charged. He almost wants to skip dinner, go straight to one of their rooms. But they have a bet to settle and he is getting hungry again.

“D’you need to let your Mehdi know you’re leaving? Or anyone else?”

“I’ll call him,” Gerard says, tucking away his tablet and pulling out his phone. He makes the call and Mehdi doesn’t even harass him that much. Gerard knows he’ll get it later, though. “Let’s find someone to get us a cab,” Gerard says.

It’s not quite as easy as that- they get stopped a few times on their way out, mostly by people they know. But soon enough they’re in a cab, and Grant is directing the driver towards Old Town. It’s a fucking gorgeous evening. But then, it’s San Diego. That’s not really a surprise.

They’re still not alone, but Grant’s warm fingers cover his. It’s good.

“I’m still having a hard time fucking believing this,” Gerard murmurs, as they watch San Diego going past the cab windows.

“Magic is like that,” Grant replies seriously. Gerard fucking believes him. “It’s easier to just believe. It’s fucking punk to believe. Everyone expects the terrible things. I choose to accept the great ones.”

Gerard really, really wants to lean in and press their lips together. It would be so fucking easy, and he knows, knows that Grant would kiss him back. He wants, but he knows if he starts, he won’t want to stop for a long fucking time. So he squeezes Grant’s hand in his.

“What does your weekend look like?” he asks.

Grant huffs. “Busier than I would like. Today was the eye of the storm, relatively speaking.”

“We’ll work around it,” Gerard says. “I have a signing tomorrow. And another the next day. And I promised to help man the booth for a while.”

“I have plenty to do myself,” Grant chuckles. “But we ought to compare schedules.”

The cab lets them off in Old Town, and they wander around for a few minutes before deciding on a little Mexican restaurant tucked out of the way in a corner. There’s a candle on the table and the whole thing is terribly romantic. Gerard grins at Grant over the table.   “Hope this is an acceptable prize,” he says.

“More than,” Grant agrees. “This is- it’s perfect, Gerard.”

Gerard smiles broadly at him and reaches across the table to take his hand. “What I really want to know is if a bet payment can count as a first date.”

Grant laughs, interlacing their fingers. “As long as it’s the first of many, I think.”

“That’s pretty much guaranteed,” Gerard replies.

Grant smiles. “Do you mind if I have a drink, love?”

“Not at all,” Gerard says, because it’s true. He trusts himself, and he trusts Grant, too.

Grant gets a Mexican beer and Gerard orders a Diet Coke. They keep holding hands. They keep talking, too, some about friends they share or friends they think they ought to share. Some about San Diego. And some conversations that they’d started months ago, back as Danny and Fox, and have been carrying on periodically ever since. It’s different but so fucking amazing to not have to wait for a response, to see Grant sitting across from him as they talk.

Gerard is pretty sure Grant is right. Magic is the only thing that can explain this. He loves the sound of Grant’s voice, the way he talks with his hands, the way he smiles.

When the food arrives, Gerard finds himself very unhappy about having to let go of Grant’s hand.

Grant laughs at him. “Tacos, Gerard. You want to eat them.”

“I do.” Gerard looks at them sadly, then at Grant.

“I’ll be here,” Grant promises.

Gerard laughs a little because he’s being ridiculous and he knows it, and lifts his taco to his mouth to take a bite. They enjoy their food silently for a few moments and then start talking again. Gerard is pretty sure they’re never going to run out of things to say to each other.

They eat. Grant has another beer, Gerard a spicy and amazing cup of coffee. Grant notes the time, but shows no regret at missing the night’s party. They linger over coffee and dessert for a long time, until Grant finally says, “Well, I am prepared to consider this bet more than satisfactorily settled. And… I think we should go back to the hotel now.”

The way he says it makes Gerard shiver. He takes a deep breath, nods, and gestures for the check. As he’s writing out the tip and signing his name on the credit card slip, Grant squeezes his thigh. He jumps. This isn’t the innocent hand-holding from before.

“Too much?” Grant asks quietly.

“Fuck, no,” Gerard says vehemently. “This is- I’ve been waiting for months.”

Grant smiles softly at him. “As have I. Let’s go.”

Gerard pulls out his phone and calls for a cab. As they wait near the entrance to the restaurant, Grant pulls Gerard into his arms.  

“Is this where you kiss me?” Gerard breathes.

“Is that all right?” Grant asks. Gerard sees him dart a look out into the night, the people walking past.

Gerard nods. “Well, I might explode if you don’t.”

Grant laughs softly. “In that case…” He cups Gerard’s cheek in his hand and leans down to kiss him softly. Gerard sighs and lets his eyes slip closed, reaching up to rest his hand on the back of Grant’s head. It starts slow and soft and Grant’s fingers slip under the hem of his shirt to stroke the skin of his back. Everything about it is gentle, but in a way that promises later won’t be.

Grant’s hand finds the small of Gerard’s back and rests there. Gerard gasps into Grant’s mouth. “Where’s that damn cab?” Gerard murmurs against Grant’s lips.

“Don’t much care,” Grant replies.

“I want to be touching you,” Gerard says. “The kind of touching I can’t do right here because of public indecency laws.”

Grant laughs. “I understand. Soon.”

“Months, Fox,” Gerard says. “Months.”

“I know. You aren’t the only one who’s been counting.” Grant pulls back and swipes his thumb against Gerard’s palm. “Did you think about me?”

“So much,” Gerard admits. “And not just… I wanted you to be where I was, you know?” Grant smiles and pulls him closer until their hips are together. Gerard gasps.

“I do know.”

The cab arrives. Gerard is about ready to kiss the driver, but he settles for curling against Grant instead. Grant wraps an arm around Gerard’s waist and presses a kiss to his temple. Gerard leans into him. The ride back to the hotel is both the longest and shortest of his life. “Schrödinger’s cab ride,” he mutters to himself.

“I don’t think that’s what that means,” Grant laughs.

“Whatever,” Gerard huffs. “You know what I fucking mean, Mr. Quantum Mechanics.”

Grant smiles and kisses his cheek as they pull up in front of the hotel. “I know precisely what you mean.” He settles the cab fare then follows Gerard into the hotel and into the elevator.

Of course, because it’s Comic Con, there are already six people in the elevator. One man’s eyes go wide when he sees Grant, but he doesn’t approach them. Gerard can see the hints of a smile around the corners of Grant’s mouth, but they play it cool and just get off the elevator on Gerard’s floor.

Gerard is good; he only fumbles his key card once. And then they’re through the door, and it’s closed behind him, and that is fucking it. He pushes Grant against the wall and kisses him like he’s been wanting to, with tongue and teeth on his bottom lip and hands under his suit jacket.

Grant gasps and pulls him in, letting Gerard press against him, push a knee between his thighs. “Fuck,” Grant moans, hands coming up to cup Gerard’s ass.

Gerard rolls his hips against Grant’s and tugs his shirt out of his trousers. He kisses him hard, like he’s never going to stop. (He might never stop.) Grant tries to get Gerard’s jacket off of him but they’re both all fumbling hands, so eventually they pull apart. “Fuck,” Gerard gasps, panting into the hollow of Grant’s throat.

“My thoughts exactly,” Grant murmurs. “Gerard, let me undress you.”

“I get to return the favor,” Gerard says, firmly.

“Of course,” Grant replies.

Gerard reaches up to slide Grant’s suit jacket off his shoulders. “You always look so good in these,” he murmurs. “I always thought so.”

“Always?” Grant asks softly.

“I’ve been attracted to you since the first time I saw you,” Gerard says.

“When was that?” Grant asks, helping Gerard with his cuff links.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Gerard murmurs. “Long time. First time I saw you in person was while you were writing The Invisibles. I was an intern at DC and you came in wearing the full King Mob deal. It was fucking amazing,” Gerard explains.

Grant’s cheeks go pink. “That was so long ago.”

“Didn’t matter. Doesn’t. You’re fucking gorgeous, Grant.”

“I liked going into the offices feeling like I was king of the world,” Grant confesses with a smile. Gerard starts working on the buttons of his dress shirt.

“I’m pretty sure you still are,” Gerard murmurs. He leans in to kiss Grant’s chest as it’s exposed.

“You make me feel like it,” Grant says softly.

Gerard lifts his face to smile at Grant. Grant puts his hands in Gerard’s hair and leans in to kiss him again. Less frantic this time, but soft and fucking intense. When he breaks it off, he tries again and this time Gerard stands docilely while Grant strips off his jacket and shirt. He makes a little involuntary noise when Grant continues on to his jeans.

“Soon, love,” Grant promises, slowly drawing down the zip. Grant pushes his jeans down his thighs and crouches down to take off his shoes and socks and pull his jeans the rest of the way off. He kisses Gerard’s thigh, and Gerard whimpers a bit and tugs at his shoulders.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Gerard murmurs.

Grant slides his hands over Gerard’s shoulders and down his chest. “You are so fucking beautiful,” Grant murmurs.

“I, I -”

“You know you are,” Grant adds softly. “You’re used to people looking at you.”

“Not when they’re you,” Gerard gasps.

“I intend to give you plenty of time to get used to it,” Grant promises.

Gerard smiles. He feels weirdly shy and he fucking knows he’s blushing. He takes a breath and tugs Grant back until they get to the bed. He sits and puts his hands to Grant’s button and zip. Finally.

Grant bends down to bite at Gerard’s ear, gently. Gerard gasps. He takes a breath and pulls Grant’s pants down. Grant toes his shoes off and steps out of them. He sits on the bed next to Gerard and peels off his socks. He’s completely unhurried about it all, and Gerard is so nervous he can feel his pulse in his throat.

“Hey,” Grant murmurs, tugging Gerard up towards the pillows. “Come here, love.” Gerard settles into his arms. His skin is warm and he’s looking at Gerard in a way that makes him swallow hard. “I’m nervous too,” Grant tells him. “I’d never even thought to imagine this.”

“I’m so fucking glad we’re here,” Gerard says, hiding the words in the skin of Grant’s throat. Grant strokes Gerard’s hair behind his ear and slides his hand down to cup his shoulder. Gerard presses his lips to the underside of Grant’s jaw.

Grant hums and slides his hand up and down Gerard’s arm, then pulls Gerard on top of himself. Their cocks line up, and both of them moan. Gerard wants their briefs off right the fuck now, but he doesn’t want to move. He settles for rolling his hips against Grant’s and sucking at the base of his neck, just below his collar line.

“You ought to make it higher,” Grant rumbles. “So I can walk around knowing everyone is wondering who’s been giving me lovebites.”

“Exhibitionist,” Gerard murmurs.

“Glass-” Grant begins, but Gerard bites him a little harder and he trails off on a moan. Gerard would smile if he weren’t so busy sucking a hickey into Grant’s neck. Well above the collar line. He can’t deny he likes the thought of people wondering who marked Grant like that.

Grant settles his hands onto Gerard’s ass and urges him to keep moving. Not that Gerard needs much in the way of urging.

They move together for a minute and then Gerard pulls himself away. He gets rid of his briefs and reaches for Grant’s. Grant lifts his hips and Gerard slides them down his legs. He can’t help fucking staring, once he gets them down. “Jesus fuck.”

Grant props himself up on his elbows and smirks. “Is this where I ask if you see something you like, love?”

Gerard laughs. “I see many things I like a whole fucking lot.”

“How would you like them?” Grant asks, oh so politely.

“Hmmm,” Gerard murmurs, ducking his head down to mouth along Grant’s chest.

Grant puts his hands in Gerard’s hair. “That’s not an answer, but I’ll take it.”

