#it’s so helpful but I slats agonize over using it cause hearing me say all that out loud is. awful.

[theshadowrealmitself]

You come up with the absolute coolest ideas and it kills me that they’re not all 100k word novels

Thank you so much!!! (It kills me too that they aren’t novels 😭😭😭)

[arotechno]

The Heartless: Chapter 2

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Chapter II: in which plans are made

The following day, I dodged further confrontation with Bertrand with practiced ease and crept out of the house and down to the local bowyer’s shop down the road with my proverbial tail between my legs, in the mood to sulk. The shop always smelled faintly of sawdust and freshly cut wood, and Marley always had some new project sprawled across her battered workbench. Many years ago, she had been the one to make me my bow, after I wouldn’t stop showing up at her door asking to see what she was working on. Its strong and sturdy construction still held firm today, something she always told me was the mark of a true craftsman. I had helped her cut the wood myself, barely tall enough to see over the top of the workbench and having to stand on a crate to properly reach the saw.

At the sound of the door, Marley emerged from the back room, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm.

“Ace, what a pleasant surprise!”

She came around to lean back against the counter while I made myself at home in the chair by the front door.

“What’s troubling you?” she asked.

I looked up to see a knowing smile on Marley’s face and grimaced.

“How did you know something was troubling me?” I questioned.

Marley chuckled. “Please, it’s written all over your face!”

Hastily, I attempted to neutralize my expression, but based on the amused look that flashed across Marley’s face, it likely only made things worse.

“Well, spill,” she commanded, wiping her hands on her work apron. “You’ve already waltzed in like you own the place, so out with it.”

Ignoring her usual taunts, I sighed and rested my elbows on my knees.

“I ran into a little trouble last night,” I began hesitantly.

Marley’s eyebrows jumped into her hairline, revealing the wrinkles that were beginning to take shape on her forehead. “Oh? Do tell.”

I launched into a retelling of the previous night, from the moment I woke up after supper until my squabble with Bertrand, leaving out the specific details of my dream. Throughout the tale, Marley listened intently, nodding along.

“It sounds like you were in the right place at the right time,” she commented when I had finished. “But just be glad it was just a couple of kids looking for trouble, and nothing more than that.”

“That’s all it ever is, Marley,” I countered. “And the fact that it’s just some kids says nothing about the potential danger.”

“Well, of course. But there’s a marked difference between a few stray troublemakers and a planned attack.”

“You don’t realize what kids are capable of. Someone could have died.”

“I know, Ace.” Marley held up a hand to halt my anxious rambling. “You’re always on edge, always anticipating some danger that isn’t sure to ever come. Is that Bertrand’s influence on you?”

I shook my head. “Bertrand doesn’t get it. All he cares about is breaking the curse.”

Marley sighed. “He’s an old man, set in his ways. Heaven knows what he’s been put through in his life. You’re the only person who ever talks to him.”

I shrugged glumly. “We don’t quite understand each other.”

“Well, understanding takes a lot of work. We all know that better than anyone.” Marley pushed off the counter and gestured to the back room. “You want to help me sand down some wood for a while? You can’t sulk if you’re working.”

I smiled. “Sure,” I responded, and rose from my chair to follow Marley into the back of the shop.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, the rift between me and Bertrand grew steadily wider, and the little old house buzzed with static whenever both of us were in it. We rarely spoke, save for a few muttered pleasantries in the mornings and at supper. Every night, I crept up to the big oak tree down the road and perched there, watching for Petra, and sometimes I saw her dart out of the woods with another sack full of looted food. Sometimes she saw me up in the tree and paused, raising a finger to her lips before running onward.

Knife Boy never followed her. Sometimes I wished he would.

The weather was growing warmer and the days longer, which only gave me more time to think and Bertrand more time to agonize over breaking a centuries-old curse. Throughout all this time, the nightmares never ceased. Knife Boy’s smug, slimy grin eventually faded, unmasking the demons I had kept under lock and key for years. Some of them were creations of my own mind, but by far the most harrowing ones were true.

“And then,” Basil whispered, pausing for effect, “when they turned the corner, the whole village had disappeared!”

There was silence. Basil looked back and forth around the circle, anticipating a reaction. Finally, Carita spoke up next to me.

“That wasn’t very scary,” she complained, rolling her eyes. “Why would a village just disappear?”

I saw Basil stare at me out of the corner of his eye and smirk. “I don’t know, Carita,” he replied. “Ace seemed pretty scared to me.”

I felt my face heat up as several pairs of eyes landed on me. I couldn’t be sure if my expression really betrayed my fear, or if Basil was just pretending so the other children would think he was a good storyteller. “D-Did not!” I cried.

“It doesn’t matter, I have a scarier story,” announced Marcus, “And this one’s true.” A chorus of gasps rang out from around the circle. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes--I was never Marcus’ biggest fan--but I quickly sobered up as he began his tale. “It happened hundreds of years ago. There’s a legend that says there was once an evil, terrible wizard who put a curse on our entire kingdom. For the rest of time, there would be children born in the kingdom without hearts.” He paused for dramatic effect, to striking results. “Most people think they’re really out there, probably living at the edge of the kingdom somewhere.”

