An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Phantasma Gora
Summary: Phantasma was Jazz Fenton's ghostly alter ego. No one knew but her enemies, and maybe she wants that to change. So, who better to tell than her occasional ghost-fighting partner, Danny Phantom?
Rating: G
Words: 3,048
Warnings: None
Inspired by @fuckinart's art and @peachdoxie's post
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Phantasma felt a zip through her core and lifted her head from where she sat in one of the many town parks. Her teeth chattered briefly—electrical—and she released the effects of gravity on her.
She recognized a familiar green glow on the horizon, glowing against the night sky. She smiled. Phantom was nice company to have around. He was familiar in a way she couldn’t describe. At the least, it was nice to have a ghost around like her—a (relatively) nonaggressive one who was as happy to chat down an opponent as he was to beat it to a pulp.
Phantom was in no rush to be anywhere. He must have been what her ghost sense detected. She wasn’t sure if the ghost boy would be alright with a ghost girl visitor but, well, Phantasma was feeling it.
Reaching up, Phantasma slipped her red headband off the top of her head and used it to tie her long, neon blue hair back. The ends of her hair flared outwards like it had a life of its own, but it made her fairly unrecognizable from her human half. She didn’t normally mind this late at night, and most ghosts already knew her identity, but Phantom didn’t, somehow. It would be nice to tell him—she had an odd feeling he would understand—on her own terms rather than let him find out on his own.
Phantom was atop the radio tower, balancing on one of the poles on the head and watching the sky. Phantasma looked up herself. There were a few shooting stars out, she could see, and she smiled at the thought. Phantasma didn’t particularly care about the stars or space—it was cool to look at and relaxing on brain-melting days, but she wasn’t as driven by it as someone else she knew—but it was clear that Phantom was utterly enraptured.
Maybe, once Phantasma told her baby brother of her identity one day, she would take him up here herself. Danny was as in love with the stars as Phantom was, and Phantom was displaying that it was, obviously, the perfect stargazing spot.
“Hey! Phantom!”
Phantom spun in place and lifted his hands, a green glow sprouting from each. Phantasma paused a safe distance away, appearing as nonthreatening as possible, before his advanced ghost sense picked up who she was and that her intentions were purely friendly.
“…Phantasma?” Phantom asked.
“Hi! How are you? It’s been a few days!” Phantasma drifted closer as Phantom’s hands powered down and dropped to his side. She circled him excitedly. Phantom was the closest thing to a friend that Phantasma had in either form. As a human, she was a little uppity and a little too adult for her classmates. As a ghost, aside from Phantom (and even their first few meetings had been… well, Phantasma was still figuring out her powers and the things her developing core did to her human brain, and Phantom had explained that he had, very recently, found out that ghosts fought as part of their culture—as a way to bond—and the tug on their cores made it practically a necessity), Phantasma fought the other ghosts to protect the people of Amity Park and, especially, her baby brother who somehow always got himself into trouble with ghosts despite being utterly terrified of them.
Phantasma assumed that it was tied to either her, or her parents. The ghosts wanted to put Danny in danger just to piss her off, or to take revenge against her ghost hunting parents. Which made the need for Phantasma to protect him and the town and stop any ghosts that came through the Fenton Portal all the more dire.
In that way, she was pretty lucky she had a ghost hunting partner in Phantom. She wasn’t sure where and when he’d gotten a Fenton Thermos, but he’d in fact gotten two, and passed one to her when he realized she was on his side. She hadn’t even thought it would work until she’d seen Phantom embed his with his own spectral energy and yank in a ghost.
Fighting with Phantom meant she had someone else to depend on, at least sometimes, when the ghosts got to be too much. Someone who understood that ghosts were people—ghost psychology and ghost envy were very real entities and phenomena—who could feel emotions and feel pain, so would put them away and then release the ghosts someplace safe, and not on a lab table to be destroyed or dissected.
“Good!” Phantom chirped back. Once it was clear she was a friendly, his stance shifted—his broad shoulders dropped just slightly, he stood out of a fighting stance more fully. His eyes glittered—he really did have the most incredible luminous green eyes. Phantasma’s eyes were red—still expressive, but she got the impression that she looked slightly evil. Vlad Plasmius, after all, had red eyes, and there was almost no ghost as evil as Plasmius.
It hurt, that he was the only other halfa she knew.
“How are the ghosts?” Phantasma continued.
“Fine. It’s silent. Saw the Box Ghost twice—the man is relentless—but other than that, no one.”
“Hmm,” Phantasma agreed, pleased. She floated over and sat on one of the other poles, leaning back to look at the sky. Another pair of shooting stars went by. “Is it a meteor shower night?”
“Yeah,” Phantom said with a happy lilt in his voice. Honestly, how her parents thought ghosts didn’t have emotions was beyond her. Phantasma got the same way in a library. “Isn’t it amazing?”
Phantasma looked back on him, her eyes crinkling with amusement. Phantom reminded her so much of Danny, sometimes. Their love of space was the same. Now that Phantasma thought of it, she could kind of remember Danny mentioning a meteor shower. She hoped he got out to see it.
“Yeah,” she agreed, looking back up. “It is.”
They watched a while longer, although Phantasma watched Phantom more than she did the sky. His face flickered with delight at each new meteor. He had far more control and confidence with his flight than Phantasma did, which was why she clung to solid objects when she wasn’t focusing on it. Phantom floated with his legs crossed, holding the point they met to him.
It was fascinating, watching a full ghost wrapped fully in its obsession. Phantasma was only half ghost, so she figured her obsessions had a smaller effect on her core than full ghosts. Meaning, her experience with her own obsessions would never be as obvious on her as the ghost boy’s were on him. He glowed… well, technically he always glowed—all ghosts did, a strong aura meant a healthy ghost—but it was different when caught in the whims of his obsession. He wavered like the Northern Lights, lit up in rainbows, and his freckles lit up his cheeks like constellations, widening his big eyes even more.
It was incredible. She never saw other ghosts as gripped by their obsessions as she saw Phantom, but Phantom’s space obsession was so much more peaceful than so many others’. Made it easier to observe.
The night drifted on lazily. Phantasma crossed one leg over the other and watched, listening for the sound of distress from below, ghostly or not. Even the city life was peaceful—maybe a grateful nod toward their ghostly protector.
When Phantom seemed to have enough, and the night sky stopped glittering quite so majestically, he turned back to her. He wore a smile—alarmingly human, actually, but Phantasma didn’t know what to make with that. She supposed that he spent so much time in the human world that he picked up on human mannerisms.
She wondered, distantly, where it was that he went when he wasn’t flying around. She didn’t see Phantom in her house to go through the portal that often. Was his lair somewhere in Amity Park, like hers? Maybe at the old observatory?
“D’you wanna go for a fly?”
Phantasma’s heart thudded to life just briefly. In this form, it didn’t beat at all unless it was startled or excited, and Phantasma loved a good fly. The wind in her hair, the chill through her hazmat, the connection to her electrified core when a good cloud came through… there was almost no chance that she would deny a fly.
Especially not an offer from Phantom.
“Sure! Uh, where do you wanna go?”
Phantom shrugged and unfolded himself, tipping backwards and eeking out a good stretch before rising beside her. He extended a hand toward her, and Phantasma rolled her eyes and knocked it away. She stretched the muscles of her back, slid off the pole, and bounced back into the air when her feet found purchase.
“Lead the way.”
He did, taking off toward downtown. Phantasma followed and quickly caught up, circling him in lazy arcs. When he noticed what she was doing, Phantom rose above the rooftops again and gave her space, copying her. They circled one another two, three, four times before petering out. Phantasma flickered her eyes toward him, curious. She knew that he was fast, but she was an electric core. Would that have an effect on her own speed? Was she faster than the infamous Phantom?
She aligned herself to him and got within ten feet of him. Her eyes glittered with sparks of electricity when she said “race you!” and took off like a shot.
He squawked, a sound gone from her defunct eardrums too fast, and lanced forward. “Where?!” he demanded with a laugh, arching forward, nose to nose.
“Figure it out!”
Phantom followed Phantasma close, turning in tight circles when she switched directions, picking up speed on straightaways when he thought he had time but responding with ease when he suddenly didn’t. He really was an experienced flyer, and only Phantasma’s knowledge of where she wanted to go—or at least when she wanted to turn to throw him off—kept her ahead of him.
“Hey we’re, uh, gettin’ pretty close to FentonWorks,” Phantom suddenly warned behind her, as if Phantasma wouldn’t know exactly where FentonWorks was. It was her home, her lair. Of course, Phantom knew exactly where FentonWorks was for the Portal, and to avoid the ectoseeking weapons on top of the Ops Center, but it wasn’t as if she needed the warning.
Still, it was good to have. A reminder that… well, home wasn’t safe. Not for Phantom obviously—full ghost and all that—but not for Phantasma either, half ghost as she was.
“I see,” Phantasma called back, transforming her legs to a tail as she did a wide arc around the eyesore that was her home.
“I mean I guess if you want to play Dodge Gun we can, but…” Phantom called forwards with a laugh, which just made Phantasma laugh in return. Honestly, Phantom had a horrible sense of humor. It reminded her of her brother. It reminded her of her dad. Still, the ghost boy followed her arc around FentonWorks and its neighborhood, bringing them toward Elmerton. Not a safe place for either of them, either, but arguably the Red Huntress’ patrol was over. Hopefully she was asleep.
With the fun of the race kind of cut short by the reminder of their afterlives on the line simply for existing, Phantasma felt her energy wane. Phantom at first darted ahead—competitive boy he was—but when he noticed she wasn’t keeping up, he paused in midair and turned back around.
“...Hey. You okay?”
“Getting tired,” Phantasma reported semi-honestly. It was an unusual thing for a ghost to say, but not impossible. Phantom clearly had the energy for probably seven more miles. “You win.”
“Ha! Oh. D’you, uh, need to rest? Catch your breath?”
Phantasma smiled sheepishly at him. “You can go on ahead if you want. I’ll be fine.”
“Do you… want me to go on ahead?”