Gerard gets his lips wrapped around a nipple and sets out to make Grant moan. It doesn’t take long. Grant is gratifyingly vocal, and he twists his fingers lightly in Gerard’s hair to hold him where he is. Gerard keeps licking and sucking. Grant only gives him enough leeway to switch to his other nipple. Gerard is fine with that. He can feel Grant’s cock against his belly. He’s as hard as Gerard is, now. Fuck if Gerard isn’t drooling.

“Have you decided what you want, love?” Grant rasps.

“I wanna suck you,” Gerard replies immediately. He shoots a look up at Grant, who’s smiling. The fingers in Gerard’s hair tighten, then release.

“Whatever you like, love,” Grant says.

“I fucking like,” Gerard replies and moves down Grant’s body. He kisses Grant’s soft stomach and the jut of his hipbone, shifting to take the head of his cock in his mouth.

Grant gasps, head falling back against the pillows. Gerard feels really fucking smug for a moment before taking more of Grant into his mouth. He tastes good and he’s stretching Gerard’s lips just right. This is one thing Gerard knows he’s fucking good at. It’s more gratifying to do this for Grant than it usually is; Grant is gorgeous, flushed, fingertips catching on the sheets.

Gerard brings his hand up to wrap around the base of Grant’s cock. He shifts his hips against the mattress just for a little bit of friction. He could get off on this, easy. He goes down further, taking Grant in until his lips meet his fist.

“Fuck,” Grant moans. “Oh, fuck me, you’re really fucking good at this.”

Gerard presses his tongue against the base of Grant’s cock and squeezes his hip with his free hand. He drops down to mouth gently at his balls, too, then noses back up his shaft to lick along the underside, being deliberately teasing this time. He loves everything about this: the smell, the taste, the feeling of Grant underneath him.

Gerard takes Grant’s cock in his mouth again. This time, he goes down as far as he can, until he’s swallowing around the head of Grant’s cock. He still doesn’t have Grant all the way in. Clearly he’ll have to practice. Gerard is okay with practicing. Repeatedly. He moans quietly, happily, and starts to bob his head.

Grant keeps up a steady stream of encouragement, moaning and swearing and running his hands over Gerard’s hair. Gerard pulls off giggling hoarsely a few moments later. Grant gives him a look that’s half amused, half impatient. “Sorry,” Gerard gasps. “Just. In the comments of one of my interviews, someone asked, ‘Could he be sucking Morrison’s cock more?’”

“At the moment?” Grant drawls. “Yes. With an option on fucking now and getting back to the cocksucking later.”

Gerard licks his lips. “You wanna fuck me, Grant?”

“Fuck, yes. Get the fuck up here,” Grant growls. Gerard grins and takes his time about it, feeling wicked. He wraps his hand around Grant’s cock and strokes. He moves up slowly, kissing his belly, his scar, his chest. When he finally gets to Grant’s mouth, Grant’s eyes are practically black.

Gerard dips his head down to claim a kiss, light and teasing, biting at Grant’s lips until Grant growls again, fisting his hands in Gerard’s hair and pulling him down properly.

Gerard moans against his mouth. “Grant,” he gasps.

“Do you have condoms?” Grant asks.

“I…yes,” Gerard says, turning red. “I brought some.”

Grant chuckles against Gerard’s throat, voice husky when he says, “You were hoping for this, hm? I was, too. So fucking much.”

“I didn’t even know if we’d be attracted to each other or if we’d get along in person. But fuck, I hoped. So much,” Gerard replies.

“Do you date much?” Grant asks, running fingers through Gerard’s hair, rubbing gently at the shaved sides.

“Not for a while,” Gerard admits. His eyes slip shut at the feeling of Grant’s fingers carding through his hair, and he practically has to bite back a croon. Grant clearly notices, because he chuckles again. “For a long while,” Gerard adds. “Meeting people is complicated for me.”

“I understand,” Grant murmurs and leans in for a kiss. “Get me the stuff,” he whispers against Gerard’s lips.

“You’ll have to let me go first,” Gerard reminds him, teasingly.

“I suppose,” Grant replies and gives him another kiss before releasing him. Gerard gets up and grabs the stuff from his suitcase.

Gerard stretches out on his side next to Grant and balances the lube and a condom on Grant’s stomach.

“Oi,” Grant says, frowning down at him.

“What?” Gerard asks innocently.

“Some audience participation, if you please,” Grant replies. Gerard smiles and grabs the condom. He tears open the wrapper and leans up on his elbow to slowly roll it down Grant’s cock. The little noise Grant makes when he does it makes his stomach flip. Gerard grins and presses the lube into Grant’s hand. “Get me ready?”

Grant smiles back and leans down to kiss him. “It would be my pleasure.” He moves down the bed and settles between Gerard’s spread legs. He goes quickly, sinking one slick finger in to the second knuckle and thrusting it at an even pace.

Gerard moans. It feels fucking incredible; “Grant,” he pants.

Grant kisses the top of his thigh and slides a second finger in next to the first. It’s maybe a little fast, but Gerard wants Grant in him.

“Is this-” Grant begins, and Gerard gasps “yes” and rocks back against Grant’s fingers, just in case he’s getting any ideas about stopping or slowing down.

Grant wraps his free hand loosely around Gerard’s cock and crooks his fingers to drag over Gerard’s prostate as he thrusts them.

Gerard moans. “Fuckin’ - more.”

“Whatever you like,” Grant murmurs, and he teases at Gerard’s hole with a third finger. Gerard gasps and writhes, hands clenching in the sheets. “Impatient,” Grant chides, laughing softly as he slides the third finger in beside the first two.

“You have no fucking idea,” Gerard moans. “Fuck. Please.”

Grant moves fast, when he finally decides to move - withdrawing his fingers and pushing Gerard’s thighs apart, only pausing when the head of his cock is snugly pressed against Gerard’s ass.

“Now,” Gerard gasps, grabbing for Grant’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Grant’s other hand finds Gerard’s hip, and Gerard moans loud and long as Grant presses inside of him.

“Gerard,” Grant gasps in his ear. “Oh, fuck.” He sounds undone, but he keeps his hips steady and slow.

“Please, Fox,” Gerard whispers. He feels electric, needy, shaken, as undone as Grant sounds, but there’s one person who can give him what he needs.

Grant chants a low, steady stream of filth into Gerard’s ear, fucking into him over and over again. Gerard arches and writhes and gasps. He’s probably making too much noise, but fuck, he doesn’t give a shit, it feels too good. He wraps his arms around Grant, grips his shoulders instead of the sheets.

“My Danny,” Grant whispers in his ear.

“Yes,” Gerard moans. “Fuck, touch me.”

Grant doesn’t waste a second, hand sliding down from Gerard’s hip to wrap around his cock. Gerard moans and thrusts his hips up into Grant’s hands and then back against his cock.

“That’s it,” Grant rasps, “More. Again. Come for me.”

“Almost there,” Gerard tells him, eyes closing against the wave he can feel building in the pit of his belly. They keep moving. Gerard pulls Grant’s head down for a desperate kiss just as he starts to come. He moans into Grant’s mouth, fingers tightening, and Grant speeds up his thrusts, sloppy and desperate.

Gerard doesn’t have any more words; he just moans, over and over, riding the aftershocks of his own orgasm and panting against Grant’s lips. Grant thrusts hard one last time and comes, moans muffled against Gerard’s mouth.

Gerard chases his tongue, kisses him until neither of them can breathe, until Grant is slumped heavily over him.

“Darling,” Grant murmurs in his ear, tightening his arms around Gerard’s waist. Gerard swallows and tightens one arm around Grant and slides a hand up to cup the back of Grant’s head. His body is humming, spent. In awe of what just happened.

They lie together for long moments. Gerard takes a deep breath, and then another. He turns his head and presses his lips to Grant’s cheek. “God,” he mumbles.

“Not last time I checked,” Grant jokes.

Gerard huffs out a laugh against Grant’s shoulder. This is Fox in his arms. Grant. It’s blowing his mind a little bit.

“This would have to happen the busiest weekend of the year,” he sighs.

Grant is quiet for a moment. Then he says, a bit hesitantly, “I… had been thinking. About perhaps not returning immediately to Scotland, after the convention.”

“Wanna come back to Portland with me?” Gerard asks. “I bet you’d like it.”

“I’d love to. Want to come to LA with me first? Just to visit a few people I rarely see.”

“Definitely,” Gerard says, pressing a kiss to the nearest bit of Grant he can reach. “You get to tell Scott, though.”

Grant laughs. “I can do that. I feel like he won’t find me particularly intimidating, though. Unless you’re using me as a shield?”

“No, I just like to render him speechless as often as possible,” Gerard laughs, then gasps as Grant shifts and pulls out. He retreats to the bathroom and comes back in a moment with a damp washcloth.

Gerard hums, pleased at the attention, but it’s nothing compared to how good it feels when Grant climbs back into bed and wraps Gerard in his arms again. “I feel really fucking lucky right now,” Gerard tells him.

“So do I,” Grant replies.

Gerard grins, and Grant bends down to press a kiss against his lips, and they kiss and kiss until Gerard’s eyes are drooping closed. He falls asleep warm and comfortable, with Grant’s lips pressed against his cheek.

**

Grant wakes to the immensely irritating sound of his alarm and is groggily confused to find someone in bed with him. Having stolen all the covers, no less. He fumbles for the telephone and turns off the alarm. When he looks over at the pile of blankets at the other side of the bed, he finds a pair of sleep-bleary eyes blinking at him.

“You stole all the blankets,” Grant says. “I have a vision of my future and it includes a lot of me waking up freezing.”

Gerard makes a grumbly noise, but rolls toward Grant with his arm up, blankets in hand. Grant meets him in the middle and Gerard wraps the blankets over his shoulders and snuggles against his chest. “Sorry,” he breathes against Grant’s skin.

“I’m just pleased to wake up with you,” Grant tells him.

“Me fucking too,” Gerard says, smiling at him. Grant feels warm in a way that has very little to do with the blankets. Grant wraps his arms around Gerard and kisses his temple. He thinks waking up cold because Gerard has stolen the covers might be the best possible future. “What time is it anyway?” Gerard mutters.

“Earlier than either of us are given to rising,” Grant tells him. “But the press never sleep, it seems. I’ve an interview in an hour.”

“Ugh,” Gerard mutters.

“It was as late as I could book it, too,” Grant says with a sigh. “You can go back to sleep if you like.”

“No, I have to get to the convention center too.” Gerard stretches and drapes himself more fully over Grant.

Grant laughs. “This isn’t terribly conducive to me getting up, love.”

Gerard sighs heavily. “Ugh,” he repeats.

“I promise to make it up to you,” Grant murmurs.

“I like the sound of that,” Gerard tells his neck.

They lie there together for a few minutes more, just breathing. “It’s fucking weird not to be checking my phone right now,” Gerard laughs.

Grant laughs. “Did I tell you I bought a smartphone for you? I didn’t have a mobile at all until just before I went to London.”

“For me?” Gerard repeats.

“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of missing any of your messages,” Grant confirms.

Gerard beams at him. “I was horrible. Scott threatened to confiscate my phone every time I was at Dark Horse for meetings, because he could always tell I was itching to check my texts.”

Grant laughs. “The lads in London gave me so much shit. Especially since they knew I didn’t have a mobile previously. Kristan, too.”

Gerard looks at him curiously for a moment, before comprehension dawns. “Your ex. The good one.”

He nods. “She used to handle everything that could possibly require a mobile. I resisted getting one myself for a very long time.” “What happened with her?”