“I-Is that true?” someone piped up from somewhere across the circle. I sat mostly frozen, combatting feelings of otherness and plucking blades of grass out of the dirt absentmindedly so Marcus would think I was simply uninterested.

Marcus scoffed, “Of course it’s true. My grandpa told it to me. But he said they don’t feel any emotions, so it’s dangerous to go there.”

Hesitantly, I stole a glance across the circle at Basil and was surprised to find him staring at his feet out in front of him, mouth set in a deep frown. It was the quietest he’d ever been.

  I woke up with a familiar crick in my neck and an ache in my hip from sleeping curled up on the uncomfortable cot. I could hear Bertrand tinkering away in his study, where he had likely been all night for what had to be at least the fourth day in a row. My nightclothes were soaked with sweat, so after a humble breakfast of a slice of old bread and some jam, I peeled them off and wrung them through the wash before hanging them outside on the line to dry.

It was still early, just after sunrise, so the Village of the Heartless was quiet, with just a few people outside tending their gardens that had been pillaged overnight by groundhogs and squirrels. Dawn was as serene as the Village ever got, after the danger of night had lifted but before most people awoke. I stood there outside the house for a long time, soaking in some much needed peace. Outside, the tension between me and Bertrand could not reach me, and neither could the nightmares that plagued my sleep.

Nevertheless, my lingering thoughts followed me all the way from the front door to the back garden behind the house. Dewdrops clung to the heads of lettuce that had continued to sprout overnight, and against the wall grew the selection of herbs that Bertrand kept for his potions. I walked amongst the rows and filled in holes dug by chipmunks with the toe of my shoe, grumbling all the while.

“Ace!” Came the call of a familiar voice from down the road. I turned to see Petra jogging up to the fence, oozing with her usual enthusiasm and zest for life. She came to a screeching halt at the garden gate and shot me a grin.

“You’re up and about early,” I remarked.

“I could say the same to you.” Petra stepped up between the wooden slats of the fence and leaned over the edge. “You said we could have target practice this morning, don’t you remember?”

Realization sprouted within me. Ever since I first caught Petra sneaking around and getting into trouble, I’d resolved to teach her to shoot a bow and arrow, for self-defense purposes. If she was going to run around committing petty theft throughout the kingdom despite my warnings, I couldn’t exactly let her do so undefended. However, my dream had caused our plans for that morning to completely slip my mind.

Our chosen practice area was a secluded grove at the forest’s edge, just a brief walk from the far end of town furthest from the village gates. There, the trees grew sturdy and untouched by agriculture, perfect for hanging up targets I had drawn onto old sheets of burlap. When we arrived that morning, I passed Petra my bow and arrow and took several deliberate steps back.

My body was present in the clearing, but my mind drifted elsewhere, wandering back to some distant meadow that now lived only in my subconscious. Each day, the nightmares became harder to shake, and the gnawing feeling in my gut became harder to ignore.

"Ace? Are you paying attention?”

I snapped back to the target range, my eyes darting around the clearing until they found purchase; Petra was staring at me incredulously over her shoulder, bow hanging limp at her side.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?” I inquired, trying to make my voice sound casual.

Petra frowned. “I asked if my form was better that time, but you were spacing out again.” She paused and turned her body to face me properly. “Are you alright?”

I was unsure how to answer. I’d never told Petra very much about Basil, or anyone in my home village for that matter--my stories were always intentionally vague, leaving out names and other personal details to avoid revealing too much. But it became clear to me now that as Petra got older and I grew more visibly pensive, the mystery became far more frustrating than enthralling.

“I’m alright, just thinking.” I dropped down and sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Petra seemed unconvinced.

“Thinking?” she questioned, coming to sit beside me. “What about?”

“I’ve been having quite a lot of dreams lately, mostly of home.” I paused, letting the truth roll around on my tongue for a few moments. Even amongst fellow Heartless, I still was not used to sharing the grittier details of my childhood, although I knew I was likely to be understood.

“I had a friend,” I started. “Basil. I haven’t spoken to him since the day I left. I’m not too sure he’s still alive.”

“Oh,” Petra whispered, seeming to sink into herself ever so slightly. “You’ve never spoken about him.”

I shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about what happened. He was like a brother to me.”

Petra hummed softly in understanding. She picked a small twig up off the ground and began drawing patterns in the dirt. A few moments passed in companionable silence before she tilted her head to look at me again and mused, “You should come with me next time I go into town. You know as well as I do that there is more to the world than what the Village has to offer.”

“I don’t know about that.” I offered her a watery smile, chuckling under my breath. “You do remember me telling you to stop doing that, don’t you?”

“Well, we don’t have to steal anything.” Petra returned to drawing in the soil. “Just to take your mind off things, you know?”

For a moment, I hesitated. I had never left the Village or its woods in the seven years since my arrival, and the thought of entering back into a world that had long ago driven me away struck a fearful chord in me, ghoulish fingers plucking my bones like the strings of a skeletal guitar. However, the kingdom of Amistadia was large, and the chances of me being recognized at its southern limits were slim.