Phantasma didn’t answer. She didn’t, really. She liked Phantom, she always had. Even back when she’d been fully human, she’d liked him.
Smart, Phantom floated back over to her. “Why don’t we go sit over there,” he said, nodding at a collection of brick apartment buildings. Obscure, in case a ghost hunter or two did come out. Secluded.
…Maybe. Maybe now was good. “Lead the way,” she said again, following his lead toward the roof. She settled to drop on the edge, her legs dangling off. This side of the city was a little noisier, and it didn’t help that they were closer to the streets here too, but that could be good. Listen in for trouble again. Phantom floated in front of her and crossed his legs, eyeing her cautiously.
“Sorry,” Phantasma said with a laugh, leaning all the way back so her back rested on the roof. “That was a lot of energy to use at once. I’m an electric core; we go through our energy in big spurts, it’s not meant to last.”
“All good,” Phantom said. “You need ecto? I have chewables.”
Why would a full ghost carry ectoplasm chewables? Didn’t he feed off the ambient ectoplasm in the air? Phantasma did, for the most part, but she figured her half-and-half system was less efficient, so she drank ectoplasm. In a pinch she could take it straight from the portal, but most of the time her folks left enough of it lying around that she could snatch. Her dad always said it was the ghost boy, and Phantasma only felt a little guilty letting Phantom take the blame. He did sneak into their house to empty his Thermos, after all.
She was tempted, but wary. One of Phantasma’s cooler powers was absorption and deescalation. She absorbed ectoplasm quickly enough from other ghosts, and from ambient ectoplasm as well.
“No, thanks. I just need to rest.”
Phantom’s eyes glittered. He dug into a pocket anyway and pulled out a Ziploc bag of glowing green squares and tossed a few into his mouth. Huh. “Alright, if you insist.”
Phantasma closed her eyes and felt the air around her shift, a subtle nod to her core, the way Phantom always seemed a little happier on cold days. It settled her, eased her.
Made the lingering conversation easier.
“Hey, Phantom.”
“Hey, Phantasma.”
“Can I tell you something? Something I haven’t told anyone else. At least, not on purpose.” She lifted her head and looked at him.
He drifted closer, legs still crossed. His mastery of air movements really was impressive. Phantasma couldn’t wait until she had that kind of control. A few years, she figured. Maybe a decade? She had no clue how old Phantom actually was—he’d died as a young teenager, but who knew how long ago that was. The eighties was Phantasma’s honest guess, based on his outfit, although he kept his syntax remarkably modern.
“Sure,” Phantom said, resting his elbow in his knee. “I’m listening.”
“You need to promise to keep this secret. All the other ghosts have, but if this gets out to the humans, this could be dangerous for me. Swear?”
Phantom dragged his finger across his chest. “Cross my core,” he swore.
Phantasma sat up and buried her face in her hands. After a moment, Phantasma reached back and let loose her hair. It didn’t need to be pulled back all the way, luckily. Not if they weren’t really going anywhere. She tucked her headband back into place and looked at her battle partner, who watched her with blinking wide green eyes.
“Ha,” she said. “You may have heard other ghosts call me this. It’s kind of… it’s not a slur? But they’re never being kind when they say it. It’s specific to me… or, to my kind, anyway. There’s so few of us. I only know of one other ghost like me.” She didn’t look up at Phantom, but she would have seen some sort of dawning realization if she had. “I’m actually a halfa—half ghost. I have a human half, too.” She laughed. “I could never tell my family, though. My parents hunt ghosts, and my little brother is terrified of them.”
Phantasma lifted her head, but did not get a full look at Phantom’s face, too focused on her own feelings. Phantasma was always so in touch with her own feelings, even as a human. It continued to alarm her how her parents thought ghosts didn’t feel emotions when Phantasma felt her emotions so powerfully.
Deep inside her, Phantasma reached for that warmth that radiated next to her core. The warmth of life, of humanity. Her aura shimmered and condensed around her waist, and she breathed it around her. The transformation took her. Blue hair became ginger, red eyes became teal, tanned skin was lightened, her costume faded away into a familiar, comfortable sweater and jeans.
Jazz Fenton tipped her head up to the sky briefly. “You know, it feels good to actually have someone I can talk to about this side of myself, ha! At least, someone who isn’t a total fruitloop.” She tipped her head back down and gave Phantom her best winning smile.
Much to her surprise, he was utterly flabbergasted. His eyes were massive, and his jaw was practically on the ground. He’d never seen her transformation, obviously. Maybe he’d never even heard of a halfa before. Her kind was a rare breed indeed.
“Phantom?”
“Jazz?”
He was familiar with the Fentons, at least marginally. Certainly he knew her folks. Was that how he recognized her, even in human form? “Ha, yeah. That’s me! Daughter of ghost hunters, and here I am. Half-a-ghost. Crazy, isn’t it?”
Phantom shoved a hand deep into his hair. His legs fell, and he floated over to the building she sat on. He obeyed gravity, something he rarely did. He gnawed on a lower lip and, for some reason, wasn’t looking at her.
His aura shimmered, and condensed around his waist. Jazz’s eyes went massive as the ring around his waist separated and changed him. His jumpsuit became a white t-shirt and jeans. Hips widened and shoulders narrowed. Green eyes became blue. White hair turned to black.
Suddenly, in Phantom’s place, Danny Fenton looked at her.
Rachel Sharp first seamlessly merged our world with one of fae in the first book Phaethon, and Pharos is a brilliant addition to the series.
The amount of heart this sequel holds is as magical as the mythical creatures it features. This time around we are presented with more of the book’s timeless, yet now changing, world. A story filled with situations that may be dire at first glance, but reveal hope with the aid of new friends and old fae.
By the end, you’ll want to believe in fairies too. Pharos is everything a sequel should be, making the Phaethon Series even more of a must read event.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
An Ice Cream and Fudge Kind of Chat
Summary: Jack might be a little confused, but he's got the spirit. In more ways than one.
Or, Jack so aggressively supports Danny as a trans boy that he gives him the wrong sex talk. Mentioned grayghost
Rating: T
Words: 1994
Trigger warnings: none
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Danny walked into the kitchen to see his dad scooping copious amounts of ice cream into two bowls. A tray of fudge sat between them. Danny knew what was about to happen deep in his bones. His body went stiff and his insides felt cold, even for him.
Uh oh.
“Danny boy!” Jack cheered happily. He tossed the ice cream into the freezer and took a seat in front of one of the bowls.
“…Awkward father-son chat?” Danny guessed, hoping against hope that wasn’t it.
Jack gave him a warm smile, softer. “Awkward father-son chat. Come sit.” He patted the empty chair beside him.
“…Do I have to?” Danny asked.
Jack didn’t verbally answer, merely patted the seat again. Danny got the picture.
With a heavy, nervous sigh, Danny moved forward. He adjusted his binder carefully, since it was pinching his underarm. He needed a new one, a bigger one. He’d grown. That comfortable, Danny dropped into the empty chair and picked up a piece of fudge. Peanut butter bacon. Delicious.
“So… what’s going on…?” Danny asked. Half of him hoped that Jack had forgotten all about Phantom and was about to confront him about it. That father-son chat—not the first one they’d had and obviously not the last—had gone almost remarkably well. It had ended with his dad scooping him in his arms and squeezing him so tight he thought he was going to break every rib. Danny had come out as half-dead and Phantom late last year, and it had gone so well that Danny was basically ready to do it again. Better that than… whatever Jack had put together.
What else was left? The gay talk had come first, until Danny realized that it wasn’t the liking of the same gender that had been the problem rather than not being that gender, actually. Mom and Dad had handled both of them so well, even when Danny switched it up not three months later. There had been no you’re faking it, no you need to stop changing things on us. They’d taken each in stride. Next had come the bi talk when Danny realized that yes, boys were hot too, thank you. Dad had organized the next one, when he thought Danny had a girlfriend. When Danny almost did. Two years later and he finally had that girlfriend. And Valerie was a fucking treat. Finally came the whole half-ghost, being-Phantom awkward chat that had come up last year. That had gone well, obviously. Since Danny was still (half)alive, free, and very well.
If all those awkward father-son chats had been had, what was left?
“It sounds like things are getting serious with you and Valerie,” Jack started, voice still warm. “I hope you’re not secretly spending the night at her house when you say you’re at Sam’s or Tucker’s.”
He had. Exactly once. To be fair, they had a project to work on, and there was a ghost fight and he’d come back so tired afterward. There’d been some kissing, some snuggling, but Danny had retreated to the couch like a right gentleman when the time came.
…Oh, wait.
Oh, no.
Danny was sure he wasn’t prepared for this sort of awkward father-son chat.
“I want you to know,” Jack continued. “Your mom and I really like this Valerie. She keeps you in line. Both of you.” Jack winked.
Danny winced. That was one way to put it. Him being a ghost and his girlfriend being a ghost hunter certainly did put a level of keep-in-line-liness into their relationship from both ends.
“And I’m glad you’ve gotten so comfortable with her, and with both of your halves. I’d be happy to see her over here more often. She’s someone I can blather on about ghosts to!”
He had. So many times. Valerie took it in stride. She really was an incredible girl.
“Okay…” Danny urged, face flushing red. He hoped Jack got to the point so this chat could be over.
“Eat your ice cream before it melts,” Jack encouraged. He took a bite of his own and then snatched a piece of fudge. “All that being said, I expect responsibility from you.”
“Responsibility?” Danny didn’t think there were many kids his age more responsible than him, actually! Danny fought ghosts daily! He’d had the weight of the world on his shoulders since fourteen. He didn’t think there were many more responsibilities to have!
“Now,” Jack continued. “You are nearly an adult, and your mom and I can’t monitor you all the time. That wouldn’t be fair to you or to us. I would rather that you got up to the more adult things under our roof, where we know you’re safe and can help you handle whatever repercussions arise. So.” Jack reached for the seat beside him and grabbed two things. A banana and a… a…
A condom?