Grant is quiet for a moment, thinking. “I…was too much of a workaholic for her, I think. When it came down to it. We had other problems, but if I’d been able to pull away from work more often, I think those other things would have been bearable for her,” Grant explains. “Sadly, not much has changed.” Grant frowns a bit.

“Hey,” Gerard says, wriggling so they’re face to face. “You talked to me pretty much all day every day for months,” Gerard reminds him. Grant smiles and kisses the tip of his nose. “You’re right,” he whispers. He has no idea what this thing that he and Gerard have been building together is going to become, but it already feels so fucking strong. Like maybe they’ll be able to sort it out, between the two of them. He leans up to kiss Gerard. He forces himself to keep it brief, but it’s difficult. “I’ve got to shower and dress and get moving.”

Gerard takes a deep breath, fingertips gentle against the back of Grant’s skull, pulling their foreheads together. “If we have any matching free time, we should meet in the VIP lounge,” Gerard suggests.

“I’ll text you whenever I do,” Grant promises, giving him a kiss he intends to be quick. Naturally, it doesn’t work out that way. Both of them groan when they finally pull apart. Grant forces himself to pull away and get out of bed. He wants to do anything but. He pulls on his clothes and checks his pockets to make sure he has everything. “Talk to you later,” he murmurs.

“Definitely,” Gerard says. He presses his finger to the mark he’d left on Grant’s neck the night before, grinning when Grant hisses a little bit. “Get out of here,” Gerard tells him. “Knock ’em dead at the interview.”

Grant smiles. “I shall do my best.” He heads back to his own room to change with a spring in his step. He needs a Red Bull and something to eat, but he feels shockingly good.

He has to laugh when he gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror in his own room. Gerard hadn’t been at all subtle. He’s not going to have time to shave, but that’s all right. Kissing Gerard was entirely more important. He showers quickly and dresses. Nice suit, stubbly face, that’s just what people get today. He’s going to get plenty of shit from the people who know him, and that’s fine. He’ll take it gladly, knowing what he’s getting in exchange.

And really, gloating to his friends about his hot young boyfriend is not outside the realm of possibility. Boyfriend. Fuck, that’s amazing. He grabs his phone and types out, Can’t stop fucking grinning.

It takes a minute for Gerard to respond. I’m gonna look like an idiot all day. I don’t even care.

Same, but. The idiot who has you has the last laugh, Grant replies.

He arrives at the interview green room with ten minutes to spare, and sends up a prayer of thanks to whatever gods watch over the comics industry that someone’s thought to provide energy drinks. He guzzles one down and cracks open another for sipping and sits where he’s meant to sit.

“You’re early,” the interviewer, an old friend, says when he arrives. “Kudos, Grant.”

Grant raises his energy drink in salute. He sits down and they start. Grant’s happy, so his answers tend to reflect his mood. He walks through everything he has going on right now - his comics, the documentary, writing his book - and the last question is, “What are you most looking forward to this weekend?”

Grant laughs. “Honestly? Spending time with friends.”

His friend’s eyes light on the hickey and he lifts an eyebrow. “Friends, eh?”

“Good friends. Amazing friends. It’s been too long.”

“Enjoy,” the interviewer concludes with a laugh.

“I shall,” Grant says, grinning privately to himself. They shake hands and Grant gets up. He checks his schedule. He has another interview soon and a meeting a little after that.

He has enough time to grab a breakfast sandwich and text Gerard. Suspect I smiled like an idiot for the whole of that little chat. Good thing it’s a print interview.

Haha. Had a breakfast meeting with Gabriel. He gave me so much fucking shit.

 I’ll be in the building at eleven.

Dammit, I’ve got an interview at eleven, Gerard replies.

Grant has to laugh. And I have a panel at noon. And a signing at two.

I’ll come to the end of your signing and bring coffee, Gerard offers.

Sounds perfect, Grant replies. I shall see you then. He tucks away his phone, grinning to himself. Because fuck, he will. He’s spent months wishing that he could meet Danny face to face, and now… now he gets Gerard.

He’s never fucking going to stop grinning about that. Not ever. Gerard is worth every giddy grin.

His second interview goes well–the interviewer is a sweet kid, clearly a bit starstruck and too worried about being professional to make any comments about Grant’s appearance. He gets a coffee before heading to his panel. It’s a fun time and there are lots of good questions in the Q&A portion.

Dan DiDio is waiting in the wings when he finishes. “Grant,” says Dan, holding out his hand. “Caught the end of your panel; good stuff. You’re getting them excited.”

Grant smiles and hopes Dan can’t tell how very little Grant wants to talk to him. “All in a day’s work,” he says.

“I’d like to steal you before your signing,” Dan says.

Grant winces internally; he’d been hoping to avoid such a fate. But he’s not stupid, so he says, “I have some time,” and allows Dan to lead him off. He thinks of Gerard who will be waiting for him later and squares his shoulders.

Trapped in meeting with boss, help, he texts.

Weirdly, now that I know you mean Dan DiDio, that’s even more terrifying, Gerard sends back.

Sigh. Grant replies and turns his attention to Dan. This would be so much easier with caffeine. Thankfully, he’s able to charm a runner outside the meeting room that Dan leads him to into bringing him a Red Bull.

The meeting isn’t as bad as Grant fears, but it’s still a meeting with Dan. Luckily he has a good excuse to escape, and signings are something he truly enjoys.

He always loses track of time during signings, so it’s a surprise when he looks up to see Gerard smiling softly at him, holding two Starbucks cups. Mehdi is standing, arms crossed, a couple of feet back. A few people seem to recognize that Gerard is someone, but most of the ten or so people left in his line don’t notice him.

He waves Gerard over, but Gerard shakes his head and stays back, going over to mutter something to Mehdi. The next person in line steps up, and Grant gets caught up in talking with her.

The last person in line is a sweet girl who talks about how much she loves Doom Patrol. She keeps glancing over Grant’s shoulder.

“Are you an MCR fan?” Grant asks her.

“I- yeah,” she admits, blushing a little.

“Oi,” Grant calls over his shoulder. “Get your arse over here.” Gerard grins at him, hands off the coffee to Mehdi, and walks toward them. “I think this young lady wants to say hello to you, love,” he says. “And she’s waited all this time -” he nods to the guy running his line, who moves the stanchions to close the queue, “so.”

“It’s fine,” Gerard says. “Hi.”

The young woman looks more than a little bit starstruck. “Hi,” she replies shyly. Gerard sticks out his hand to shake hers. She glances between him and Grant. “I. Um. I read Doom Patrol because you said in an interview a few years ago that it was a big influence.” Gerard grins and Grant knows his face looks similar.

“Look at you, getting me new readers before we ever met.”

“Which you deserve,” Gerard replies. “It’s great to meet you. Did you -”

She blushes and rummages in her bag. “I didn’t get a ticket for your signing. Maybe you can sign this?” She flips open a sketch book to a page of characters Grant recognizes from Umbrella Academy.

Gerard’s face lights up. “Fuck, these are awesome!  Did you do these?” Her blush deepens and she nods. “Damn, they’re amazing,” Gerard gushes. They are, Grant thinks. He’s fairly certain Gerard would be genuinely enthusiastic no matter what, though.

Gerard scrawls a little note and his signature, giving the girl an encouraging smile. She squeaks her thanks and lets a staffer escort her out of the booth. Grant turns to Gerard. “Well, then.” Mehdi walks over with the promised coffee, which Grant accepts gratefully.

“So, how long do we have?” Gerard asks and bites his lip. Grant takes a sip of coffee, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and opens the calendar app.

“Hour and a half?” Grant hazards.

“I’ll take it,” Gerard announces.

Grant grins at him. “Have you eaten anything? We could have lunch somewhere.”

“Yes, that’s…perfect.” Gerard beams at him like he’s the best thing in the world, and Grant feels a great deal of sympathy for the girl from before. He’s feeling a bit starstruck, himself. He only just stops himself from taking Gerard’s hand right there in the middle of the DC booth.

“Let’s go, then. Tacos again?” he asks with a wink.  

“We are in SoCal,” Gerard comments. “Mehdi?”

“I’ll let you two have your alone time,” Mehdi says, dryly.

Gerard rolls his eyes. “So basically your answer is, ‘Take a fucking cab and text me on your way back?’”

“Also, don’t fall in the harbor,” Mehdi says. “Does that cover it?” He leads them to the cab stand. Before he tucks them away in one of the waiting cabs, Gerard hugs him, and he laughs and pats Gerard on the shoulder. “I love you too, Way. Remember what I said about the harbor.”

“I’ll keep him from the water,” Grant promises with a grin.

Gerard’s hand finds his as soon as the cab starts moving. “Kidnapped by the boss, huh?” Gerard asks, a grin in his voice.

“Yes,” Grant replies with a sigh. “It wasn’t actually bad. Partly because he just wanted to re-hash some things I already knew.”

“How exciting.” Gerard runs a hand through his hair. “Am I glad I never followed through with my Batman pitch?”

“Batman pitch?” Grant asks, curiously. Gerard blushes a little, and that’s their conversation for the rest of the cab ride sorted out.

“I want to fucking see everything you’ve got,” Grant says.

“When we get to Portland,” Gerard promises.

“I’ll remember,” Grant tells him.

Grant has to kiss him, then, though he keeps it light in deference to their cab driver. He squeezes Gerard’s hand as he pulls away. He can’t remember a time he felt this happy. Happy down in his bones. Happy to steal this ninety minutes out of a busy day.

They find yet another Mexican restaurant. “Do you have dinner plans?” Gerard asks, as they look over the menus. “A bunch of friends are getting together, if you want to join.”

“I’d like that,” Grant replies with a smile. He wants to meet all of Gerard’s friends. “And I have another party invite after, if you -”

“I think I’d probably enjoy it, as long as you’d be there,” Gerard says, thoughtfully. “And… as long as we didn’t have to stay too long.” The look he gives Grant over the top of his menu sends a flare of heat straight to Grant’s belly.

“I’ll be there and we can leave early,” Grant tells him. He even manages to keep his voice steady.

“Deal, then,” Gerard says with a grin.

Really, it’s probably for the best that they only have a limited amount of time for lunch. If Grant had his way, he’d be taking Gerard straight back to one of their rooms.

Grant busies himself with the chips and salsa for a moment to distract himself from his thoughts. Then Gerard nudges his foot under the table. “Your face right now…”

Grant grins ruefully. “Can you blame me, love?”

Gerard giggles his slightly croaky smoker’s giggle. “Not really.”

“Tease,” Grant says.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Gerard says, voice pitched low. “I promise I’m good for it.”

Grant swallows. “Thank the gods for that.”

“I still think I am the lucky one,” Gerard adds.

“I think we can share the title,” Grant says, reaching across the table to lace their fingers together. Gerard smiles at him and it takes Grant’s breath away. The moment is interrupted by their waiter, but that’s probably a good thing.

They get to talking about electronic music over lunch, which is sufficiently distracting. All too soon, it’s time to start heading back. Gerard calls a cab as Grant takes care of the bill.

As they ride back, Gerard leans against his side. “I’m glad we could do this. It’s like a little island of sanity in the middle of everything.”

“You’ve always been that to me,” Grant tells him. “Since that first day, on the message board. My light in the darkness.” Grant laughs a little, remembering. He tightens his arm around Gerard’s shoulder and kisses his temple.

“I’m glad,” Gerard says. “You’ve helped me too. So fucking much.” He tips his head against Grant’s shoulder. Grant lets his eyes close, just for a moment. Just to savor this feeling.