“Fine,” I eventually conceded. Petra gaped at me in surprise. “But only on the condition that we restrict our travel to the south and east, as my home village, Swallow’s Point, is in the north.”

Petra leapt to her feet. “Yes! Of course! We’ll go wherever you want!”

“Right, not so fast.” I stood up and dusted the dirt from my pants, then pointed at my bow, which lay discarded on the ground where Petra had been sitting. “First, show me your form again. This time, I’ll pay attention.”

Petra beamed. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

[soriseerakyra]

Honor Your Father, Love Your Mother

If you don’t read Be Kind To Your Daughters this will make no sense, so please read that first

It was January when you returned to the old apartment you and your mother shared. The moment you opened the door, the smell of her perfume wafted through your nose. The building itself had been abandoned not long after you had gone to live with your father. When you were old enough you had begun sending money to a service that was able to maintain your small home. It was sentimental and it wasn’t smart, you knew that. Being so close to Gotham put you in jeopardy, he would realize that you came here eventually, especially since you have his attention now. However, there is still a childish part of you that longs to be surrounded by your mother, the person who loved you the most, and it was a large enough part that you didn’t mind being exposed.

Sitting on the old, worn couch, you close your eyes and begin to finger a necklace resting on your neck. Your mother had left you a locket. It was one of the things that you discovered when you first came back. It was stashed under a locked safe, hidden preciously underneath your mother’s bed.  It was a picture of her holding you, the first time she brought you home from the hospital. Likely taken by a friend or a family member. From the delicate packaging you’d found it in, she was probably planning on giving it to you as a gift.

The wooden frame of the building creeks as wind passes through the decrepit building. It wasn’t safe to stay in this apartment for too long. Terminates had been eating at the wood, mold and rot had begun to set into the crooks and spaces of the building. You probably should have paid to have the entire building up kept, but planning for the future is something that you have only recently gotten used to.

You stand from the couch when you feel sleep beginning to wash over your limbs. The moment you stand there is a creek that sounds through the building, but it doesn’t come from you, and it instead comes from the entryway of the apartment.

You don’t jump when the footsteps make their way into the apartment and start walking down the short hallway.  Instead you wait until the footsteps come and stop at the doorway.

You turn a meet a familiar pair of blue eyes looking at you rather tiredly. You don’t say anything to the man, but you can’t help but be curious at his appearance. Clearly, he had no intention of trying to capture you, wouldn’t he need his bat suit for that?

“I came to return this,” he starts holding up a small leather bound black book. You could see the pale gold stitching of “diary” on the cover. He doesn’t move from his position and places the book on a small wooden end table that sits at the mouth of the doorway. “I didn’t think you should leave without having it.”

He rubs his black gloved hands together as if trying to make himself warm. You can tell it’s just to humanize the atmosphere in the room though. There is no reason for him to be cold, especially with that heavy black coat he’s wearing.

“Your hair is longer,” he offers as he slowly starts to walk into the room, approaching you the way one would a wild animal. “It’s pretty.”

Your hand absently comes up to curl around the ends of your hair, “My mother used to wear it this way.”

“I see.”

It’s awkward silence that follows, he didn’t know what to say. How could he, he doesn’t know anything about your mother?

“The boys they really miss you.”

“Do they?” you ask with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure it’s not guilt they’re feeling? You can’t miss someone you don’t know.”

A heavy sigh falls from his mouth, and you notice that he is still hesitant about moving around the room. “If I wanted to kill you I would have by now.”

His blue eyes flash to yours, “So, you’ve gotten stronger then?”

“I’ve had two years to improve, it would be foolish not to make use of that time.”

He moves into the room and takes a seat on the small couch where you had been sitting. While he is moving, you notice the hint of gray that has started to appear in his hair. He’s getting older, and you wonder if the reason that he didn’t come in his suit is because he’s in pain. Body hurting from all the years that he has been abusing it.

“What have you been doing for these past two years?” he questions rather cordially.

You don’t respond as you walk over to the living room window. You see the sleek blackness of one of his sports cars.

“You came here by yourself?” You question. “What if I wanted to kill you?”

“It was a chance I was willing to take. I figured you wouldn’t want to desecrate the place that means the most to you by killing me.”

“I see, so you took a calculated risk, and assumed that I hadn’t turned into a rabid murderer.”

“Not if you were the daughter your mother raised.”

Your eyes cut to him rather sharply and a bitter distaste floods your mouth. “Just because you read some book, don’t act like you know her, or me.” “Your right, I’m sorry.” He tries to appease but your shoulders are tense and there is an anger in your tone that makes him question his judgement in coming here unprotected.

The room is made colder by your anger as the fleeting comfortability of your conversation is sucked out of the room by his poor choice in words. You decide it would be best to remove yourself from the conversation. With practiced soft footsteps, you’re out of the apartment, diary in hand.

Bruce doesn’t try to stop you, he knows you’ll be back. He’d been watching your movements for the past year after all.