Danny’s blush left completely. He was so pale his face felt like everice, staring at the horrible combination of items right there in front of him, grim horror and amusement dancing across his face hand in hand. Granted, his dad didn’t know that Valerie wasn’t a trans girl or otherwise, but…
“I understand they’re teaching this in schools now,” Jack said, setting the banana between them, “and that’s great, but I want to know that you know how to use this anyway. If the two of you start having…” Jack practically gulped aloud, his face coloring, “if you start having sex, I expect you to use condoms every time, and I expect the two of you to have a conversation before and after. Fenton men are gentlemen.”
Danny smiled blearily. His dad was so fucking goofy, and maybe that was something Danny loved about him. “We drink respect women juice every day,” Danny agreed with a nod. It was an old joke, but a good one.
“What?”
He laughed. “Nevermind.”
“Right,” Jack said, plowing forward. “So show me you know how to use this.”
“Dad, me and Val really won’t need to use th—“
“Enough of your teenage invincibility,” Jack said. “You don’t know what could happen. Show me you know how to use this.”
Danny’s face went back to red, but he was struggling to hide his smile. It was embarrassing for sure, but if Danny understood exactly what was going on, it was nice.
Knowing he wouldn’t get out of this, and kind of really loving his dad in the moment, Danny reached over and opened the condom. He rolled it over the banana like they’d shown in health class then set it over by Jack to inspect. Jack approved but asked suspiciously if they’d already started; Danny seemed pretty smiley for something like this.
Danny flat out denied it. There’d been some… under the clothes stuff, but nothing like that.
“Good, that’s good,” Jack said, leaning back. His ice cream was mostly gone, but he was starting to stack fudge in his bowl. “But Danny, even condoms only work ninety-nine percent of the time. So when you do start having sex, you need to be prepared for… possibilities.”
“Dad, I really don’t think the possibilities you’re thinking of—“
“Danny,” Jack interrupted. “I expect responsibility from you. That doesn’t mean that Mom and I won’t help you out, of course not. But if you get that girl pregnant, you will be sticking around for it, whatever Valerie decides to do with it.”
And there it was. Pregnant.
Danny was not physically capable of getting anyone pregnant. He didn’t have the equipment, and he wasn’t sure that was a surgery he’d ever want to have, anyway. Dad knew that. Jack had taken Danny to pick up his first pads and tampons—they’d gotten so many sizes, it had not been handled as gracefully as Mom had handled Jazz’s. Hell, Jack had sat with Danny at the doctor’s office when they’d said words like puberty blockers and hormone replacement and address mental health first. Was Jack being goofy? He couldn’t entirely tell. Jack seemed far too serious to be playing some weird long con of a prank. It was too serious a topic for Jack to do that for, he hoped.
“Danny-boy,” Jack said firmly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Do you understand me? You will support that girl if and until she aborts it, but if she decides to keep it, I expect you to be a present father, too. Am I clear? No skipping town because of it. Mom and I will help you.”
Jack was serious.
He was so, so serious, and Danny realized that he really, really, really loved his dad.
Danny might try to get the real sex talk out of his mom, later on. The one he needed with his body. But he could sit here and be embarrassed while his dad plainly and actively forgot that Danny used to be his daughter, so long ago.
“Yeah, Dad,” Danny said with a laugh and a smile. “I hear you. If something somehow happens, then I’ll be responsible with it. You can count on me.”
Jack’s smile was warm again, and so, so proud. Danny’s heart felt light in his ribcage, like it might turn intangible and phase right out of him. “I know that, Danny-boy. We can always count on you.”
The rest of the chat was, if a little awkward yet, smooth. Jack forgot three more times that Danny didn’t have the same stuff to do much with the talk, but Danny was kind of okay with it. By the time Jack seemed satisfied with the conversation, Danny’s grin split his face right down the middle even if he was red as a tomato.
“And if you’ve got anything else you want-or-need to know about, you come right to your old man,” Jack was saying while Danny cleared their dishes from the table. “I’d rather you safe and embarrassed than sorry down the road.”
Another smile that Danny buried in his shoulder. “Yeah, okay,” he said, turning back to his dad. Jack was standing and stretching his back, muttering something about sitting for too long. “I will.”
“Good,” Jack huffed. He reached out and ruffled Danny’s hair. “See that you do. Got any questions for me right away?”
“No!” As much as Danny loved his dad—and he did, so much—there was only so much embarrassment he could handle before he had to close that particular spigot. “Thanks for the talk though, Dad. Thanks for caring.” Caring in more ways than one. Caring about Danny’s identity so much that he forced out of his brain any impression of Danny not being the man he was.
“Of course, Danny-boy,” Jack chirped. “I love you.”
“Yeah,” Danny agreed. He approached his dad and put his arms around his neck, squeezing him as tight as Jack would—and did. Although he was careful to avoid that poor, abused banana. “Yeah, I really, really love you, too.”
Jack released him after a moment and ruffled his hair again. With a farewell, Jack headed down the stairs to the basement—probably to tell Maddie just how well that talk had gone. Hopefully Maddie would correct him and fix his mistake later, but wouldn’t be upset.
Danny decided to do the same, although upstairs to his sister and then to his room. Jazz laughed goodnaturedly and gave him a hug, but luckily didn’t make any promises about giving him the sex talk he was supposed to have. Danny flopped back onto his bed and quickly called up a conference call with Sam and Tucker, excitedly telling them about the horrible, wonderful conversation he’d just had.
Valerie would come later, he thought. Probably after he’d had the talk with his mother. So Valerie wouldn’t have any thoughts that couldn’t go anywhere yet. She would find it funny, probably—she was as supportive as his family and friends—but he didn’t want to disappoint her. Not about that, anyway.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Angels in Flight
Summary: Angela Foley has known Danny for years by the time the explosion at the Nasty Burger took their families. So there was no way that she was going to sit back and let him, newly orphaned, grieve in his big empty home all alone.
Rating: G
Word: 4,232
Trigger warnings: possible warning for unspecified eating disorder due to grief.
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After days and days of casserole dinners and teary condolences, after the funeral was gone and past, after the Nasty Burger corporation promised to pay for the funeral, the memorial, everything, only then was Angela Foley able to remove herself from her dead child’s bedroom for any longer than an hour.
It was hard. She felt like she shouldn’t do it. Angela wanted to stay here, curled around her baby’s pillow, forever. She pretended it was him, even if Tucker had declared cuddles “too girly” when he was ten.
If she had known, Angela would have demanded a cuddle that morning. Of course, if she had known, she would never have allowed Tucker to go in the first place. Tucker was exceptionally good at sneaking out, which drove Angela and Maurice bonkers, but she supposed that was moot now.
She first extracted herself to the kitchen. Maurice was in the living room, flipping listlessly through television channels like he sought something but couldn’t remember what. They met eyes briefly, but then Maurice looked back to the tv and the endless flipping channels.
“I need to take a walk,” Angela suddenly said, eyeing the fridge with dismay. She didn’t have the energy to cook or even reheat anything. She wasn’t even hungry.
She didn’t remember eating today, but that was a whole other thing.
“Be safe,” Maurice answered.
Angela hummed and grabbed her coat. It wasn’t particularly cold, but the coat had a deep hood she could flip up. She didn’t want to be recognized, she didn’t want her neighbors coming up to her and reminding her that her only baby was dead.
Angela left the house. She liked walks in the past. When Tucker was younger, he’d accompany her. In fact, when Tucker had playdates with the Fentons, Angela would just walk him over. She’d chat with Jack and Maddie, Tucker and Danny would play, and Tucker would happily talk all the way home about how his friend was “the only fun girl in class”. That didn’t end up being entirely true, but they hadn’t known then.
Angela’s line of thought brought her to a place she hadn’t anticipated.
Despite the now deceased family, FentonWorks still stood loud and proud. Its neon lights lit up the sky. The metal deck on top reached for the moon. There were two flags on flagpoles by the front door—the good old American flag (Jack bled red white and blue), and a pink, blue, and white one that Angela didn’t quite recognize. She thought she may have seen it in Tucker’s room before, too, though significantly smaller.
The inner house was dark. All except a light on the second floor. A bedroom.
A boy stood in it, watching the sky. Angela’s heart clenched immediately, painfully. The family was deceased, except one. The house was dark, except for one room.
The Fentons were dead, but Danny still lived.
Angela considered going to the door. She had known Danny since he was a little girl in diapers. Danny and Tucker had been in the same preschool class, and they’d stuck together like glue. Angela had watched Danny grow almost as much as she’d watched Tucker, the two of them practically inseparable. They’d had arguments, of course—all friends did—but at the end of every day, Tucker and Danny had come away from it better and better friends.
And Angela had nearly forgotten him. Freshly orphaned, Danny stood in his huge empty home all alone.
Angela’s fist hovered at the door, her heart aching with a new grief. Angela’s life was a disaster, since her son’s passing, but this… this was control. Control she needed.
She missed momming someone. Maybe she could step in and be a surrogate for a boy who surely missed sonning someone nearly as much.
…Maybe Maurice could stand to dad someone, too. Maybe it’d be good for him.
Angela turned around, hovered on the doorstep. What if something bad happened in the short time she was gone…? She glanced up. Danny still stood in his window, watching the sky. Angela swallowed. She would have to be quick. Luckily, they weren’t far.
Angela breached her front door. Maurice was still flicking through channels, but he no longer watched the television. His face was in his hand. He was deeply in mourning.
He looked at her through wet, stricken eyes. “Ange…?” he said when he noticed the look in her eye.
“Get up,” Angela said, flicking off the kitchen lights. “Get shoes on.”
“What are…?” Maurice started, but didn’t finish. He eventually forced himself to his feet and pressed a tissue into his eyes. At his wife’s prompt, though, Maurice did go to the shoe rack by the door and slip into loafers. “Where are we going?”
Angela collected her purse, her keys, and her husband. Once all three were settled in the car, she started the engine and drove back towards FentonWorks.
“Ange,” Maurice said, firmly this time. Concern was fresh in his voice.
“…Someone else needs our help,” Angela said quietly, thinking of a lost orphan boy, stuck home alone.
Maurice made to ask questions, but when FentonWorks came into sight, he didn’t need to. Guilt was thick in his voice even when he gave just one syllable, “…oh.”