*

Gerard meets him in the lobby for the party looking every inch the rock star he is, from the leather jacket right down to the combat-style boots. Grant is no stranger to tight jeans, but Gerard puts him to shame. And is clearly enjoying Grant’s once-over.

“Ready?” asks Gerard, grinning and bouncing on his toes. Against the all-black background of his clothing, his hair stands out even more.

Grant laughs and takes Gerard’s hand. “As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

Dinner with Gerard’s friends had been pleasant. Low-key after a long day. Gerard hadn’t been at all subtle about their relationship, this time, and they’d received their share of good-natured teasing. Grant enjoyed every moment, if he’s being honest. He had Gerard, after all. And he’s going to enjoy showing up to this party with Gerard on his arm as well, even though the gossipmongers will be out in force. He doesn’t much care what the internet thinks about this. Gerard clearly doesn’t either, which is gratifying, even if Gerard refuses to believe he’s a bigger celebrity than Grant will ever be.

There’s actually a red carpet at this one, which Grant finds hilarious since he’s still unshaven and sporting a massive hickey. As they approach, he can feel the shift in the way Gerard is carrying himself. His shoulders move back, his chin lifts. There’s an air of defiance about him. It’s still his Gerard, just…amplified.

It’s really fascinating. Grant regrets never seeing him perform live.

Grant leans over to press his lips against Gerard’s ear. “After this, I’m going to take you back to my hotel room and suck you off until you beg.”

He can hear Gerard swallow. Gerard’s stride transforms into a cocky swagger after that. Grant watches him pose for the obligatory photo op with appreciation. Tonight is going to be an exercise in patience. He’s grateful he already promised Gerard they could leave early.

Gerard is watching him back with a very similar look on his face. It’s almost a relief when he hears, “Grant! Oh, and Gerard, too!” and turns to see Phil and Jim waving them over.

Grant grins. He always loves seeing Phil. The look Phil gives him when he spots his and Gerard’s linked hands is pretty great too.

“Look at you,” Phil murmurs. Grant squeezes Gerard’s hand and grins. “I’m not crazy thinking this is pretty new, right?” Phil asks.

“This is the first time we’ve met in person,” Grant says, quirking an eyebrow at Gerard, “but we’ve been friends for a while.”

Jim looks confused. “I thought– last night, you said you hadn’t met him before. You were so embarrassed!” he says, pointing an accusing finger at Gerard.

Gerard grins. “We hadn’t. We, uh, just found out it was each other we’d been talking to this whole time. It’s pretty wild.”

“Oh my god,” Phil says. “That is fucking adorable.”

“Not a word, Philip,” Grant says. “Or you, Lee.”

“Technically, I’m your boss, you know,” Jim points out.

Grant scowls, but he’s having a hard time summoning up very much irritation. Gerard is laughing in Grant’s ear, tucked against his side like the spot was made for him. Phil just grins at him. “I’m happy for you, Grant. You deserve it.”

“So does Mr. Rockstar,” Jim adds with a smile. Gerard huffs, but he’s clearly pleased.

Jim wanders off and Phil sidles up closer. “No, but seriously. Tell me how this happened.”

Grant laughs. “Like Gerard said.”

Phil gapes at them, and Gerard laughs again, hiding his giggles in Grant’s shoulder. “We are never going to live this down,” he says.

“Seriously, it was…we met in a comics forum because I was in an awful mood and wanted somewhere to direct my anger,” Grant explains. He has a feeling he’ll be explaining this a lot as time goes on. Phil shakes his head and tsks. “I know! And Gerard being brilliant saved me from looking like an arse - more like an arse - and he’s been brilliant ever since.”

“And Grant was fucking smart, and he got into arguments with me about Britpop at three in the morning,” Gerard picks up.

Phil grins. “His three or your three?” They all laugh.

“Both, sometimes,” Gerard replies. “Grant thinks it was fate,” he adds matter-of-factly.

“He would,” Phil replies, eyes twinkling. Grant just inclines his head, because, well. Fate might not be exactly the right word, but it’ll do. And anyway, he’s pretty sure Gerard agrees, so that’ll do too.

“What else? Tell me all the dirt,” Phil says.

“No dirt,” Grant insists.

“None,” Gerard agrees, his best angelic expression firmly in place. Phil raises an eyebrow, like he doesn’t believe them for a second.

He doesn’t have to look at Gerard to know he has a smirk on his face.

“Fine, you two can be the mystery power couple,” Phil sighs.

They get into a discussion about the con, and eventually a few other people Grant knows join up with them. It’s a good party; Grant is enjoying himself. The last party he’d attended had been Warren’s, and he’d desperately wanted Gerard to be with him. Now Gerard is and it’s exactly as wonderful as Grant expected it would be.

At ten o’clock, Grant’s phone tinkles with its annoying little alarm. Grant looks at Gerard. “Is this your doing, love?” Gerard grins at him slyly. It’s one of the most appealing things that Grant has ever seen. “Time to make our excuses, then,” he murmurs.

It’s easy enough to escape; everyone is either drunk or tired or both. This time, there’s no one in the elevator. Gerard doesn’t waste any time; he pins Grant to the wall and kisses the fuck out of him.

Grant wraps his arms around Gerard’s shoulders and kisses him back.

“You should be illegal, with the suits and the hands and the accent and the jokes,” Gerard pants against his lips.

“You should talk,” Grant growls. “Your fucking jacket, your fucking hair, your fucking hips, I could hardly fucking take my eyes off of you.”

Gerard smirks. “That was the point.”

The elevator dings and Grant steers him out the door, hands tight on his fucking hips. He leads them down the hallway and to the door to his room. He has to let go of Gerard to fumble for his key card. It takes three tries to get the door open. When they get in and the door closes behind them, Grant presses Gerard back against the door.

“This is so much better,” he murmurs against Gerard’s neck.

“Grant,” Gerard gasps. He tilts his head up, so Grant has more skin to work with.

Grant slides his hands under Gerard’s shirt and sucks just under his jaw. “Did you spend the day thinking about this? I did,” he says.

“Fuck, yes,” Gerard pants.

Grant sucks a little harder, just to hear the breathy little moans that Gerard can’t quite bite back. He moves one hand to the warm skin on the small of Gerard’s back and one up into his hair. “I don’t know if I have the patience to get us to the bed,” Grant admits.

“Fine by me.” Gerard curves a hand around the back of Grant’s skull and pulls him in for another kiss.

Grant blindly reaches for the button of his jeans and manages to get them undone. He reaches into Gerard’s fly immediately, finding tight cotton and the hot ridge of Gerard’s cock.

Gerard gasps into his mouth. “You gonna- ah- you gonna make good on your big promises, Fox? Gonna suck me?”

“Absolutely,” Grant replies with a smile and sinks to his knees at Gerard’s feet. Gerard’s fingers are hot and gentle on his head. Grant bends down and mouths at the shape of Gerard’s cock through his briefs.

“Fuck,” Gerard whispers. Grant tugs Gerard’s briefs down and pulls his cock out. He looks up. Gerard’s watching him with an expression of astonishment and hunger together. Grant wraps his hand around the base and slides his tongue over the head. “Fuck,” Gerard moans, low, filthy, sliding down Grant’s spine. “Oh fuck.”

Grant would answer if he could. But Gerard has voice enough for both of them.

He laves his tongue up and down all around Gerard’s cock and strokes the shaft a few times as he sucks on the head. Gerard is gratifyingly forward about telling Grant what he wants, and Grant is more than happy to comply. He’s good at following direction, even if he’s normally the one scripting.

Gerard wants more of his mouth and Grant gives it to him, taking his hand away and sinking further down, until the head of Gerard’s cock nudges the back of his throat. Grant feels Gerard’s hips twitch, and he can feel Gerard trembling, holding himself back. He rubs with his thumbs along the cut of Gerard’s hips. He looks up at Gerard and starts moving his mouth back and forth, pulling Gerard’s hips toward him every time until Gerard gets the idea and starts thrusting.  

“Oh my fucking fuck,” Gerard moans.

Grant keeps rubbing his hipbones and lets his mouth go soft. Gerard finally lets go completely and starts fucking his mouth. Grant moans around him.

Even now, though, Gerard hasn’t lost his words. He’s panting, swearing, murmuring praise and instruction and nonsense alike. Through it all, he keeps his fingers gentle on the curve of Grant’s skull. It’s the sweetest fucking thing Grant has ever felt. He’s slumped back against the door, barely holding himself up. Grant closes his eyes, focuses on his lips and tongue, on the noises Gerard is making. On the way Gerard is gasping his name like it’s a fucking prayer. He tastes and feels like he’s close, so close.

Grant keeps sucking, keeps swallowing around Gerard’s cock. He moans again.

“Please, please, please,” Gerard gasps. “Just- I’m so fucking close- Grant, please, fuck-”

Grant leans as close as he can, tugs and strokes the skin behind his bollocks. Gerard shudders and moans loud. His hips stutter and he starts to come. Grant pulls off just far enough to swallow, letting Gerard completely overwhelm his senses.

He leans his forehead against Gerard’s stomach. Gerard’s fingers gently slide to his cheek and he tips Grant’s face up. The expression on Gerard’s face… if Grant’s breath wasn’t already coming in quick gasps, that expression would do it. Its a dangerous business being someone’s idol. But this is more than that. For them both.

They’re friends. Amazing fucking friends, first and foremost. He turns his head to kiss Gerard’s palm.

“Grant,” Gerard murmurs, softly. “Come up here.”

“You might need to give me a hand up,” Grant laughs softly.

Gerard smiles and holds out his hands. Grant puts his in Gerard’s and stands with a bit of assistance from Gerard, who tugs Grant into his arms.

Grant tips their foreheads together. “How are you so fucking perfect?” he asks.

“You ought to turn that question on yourself,” Gerard tells him breathlessly. Grant smiles and kisses him. Gerard wraps a hand around the back of his neck. “What can I do for you?” he whispers.

“I think I want those clever hands of yours,” Grant tells him.

“Do you want the bed first?” Gerard asks.

Grant laughs. “Probably best for my old knees.”

Gerard huffs at him, rolling his eyes. “Fuck you, old.”

“Sufficiently,” Grant answers.

“Whatever,” Gerard says. Grant laughs, kisses him, and then starts shedding clothing. Gerard follows suit, shrugging off his jacket and bending down to kick off his boots. Grant finds himself distracted enough by the sight that he pauses in the middle of unfastening a cuff link.

“No, go on,” he murmurs when Gerard notices.

Gerard smiles and keeps going, pulling his shirt over his head and moves to get rid of his jeans completely. He has to shimmy a little to get them down his thighs, even after several hours of wear. Grant wants to lick the red marks on his belly and thighs.

He’s fucking gorgeous, flushed and radiant. Grant wants to get him on the bed and then never let him leave it. And he’s staring at Grant, looking challenging and making a little hurry-up gesture. Grant smirks and continues taking off his shirt, then his trousers. He gets rid of his shoes and then he’s standing in front of Gerard in just his briefs, his hard cock an obvious shape against the cotton.

“Enough?” he asks.

“Just about,” Gerard says, gesturing him to the bed. Gerard is close behind him and rubs a hand over the front of his briefs. Grant moans. Gerard tugs the elastic down over his cock. He hums appreciatively, wrapping his fingers around Grant’s cock and giving it a few leisurely strokes.

“Impatient,” Grant manages, though fuck, it feels good.