*** It’s the middle of February when you return to your mother’s apartment. The thirteenth to be precise. The day before your beloved mother’s birthday.

You had been excited to return to the apartment so close to such a happy occasion, you’d even taken the opportunity to bake your mothers favorite cupcakes. You’d have one today and the rest tomorrow, when you were back in your home.

But the joy you had been expecting to wash over you had been broken the moment that you had stepped into the apartment building. The first step told you that something was wrong. There was no familiar creek in the stair when you pressed your weight down on the wooden slat. No faint fall of saw dust, when you opened and closed the heavy doors. There was no faint draft giving the apartment a slight chill. It was not the building you grew up in anymore.

Your suspicions had been confirmed when you grabbed the familiar door knob of your mother’s apartment. It rusted red had been replaced with shiny golden new one, and although in the same style, there was nothing the said home about this door knob.

Your heart drops when you press open the door. The sweet smell of your mother’s perfume doesn’t great you, nor does the wet dampness of mold or rot. The smell makes you want to vomit as it hits the sensors of your nose. Wood polish. It was the same that Alfred used to make sure that the furniture was bright in the manor.

Looking around the apartment you noticed that almost nothing was out of place, that a less observant person would not have noticed the changes that have been made, but you do. The pale yellow of the walls had been updated, it was the same color, but clearly a fresh coat of paint had been slathered over the walls.

He’d had the floors torn up too. Likely in an effort to get rid of the termites. He had had new hardwood floors installed and that’s where the smell was coming from. The table that stood at the mouth of the hall way stood there seemingly unbothered, but it had been polished as well.

The torn fabric of your mother’s couch cushions was mended or brand new, you couldn’t tell. Your eyes were starting to darken. Becoming blinded by tears and rage.

Why does he do this? Why does he try to fix things that aren’t broken? Throwing money at you wouldn’t make you the person he wanted you to be so why would he come here and try to ruin the only good part about you?

The room starts to feel suffocating the more that the scent of wood fills your nose. He’d replaced the curtains, that kitchen counter, the television, everything. Everything here was fake. Your mother wasn’t here anymore, he killed her. He took everything away that made this apartment hers, yours and replaced it with a fake.

You can feel the control that you had so diligently practiced for the last two years begin to slip from your grasp. The first thing that starts to float are the new cushions, next it’s the table, then the television, and then the floor boards.

*** He’d rushed over the minute the camera watching that apartment had been tripped. He’d expected her to return on her mother’s birthday. Her arriving early would mean that he wouldn’t get the chance to place the flowers he had ordered on the kitchen top. He’d hoped she liked his gesture; restoring her old apartment. Perhaps they could have a conversation about what made the place so special to her.

The car stops in front of the apartment building and as soon as his foot steps onto the snowy side walk he knows that something is wrong. The air feels heavier here than it does in all of the other places around. There is a nervous energy that wracks at his spine as he begins his ascent up the chairs to her top floor apartment.

He stops in front of the newly furnished door and begins to turn the doorknob, only stopping when he hears an agonized scream from inside of the room. He pushes through the fear when he hears sobbing from inside.

When he pushes open the door his eyes widen with amazement at the things he sees. Furniture floating and bobbing up in down in a rather rhythmic like dance, moving up or down every time she took in a breath.  As he walked in he realized that he would have to watch his footing. The newly installed floor was missing key pieces and a misstep could cause him to break his neck.

When he is safely out of the entrance hallway he takes the time to observe the sobbing girl, curled in the middle of the living room floor. She looked as little as she did when she was first brought to him when she had just turned ten.  Her large unbuttoned pea coat looks like a blanket that a child would cling onto. She turns to him, with wide teary eyes and flushed cheeks. Her hair is ticking to her forehead and eyebrows are furrowed like she is in pain. A sob wracks her form when she sees him and his heartbreaks when he realizes that he is the cause of her pain. “Why did you do it?!” She questions

“I was trying to help,” he offers.

“Everything is gone, you got rid of everything, you got rid of her!” She screech’s. In her agony, she sends knife flying past his head. A cut opening on the high point of his cheek, an indication of how close she had just come to ending him.

“I wanted to help this place was falling apart.”

There is a pained shake of her head and her hands come up to cover her ears as if she is trying to block out the sound of his voice.

“Shut UP!” She screams, her voice comes across as an echo and then her eyes begin to turn white with rage. “Just Leave!”

The objects that’d been whirling around the room begin to spin violently and he is afraid. The foundations of the building begin to shake and wind begins to spew through the room as the windows are blown out.

He watches as tears as she moans and buries her face into her knees. His throat is tight at the sight of her. He had done this to her. No matter what he seemed to do when it came to her, he always seemed to make things worse than they should have been. He knew he should respect her wishes, to leave her alone like she asked, but would that be what a good father would do?

Instead of quietly leaving the room and waiting for her to calm down, he carefully maneuvered through the flying furniture, head almost coming into contact with a loose floorboard.