Maurice had known Danny nearly as long as Angela had. Angela did most of the pick up their first year, but when Angela finally really went back to work, Maurice had to pick up Tucker more, and so met the little then-girl who had trailed after Tucker like a lost sheep. Tucker had once insisted, so Maurice sat and waited a full forty-five minutes after pick up time for Jack to show up with a redheaded daughter in tow. Maurice had been unimpressed then, but he’d softened over the years.
They really should have thought of Danny sooner than this. No one would judge them for it, in the wake of their son’s death, but Angela and Maurice had known Danny for far too long for him to just slip their mind.
“Is he still here?” Maurice asked, climbing out.
“I saw him,” Angela hummed, locking the car. Her eyes flickered up. The bedroom light was still on, but no teenaged orphan stood in the window.
“Is he here alone?”
Angela gulped. She didn’t know who else would be here with him. “As far as I know.”
Maurice clicked his tongue, a sign of clear displeasure. Had everyone failed this boy? Had no one stepped up and put him into the system? It would suck—Maurice at least was intimately familiar—but he wouldn’t be alone.
“I know,” Angela agreed. She rang the doorbell and stepped back to wait.
It took a few minutes, not that Angela or Maurice would judge him. They’d stopped answering their door, too. They didn’t need the reminder. Eventually, though, there was metallic clunking, and the door pulled open inward just enough that Danny’s tired, tired face peered through the gap.
He looked bad. He had hit rock bottom, after all. Fourteen years old, and nowhere left to go.
“Hi, sweetie,” Angela said. She tried for a smile, but it wobbled and fell. She’d seen him at the funeral, of course, standing in front of a graying man in his late forties if Angela had to guess. But she hadn’t seen Danny at all, neither hide nor hair, since then. She wondered if he was being taken care of.
Judging by the paleness in his skin, the limp in his hair, the nothingness in his eyes, he really wasn’t.
“Danny,” Maurice greeted, equally as grimly.
“...Hi,” Danny said, shrinking in on himself. A boy as small as Danny could hardly shrink further, but he sure seemed bound and determined.
“We came by to make sure you were doing alright,” Angela said carefully. Doing alright seemed to be doing a lot of work there. How could he be doing alright? They had wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead.
“...I’m… here,” Danny said, even quieter.
Maurice clicked his tongue, and Angela could practically see his chest collapsing in on itself with how hard his heart must have clenched. She could relate. Danny wasn’t particularly forward with things, and never had been, but this was something else. Danny being here was not, in the slightest, reassuring.
“Can we come in?” Angela asked. She glanced at the empty space above Danny’s head, where a once tall and proud Jack may have stood. As far as Angela could tell, everything looked in order, but she was only seeing through the crack of the door above the boy’s head.
Danny seemed to consider her. He really did look tired. Probably about as tired as Maurice and Angela were, and Jeremy and Pamela too.
Danny stepped back and held the door open.
Much to Angela’s surprise, the house was almost eerily in order. There was a blanket tucked back into the couch just perfectly, there was a sheen on the wooden coffee table that suggested it was freshly Pledge’d, there wasn’t a crumb in sight. A glance into the kitchen found no evidence of life or dishes or anything. It was almost too clean. Danny hadn’t been an incredibly neat boy prior, and likely no one had hired a cleaning service, so how…?
“I can’t stop cleaning,” Danny mumbled in answer to a question she hadn’t asked. He put a hand in his hair as his father may have done. “I keep thinking that… man, when Mom gets back, she’s not gonna like this mess.” He choked on a breath and averted his eyes. “But then she… she doesn’t come back, and I… I… I don’t know what else to do.”
Control, Angela thought. Her control was working her helping reflex. Danny’s control was making sure the house was presentable for when his family returned.
“Oh, honey,” was all Angela said, because she didn’t know how to respond. She opened her arms to him just briefly. Danny didn’t move forward, but he didn’t back away either, and Angela took that as permission.
She squeezed him, so tight, imagining the way that Tucker would fit perfectly in her arms. Tucker had a little height on Danny, belying the height he would have grown into inherited from his grandfather, Angela’s father. Still, Danny did fit so perfectly. Danny really was one of the family, anyway.
Danny didn’t quite hug her back, although she did feel small hands curl in fists in her coat. He breathed against her shoulder, great shuddering breaths that were neither as calm nor as collected as the house suggested. Angela thought again—he was fourteen years old. Fourteen, and grieving everyone, family and friends, living in a horribly empty house.
She curled around him and buried her face in his hair. It was the wrong shade and wrong texture of black, but it was close enough. It was what she had. He wasn’t Tucker, but in that moment he didn’t have to be. He was here, filling her arms, taking up a space that had been sorely empty for two entire weeks.
“Mrs. Foley?” Danny asked after a long, shuddering moment. She’d insisted on Aunt Angela, or at least Angela in the past, but he’d been raised different than that, and that was fine.
She pressed a kiss into his hair anyway. “Yeah, baby?”
“I tried.”
She thought. Of burnt hands and burnt cheeks. Of a boy found near unconscious in the rubble. She didn’t know how, but almost certainly he had tried. To save them, to reach them. Anything he could. She thought of the little girl standing between Tucker and a blond-haired boy, glaring him down. She thought of a young man with a bloody nose, a black eye, and two grinning best friends on either side safe from harm. She thought of Tucker, distracted, walking into a street and Danny, alert, yanking Tucker away from a speeding car by the back of his shirt.
There was no doubt at all. That boy had tried.
“I really,” Danny hiccupped a breath, tucking his face against her. Angela squeezed him tighter. “Really did.”
“I know you did, sweetie,” Angela said quickly, reassuring. Angela didn’t even know, realistically, what he could have done. What he could have tried. She didn’t doubt, at all, that he had. Danny had always, in the past, found a way. “I know you did.”
“Why couldn’t I get there…?” Danny asked, although he didn’t seem to be asking her, instead letting the question drift into the ether, unanswerable. “Why doesn’t anything ever work—“
Even if it had been directed at her, Angela wouldn’t even know what to say.
“Come,” Angela said instead, tugging him around. “Come sit with Auntie.”
They collapsed together into the couch. Angela wrapped her arms tighter around him and tucked him against her, like she had with Tucker in increasing frequency. Tucker had always refused to explain his nightmares or whatever rocked him, and Angela had felt him pulling away more and more from her, but she didn’t press and she didn’t fret. He was a teenager, living in a town wracked by seemingly endless ghost attacks. Even with a hero-adjacent like Phantom around, Angela had seen her increasing share of traumatized children in her office. It was no surprise that Tucker dealt with trauma and pulled away, especially at the ghost hotspot that was Casper High.
“I’m glad,” Angela said quietly, burying yet another kiss in his hair. She’d never been particularly intimate with Danny, even for as long as she’d known and cared for him, but they’d never been in this situation before. He’d always just been the best friend of her son. Now he was the orphan of family friends with no one to turn to. “I am, I’m glad that you couldn’t get there, baby. You wouldn’t have been able to do anything. And what if it had been you, too? What if you were caught in the blast, too? It’s… it hurts, oh baby of course it does, but there are small mercies. I’m just relieved you were far enough from the blast that you weren’t hurt.” His hands and cheeks were still scabbed with pocked burn marks, even two weeks later, and there were some on his arms too that looked like buried debris. He had been so close. He could have been hurt so much more.
Danny didn’t respond to that. A breath hiccupped against her shoulder. She tilted her cheek against him.
“I think…” she said after a long beat. “The only one who could have done anything for them was Phantom. And I think… I think it tried. I like to believe it tried.” Or, would have. No one had seen hide nor hair of Phantom in the two weeks since the explosion. Angela believed, at least to herself, that it had tried to get to them. Maybe it had been injured in the blast. There had been no glowing puddle of green ectoplasm, as far as Angela knew, but would there be if it was completely discorporated?
Angela didn’t always know where to stand with Phantom. Some of her clients looked at it with stars in their eyes, others with fire. Property destruction was rampant wherever it was, but lives were saved. And besides, Tucker had always vehemently supported Phantom, throwing his weight behind it and insisting that it wasn’t just some hero-adjacent, it was a Hero full stop. And that had done plenty to sway Angela in the past.
It was just that… well, why couldn’t it get to her baby and the others? Where had it been? Had it not known? Maybe that was why Angela believed that it was injured, that it tried. Because that was better than assuming it had sat back and watched.
Much to Angela’s surprise, at her mention of Phantom, Danny choked hard and stared at her with massive blue eyes. Despite being around ghosts all his life, Angela knew Danny was terrified of them; it was something Tucker used to poke fun at him for, although that had stopped not long after Danny’s accident. It probably couldn’t help, too, that Jack and Maddie had disparaged Phantom with every possible breath. Was Danny scared of Phantom specifically, or…?
Tears flooded his eyes quickly. A trigger of some sort, and Danny choked again and his face pinched and he leaned down against her and let out the most horrible, most painful sob Angela had ever heard. Angela’s heart clenched, and her hand disappeared in his hair.
“He tried!” Danny gasped loudly, begging and weeping. “H-he tried, he tried s-so hard Mrs. Foley he tried he tried.”
Danny had been there—had been the only one other one there—so he must have seen. Seen Phantom limp off afterward, defeated by the blast? Seen him discorporate before his very eyes? She couldn’t know, but he insisted so hard, and he was the only one who would know.
“I believe you,” Angela said softly, rocking his finally weeping frame. “I believe you, baby. Phantom tried, and isn’t that so good? That it… th-that he tried, for them?”
“He should have tried harder,” Danny spat wetly, accusingly, antithetical to what he had begged previously. Phantom had tried so hard, possibly discorporated, but he should have tried harder? “If he wasn’t so slow and stupid and useless—“
“Danny honey, calm down,” Angela hushed. It was the exact sort of language that would make exactly zero teenagers calm down, and Angela knew that and knew better. She rubbed his back to circumvent a tantrum—although really it was unfair to call it that—and tucked him back beneath her chin. Phantom had tried, and to Angela… well, it hurt that he hadn’t succeeded, but Phantom believing that her child, his friend, and his friend’s family were important enough meant something. The ache was there, but it was… lessened, somehow. “He tried, and that’s what matters.”