“You’ve been very patient, I think,” Gerard tells him. Grant moans and Gerard rubs his thumb over the head of Grant’s cock and kisses his shoulder. “Bed,” he murmurs. “C’mon. Gonna put my hands all over you, baby.”

“So glad you can,” Grant tells him, shoving his briefs off and tossing the covers to the foot. Gerard crawls onto the bed after him and leans in to kiss him as he wraps his hand around Grant’s cock again.

Grant tangles one hand in Gerard’s ridiculous hair and kisses back. He closes his eyes and arches into Gerard’s hand. He loves the feel. Loves that Gerard keeps his hand firm, even if he’s going torturously slow. Loves the way Gerard kisses him like Grant is the only thing there is.

Gerard is the best thing there is. This he knows.

Gerard kisses down his neck, sucks the mark he made, and then down Grant’s chest to suck on his nipple. Grant hums, arching up into Gerard’s mouth. His eyelids are heavy, his skin humming. Gerard keeps stroking his cock. He’s speeding up by increments and Grant is torn between begging him to speed up more and not wanting it to end.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, all spread out for me like this,” Gerard murmurs. “Everybody gets to see you in those perfect fucking suits, but I get you like this. I’m the luckiest motherfucker on the planet.”

“Are you?” Grant murmurs, running his fingers through Gerard’s hair.

“Yeah, I fucking am,” Gerard replies. “So fucking lucky.”

Grant bites his lip and squeezes his eyes closed against the look in Gerard’s eyes, trying to to hold out a little while longer against the feeling gathering in the pit of his belly. He’s breathing hard, and Gerard kisses lightly along his shoulder.

“Gerard,” he breathes. “Oh fuck.” He thrusts up into Gerard’s head.

“That’s it,” Gerard murmurs, scraping his teeth against the hollow of Grant’s throat. “C’mon. Come for me.”

Grant rasps in a breath and calls Gerard’s name. He comes with a final thrust into Gerard’s hand. Gerard kisses him, and keeps on jacking him until Grant is completely spent.

Grant lets himself slump into the mattress and kisses back. He can hardly breathe but he doesn’t want to stop kissing Gerard.

“You are- the very best thing,” Gerard murmurs, between kisses. He’s breathless, too. He’s so beautiful. Grant slides his fingers into Gerard’s hair and pulls his forehead to Grant’s.

“Gerard,” Grant breathes. There are a hundred things he wants to say, but his ability to form words is… somewhere else, at the moment. So he just says, “Gerard,” again, hoping that his voice conveys what he means.

Gerard curls up against him and kisses his cheek. They lie there together for a long while. Grant thinks he could probably spend the rest of his life exactly like this.

“Danny,” he says contentedly.

“Fox,” Gerard returns, a smile in his eyes. His lips twitch, and finally he can’t quite hold back any longer and starts giggling.

“What?” Grant asks, when Gerard buries his laughter in Grant’s chest. Grant smiles at the top of Gerard’s head and strokes his shoulders as he laughs. Finally Gerard sighs and kisses Grant’s sternum.

“Just,” he manages, “I can’t fucking believe this, you know? That- that I met you on a fucking message board. You should be a serial killer.”

He smiles and slides his hand up to cup Gerard’s cheek. “And you should be sixteen with spots. And yet here we are in this magical world where neither of those things is true.”

“I like it here,” Gerard says with a contented grin.

“So do I,” Grant agrees, leaning in to kiss Gerard again. They trade sweet, sleepy kisses until Grant can feel himself falling asleep. “We should clean up a bit,” he murmurs.

Gerard murmurs assent and rolls out of bed. He takes care of them both quickly and insinuates himself back into Grant’s arms. Grant doesn’t resist for a moment. Tomorrow is another ridiculously busy day at Comic Con. There will be interviews, and meetings, and one last panel– a signing, and plenty of chances to talk with people who’ve connected with his work. Connecting with old friends. The Eisners. And he’s looking forward to it all, despite the fact that a large part of him would rather stay right here in this bed with Gerard all day.  

They’ll have time for that later, he supposes. There will be LA and then Portland after that. Then who knows where the winds will take them.

He’s already hoping it will be somewhere together. Maybe it’s a bit mad, but then, nothing about this whole thing has been anything else. It’s worked out anyway. Grant has a good feeling that the rest is going to sort itself out.

He’s looking forward to seeing exactly how it does sort itself out.

**

 Six Months Later

“Wake up, love,” Gerard hears, then a kiss lands just below his ear. Gerard hums in appreciation, but doesn’t open his eyes just yet.

A moment later, he hears Grant’s soft laugh. He runs a hand over Gerard’s chest and tangles their legs together. Gerard smiles and turns his face back for a kiss, but he still doesn’t open his eyes.

“Are we doing the thing where you think you can ignore that it’s morning if you don’t open your eyes?” Grant murmurs in his ear.

“Are we doing the thing where you’re a freakish morning person?” Gerard mumbles, reaching up to cup Grant’s cheek.

“Time zones, love,” Grant says; the same excuse he’s been using since he arrived back in Portland three days ago.

“Whatever,” Gerard mutters and turns in Grant’s arms. Grant cups his cheeks and leans in to kiss him.

“I missed you so much,” Grant tells him.

“Missed you more.” Gerard finally opens his eyes. “There you are.” Grant kisses him again, soft and sweet. Gerard sinks into it, wrapping an arm over Grant’s waist. “It was lonely,” he says eventually. “And wet. And I ate my body weight in donuts.”

Grant laughs into the skin of his throat. “Scotland was just as lonely. And, I think, equally wet, and I had no donuts to comfort me. Next time I go back, you’re coming with me. I’m kidnapping you if I must. Scott will have to understand.”

Gerard smiles. “I think Scott mostly wants to make sure I’m being looked after by someone.”

“I will always volunteer,” Grant says, nuzzling him.

“I like the sound of that,” Gerard replies, grinning. He pulls Grant in for another series of slow, warm kisses.

Grant kisses back happily, slides his hands down to cup Gerard’s bare ass. Gerard wriggles closer and their hips press together. Grant was fucking delighted when he moved in to find out how often Gerard sleeps naked. It works out pretty well for both of them, though. “Good morning, Mister Morrison,” Gerard says, laughing into Grant’s mouth and thrusting against his thigh. Grant laughs too, rolls Gerard over onto his back, and slides on top of him. Gerard wraps his arms around Grant’s neck. “When are you going to be sick of waking me up to have your way with me?” Gerard asks him.

“Never,” Grant says, licking a long stripe up Gerard’s chest. “Never, never.”

“Works for me,” Gerard gasps. He rolls his hips up against Grant’s and kisses his neck. Grant hums and tips his chin up. He’s stubbly - they’ve had much better things to do than shave the past three days. Gerard fucking loves the feel of it. He fucking loves Grant.

Grant puts his hands into Gerard’s hair and kisses him briefly, then pulls back to look in his eyes. Gerard takes the time to look back. Just look. Dark eyes, the curves of his skull, the little scar on his cheek. There have been a lot of times, these last six months, that Gerard has been sideswiped all over again by how fucking lucky he is. This is one of them.

“Grant.”

“Yes, love?” Grant murmurs and leans in to kiss him again.

“Nothing, I just - love you. And all that sappy shit.” He closes his eyes as Grant strokes his hair.

“I love you, too,” Grant tells him. His fingers scratch lightly at Gerard’s scalp, and he pushes into the touch like a cat. Fuck, Gerard is glad Grant is back. For a lot of reasons, but the fact that he’s here to touch Gerard like this is a fucking massive plus. “We have brunch with Scott at eleven,” Gerard murmurs. “What do you want to do until then?”

“Hmmm,” Grant rumbles, kissing Gerard’s chest. “I think… I think I want to fuck you again.”

Gerard stretches and smiles. “I could be convinced.”

“Always putting me to work,” Grant sighs, kissing across and up to Gerard’s collarbone. Gerard cups his hand around the back of Grant’s skull and arches up hopefully; Grant laughs and obligingly closes his mouth around one of Gerard’s nipples.

Gerard moans and hooks his ankles over Grant’s legs. Grant moves his hips against Gerard’s.

“How do you want it?” Grant asks him. “Anything you want.”

It’s not a difficult decision, really; Gerard fucking loves lazy morning sex. So he tugs at Grant and rearranges them until they’re on their sides, with Grant spooned up against his back. Grant reaches for the lube and strokes a hand down Gerard’s side. He slicks himself up and rubs his fingers over Gerard’s hole.

“Do you need anything, love?”

“No,” Gerard moans. “Just you.”

“That you can have,” Grant tells him, lining up and pressing in with one slow slide. Gerard sighs in pleasure, moving his hips a little so Grant can slide deeper. Grant presses his hand to the center of Gerard’s chest and Gerard covers Grant’s hand with his.

“Gorgeous,” Grant tells him. He keeps his thrusts short, pulling out and then pushing back in again in a slow, steady rhythm. Gerard moans, because he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over how fucking good Grant is at this.

Grant’s lips slide against the back of his neck. “So fucking good,” Gerard moans.

“Missed this,” Grant tells him, rocking his hips. He’s so warm against Gerard’s back.

“Missed you,” Gerard gasps. Grant shifts, and it changes the angle of his thrusts just enough to send sparks up Gerard’s spine.

Gerard moans Grant’s name. Grant slides his hand down to Gerard’s hip and grips it tight. Gerard feels constantly smug that he’s the one who gets the benefits of Grant’s fucking incredible cock.

“Good, love?” Grant murmurs, kissing the skin behind Gerard’s ear. “What else do you need? What can I give you?”

“Always good,” Gerard replies. “Just keep going exactly like you are. I’ll…” He trails off and reaches down to take hold of his cock.

Grant makes a little disappointed noise, followed by a gasp as Gerard rolls his hips back hard.

“I’m sure you can- ah- think of other places to touch me,” Gerard teases, breathlessly.

He runs his hand over Gerard’s chest, twists his nipple, then moves it down to Gerard’s hip. All the while he keeps rocking in that same infuriating rhythm.

“I fucking love you,” Gerard says, twisting back to kiss whatever bit of Grant he can reach.

“Love you too,” Grant gasps. “So much.” He kisses back and starts thrusting harder.

Gerard groans and starts jacking himself faster. He can feel his orgasm building, barreling towards him. He squeezes his eyes and lets it wash over him.

Grant moans in his ear and keeps thrusting into him. His fingers dig hard into Gerard’s hip. His lips fasten on the side of Gerard’s neck.

“Grant,” Gerard manages. Now that he’s come, every thrust is sending little sparks of almost-too-much up his spine. “C’mon, c’mon.”

Grant moans again and Gerard feels him come. He grabs Grant’s hand and holds it tight. “Fuck,” he mutters several times against Gerard’s ear.

“Mmmmmm,” Gerard agrees, twisting to find Grant’s lips so he can kiss him. Their fingers lace together and Gerard smiles against Grant’s lips. He fucking loves waking up like this.

Grant pulls out and leans over Gerard, pushes Gerard’s hair out of his face. “Stay here and I’ll go get us coffees.”

“I love you,” Gerard tells him, leaning up for one more kiss before settling happily back against the sheets. He smiles broadly up at his ceiling, then looks at the clock and laughs. Eight fucking AM. “It had better be a big cup of coffee, Mr. Jet Lag,” he calls out to the kitchen.

Grant’s laughter is his only response.

Gerard doesn’t have to wait long for Grant to come back with two huge, steaming mugs of coffee. “At your service, love,” he says, presenting one. Gerard takes it gratefully and sips while Grant slides back beneath the covers, pressing up against Gerard’s side and kissing his temple.