Carefully he kneeled next to her, placing a large warm hand on her back.  Her head snaps up to look at him, eyes a ghostly white. Her lips pull back in a snarl, probably getting ready to shout at him to leave again, but he doesn’t allow her to speak. Quickly he uses the hand that is resting on her back to pull her into him, brining her into a tight hug. Her body stiffens and for a few tense minutes they stay that way in silence, object circling around them menacingly.

He almost lets out a sigh of relief when her arms wrap themselves around his frame. Her quiet sobbing feels strange as she jerks and coughs against his form, tears sinking through his shirt, but he continues to hold her.

Finally, the room begins to turn back to normal. The largest objects fall limply to the ground first. The room is ruined, but he imagined the well put together apartment that she’d walked into had looked like a disaster zone in her mind, so this would be no different.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles into her hair.

She doesn’t say anything but her hands clench around the fabric of his coat and she continues to cry.

*** It’s March and the flowers are beginning to bloom again.  You are on your hands and knees, scrubbing the tile of your mother’s apartment. After the incident, you had begun to put the apartment together by hand. Bruce had given you the information about where the original items from the apartment had been sent and he had even helped you bring some of them back by hand. The things that weren’t completely destroyed you had returned to their rightful places, but things like the ripped-up couch stayed in the dump where they belonged.

There is a knock on the door, and you know by the pattern that it is Bruce. You don’t bother to get up from your position to open the door, a slight incline of your head is more than enough.

The slight creek from the hallway followed by the familiar heavy steps lets you know that he came in.

“It’s always a little surprising when you do that,” He comments.  You stand from your position in the kitchen. You look over the counter to see him standing in the middle of the living room.

“It looks nice,” he comments with a weak smile. You stare blankly at him.

“What’s that?” You question looking at the man’s hands.

He is carrying a small bag in his hands. He doesn’t say anything and instead walks over to the counter and places it in front of you. Curiously, your hand finds itself digging through the bag. Pulling out a square box, your eyes get wide as you begin to read what it said.

“This is-“

“When I read her journal, I saw this was the fragrance she wore. I noticed that whenever I came in here it would always have that smell. I figured I could at least get you this, to make this place feel like home again.”

You stare up at him up with grateful eyes. It was the one thing you hadn’t had the time to go out and replace yet.

You take it and walk into the bedroom, placing it down on the small vanity to use later. When you return to the living room you seem him looking at the pictures on the one of the small shelves.

“Your mother was beautiful,” he comments, looking at the various pictures of you and your mother together smiling. “I wish I knew her better.”

A hollow chuckle leaves your lips at the absurdity of his statement, “Yes, I imagine an hour isn’t long enough to get to know someone.”

It sounds harsh leaving your lips, and you know it shouldn’t. Your mother was who she was, and even when she was alive, you were never ashamed of her nor did you think ill of her clients. However, when it came to Bruce, there was a bitterness that was hard for you to overcome.

There is an awkward silence that falls over the room. Blue eyes watch you warily from his position in the living room, and you feel guilt and anger begin to eat at your belly.

“Did you not like me because of what my mother was?” It’s a hard question that forces itself past your lips and even just asking it makes tears come out of your eyes.

His blue eyes look at you wide in shock and his lips part as if he was going to say something but the words weren’t able to leave his lips.

“At first, I thought you knew about my powers and that’s why you didn’t want me. And then I found out who you were and I thought that can’t be the reason. Then you went and you got Tim and I thought that you really didn’t like me, that there was something wrong with me.”

You stop to wipe a tear that began to fall down your cheek, “and then Damian came, and he was horrible, and you still didn’t want anything to do with me. Even though we were the same. And the only thing that I could think of was that you were ashamed of me, because of how I got here. And that felt horrible especially considering who Damian’s mother is. Is being a hooker really worse than being a murder?”

He looked at you with strange eyes, a look you couldn’t actually understand. You realized you didn’t know him well enough to decipher the looks he had on his face.

He walks closer to you, finally joining you in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way. But when you came to me, you were so different than the way I had found Dick or Jason. You were just you. I didn’t know about your powers until you left. To me you were just a little girl who had lost her mother and were forced to come live with a stranger. I think a part of me thought that you would be better off without me forcing myself onto you. The only way I knew how to help them was to make you into someone like me, but I couldn’t do that with you. You can’t get revenge on cancer, there was no boogey for me to teach you not be afraid of. Those boys, the way that I found them, they were already drenched in this life. They were already two steps away from becoming like me. You weren’t, so I couldn’t help you, not an any healthy way at least.”

You aren’t sure how to reply, realizing that his attitude and his dismissive treatment of you had nothing to do with being ashamed of you, but being incompetent.

“I even thought that perhaps that life with me wouldn’t be for the best for you. I had made such a mess of the others; how could I raise you? But a selfish part of me wanted to keep you with me, even if I couldn’t give you what you needed or wanted. As a result, I made the mistakes that I wanted to avoid. I failed again.”

His large warm hands find themselves resting on your shoulders and he squeezes your shoulders tight with affection, “But please know that I have never been and never will be ashamed of you or your mother.”

Your throat is tight with emotion and just like a month ago, you find your face buried in his chest arms wrapped around his back, crying.