“H-he should have tried harder…” Danny wept. Angela sighed and bundled him tighter beneath her. Maybe, though, it was scary to think about Phantom trying but still utterly failing. When your larger-than-life, super-powered ghost hero couldn’t even save the people you cared about, maybe that was scary. To know that they were doomed from the start… Angela cut that line of thought off entirely. “Why didn’t it work why didn’t he try why didn’t I try harder… I tried… oh god, I tried...”
The switch from ‘he’ to ‘I’ startled Angela, who was still trying to catch up with Danny’s thought process as he stumbled into pleas for forgiveness. He wept apologies, kept using ‘I’ statements, claimed that it was his fault as if Danny at fourteen could cause an explosion like that in any way. Angela couldn’t keep up, so she held him tighter and let him babble out what must be the first time being supported through a breakdown, probably since the funeral.
Angela had no answer for him. Rather, she buried kisses in his silky black hair, wrapped him up tight, and held him through it.
When Danny’s desperate weeping and begging for forgiveness finally slowed down, Maurice came around the couch and sat on the coffee table in front of them. Maurice was a social worker and had a social worker’s active mindset, so Angela wasn’t that surprised that he hadn’t joined her in comforting Danny. He’d likely been poking around, making sure FentonWorks was safe and healthy for an admittedly miserable teenager.
“Danny,” Maurice said carefully, leaning forward. “I need you to be honest with me. Are you eating?”
Danny cracked open an eye and lifted his head from Angela’s shoulder. He was suspiciously silent. Angela, unfortunately, wasn’t surprised. Neither she nor Maurice had been eating much, either.
It’s just, it was different when it was Danny. Because he was only fourteen, because Angela loved him nearly as much as she loved Tucker. Because Angela and Maurice were both helpers, and helping rarely went to themselves, just extended beyond.
“Danny, what are you eating?” Maurice pressed. When Danny continued not answering, Maurice continued, “because I saw what’s in that kitchen, Danny, and none of it’s edible anymore. What are you eating?”
Danny’s fingers twirled in Angela’s shirt, but there was still no answer. That was answer enough.
Maurice doesn’t press any further about that. He was a smart man, and he worked with teenagers at least sometimes. When a teenager didn’t want to answer, he simply wouldn’t. “Okay,” Maurice said. “Is someone staying with you, Danny? Or are you here alone?”
Danny still didn’t answer. He tucked back against Angela. Angela kissed him again.
“Danny, who is staying with you? Someone is, right?”
There was a tense moment. Then Danny breathed out something freezing cold, and he nodded. Angela sagged with relief.
“I’m so happy to hear that you’re not alone, Danny,” Maurice said. The words would sound fake and rehearsed from any other man, but Maurice was exceptional at putting real emotions behind them. Maurice really was happy to hear it, and not just because he was familiar with Danny. “Who has been staying with you?”
Danny sniffed. He finally picked his head up and backed out of Angela’s arms, wiping at his face. His cheeks were red and chapped. There was a travel tube of facial moisturizer in her purse, but she didn’t dig it out yet. “My… aunt,” Danny finally said, grimacing. “Was here for a few days. She couldn’t stay long. She lives alone, and she had her animals to take care of, and she couldn’t afford me anyway, and…”
Angela honestly couldn’t imagine being able to up and leave this poor thing, but what did she know?
“Who’s staying with you now?” Maurice insisted.
“My godfather has been, mostly. Vlad Masters. He’s been… out. Grieving, I think. I dunno. He comes back… stinking, though.”
“So no one’s here for you when it counts,” Angela concluded easily. She’d heard the name Vlad Masters from Tucker more than once, mostly through frustrated rants. Tucker was endlessly unimpressed with Vlad Masters. Between Tucker’s rants and this display of negligence, Angela was rather unimpressed, too.
“He’s here,” Danny corrected, although it lacked conviction. “He’s… just, he’s grieving.”
“So are you,” Maurice said. He looked at Angela, who looked back at him. The conviction lacking in Danny’s voice was present in their gaze. “Why don’t you go pack a bag.”
“…What?” Danny wondered.
“This place isn't suitable for you,” Angela agreed. “Pack a bag and you’ll come home with us. We have so many casseroles we’ll never be able to get through them. Help us clear them out.”
“I can’t—“
“Let Auntie Angela and Uncle Maurice take care of you, baby,” Angela insisted. “You need it. You deserve it.”
Danny looked between them. He shifted weight from one side of his body to the other. Then, debating. “…Vlad will wonder where I am,” Danny admitted so quietly.
“That’s alright,” Angela assured. “We’ll leave a note for him, with our name, address, and phone number so he can find you. But you need to not be here. You need to be with people who will love you.”
Danny looked at his lap. Adjusted his binder. Picked at his shirt. Finally mumbled, “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not. We’re insisting.”
It took a few extra long beats before Danny finally stood, mumbled something, and went upstairs. Angela sighed and slumped against the back of the couch, touching the spot on her shoulder where Danny had bawled. She didn’t know what about Phantom had set Danny off so badly, but that was Danny’s business to share if he so chose, and not Angela’s to press about.
Maurice nodded his head toward the kitchen and showed her what things he’d found. The kitchen was as spotless as the rest of the house, furiously cleaned in a bid for control, but the fridge was mold spore central aside from the few things that actually moved. There were several hot dogs in there, and they were all growling. This sort of mold and decay wasn’t just from two weeks untouched. Had Danny eaten everything edible, or had Jack and Maddie been back to neglecting parenting again? Angela loved Jack and Maddie, really she did, but there was a reason she invited Danny and even Jazz to their house for suppers so frequently.
She sighed. Her heart ached.
Danny came back down with a small purple duffle in hand and his pillow tucked beneath his arm. In the meantime, Angela wrote a note for Vlad and left it someplace prominent: Danny with us. Family friends. And accompanied it with their address and her cell phone number.
Angela and Maurice escorted him out of the house and into their warm car, only pausing to let Danny type his code into the panel and lock the place up tight. Danny looked up at the place, his old house, like he would never see it again. Maybe that was okay. He would stay, safe and warm at the Foleys. He wasn’t Angela’s baby, but he was close. Maybe it would be enough for her. Maybe, one day, it would even be enough for him. He could grieve his old life, but turn back to the new one, with Maurice and Angela supporting him as he needed, as he deserved.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Hubris
Summary: Wes had only wanted Fenton captured on film! Transforming! He had wanted the truth out there; for people to stop acting like he was insane, like he was in the wrong, like he was a freak. He hadn’t wanted Fenton captured by his parents. He hadn’t wanted Fenton captured in a government-sanctioned search and seizure. He hadn’t wanted Fenton captured kicking and screaming for his life, begging anyone around him to help, to understand. He hadn’t wanted this at all.
Words: 4,471
Trigger warnings for electrocution and torture of a teenager/child
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Janice Pumstone was having a perfectly, very normal day at work. The kids were being good, if a little goofy. Principal Ishiyama announced an entirely too peppy string of announcements in second period. Danny Fenton was late to two classes, left early from another, and missed one entirely. All normal. Completely normal.
And then the Fentons came in.
Jack and Maddie were frequent visitors of the high school. Their daughter Jazz was a senior and was well on her way to a 5.0 GPA, and one didn’t have a child like that by being totally absent parents. Their son Danny—yes, the one mentioned before—was a constant behavior case and had several marks on his record that the parents had to come down to talk about—although the school had stopped calling about all the absences and tardies last year. Even if their children weren’t the reason the Fenton parents came to the school, Casper High was a frequent setting for ghost fights, and they were always on the scene, even if they arrived long after Phantom put the ghost in question in his little thermos.
But, there was no ghost. Janice hadn’t heard a thing about a ghost, the ghost alarm hadn’t gone off. Not even Phantom, who sometimes flitted around before and after school, had been spotted according to the students. Why were they here?
They looked… dressed up. Different. Jack and Maddie both wore large metal belts around their waists. There were pistols in their belts, but the green on them told Janice exactly what they were for. With the frequency of ghost attacks, even some of the kids brought ectoguns to school, in case Phantom wasn’t quite fast enough to stop whichever one was attacking before someone was put in the line of danger. They were precautions, not necessities, but it made the kids feel safer.
Something different, though. Jack normally wore a huge smile on his face, even when he was coming to actually hunt a dangerous ghost. He didn’t. He looked mad. Maddie’s face was similar to how she normally looked, set and determined, but there was an anger in her face, too, that was different from usual.
“Hi,” Maddie said with a fake, cookie cutter smile. “Can you tell me where my son might be?” Her eyelid twitched after she said the word son, but Janice decided she didn’t notice that.
“I. Uh. He,” Janice said intelligently. She took a moment, then pulled up the kids’ schedules. Daniel James. Fenton. F. F. “Well, class just let out. He might be at his locker, but he is between history and English. Both are on the third floor, west wing.”
“Excellent!” chirped Maddie. She turned out of the office. Jack didn’t say anything. Just nodded and followed.
Even further to her surprise, ten men in pure white suits followed them without even stopping into the office. A chill went up and down Janice’s spine. This wasn’t right. Something was off.
So Janice did the right thing, she thought, and called her boss. Danny’s next class was with him anyway.
“…Hey, Bill? Something weird just happened. The Fentons are here. No, I know. That’s why… I don’t know. Something’s off. Please just keep an eye out.”
Graphic violence under the cut vvv
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Wes was feeling particularly smug today. He felt confident, he felt good. The whole school was days away from knowing the truth. The whole world was. Danny Fenton-Phantom would get what was coming to him, and Wes would rub it in his stupid face afterward. He’d make Fenton say it to the whole entire school. That Fenton was Phantom, not Wes. That Wes Weston was not a creep, was not crazy. That Wes Weston had been right all along.
That was all Wes wanted. To be right, and for people to know it.
So he’d sent his evidence in to some scary people. It had only been a few things, but it was proof! And Fenton was human, too, so it wasn’t like they’d do anything. They wouldn’t be that callous.
He never heard back, but he knew they’d received it. He knew in his gut.
And Kyle was gonna eat his words.