He almost missed this part more than the sex. Missed the coziness, the love. They way they can just be together.

“Sorry it’s so early,” Grant says ruefully.

“S’okay,” Gerard promises, leaning his head against Grant’s shoulder. “I’ll get you back on Portland time soon enough.”

“Very likely. And you have to admit, eight is a rather substantial improvement on five,” Grant says.

“I like to think it’s just because I wore you out last night,” Gerard says matter-of-factly.

“That may have had something to do with it,” Grant allows.

Gerard grins smugly into his coffee. “Good. I worked really fucking hard at it.”

“I could tell,” Grant says, kissing Gerard’s temple.

Since it’s still three hours before they’re set to meet Scott, they linger in bed for a long while. Gerard enjoys every moment. They trade kisses and talk about anything that pops to mind. They still talk all day when they’re apart, but being face to face is so much better.

In a lot of cases, it’s the same conversations they started having over a year ago as Danny and Fox. They just keep thinking of more things to say. And when he calls Grant, Fox, he gets one of Gerard’s very favorite smiles. They’re all favorites, though.

And now he has Grant in his apartment, in his bed. Grant’s spent four out of the past six months in Portland, and they’re working on figuring out the best way for Gerard to come and live with Grant in Scotland for part of the year. Sure, it’s difficult sometimes, because they’re both workaholics who can get lost in their own heads a little too easily. But in spite of that, Gerard is so happy he sometimes feels like he’s going to explode.

“I love you,” he murmurs against Grant’s newly smooth cheek as they get ready to leave for brunch. Grant turns his head and they share a minty kiss. Gerard plucks the keys to his Mini off the hall table and ignores Grant’s fondly mocking look. “Can’t keep Scott waiting, let’s go.”

There’s a line for brunch, because there’s always a line for brunch, but since moving to Portland Gerard has learned to appreciate this as a feature, rather than a bug. He just hunches down in his jacket and leans against Grant, who wraps an arm around him as they talk to Scott. Grant plays with his hair - freshly dyed neon red but not really getting him any more double-takes than anyone else in the crowd - and Gerard practically purrs.

They talk a bit about Killjoys, which is doing better than any of them had ever expected that it would. Shaun and Gerard are already talking about plans for a second series. Scott and Grant have been throwing around ideas for a series with Dark Horse. Gerard loves listening to them.

Scott smiles at them both when they finally get to a table. “You two,” he shakes his head.

“What?” Gerard asks, trying for innocence. He’s not trying particularly hard, though. Scott rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on,” Gerard says. “Like you and Elisabeth are any better.”

“Elisabeth knows how to bake,” Grant says thoughtfully.

“Morrison makes an excellent point,” Scott declares. “Anyway, it’s not like I’m complaining, Gee. It’s good to see you stupidly happy.”

Gerard beams at him. “It’s pretty great, I have to admit.”

Grant clinks their coffee mugs together. “The greatest.”

“And the message boards haven’t rioted?” Scott asks, with his own attempt at an innocent look.

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Technically, I’m still a mod. I do try to do my duty every once in a while. No rioting seen yet.”

“What about the other boards?”

Gerard knows he means the music boards, but he just shakes his head. “I don’t read those.” They haven’t tried to keep their relationship a secret, but for the most part, the kids have been really sweet about it. And the ones who haven’t, well. He doesn’t give them the time of day. They’re good for a laugh on the phone with Frank sometimes, though. Gerard laughs more than Frank. Frank is a little too fierce on Gerard’s behalf to find it that funny. It’s sweet.

“Earth to Gerard,” Scott teases, tapping Gerard’s water glass with his spoon.

Gerard grins and takes a sip of his water. “Gerard reporting in.”

“Repeat after me: I will stop mooning over my boyfriend and pay attention to my boss.”

Gerard laughs and takes Grant’s hand under the table. “Not a chance.” Grant tangles their fingers together and squeezes, giving Gerard a gorgeous smile. Gerard can’t help but smile back.

“Well, at least I’m not trying to compete with your fucking iPhone anymore,” Scott says philosophically.

Both Grant and Gerard burst out laughing and just then, the waiter brings their food.

“Nope, I’ve got something better in my pocket now,” Gerard jokes. Scott makes a face at his omelette. Grant leans in for a kiss right there at the table.

After they’ve cleaned their plates, Grant excuses himself to go to the restroom. Gerard and Scott continue their conversation about Hellboy, but a minute later, Gerard’s phone buzzes. It’s a text message from a number that’s still programmed in under “Fox”.

 There’s a new print outside the bathroom you’ll like. Also, I love you and if we hadn’t promised to treat Scott to lunch, I’d have you come back here and I’d blow you.

Gerard smiles at Scott and taps back, Write down the artist’s name, and I’ll get the check. We can be home in fifteen minutes.

I like the sound of that, Grant texts back.

Gerard laughs and tucks his phone away in his pocket, grinning when Scott rolls his eyes. Fuck yeah. He likes the sound of that, too.

[kindly-creatot]

so i made a little something for @danielfenturd‘s birthday. and wrote a little something to go with it. c:

(i think it’s kinda toothrotting but yeah, i hope ya like it, lovely)

Danny wasn't usually a cuddly kind of person, Dash knew this as a fact. He knew that because of the ghost fights and being Phantom, a friendly touch wasn't a well-known thing for his boyfriend. All this Dash knew very well. He'd once tried to do that cute surprise thing, sneaking up behind the boy and covering his eyes only to get elbowed in the gut and thrown over a bony shoulder. He'd landed with the wind knocked out of him and a very apologetic boyfriend hovering over him. The blonde could only smile and wheeze out a laugh, saying he should have known better.

Anyways, the point being that Dash knew Danny pretty good by now and that the blonde knew his boyfriend wasn't a cuddler. So when Danny came over while Dash was reading a book for his English class, Dash wasn't expecting him to just flop onto the bed that he was one and move Dash's arm to lay himself on the larger boys chest, wrap spindly arms around his side and then fall asleep on top of the boy.

"Okay, sure," Dash blinked at his boyfriend and smiled, letting a hand fall into long black hair and gently card his fingers through it for as long as Danny was asleep. Which was about two and a half hours, Dash's butt had gone numb and his arm was tired from being held up slightly to not crush Danny's airway but Dash was a considerate boyfriend dammit. He glanced down at Danny, shutting his book and whispering softly, "How long you gonna sleep?"

"Hmm," the raven haired boy twitched his nose cutely and huffed out a breath as he blinked his ocean eyes open. "Oh, sorry," Dash could only smile and let out a chuckle when Danny pulled a hand up to rub sleepily at his eyes, pads of his fingers pushing against dark eyelashes. "Did you finish your reading?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it all down, sleeping beauty. Was that your plan? Sleep on me to get me to finish reading the assignment?" Dash set the book to the side and pulled an arm behind his head, elbow to the ceiling. Danny smirked up at the blonde as he squeezed Dash's side slightly.

"Maybe, or maybe I just wanted an excuse to cuddle up to you for a while," Dash had to laugh at that.

"You don't cuddle, Danny. Ever," Dash almost lost it at the scandalized look on Danny's face but kissed the boy's forehead instead. "I wouldn't mind this becoming a thing though, babe," Dash admits it with a shrug of his broad shoulders, letting his left arm fall down around Danny's waist to pull him up a bit as Dash settles himself on the bed instead of the headboard now.

"I'm gonna make this a thing now. I'll cuddle the shit out of you, Dash," the boy smiles up at the blonde and Dash really can't help the laugh now.

"That would make cuddling awkward if you cuddled the shit out of me, babe," he earns a light punch to the shoulder and a pinch to his side when he doesn’t stop laughing.

"You know what I meant, dumbass," Danny pouts until he gets a kiss from Dash, which turns into them making out for the next half hour.

-----

The next time that Danny pulls the 'cuddle thing' is when Dash is studying with Kwan in their dorm room. They're sitting at a low table, Dash has his legs crossed and he's reading the history textbook for a quiz the next day when Danny comes in, bleary eyes and little yawns. He drops his bag behind Dash before he lifts one of Dash's arms to crawl under it, head in the blondes lap as he promptly faces Dash's stomach and falls asleep.

"Uhm," Kwan looks slightly uncomfortable before he just smiles with a chuckle and goes back to studying.

"Yeah, I don't know, man. It's a new thing for me too," Dash confesses and shrugs before he goes back to quizzing himself on WWII. He does let a hand fall to the silky hair in his lap and he messes with one of the earrings on the top of Danny's ear to keep his attention focused on the page in front of him.

Kwan finishes studying and ends up going to meet Star before Danny wakes back up. He does end up taking a picture to show his girlfriend though and smirks when Dash tries to tell him not to share it before Kwan promises to send it to Dash too. It makes the room quiet enough to hear the soft breaths Danny takes when he's sleeping.

"You're such a…" Dash doesn’t know the word yet, for what Danny is to him. He knows that Danny is his savior, in more ways than one, honestly. Danny had saved Dash from himself, from ghosts and thoughts that would tear him down.

"Such a what?" Danny pipes up and laughs into the soft skin on Dash's stomach as the blonde startles at the sudden voice.

"You're a punk, Fenton," Dash laughs and bends down to nip at the raven's ear. His boyfriend tries to squirrel away from him, but Dash has a good grip on the boy as he hauls him into his lap. Danny's legs go to either side of his hips and he wraps his arms around the blondes neck before they kiss.

It's always a sort of battle they get to have. Bruised lips and nips on the neck to leave hickies. Since Dash and Danny had stopped being bully/victim and evolved into a 'something more' kind of thing, it was as if the fighting never stopped, but evolved with them. They fought over who could kiss better, who could leave more hickies, who could leave more bruises shaped like fingers and hands on hips.

"I'm punk-rock, you mean?" Danny laughs against Dash's lips as brings hands up to wrap blonde curls around his fingers. Dash's hands settle on slim hips and squeeze just enough that his boyfriend wraps hands tighter in blonde hair.

"Nah, just a punk," Dash laughs into the pale neck and he nips lightly, pulling a giggle from his boyfriend.

At least he got his studying done early that night. -----

The next time Dash sees Danny when he's sleepy is when he's lounging on the old small couch in Dash and Kwan's dorm. It was something the boys had found on a craigslist ad for about $50. It was ugly and when they first got it, it smelled a bit like cat piss. Star had paid for the cleaning of it to make sure it didn't smell anymore but that didn’t change the fact it was ugly as sin.

Anyways, Dash was sitting and reading, leaning back against one arm of the couch with his battered copy of American Gods that Sam told him to read. Dash glances up as Danny enters the room and drops his bag by the door, pulling his shoes off as he walked over to the blonde.

Dash doesn't even bat an eye when Danny crawls the length of the ugly couch and just lifts his arms as Danny slots his face into the crook of Dash's neck, arms circling around the blondes chest and he lets his legs fall, one over Dash's left leg and the other on the inside as Dash pulls a leg up against the cushion of the couch. All in all, both of them are settled in nicely for the next hour or so.

Dash can't help the hand that falls to inky hair and his thumb that rubs just the outside shell of a pierced ear. Being able to touch Danny like this has just made Dash fall more in love. The quiet snores, little sighs and lingering touches.

Touches that made him fall that much more for the boy.

Touches that let him just breathe easier.

Dash glances at Danny as he moves closer, he sets the book on the ground by the couch and slides down slightly to lay his head on the arm of the couch. He wraps an arm over Danny's back and sighs lightly, eyes drifting closed.