*** Its April and you sit in your mother’s apartment watching people walking down the busy street enjoying the new warmth of the late spring sun. The new warmth was welcome change to the rather dour winter that you had experienced.

Sitting in the repaired apartment you felt strange. You realized that this was no longer your mother’s apartment, it was just yours. As much as you had tried to preserve what was left of her, every time that you set foot in the room, scrubbed some dirty away from a surface, or replaced some run-down furniture, you were making the apartment yours. The gradual changes allowed you to grieve for your mother properly, in a way that you hadn’t been allowed when you were younger, and it had you feeling lighter and happier than you had been.

“I’m usually not one for tea, but this one isn’t bad,” a voice comments pulling your attention away from your window.

Your eyes drift to the small dining room table, where your father sits sipping tea from some old china that your mother had been keen enough to pinch from one of her clients.

“It’s just green tea with lemon,” you reply with a raised eyebrow. “Nothing special.”

He looks at you somewhat sheepishly, “Just trying to make conversation.”

You walk over and sit across from him at the small table, fingers almost immediately beginning to tap on the surface of the table. “I’m surprised that you haven’t asked me what I did for the last two years, especially since I made such a show of leaving.”

His learned blue eyes stare at you over the rim of the small cup before he places it down.  A small rather fatherly smile crosses his features, and your cheeks flush in surprise by the warmth on his face.

“I don’t have much of a reason to ask, do I?”

“What do you mean?”

“You already told me you gave the money away, and I have a feeling it wasn’t to a criminal organization, was it?”

You cut your eyes away from him, “No.”

“Are you going to tell me where?”

��Charity.”

“Which one?”

“Is that important?”

“Not really, no,” he says picking up the cup and taking another sip. “It just that a few of our subsidiary charities, especially the ones having to do with placing children in homes, have been getting extremely large donations for the past two years. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“Maybe someone didn’t know that Wayne enterprises infests every aspect of this economy and just happened to give money not knowing where it was going.”

“Infests?” He questions with a chuckle. “I’ve never heard anyone compare my company to an infestation before.”

“Yeah well that is what it seems like,” you say arms crossed over your chest. “You have a hand in everything, don’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

You roll your eyes, “I went away to practice too. Believe it or not I was having even more trouble controlling my powers when I left. All though look what good that did me.”

“Did you find someone to help you?” He questions.

“No, not many people offer telekinetic training out in the open,” You say with a roll of your eyes. “What I worked on was my emotions. When I left, I was at an emotional high. I didn’t know how much longer I would have before my emotions would consume me. Outbursts like the one you saw were common place. So, after I got rid of the money, I bought a small apartment and I meditated.”

“Where?”

“If I told you that when I run away again you’ll find me,” you say with pursed lips.

It takes him a minute to realize your joking, and when he does he allows a small smirk to run over his features.

“Are you planning on staying here now?”

Your eyes glance at the apartment and your eyes soften at the idea, “Are you going to come over and bother me every day?”

“Is once a week too much?” He questions. “I feel like we still have a lot to learn about each other. It would be easier if you came home.”

“I am home,” you bite quickly, the phrase coming out harsher than you intended it too, but he doesn’t react negatively almost as if he was expecting the reaction.

There is heavy silence that falls over the room.

“They don’t know that you’re back yet,” he says quietly watching your features for your reaction.

“Is Jason’s hand okay?”

“Yes, I think his pride was more wounded than his hand was.”

“I see.”

“If you don’t want to move back in, you should at least come by and visit.”

“I hope you aren’t expecting some big happy family reunion.”

“Never that, but it would help to alleviate some of the guilt that they been dealing with since you’ve been gone. It’s probably the only request I’ll have for you.”

You stare at him blankly for a moment. In your mind, the only person that you need to see is Jason and that was only to apologize, the rest you had no desire to see.

“If that’s what you want,” you comply, surprising yourself a little. After all, appeasing your father one little thing couldn’t hurt too much.

“Oh, are you going to start being nice to me now?” He asks with a playful smile.

“Don’t press your luck,” you say in a serious tone. “I just don’t hate you as much as before.”

A genuine smile spreads over his features, “That’s good enough for me.”

@starlabstrash, 

[swiggity-swump]

Late Work

This is a prompt from @taylor-tut​ who is absolutely lovely <3 I ended up writing over 2k words! Which is pretty awesome, since I tend to have trouble getting more than a thousand, usually. (I have a few other Danny Phantom prompts as well, I’ll be working on those now that I’ve finished this one.)

I haven't read Percy JAckson, so I'll send a DP prompt!! How about something where Danny is sick and hasn't slept in days, and then has detention with Lancer. He tells Lancer that he doesn't feel well, but he thinks it's an excuse, so he tells him "you can either do detention today or all next week" and so Danny goes. But when he's finally there, Lancer realizes that he's not faking--he's burning up and exhausted.