Between classes, Wes glanced over his shoulder to see Fenton standing around chatting with his friends. He had no idea, did he? He’d been fucking around with Wes for far too long—going intangible in plain sight just because he knew Wes could see him, flashing his glowy green eyes just because he was a little unhappy, unnatural bouts of inhuman strength especially for his scrawny body. Wes had seen it all, and now the world would.
And Wes only wanted a little recognition out of it. He didn’t want to be, like, world-famous about it or anything. Statewide, maybe even nationwide would be cool, but not the whole world.
A door at the end of the hallway suddenly opened up. Wes glanced over to see a pair of eerily recognizable adults, even if they seemed… different today.
The Fentons strode in. They had something strapped around their waists and another something strapped around their shoulders. Wes could see green glowing weapons holstered around their waists—ectoguns.
They looked mad.
What… were they doing here, dressed to the nines in ghost hunting gear? There had been no ghost alarms, and they didn’t go off around Fenton, since no one but him, Manson, and Foley knew yet.
Fenton didn’t notice them right away, but then Foley hit him and nodded at them. The Fentons looked around, and their eyes locked on Danny, and suddenly Wes’ stomach was in his toes. Something felt wrong.
“Hey, guys,” said Fenton, hand in his hair. “Haha, what are you doing here?”
Neither parent answered, nearing. Mr. Fenton looked angry.
“Did I forget something?” wondered Fenton. Beside him, Manson and Foley said, “hey, Mr. and Mrs. F.”
The air of the whole exchange changed when Mr. Fenton reached Fenton. The entire hallway came to a frozen halt when he reached out and slammed Fenton into the locker behind him so hard his head snapped back.
And then, in stormed ten men in pure white suits. All of them were also armed with ghost hunting gear.
Fenton recovered quickly (more proof) and looked up at his father, grabbing his hand, fingers inching toward the inner pulsepoint to squeeze. Mr. Fenton’s hand squeezed, and Wes thought for a second that he’d choke the afterlife out of him right there.
And then, an accusatory breath said “Phantom”.
Fenton’s pupils were pinpricks in his massive eyes. His response was as breathy as his father’s.
“How’d you find out?”
Mr. Fenton did not answer.
With Fenton and Mr. Fenton occupied with one another—one obviously threatening, the other squirming to get away—Mrs. Fenton took out another belt, one that matched the metal one around their waists. She moved forward, the belt going for Fenton’s waist.
Manson, who had been watching the scene play out with horror in her eyes, shouted “Wait!! Don’t!! You’re gonna kill him!!”
Mrs. Fenton looked at her. Wes couldn’t see the look, but he could read the increasing horror on Manson and Foley. She… didn’t care. She didn’t care that that was her kid, and she didn’t care that whatever she was trying to put on him was going to kill more than just his social life (was going to kill him even more than he already had been).
Mrs. Fenton moved back to Fenton. Manson lunged for her, Foley not far behind, but one of the guys in white—wait, one of the Guys in White—grabbed both of them and held them back.
Fenton’s eyes flickered around and landed on his mother and the belt, and he started kicking and squirming. He choked when Mr. Fenton shoved on his solar plexus somehow harder.
“Quit squirming.”
Fenton didn’t. Still, Mrs. Fenton moved around and clipped the belt around Fenton’s waist.
The hall was lit up in a magnificent, horrifying display of dancing yellow and white lights. Fenton’s scream echoed through the hallways and came back toward them with a vengeance. His father dropped him, but Fenton didn’t stop screaming and the lights didn’t stop dancing. A white ring that Wes had seen once and only once, way back when, appeared around his waist, and then vanished with an inaudible pop.
“Danny!” Manson and Foley both sobbed. They were still in the agents’ arms, watching as everyone did with horror. Similarly, Wes stood with his hands clapped over his gaping mouth, disbelieving.
What
The actual fuck
Was happening?
Only when the scent of burnt hair and flesh permeated the hallway did the electricity pulsing through Fenton’s skin apparently stop. He slumped there on the floor, fully laid out in front of his folks who stood just… watching him. Wes didn’t even see his back moving with breath. God. Was he dead? All the way dead? Had the Fentons just killed their son, right in the middle of the school, right in front of government agents?
“DANNY!!” yelped a voice Wes knew well. Long ginger hair chased a tall girl in a black sweater. Jazz—Fenton’s older sister—tore down the hallway from the Senior wing and came to a stop, staring at her brother. She was probably thinking the same thing that anyone watching this was. Surely, this wasn’t real?
Then, she lunged. Unlike Manson and Foley, she was not so easily stopped. She bunched her fists and met her father head on, pounding them on his back. Mr. Fenton didn’t even seem to notice them—he was a big man, her punches were probably little more than mosquito bites. Annoying, but not so much that he stopped in his quest. Whatever that quest was.
Torture, it had to be. Wes didn’t know what else it could be. He had never thought… that it would come to this.
He’d just wanted people to know.
The body—because surely after all that it was just a body—moved. Slowly. But it did. Its shoulders started picking it up achingly slow. Wes thought a lot of things about Phantom, very few of them truly good, but prior to this, he had had to hand it to it: Phantom always got back up.
Now, with a mix of red and green—blood and ectoplasm—dripping from his face as his nose and ears bled sluggishly, Wes was parsing together that that, maybe, wasn’t such a good thing.
The body—Fenton, he was still a human even if it was only half—picked himself all the way up. His elbows locked as he worked his knees beneath him. He was going to try getting to his feet next, Wes just knew it, but he didn’t want to see Fenton stumble and collapse into a puddle of his own bodily fluids.
But he didn’t. He just stopped there, quaking. Of course he was.
And then, words.
“You don’t… understand,” Fenton said. He coughed hard, and a bubble of blood and ectoplasm burst somewhere in his throat and splattered on the ground under him. “You don’t understand,” he said again, a little steadier, as if the words brought him conviction rather than dread. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand. You don’t understand.”
It was a mantra. Maybe he was getting strength from it. Maybe it was one of his ghostly abilities. Wes had heard him yell “I’m going ghost!” to the whole world; maybe those words gave him strength, too? Or maybe Wes was just reaching.
“Danny!” Jazz called on the other side of her father, who was holding her back now, keeping her from Fenton. Maybe he thought he was protecting her. Or maybe he cared more about obtaining his specimen than preserving their relationship? They’d apparently already lost one, what was one more?
Fenton looked at her. Wes thought he might vomit.
“You have to Wail!” Jazz cried loudly. “We’ll be okay, but you have to get out of here! Wail!”
Wes was pale; even if they didn’t see it often, Wes had been cataloging Phantom’s actions and abilities for the better part of a year now. He knew what the Wail was. It was devastating.
Fenton pathetically got to his feet, a hand braced on the wall. His mother took out her ectogun and pointed it at him. One hand still braced, the other bunched in a fist, Fenton squared his feet and sucked in a huge breath. Wes braced himself for destruction.
Before the spectral attack came forth, though, Mr. Fenton moved forward. Wes saw something in his hands he’d never seen before—a slightly rounded something like a mask with a short structure protruding from the concave side. He took the thing and shoved it towards Fenton’s face, sunk the protruding structure into his mouth, forcing the sonic attack to stop before it even began.
When the man pulled away, Danny Fenton was muzzled like an animal.
Mr. Fenton seized the front of Fenton’s shirt, now that he was safely muzzled and subdued. He lifted him right off his feet and shoved him back into the wall, again smacking his head on the wall. It occurred to Wes too late—could ghosts or half-ghosts get concussions?
“How dare you,” snarled Mr. Fenton. “You would have killed anyone in this school. They’re children, but I suppose you don’t care about that. They’re just a cover story for you.”
Fenton shook his head. Wes could see it now—tears fell freely down his face as he tried to fight Mr. Fenton’s grasp unsuccessfully. His hands were back on Mr. Fenton’s hammy fist, trying to get him to back off but probably too weak, now, to do it properly.
“I’m through with all this. All your games, all your lies,” Mr. Fenton continued, voice so low Wes almost couldn’t hear it. “Whatever the truth is, we’re going to get it out of you.” He leaned in close, so close their noses nearly touched. Fenton squirmed uselessly. “Molecule. By. Molecule.”
“NO!” Jazz yelled.
“Saved by the Light, people, what is going on here?”
Mr. Lancer made a gracious entrance from a different hallway. He looked a little frazzled—maybe a student had managed to tear their eyes away long enough to fetch him.
“This doesn’t concern you,” one of the agents said, moving in front of Lancer.
Lancer glanced around, looked at the Fenton adults, saw the way Mr. Fenton had his son pinned to the wall and muzzled. “Like hell it doesn’t! That’s my student!” He turned to a nearby student and hissed to call the police.
“That won’t be necessary,” one of the agents said. “The government has already wiped Daniel Fenton off the record. As far as anyone knows, he doesn’t exist. Any calls made on behalf of Fenton will be rerouted to the Ghost Investigation Ward.”
They’d removed Fenton from government existence? But he was human! Even if he had some… spooky qualities, surely they couldn’t just—
But they had. There was a terrifying truth in their statement. They had. Because they were sitting back and watching as a pair of parents tortured their half-ghost son.
“He’s right there, he clearly exists!” Lancer snarled.
“That’s an ecto-entity with impressive manipulative powers. Nothing more. Back off, Lancer,” the agent said, like he just knew who he was.
“Help!” Jazz sobbed, having a hard time staying on her feet with the force of her emotions. “P-please, help, h-he’s good…!”
Manson and Foley were still fighting with their captors. It had waned while Fenton was muzzled, but they fought with renewed strength at Jazz’s plea. Wes thought he saw teeth flash, but he couldn’t tell.
This was all wrong. He hoped one of them bit them.
Lancer moved forward toward the fracturing family, but one of the agents put his arm out to stop him. Lancer turned burning eyes on him. Lancer was good at many things, one of which was taking care of his students. He was always the first in and last out before and after ghost attacks, and frequently tucked stray students behind him if he felt it necessary. Wes was pretty sure he could remember Lancer trying to deck a ghost once, and briefly succeeding, too. So Wes wasn’t that surprised when the agent whose arm was in his way suddenly got a swift punch in the face.