It felt good to breathe easy.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CV (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: I’m so lost idk in which day of the week I’m living and the posting schedule for this thing is a mess in wattpad and Ao3 h e l p -Danny

Words: 5,117

Series’ Masterlist

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Listen to: ‘I Wanna Get Better’ -By Bleachers

Chapter Three: The Order of the Phoenix.

"Hold it!" Ron stopped them before they could continue their walk towards the kitchen. "They're still in the hall, we might be able to hear something —"

The gloomy hallway below was packed with witches and wizards, including all of Harry's guard. They were whispering excitedly together. In the very centre of the group, Harry saw the dark, greasy-haired head and prominent nose of his least favourite teacher at Hogwarts, Professor Snape. Harry leaned farther over the bannisters. He was very interested in what Snape was doing for the Order of the Phoenix...

A thin piece of flesh-coloured string descended in front of Harry's eyes. Looking up he saw Fred and George on the landing above, cautiously lowering the Extendable Ear toward the dark knot of people below. A moment later, however, they began to move toward the front door and out of sight.

"Dammit," Harry heard Fred whisper, as he hoisted the Extendable Ear back up again.

They heard the front door open and then close.

"Snape never eats here... Thank God. C'mon."

"And don't forget to keep your voice down in the hall, Harry," Hermione whispered.

"We're eating down in the kitchen," Mrs Weasley told them in a hushed voice. "Harry, dear, if you'll just tiptoe across the hall, it's through this door here —"

CRASH.

"Tonks!"

"I'm sorry! It's that stupid umbrella stand, that's the second time I've tripped over —"

"Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers —"

"Ah yes, that's the evening bell to announce dinner," Mel said with an ironic smile.

"Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut up!" Sirius grabbed the curtain and attempted to hide the portrait unsuccessfully.

"Yoooou!" The woman shouted. "Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!"

"I said — shut — UP!"

Lupin grabbed the other end and both men closed it tightly.

"Hello, Harry," Sirius said, more calmly this time. "I see you've met my mother."

"Your— ?"

"My dear old mum, yeah. We've been trying to get her down for a month but we think she put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas. Let's get downstairs, quick, before they all wake up again."

"But what's a portrait of your mother doing here?"

"Hasn't anyone told you? This was my parents' house," said Sirius, looking at Mel briefly. "But I'm the last Black left, so it's mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters — about the only useful thing I've been able to do."

It was scarcely less gloomy than the hall above, a cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like battle fumes, through which loomed the menacing shapes of heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark ceiling. Many chairs had been crammed into the room for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the middle of the room, littered with rolls of parchment, goblets, empty wine bottles, and a heap of what appeared to be rags. Mr Weasley and his eldest son, Bill, were talking quietly with their heads together at the end of the table.

Mrs Weasley cleared her throat. Her husband, a thin, balding, redhaired man, who wore horn-rimmed glasses, looked around and jumped to his feet.

"Harry! Good to see you!"

"Journey all right, Harry?" Bill called, picking up some parchments before Mel could see what was written in them. "Mad-Eye didn't make you come via Greenland, then?"

"He tried," said Tonks dropping a candle onto the last parchment. "Oh no — sorry —"

"Here, dear," said Mrs Weasley, fixing it quickly. "This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly at the end of meetings..."

"Evanesco!" Bill exclaimed, and the papers vanished.

"Sit down, Harry. You've met Mundungus, haven't you?"

"Some'n say m' name? I 'gree with Sirius..." Mundungus mumbled in his sleep.

Mel and Ginny laughed, waking him up.

"The meeting's over, Dung... Harry's arrived."

"Eh? Blimey, so 'e 'as. Yeah... you all right, 'arry?"

"Yeah."

Mundungus fumbled nervously in his pockets, still staring at Harry, and pulled out a grimy black pipe. He stuck it in his mouth, ignited the end of it with his wand, and took a deep pull on it. Great billowing clouds of greenish smoke obscured him in seconds.

"Owe you a 'pology," grunted a voice from the middle of the smelly cloud.

"For the last time, Mundungus," called Mrs Weasley, "will you please not smoke that thing in the kitchen, especially not when we're about to eat!"

"Ah," said Mundungus. "Right. Sorry, Molly."

"Harry!"

Emily rushed over to the boy, smothering him with kisses and trying to brush his hair. Harry blushed furiously and tried to escape from her grip, but she kept him in place.

"You look so skinny! Don't worry, you'll be looking charming as a prince in no time," Emily tugged at his shirt. "We need to fix these– " When Harry stood up again, she gasped. "Merlin, you've grown!"

Harry was looking eye to eye at her for the first time in fifteen years. Least to say Emily didn't take it well.

"My little boy!" She teared up. "Not so little now... even taller than Mel! Oh, you look so much like James!"

"Mothers..." Mel rolled her eyes, but the woman ignored her.

"Never seen her like that before," Sirius whispered to her. "She used to be so tough... now look at her, crying over a kid's height!"

Mel grinned, catching the way Sirius was beaming at her mother.

"Mum, let him breathe," Mel stepped in, pulling her away gently. "I think you need a moment, sit down..."

"If you want dinner before midnight I'll need a hand," Mrs Weasley told them. "No, you can stay where you are, Harry dear, you've had a long journey —"

"What can I do, Molly?" said Tonks.

"Er — no, it's all right, Tonks, you have a rest too, you've done enough today —"

"No, no, I want to help!"

"I'll help, my mum's having a crisis," Mel teased.

As she started to set the plates on the table, she heard the adults continue their talk.

"Had a good summer so far?"

"No, it's been lousy," Harry retorted.

"Don't know what you're complaining about, myself."

"What?"

"Personally, I'd have welcomed a dementor attack. A deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the monotony nicely. You think you've had it bad, at least you've been able to get out and about, stretch your legs, get into a few fights... I've been stuck inside for a month."

"Didn't know my company was such a torment," Mel replied without looking up.

"How come?" Harry asked.

"Because the Ministry of Magic's still after me, and Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big disguise is useless. There's not much I can do for the Order of the Phoenix... or so Dumbledore feels– I didn't mean I'm not having fun with you, little Em," He added out loud. "I just... yeah, I know I could be doing more..."

"At least you've known what's been going on."

"Oh yeah! Listening to Snape's reports, having to take all his snide hints that he's out there risking his life while I'm sat on my backside here having a nice comfortable time... asking me how the cleaning's going —"

"Snape's a twat," Mel said as she settled a plate in front of Sirius, "you shouldn't take it personally, it's like hearing a seven-year-old showing off."

"What cleaning?" Harry asked them.

"Trying to make this place fit for human habitation– No one's lived here for ten years, not since my dear mother died, unless you count her old house-elf, and he's gone round the twist, hasn't cleaned anything in ages —"

"Sirius? This solid silver, mate?" Mundungus said, examining a small goblet.

"Ye... Finest fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, embossed with the Black family crest."

"That'd come off, though," muttered Mundungus.

"Keep your filthy paws away from it, Dung," Emily kicked him under the table.

"Fred — George — NO, JUST CARRY THEM!"

Harry, Sirius, and Mundungus looked around and, a split second later, dived away from the table. Fred and George had bewitched a large cauldron of stew, an iron flagon of butterbeer, and a heavy wooden breadboard, complete with knife, to hurtle through the air toward them. The stew skidded the length of the table and came to a halt just before the end, leaving a long black burn on the wooden surface, the flagon of butterbeer fell with a crash, spilling its contents everywhere, and the bread knife slipped off the board and landed, point down and quivering ominously, exactly where Sirius's right hand had been seconds before.

Mel managed to retreat barely on time and hissed when the knife touched her skin briefly.

"FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE! THERE WAS NO NEED — I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS — JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE ALLOWED TO USE MAGIC NOW YOU DON'T HAVE TO WHIP YOUR WANDS OUT FOR EVERY TINY LITTLE THING!"

"We were just trying to save a bit of time!" said Fred, running into the room and grabbing the knife. "Sorry Sirius, mate — didn't mean to —" He stared at Mel, who was holding the patch of skin where the knife cut.

Emily and Sirius were laughing, not noticing she'd gotten hurt. Mundungus was on the floor. Harry, however, was touching his hand in the exact same place her cut was.

"I'm sorry, Lady!" Fred left the knife on the table and examined her hand. "Blimey– let me see..."

"What happened?" Emily stood up.

"I'm okay," She quickly pushed the boy and her mother out of the way to wash her injury. "Just a scratch..."

"Boys, your mother's right, you're supposed to show a sense of responsibility now that you're—"

"— none of your brothers caused this sort of trouble! Bill didn't feel the need to Apparate every few feet! Charlie didn't Charm everything he met! Percy —"

"Let's eat!" said Bill abruptly.

"It looks wonderful, Molly," said Lupin.

"Let me see, Mel!" Fred insisted.

The girl noticed Harry was staring and turned away hastily.

"I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Tough girl like her mother!" Exclaimed Sirius happily.

"I've been meaning to tell you, there's something trapped in that writing desk in the drawing-room, it keeps rattling and shaking. Of course, it could just be a boggart, but I thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it before we let it out."

"Whatever you like," said Sirius.

"The curtains in there are full of doxies too, I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," said Sirius sarcastically. Emily slapped his arm mumbling 'Behave!'

Mel was chatting with Mundungus, the twins, and Ron. Dung wasn't exactly of her liking, but the boys made him tolerable enough.

"...and then, if you'll believe it, 'e says to me, 'e says, ' 'ere, Dung, where didja get all them toads from? 'Cos some son of a Bludger's gone and nicked all mine!' And I says, 'Nicked all your toads, Will, what next? So you'll be wanting some more, then?' And if you'll believe me, lads, the gormless gargoyle buys all 'is own toads back orf me for twice what 'e paid in the first place —"

"I don't think we need to hear any more of your business dealings, thank you very much, Mundungus," said Mrs Weasley over Ron's cackles.

"Beg pardon, Molly, but, you know, Will nicked 'em orf Warty Harris in the first place so I wasn't really doing nothing wrong —"

"I don't know where you learned about right and wrong, Mundungus, but you seem to have missed a few crucial lessons."

Fred and George buried their faces behind their goblets, Mel sent an innocent smile to her mother. She didn't know why, but she was feeling keener to do mischief than years prior. Maybe that was the result of spending so much time around the twins.

"How come you're not all over Harry?" George asked her quietly. "You're sitting with us after so long without hearing from him..."

"Don't nag about that," She rolled her eyes. "Fred already asked me. Stop it or you'll wake up to a dead rat on your pillow."

"I'll stop asking if you promise that I'll wake up to you on my pillow," Fred winked at her, which caused her to blush.

"Don't even think about it," She replied, making a face.

"Nearly time for bed, I think," said Mrs Weasley.

"Not just yet, Molly," Sirius took a deep breath. "You know, I'm surprised at you. I thought the first thing you'd do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort."

Mel snorted, she felt the sudden change in the room, but she didn't care about being the only one who found it funny.

"You think he didn't? He went mad upstairs!" She exclaimed.

"I did!" said Harry, then threw a grumpy look her way. "Not the part about going mad, but I asked Ron and Hermione, they said we're not allowed in the Order, so —"

"And they're quite right. You're too young." Said Mrs Weasley.

"Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions? Harry's been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He's got the right to know what's been happen —"

"Sirius..." Emily started.

"Hang on!" interrupted George.

"How come Harry gets his questions answered?" said Fred.

"We've been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven't told us a single stinking thing!" said George.

"'You're too young, you're not in the Order,'" Fred imitated his mother's voice. "Harry's not even of age!"