Danny slumps against his locker, pressing his forehead into the cool metal. He’s exhausted after two sleepless nights spent ghost hunting. There had been a lot more of them out causing trouble recently. He’s sure that he and his friends will have to start investigating what was causing the sudden spike, but even the thought of bringing it up makes him want to curl up in a ball; investigations were always lengthy and draining.

“Hey, Fen-toad!” Danny sighs through his nose upon hearing Dash’s characteristic greeting, if it could be called that. He turns to face Dash, who grins at him, his cronies fanned out behind him.

“Get it over with, then,” he mutters, opening his locker and gesturing towards it halfheartedly. Dash’s wicked smile falters a bit; ever since getting his powers, Danny had always put up a lot more of a fight. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d submitted to Dash’s bullying like this.

Dash hefts his slender frame into the air easily. He unceremoniously deposits Danny into the locker, giving him a second to tuck his limbs inside before slamming the door. It might have been Danny’s imagination, but as the group walks away to pick on more social outcasts it occurs to him that Dash usually roughed him up a bit more than that before moving on.

He decides not to dwell on it. Instead, he marvels at the fact that he’s actually not too upset to be stuck in his locker. The chattering of the other students is muffled, and he’s able to sit back and rest without getting weird looks.

It’s a testament to how much things have changed when Tucker doesn’t immediately open Danny’s locker to check whether he’s inside. Danny has to knock on the inside of the door to get Tuck’s attention. His friend starts and turns around to scan the lockers behind him, meeting Danny’s eye through the thin slats and instantly moving to unlock the combination.

The door is unlocked in seconds - it hasn’t been that long since this was an everyday occurrence - and Danny sluggishly uncurls himself before sliding out of his locker. Tucker doesn’t wait for him to have both feet on the ground, babbling on about something that he’s programmed on his PDA. Danny looks over Tucker’s shoulder, nodding and humming noncommittally as Tuck explains the features.

He doesn’t get a reprieve from the onslaught of technical jargon until Sam finally shows up. She wastes no time in getting down to business. “Okay, so obviously something’s been going on for so many ghosts to show up. And the same ones every night. I swear, if I have to deal with the Box Ghost telling me to ‘beware’ one more time I’m going to throw him into the nearest ball pit.”

Tucker jumps in. “We’ve seen the most activity around Axion Labs, but there’s also been some spike in activity around the Nasty Burger. I vote that we check things out over there first,” he adds with a huge grin.

“Wherever you guys think we should start,” Danny says wearily. Sam gives him a look, and he gets the feeling that she’s about to call him out. He straightens his posture. “Nasty Burger is as good a place as any,” he continues, a little more assertively. “We can head over there after school.”

The warning bell cuts their conversation short and the three speedwalk towards their classes without so much as a “see ya.” Unfortunately for Danny, his class is farther than either one of theirs, and his pace quickly starts to flag. It’s another minute after the late bell before he finally manages to drag his feet through the door.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Mr. Fenton,” Mr. Lancer deadpans as Danny slouches into his seat. “I do hope that you had time in your busy schedule to complete the homework I assigned as well.”

“You have an awful lot of time in your schedule to pick on your students instead of teaching them,” Danny sasses back, eyes fixed on his desk. The shocked silence that follows makes him realize that he had probably said that louder than intended. A peek at Mr. Lancer confirms this.

Mr. Lancer looks taken aback, but he quickly recovers his authority. “That will earn you a detention, Mr. Fenton. My room after school - and I had better see you catching up on your late work while you’re here.”

Danny bites his tongue to stop himself from protesting. Mr. Lancer’s glare is angry enough already; arguing won’t get him anywhere. He may as well suck it up and do the detention. It’ll be an excuse to put off ghost hunting for a while at least, and Lancer is right - it gives him a chance to catch up on his missed work.

Or so he thinks. As the class drags on he feels steadily worse and worse, which he hadn’t thought physically possible. The throbbing ache that starts at the base of his skull and spreads to his shoulders and back is only compounded by having to slog through the literary devices of a book he hasn’t read.

By the end of the period Danny wants nothing more than to pass out and sleep for five days. He’s made up his mind that he won’t be going to detention or the Nasty Burger this afternoon; even he’s self-aware enough to know that he’ll only be a target in this condition.

As everyone else pushes to leave the room, Danny approaches Mr. Lancer’s desk. The teacher looks up at him, marking his place in his book. “What do you need, Mr. Fenton?” Danny picks up on the tightness in his voice. The guy’s probably still pissed at the remark he’d made earlier. Still, Mr. Lancer’s expression is neutral and open. It’s something that Danny has come to appreciate; unlike a lot of other teachers he’s had, Mr. Lancer gives a lot of second chances. More than Danny would have given in his position, probably.

“Mr. Lancer,” Danny begins sheepishly, “I’m really sorry about what I said earlier. I wasn’t thinking and - and I just really don’t feel well. Could I please do my detention another day? I don’t feel up to staying after today.”

Mr. Lancer’s eyes harden before he’s even finished speaking. “That’s no excuse for being rude, Mr. Fenton. Half the school is fighting off colds right now, but you don’t see anyone else talking back, or at least I would hope you don’t. And doing something that you’d rather not is the entire point of a punishment, in case you’d forgotten.”