Unfortunately, though the intention was good, that agent and two others near him tackled Lancer and pinned him to the floor, accusing him of being uncooperative, and he was lucky they were there dealing with a certain violent ecto-entity and didn’t have the time for small fry like him.
“Enough!” Mrs. Fenton this time snapped, looking up at Fenton. “You’ve manipulated enough people; my family least of all, but can’t you see that you’re getting innocent people hurt?” She gestured back towards Lancer.
Fenton was shaking his head, eyes closed. Probably trying to chase away… everything that was happening today. Wes always had a lot of Things to say about Fenton, but he couldn’t fault him for that.
“You just don’t care,” Mrs. Fenton concluded. “That’s what I thought.”
If Fenton nodded, it would look like he agreed. If he shook his head, it could just as easily be interpreted as agreement. The only chance Fenton had was talking his way out of this, but the muzzle prevented that. Wes wanted to do something, put a stop to this, but he didn’t know what to do. These were adults around him, adults who were supposed to know better. How was Wes meant to contend with that?
Suddenly, there was a loud beep from the Fentons. Mr. Fenton dropped Fenton at his feet and—god, again electricity arched up and down his body. Why?! Wes hadn’t seen Fenton do anything that would require payback! But Fenton’s screams, even hidden behind a muzzle, echoed through the walls of Casper High. That stench—burnt hair, burnt flesh, burnt ozone—thickened the hallway again. Wes fought down the need to gag.
The white ring appeared again around Fenton’s waist as he writhed. This time it didn’t flicker on and off, rather split and moved up and down. This was a moment Wes had been looking forward to, but not like this, not at all like this. A familiar black jumpsuit slowly revealed itself, until that familiar DP insignia was visible and solidified what, exactly, was happening to anyone unlike Wes, anyone who didn’t strictly know.
“Stop!” a few students called. Not just Jazz, some of the onlookers, too. Wes thought his own voice may have been added in there. The Fentons didn’t stop, but Fenton wrangled the rings back down his body, not triggering the full transformation. The rings vanished and he was in his normal human clothes.
“God, stop this!” cried a different voice. Was that Dash? It sounded like it.
The body slumped again as the belt (?) shut off and electricity stopped pumping into him. He twitched and jerked and spasmed, whatever energy was leftover from the attack rocketing through and out of him. This time, Fenton did not try to get up. Maybe he really was fully dead now. Maybe… maybe that would be better.
After everything they had just witnessed, Wes hardly thought anything of it when Mr. Fenton crouched and gathered Fenton up, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. There really was no other logical conclusion, but the position, with Fenton’s head flopped over his shoulder, face toward Wes, made the muzzle even more obvious to the wandering eye. It glinted charcoal gray at him, but with that eerie green ghostly F dead in the center claiming it as FentonWorks tech. Worse than that was the streams of mixed red and green that spilled from his nose, his eyes, his ears.
Worse still, even though Fenton was fully unconscious if there was any life in him at all, eight of the Guys in White operatives aimed their ecto-weaponry at the body. Eight red dots lit on his back and head made it clear who, exactly, every single one of them was aiming for.
And… that was it. Without even an apology to the students for the horror show they had all been forced to watch unprompted, without even a glance to their daughter, to Mr. Lancer, to Manson or Foley, Mrs. Fenton led the way to the stairwell with Mr. Fenton close behind and their son slung over his shoulder. The eight agents with weapons drawn followed, those red dots never leaving Fenton’s prone, near-lifeless body.
“WAIT!!” Jazz cried once she collected her bearings. Like her parents, she ignored everyone around her, brushed off offers to help her to her feet and questions if she was alright and what the hell just happened. Instead, Jazz jumped to her feet on her own and chased the Guys in White out of the hallway. “You don’t understand! You have to listen to me!” Her voice echoed through the hallways, almost as eerily as her brother’s tortured screams.
Lancer, once he got back on his feet, chased after her calling “Miss Fenton! Miss Fenton!” And then he and his calls were gone, and the hallway and what felt like the entire school fell into an eerie silence.
Then, Manson collapsed. She fell into broken sobs, and Foley fell into equally broken cries on top of her, holding one another. Gray approached them from… somewhere and put her hands on their backs, and the three of them sat together. Motion in the hallway started up again, and Wes was sure he saw several people move towards the bathrooms.
Wes didn’t. He couldn’t make himself move. Instead, he stared at the spot burnt black on the ground where Fenton had been tortured. His hands quaked. Vomit was broiling at the base of his throat but wasn’t coming up yet, thank god. Whenever it did push up, Wes wasn’t sure he would be able to swallow it.
Because this hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have happened. Right? Not even the worst parents in the world could storm into a high school, torture their son, and carry him out more-than-half dead and muzzled, and they certainly couldn’t do that in front of at least three teachers, most of the student body, and no less than ten government agents. It had to be some horrible, awful dream. When Wes woke up, he would never have sent the evidence in. Or he did, but everyone acted normal about his evidence. A little shocked, but not… not… not like that.
A voice, sharp commanding and hard, was the only thing that was able to break Wes from his spiraling thoughts.
“Wesley Weston?”
Wes flinched at the use of his full name. Only his mom was allowed to use his full government name. He looked up to see two of the Guys in White—or, Ghost Investigation Ward, whatever they were calling themselves now. They watched, their hands tucked neatly behind their backs.
“Uh… yeah,” Wes said, wishing very much in that moment that he was not Wesley Weston. He glanced side to side, saw Manson and Foley watching him with fire burning in their eyes, and then looked away. This had to be a prank. It was a prank. Someone—maybe the real Fenton, or one of his duplicates or something—was going to jump out of a locker and shout “you’ve been Punk’d!”
No one did, though. And if they were going to do that, they needed to hurry up and do it soon, before it became impossible to pretend it was fake anymore.
The man with the handlebar mustache, the one who looked the most important, stretched out his hand for a shake. Wes looked at him, looked at his hand, looked at him and then extended his own, much smaller hand to shake back. He tried not to be offended when the Guy in White immediately took out a bottle of spray sanitizer and spritzed his hands clean.
“Well done, son,” said the Guy in White. He took something out of his back pocket, something leather (or, pleather, but Wes wouldn’t know the difference) and a pen. He wrote something in his little book and, much to Wes’ surprise, he cut him a check.
The Guy in White gave Wes a smile. Or something that passed for a smile anyway, in the glare of the fluorescent lights. He handed the check to Wes with no preamble. When Wes took it and looked it over, he noted the zeroes. There were too many. Each one made Wes’ stomach clench with guilt.
“This should cover everything,” the agent said plainly. “Plus the thanks of the US government. We will need to confiscate all evidence you have on Phantom.”
It wasn’t a question. Wes didn’t say no. He had a feeling he couldn’t.
He wanted to tear the check in his hands into a million billion little pieces. Scatter them all on the agent’s feet. But that wouldn’t stop Fenton from being gone. That wouldn’t stop them from taking his stuff, anyway. So, he thought, college. He could pay for college.
Immediately after, he thought, Fenton.
“But he’s human,” Wes said in a tiny voice, still staring at the check, at all the zeroes. There were four of them. Six, counting the cents. Had he sold Phantom—sold Fenton for five figures?
“It’s a powerful spectral entity,” said the Guy in White simply.
Wes looked up at him, looked at his fellow agent. Looked around at the hallway. Eyes were on him. “He’s their son.”
“It’s a monster,” the Guy in White continued. He sighed, cradled his head in one hand, mumbled something about not working with kids. “Look. You’ve done your part. You helped take a dangerous ecto-entity out of the skies. You should be proud.”
Hadn’t Wes thought that same thing, just a few days ago? When he gathered everything he had, all of his evidence, and decided that it was, actually, his business to tell the whole world that Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom were one and the same?
If he was supposed to feel proud, why did he feel so revolting?
On the other side of the blackened stain that would forever mar Casper High even if they got it chemically clean, Paulina Sanchez stirred from her baffled trance and looked between the weeping trio, the stain, the conversation. “...Wait,” she said. Wes looked up at her. She looked pale as… well, pale as death. “I don’t understand. Danny Fenton is Danny… Phantom? Wes was right?”
Those were the very words that Wes had longed to hear since the moment he’d pieced together Fenton’s secret last year. Now, though, they didn’t feel like he had imagined they would feel. No, they didn’t feel good at all.
Summary: In “The Ring (But Not Scary)”, Bob said some things to his kids that he probably shouldn’t have and forgot to take them back. So...
Mostly family fic, consistent lowlevel BobLin (because Bob stans Linda and Linda stans Bob)
Also found on AO3. One chapter for now but I have thoughts for more.
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“Pile in, everyone,” said Nat with a smile, holding open the door of her limo. “It’s late, I’ll get everyone home.”
“I have to drive Gayle home,” Linda denied. Gayle, looking particularly exhausted, was already climbing into the back of the station wagon. “D’awww, but thanks for coming to the kids’ help, Nat! It was so nice to see you again! We’ve got to find time to go shopping sometime!”
Gene dove into the back of the limo, ignoring a solid five feet of ground. Louise hopped in with both feet, Tina following calmly.
“If you’re free on Sunday, I’ve got to shop for Mark’s enclosure, you’re free to come.”
“Who’s Mark and where are you enclosing him?” Louise asked, poking her head out.
Nat laughed, “Mark is my komodo dragon, he needs some fresh resting rocks, best place is out a few miles on Route 1.”
“Ooooh, exotic,” Linda cooed, flashing eyes to Bob. “You can handle the restaurant, can’t you?”
Bob groaned, but more for theatrics than anything. “Fine, go komodo dragon shopping. Don’t bring one home!”
“You’re no fun,” Linda laughed. She reached out and pulled Nat into a hug. “I’ll call you Sunday, it’s a date! Don’t be jealous, Bobby.”
“I said you could go, I’m not gonna get jealous.”
Linda just laughed again. “I’d better get Gayle home real soon or she won’t get outta the car. I’ll see you at home. Be safe!” Linda reached to cup Bob’s cheek and pull him into a kiss, then leaned and blew kisses to the kids in the back seat. “See you at home, babies. Go right to bed!”