Mel looked around the table with disinterest, of course Harry was going to have all the answers he wanted. What was worse, she'd started to realize how much she'd felt his absence. And she hated that, she hadn't understood exactly how badly she was missing her best friend until he was standing in front of her.

"It's not my fault you haven't been told what the Order's doing. That's your parents' decision. Harry, on the other hand —"

"It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry! You haven't forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?"

"Which bit?"

"The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know!"

"I don't intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly, but as he was the one who saw Voldemort come back he has more right than most to —"

"He's not a member of the Order of the Phoenix! He's only fifteen and —"

"— and he's dealt with as much as most in the Order, and more than some —"

"No one's denying what he's done! But he's still —"

"He's not a child!"

"He's not an adult either! He's not James, Sirius!"

Mel saw the way her mother's face paled at the remark, that had to be a sensitive subject.

"I'm perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly."

"I'm not sure you are! Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!"

"What's wrong with that?" Harry pouted.

For the first time in weeks, Mel felt something else besides resentment towards the boy. Harry needed Sirius, he wanted to be as important as his father. She couldn't blame Sirius for seeing James in Harry, not when sometimes she would catch herself thinking of her own father when looking at Sirius.

"What's wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, however much you might look like him! You are still at school and adults responsible for you should not forget it!"

"Meaning I'm an irresponsible godfather?"

"Meaning you've been known to act rashly, Sirius, which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to stay at home and —"

"We'll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of this, if you please!"

"Arthur! Arthur, back me up!"

"Dumbledore knows the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent now that he is staying at headquarters —"

"Yes, but there's a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes! Emily!"

The woman gave a start, but she spoke with confidence.

"Harry is as smart as they make 'em. He's brave and he knows this is not a game. I've seen this kid grow and I like to think I've brought him up a little, I can give you my word that knowing won't put him in danger..."

"Personally," said Lupin, leaning further on his place. "I think it better that Harry gets the facts — not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture — from us, rather than a garbled version from... others. Emily's got a point, she's been with him for the longest time, if there's someone on this table that gets to decide apart from Harry, that's her."

"Well," said Mrs Weasley, positively fuming. "I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has got Harry's best interests at heart —"

"He's not your son," Sirius mumbled under his breath.

"He's as good as!" Mrs Weasley yelled. "Who else has he got?"

"He's got me! He's got Emily!"

"Yes," said Mrs Weasley. "The thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it? And not too sound rude, Emily dear, but you had no control over Harry's life when he was a baby and you still have none. You have your hands full with Mel."

Sirius tried to stand up but Emily pulled him back down.

"Molly, you're not the only person at this table who cares about Harry," said Lupin, sounding a bit annoyed. "Sirius, calm down. I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this, he's old enough to decide for himself."

"I think we've talked enough about him as if he weren't present," Emily nodded.

"I want to know what's been going on," Harry said immediately.

"Very well," said Mrs Weasley. "You six — I want you out of this kitchen, now."

"We're of age!" Fred and George.

"If Harry's allowed, why can't I?" Ron exclaimed.

"Mum, I want to!" Ginny demanded.

Mel and Emily shared a look, the woman knew there was no point attempting to send her daughter away. Mel knew she didn't have to ask.

"NO! I absolutely forbid —"

"Molly, you can't stop Fred and George... They are of age —"

"They're still at school —"

"But they're legally adults now," Arthur said tiredly.

"Mel can stay," Emily replied, then she added coldly. "I don't need to have control over anything my daughter does to know that she'll treat the information with discretion."

"I — oh, all right then, Fred and George can stay, but Ron —"

"Mel and Harry'll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!" Ron hesitated, looking at Harry with doubt. "Won't — won't you?"

" 'Course I will," Harry said casually. Mel nodded.

"Fine!" Mrs Weasley put the plates away angrily. "Fine! Ginny — BED!"

After a few minutes of putting everything away, Lupin asked him:

"Okay, Harry... what do you want to know?"

"Where's Voldemort? What's he doing? I've been trying to watch the Muggle news and there hasn't been anything that looks like him yet, no funny deaths or anything —"

"That's because there haven't been any suspicious deaths yet," said Sirius, "not as far as we know, anyway... And we know quite a lot."

"More than he thinks we do anyway," said Lupin.

"How come he's stopped killing people?"

"Because he doesn't want to draw attention to himself at the moment. It would be dangerous for him. His comeback didn't come off quite the way he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up."

"Or rather, you messed it up for him," Lupin smiled a bit.

"How?"

"You weren't supposed to survive! Nobody apart from his Death Eaters was supposed to know he'd come back. But you survived to bear witness."

"And the very last person he wanted alerted to his return the moment he got back was Dumbledore, and you made sure Dumbledore knew at once," Lupin looked at her. "With your help."

Fred and George looked at her without understanding. She hadn't mentioned to any of her friends the lifeline connection, how could she, without giving away the reason for her fight with Harry?

"How has that helped?" Harry asked.

"Are you kidding?" said Bill, answering Harry's question. "Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was ever scared of!"

"Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the Order of the Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort returned," said Sirius.

"He doesn't know how, but he definitely knows you helped, Mel," Emily's face was grim. "Apparently, there are tons of rumours about you already, some are as far fetched as to say that you're the next Merlin, others just say you were at the right place at the right time– Either way, he knows there's more than one Dumbledore after him, and he thinks you're the easiest target to defeat."

Mel felt the urge to run and hide under her bed, but she remained still, her eyes fixed on her mum. She thought, kind of bitterly, that Harry's attempts to keep her safe were of no use, and taking away the only thing that was making them happy was a huge mistake. But she wasn't going to admit that out loud, she would pretend everything was fine on her side for as long as she could.

"So what's the Order been doing?" said Harry, after a moment of awful silence.

"Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort can't carry out his plans," said Sirius.

"How d'you know what his plans are?"

"Dumbledore's got a shrewd idea," said Lupin, "and Dumbledores shrewd ideas normally turn out to be accurate... as we've witnessed more than once."

"So what does Dumbledore reckon he's planning?"

"Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again, in the old days he had huge numbers at his command; witches and wizards he'd bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard him planning to recruit the giants; well, they'll be just one group he's after. He's certainly not going to try and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen Death Eaters."

"So you're trying to stop him getting more followers?"

"We're doing our best," said Lupin.

"How?"

"Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many people as possible that You-Know-Who really has returned, to put them on their guard," said Bill. "It's proving tricky, though."

"Some others have also reached to a different area," Emily smiled at her. "Erick and Eliot have been writing to me, they're doing what they can with the pureblood families they know aren't as keen to see Voldemort's comeback. So far they haven't got lots of people, and of course, Erick tries to talk to the young groups, but they aren't that willing to believe him."

"Why?"

"Because of the Ministry's attitude," said Tonks. "You saw Cornelius Fudge after You-Know-Who came back, Harry. Well, he hasn't shifted his position at all. He's absolutely refusing to believe it's happened."

"But why? Why's he being so stupid? If Dumbledore —"

"Ah, well, you've put your finger on the problem," said Mr Weasley giving her a pointed look. "The Dumbledores."

"Fudge is frightened, you see," said Tonks.

"Frightened of Dumbledore?" said Harry incredulously. "And Mel?"

"Frightened of what they're up to," said Mr Weasley. "You see, Fudge thinks Dumbledore's plotting to overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be Minister of Magic."

"But Dumbledore doesn't want —"

"Of course he doesn't– He's never wanted the Minister's job, even though a lot of people wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired. Fudge came to power instead, but he's never quite forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the job."

"Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore's much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice," Lupin added. "But it seems that he's become fond of power now, and much more confident. He loves being Minister of Magic, and he's managed to convince himself that he's the clever one and Dumbledore's simply stirring up trouble for the sake of it."

"How can he think that? How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up — that I'd make it all up?"

"Because accepting that Voldemort's back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn't had to cope with for nearly fourteen years," said Sirius. "Fudge just can't bring himself to face it. It's so much more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore's lying to destabilize him. He also somehow found out that Mel was having extra lessons with Dumbledore, though I guess that wasn't a secret. He thinks he's preparing her to be his secret weapon so they can take over."

"You see the problem," said Lupin. "While the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort, it's hard to convince people he's back, especially as they really don't want to believe it in the first place. What's more, the Ministry's leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they're calling Dumbledore's rumormongering, so most of the Wizarding community are completely unaware anything's happened, and that makes them easy targets for the Death Eaters if they're using the Imperius Curse."

"But you're telling people, aren't you? You're letting people know he's back?"

"Well, as everyone thinks I'm a mad mass murderer and the Ministry's put a ten-thousand-Galleon price on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?" said Sirius bitterly.

"And I'm not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community," said Lupin. "It's an occupational hazard of being a werewolf."

Emily reached for Lupin's hand and gave a gentle squeeze to it.

"I'm all right, I guess..." She sighed. "But my husband was a Dumbledore, they think I'm just trying to keep his name clean."

"Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off, and it's very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them."

"We've managed to convince a couple of people, though. Tonks here, for one — she's too young to have been in the Order of the Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a huge advantage — Kingsley Shacklebolt's been a real asset too. He's in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he's been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in Tibet."

"But if none of you's putting the news out that Voldemort's back —"

"Who said none of us was putting the news out? Why d'you think Dumbledore's in such trouble?"

"What d'you mean?"

"They're trying to discredit him," said Lupin. "Didn't you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported that he'd been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he's getting old and losing his grip, but it's not true, he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort's return. They've demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot — that's the Wizard High Court — and they're talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too."

"But Dumbledore says he doesn't care what they do as long as they don't take him off the Chocolate Frog cards," said Bill fondly.

"It's no laughing matter. If he carries on defying the Ministry like this, he could end up in Azkaban and the last thing we want is Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows Dumbledore's out there and wise to what he's up to, he's going to go cautiously for a while. If Dumbledore's out of the way — well, You-Know-Who will have a clear field."

"But if Voldemort's trying to recruit more Death Eaters, it's bound to get out that he's come back, isn't it?"

"Voldemort doesn't march up to people's houses and bang on their front doors, Harry. He tricks, jinxes, and blackmails them. He's well-practised at operating in secrecy. In any case, gathering followers is only one thing he's interested in, he's got other plans too, plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed, and he's concentrating on them at the moment."

Voldemort was after her, and Fudge was after her as well? She certainly wasn't afraid of the latter, but it worried her, she didn't like being watched at all times; if her uncle ended locked up in Azkaban, she and Harry would be the next.

Harry was known to be stubborn and unable to shut his mouth whenever he was strongly against something. She couldn't have that, she needed him to follow orders as much as her because if he were to break the rules, people would immediately assume she was doing the same, if she wanted to remain safe for the rest of the year, Mel needed to change that.

"What's he after apart from followers?"

"Stuff he can only get by stealth... Like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time."

"When he was powerful before?"

"Yes."

"Like what kind of weapon? Something worse than the Avada Kedavra — ?"

"That's enough. I want you in bed, now. All of you," Mrs Weasley demanded.

"You can't boss us —"

"Watch me! You've given Harry plenty of information, Sirius. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straightaway."

"Why not? I'll join, I want to join, I want to fight —"

"No," said Lupin and Mel.

Harry stared at her, but Lupin spoke, catching his attention.

"The Order is comprised only of overage wizards– Wizards who have left school. There are dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any of you... I think Molly's right, Sirius– Mily... We've said enough."

"Time's up, kids," Emily stood up. "That's all you'll hear from us."

Next Chapter —>

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