Danny’s face falls. “So it’s not possible to reschedule - “

“You can either do it today or all next week. Do I make myself clear?” It’s clear that Mr. Lancer is deadly serious. As much as Danny desperately wants to accept that trade-off, he knows that he can’t. There will definitely be ghosts to deal with next week. If he’s stuck sitting in detention, they’ll be free to wreak havoc or else they’ll come and threaten the school, neither of which is something he wants to deal with.

“Got it, sir,” he mumbles. He’s turning to go when the bell for second period rings, and he groans to himself. “Great.”

To his surprise, Mr. Lancer slides a hall pass over his desk. “Hurry along,” he says, already looking back down at his book.

“Thanks.” Gratitude spurs him to get there as fast as he can, but he knows that he’s in for an agonizing rest of the day.

-----

Mr. Lancer frowns to himself, lost in thought about the events of first period. Danny Fenton’s accusation had some truth to it. He did tend to call out students publicly, and he knew that it went a little bit far sometimes. But he’d never considered the fact that it might be having a negative impact on his ability to teach.

He was tempted to brush it off as a harsh remark made in a heated moment, and Danny’s apology afterwards had seemed genuine. Still, comments like that didn’t come from out of nowhere.

It was possible that Danny had lashed out because he was so frequently the subject of Mr. Lancer’s call-outs. It was something that Mr. Lancer couldn’t quite figure out. His previous teachers had described him as a decent student - not great, perhaps, but well-behaved and with a strong work ethic. At the beginning of the year, Mr. Lancer would have agreed with that assessment.

But early on, Danny seemed to slip. Ever since the incident with the meat in the teachers’ lounge, he had started to build up more of a permanent record. He was often tardy to class, and grading Danny’s homework felt like a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence akin to watching a solar eclipse.

Mr. Lancer had been teaching for long enough to know that there was a reason behind the change, but he couldn’t exactly go digging into a student’s private life, even with the intent to help. Besides, he felt that whatever it was couldn’t be so terrible. Danny always seemed at ease hanging out with Tucker Foley and Sam Manson. Mr. Lancer had always seen kids in bad situations withdraw completely. If there was a problem, Danny’s friends were probably more equipped to handle it than Mr. Lancer was.

He reaches this conclusion just as Danny walks in, dropping into the chair nearest the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fenton,” he greets the student. “You have your book with you, I hope?”

Danny only nods in response, pulling it out of his backpack and resting his chin in his hand as he starts reading - from the very first page, Mr. Lancer notes in resigned disappointment.

The room is utterly silent for a while. Too silent, Mr. Lancer realizes. The sound of pages turning ceased several minutes ago. He scowls when he realizes that Danny’s eyes are closed and his heads droops forward slightly.

“Mr. Fenton,” he barks, “I know for a fact that you are not reading with your eyes closed.” Danny doesn’t stir. This concerns Mr. Lancer. As careless as Danny has been for the rules, he tends to become compliant as soon as the faculty becomes involved. Blatant ignorance isn’t like him at all.

Mr. Lancer moves to nudge him. “Mr. Fenton,” he begins, placing a hand on Danny’s shoulder. His eyes widen when he does do. “Fever 1776!” he exclaims, louder than he’d intended to. Danny’s eyes fly open and he jerks into a sitting position, scrambling to get his bearings and shooting Mr. Lancer a nervous look.

Mr. Lancer sits in the chair opposite Danny and places a hand over the open book to prevent him from trying to read it. “Danny,” he says gently, “you’re in no condition to do anything but rest at the moment.”

Danny blinks at him uncertainly. “But earlier you said-”

“I know, and I apologize. I didn’t realize at the time how sick you were. As it stands, I will not compel you to remain here for detention.” Relief is plain on Danny’s flushed face. “Do you have a ride home?”

His movements are shaky as he packs up his backpack. “I can call my parents from the office.”

Mr. Lancer nods. “And Danny? I don’t expect to see you back in school until you’ve recovered. Don’t stress about completing your work, either. You can come back and talk to me about extensions.” The last thing he wanted was to send Danny home only for him to slave over a week of missed work. His health should come first.

Danny shoots him a surprised glance. “Thanks, Mr. Lancer. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you to the office.” Danny seems steady enough on his feet, but Mr. Lancer hovers behind him just in case. A fever like that could easily spike and send him sprawling in the hallway.

The secretary looks up as Danny enters. She immediately takes in his appearance - pale and a little out of it - and reaches for the phone. “You need me to call your parents, hon?” Danny nods and lowers himself into a chair, hugging his backpack to his chest.

Mr. Lancer lays a hand on his shoulder. “Will you be all right from here?” Danny turns to look at him, and pity claws at Mr. Lancer when he notices the purple circles under his eyes - has he even been sleeping?

“Yeah. Thanks.” Despite the short answer, Danny’s tired smile gives Mr. Lancer the feeling that he was able to help. He hopes that, once Danny is back in school, he’ll be more comfortable approaching Mr. Lancer for help in the future. That’s all he wants to do, really.