“Bye, Mom,” the kids all called, waving. Linda climbed into the station wagon, still blowing kisses, and she and Gayle took off toward Gayle’s neighborhood.
“Nat,” Bob said, turning on the woman. “You sure you don’t mind bringing us home?”
“Of course not, Bob,” Nat said with a wave of her hand, gesturing to the back door. “What kind of person would I be if I let Linda’s kids and husband get kidnapped or murdered on the way home in the middle of the night?”
“I mean, I doubt if we’d get kidnapped or murdered on the way home, so.”
“Yeah! Kidnapped and murdered!” Gene crowed.
“Gene.” Bob sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Would it be less weird if I sat in the front with you? You know, since I’m an adult and also not your customer right now?”
“No, it’d still be weird,” Nat denied, gesturing one last time to the back door. “I like to spread out.”
“Spread out? No, nevermind. I don’t want to know. Thanks, Nat.” He took a breath and ducked his head to step into the limo. The kids lined up on the bench at the back, so he sat on the side-facing one, spreading out comfortably.
“Of course, Bob. Buckle up!” Nat dropped into the driver’s seat, laughing to herself. “Sorry, limo driving humor. There are no seat belts! Louise, no sunroof.”
“I know!”
The drive was almost uncomfortably quiet. Despite playing for hours in the day and an hour at night at a waterpark, the kids were completely silent. Louise picked her shorts, Tina tapped her heels together. Maybe they were sleepy, but they didn’t look sleepy. Bob figured he’d be carrying maybe one of them to bed when he got home. Gene probably, the way his head was low.
Nat pulled up in front of the restaurant, stepping out to open the back door. Bob climbed out, thanking her, and went to unlock the front door and drag tired kids to bed. All three were awake enough, still suspiciously quiet (although they also thanked her, because in spite of it all they were good kids).
“Bed, all three of you,” Bob crooned when they passed him. “I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in. Good night.”
“Night…” called three little voices from up the stairs. Affection coursing through his veins, Bob closed the door to seal the warmth in and turned to Nat. “Thanks again, Nat. Sorry to drag you out in the middle of the night. And to a waterpark of all places.”
“My pleasure! What’s a day without a little adventure in it? You and Linda are cute, you know. Two of a kind. I hope the whole thing lasts.”
“Yeah, well. Me too,” Bob laughed. “For the trouble, why don’t you come here sometime? Burger on the house. Just, uh, not now. I’m so tired.”
“Sure, I’d love to! Linda always says such nice things about your food, I’d love to check it out. Anyway, I gotta bounce, make sure Mark hasn’t taken over my whole bed. Take good care of those kids, Bob. They’re keepers.”
Again, affection and warmth pelted into his veins. Something about someone else telling him his kids were good (not strange, awkward, inappropriate, a menace to society) was incredibly heartening.
Like Linda said. They were good parents.
“Yeah, I’ll do my best. Good night, Nat. Good luck with, uh, Mark.”
Nat half-saluted, getting back into her limo and peeling out down the road. Bob shook his head when she left, once again astounded by the amalgamation of friends they had, then turned back to the door to tuck the kids in and wish them good night.
Things were still eerily quiet when he went upstairs. The kids’ doors were all shut. Had they climbed into bed already?
“Hey,” he said, knocking on Tina’s door. “You three brush your teeth?”
A long pause, and then Tina opened her door and stepped under his arm, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry,” she said softly, moving to the bathroom. Two more doors opened as Gene and Louise also picked their way to the bathroom, also avoiding his eyes.
What. They wouldn’t even look at him?
“Good night,” he said again as they turned around, mouths freshly cleaned. “Sleep well.”
No answer as the three doors closed, occupants tucked safely inside. Bob frowned, glancing from door to door, and sighed a long sigh. Things would be different in the morning. They always were.
For now, though, he would go and watch TV. He was tired—so tired—but Linda would be driving home disgustingly early in the morning, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew she was home safe and sound.
Banjo was on TV28, but it wasn’t a particular favorite of his, so he put it on to pass the time, but didn’t really watch. He had to think up something to do for Linda tomorrow now that his original, blow-their-anniversary-out-of-the-water idea had been ruined.
Maybe he could name a Burger of the Day after her, somehow. That would be cute.
The Leaf It to Linda burger. Comes with green leaf lettuce and lentils.
Bob groaned and tossed that idea far away. It was about as symbolic as his infamous heart-shaped food gifts. Maybe he could just make her an omelet.
Maybe he should give up. He was good at that. Hell, just earlier he’d done it. Given up on the ring. At least Linda would know what to expect. She’d have to drag him from the bottom of the lazy river, which might be a surprise, but…
Well, no. The kids had done that instead. Which was a lot to expect from a thirteen, eleven, and nine-year old.
As frustrating as they were—and they were so frustrating sometimes, but Bob figured that was just being a parent—they had still turned it around and done their best to locate the ring. Gene had been diligent with his best guess of a time table, telling them with startling intensity which rides he had been on in which order and for how long. They’d been out for at least an hour, probably closer to two or three, searching with the rest of the adults for would-be-Linda’s lost ring.
And then, just as Bob had given up and was ready to nail his own coffin shut and drop it into the grave of “worst husband ever”, they had all turned around and apologized.
And he…
He…
“Craaaaaaaap.”
He’d never said a word! Nat had distracted him, and after that Mr. Wetty had shown up, and then Linda, and he was too busy falling in love all over again to realize he and his kids had to have a serious chat.
“Crap crap crap crap.”
And after everything he’d said? Spending as long as he had in the water had seriously cooled Bob’s temper, and thinking back on it, he’d said some awful things. They could never speak to him again? They weren’t his kids anymore? They couldn’t come to his funeral?
What kind of a dad said things like that!
And what poor Louise had said? “Do you want us to go live somewhere else? We can go to an orphanage for a while,” and Bob hadn’t had the attention to deny it.
Shit.
Bob took a deep, calming breath. He had to be calm about this, because any level of emotion beyond reasonable may just signal to them that they were about to be kicked out of their own home, and that was simply and purely unacceptable.
“Hey kids? Can you come out here? We’ve gotta talk.”
It was silent for a few beats, and then doors opened as three pairs of little bare feet padded their way out, Tina in the lead. She stopped just at the cusp of the living room, her younger siblings hidden behind her.
Bob sighed, surprise affection again coiling in his belly. They were so cute. “Come,” he said, nodding to the couch. “Come sit. No one’s in trouble.” They really should be, probably, but it was clear they had taken his words hard. Maybe that was enough punishment for one day.
Or maybe they should be grounded for a bit. Louise at least would definitely interpret this as “look sad to get out of trouble”.
The kids piled onto the couch, Louise squished between Gene and Tina. Bob sat on the coffee table to get to their level, resting his elbows on his knees. “First of all,” he said, looking between them, “thank you for coming to help look for the ring. You shouldn’t have taken it out of the house, and definitely not to a waterpark, but I still appreciate that you tried to fix it.”
“I didn’t mean to, Dad!” Gene said, voice quiet. “We were trying it on and it got stuck!”
Bob sighed through his nose. “I understand,” he lied, because these were thirteen-year-olds at most and at their age, he definitely had not wanted to try on his parents’ jewelry. “You and your mom have surprisingly similar finger sizes.”
“We’re sorry,” Louise said, her ears drooping just a tad as if she was in control of them. “Do… we… when do you want us to go? There’s an orphanage on the other side of town, and—“
“Louise, no,” Bob cut her off, heart tight. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The three all cringed, like somehow that was worse. Maybe they were thinking of different things. Maybe they thought Bob would do worse.
God, had he ever implied…?
“Yes, you’re all still grounded. But until the end of the week, not the rest of your lives.” He reached both hands out, one cupping Gene’s shoulder and the other cupping Tina’s. He looked all three of them full in the face, making sure he had their full attention. “And you’re not moving out, or getting kicked out, or whatever. Of course not. You were just being kids, and I don’t know what I expected, hiding anything expensive in this house with these kids.” He sighed quietly, but looked back up wearing a soft smile for them. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry. No matter how angry or frustrated I was, I shouldn’t have said what I did to you. You’re my kids, and no matter what, I love you. Okay?”
Louise looked back and forth between her older siblings, squirming nervously. Tina finally looked up at him, big blue eyes wet like she thought she’d cry. Bob’s heart would surely break if she did. “…Okay. Promise?”
“I swear.”
“Okay…” Gene and Louise copied. Louise was fisting her pants, looking down toward her little feet, and Gene squirmed.
“Bring it in?” Bob dropped their shoulders and widened his arms, urging them in.
It took no further prompting. Louise hopped off the couch and into his lap in two hops, while Gene and Tina just slid into place in either arm. Bob squeezed them tight, hoping he could translate his affection into hug form. He felt Tina’s glasses press against his shoulder and wiggled her just a little, until she squirmed and the glasses pushed up. Gene copied her, his eyes on his other shoulder, while Louise clung to the front of his shirt like a lifeline.
God. These were his babies, and they were the most precious things in the world to him.
One by one, he brushed back the bangs (and hat) on their foreheads and pressed a hard kiss there. “I promise,” he said firmly, even more when he felt the shoulder Gene was perched in get just a little bit wet, “that everything is okay between us. I’m still mad, but that’s never gonna change how much I love you.” He kissed Gene one last time, who was surely reeling a little harder than his sisters and always seemed more emotional than them. “You’re still my babies.”
Louise breathed a little, shaken sob and buried her face in his shirt. He squeezed them impossibly tighter to chase away hurt feelings, loving them up.
Bob wasn’t sure how long they remained there. But before they could separate, someone gasped behind them, and Linda appeared next to Gene. “My family!” She crowed, as she was wont to do. Her arms fit around them, one around Bob and one around the kids, and she squeezed them even tighter in a backbreaking hug that had the kids laughing.
“Ow, Lin!” Bob laughed after a moment, but didn’t in the slightest fight her off. Her arm around him and his arms around the kids just felt so right. This was just where the five of them belonged.
