When Danny woke, it was to a surprising and profound silence. The mattress beneath him was soft, actually cushioning his weight—a stark contrast to the thin, worn one in his apartment. The air was still and cool, absent the distant sirens, traffic hum, and most importantly, the ever-present, subtle vibration of Fenton technology. For one blissful, disorienting moment, his mind was blank.
Then, consciousness returned with a jolt. His senses screamed that this was wrong. The air was too still, the bed too soft, the silence too complete. He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar white ceiling, and a bolt of pure, animal panic shot through him. Where am I? What happened?
He scrambled upright, heart hammering against his ribs, staring wildly at the foreign closet, the desk, the walls. The frantic questions ricocheted in his skull for a terrifying second before the memories of the previous night crashed back in.
A long, stressed groan escaped him as he buried his face in his hands, dragging them down his cheeks before flopping back onto the bed like a dead weight. The fleeting comfort was gone, shattered by the cold, absurd reality of his situation. The stress of it all settled into a familiar, bone-deep exhaustion.
________________________________________
“Morning,” Wes greeted, his voice hoarse. He gestured to the toaster with the plate. “Tried making breakfast. Apparently, I'm better at documenting stuff than I am at cooking.” He frowned at the appliance as if it had personally betrayed him.
“Good riddance, I hate toast,” Danny grumbled, moving to the counter to pour his own mug. It was too early and he was too tired to function without caffeine.
A heavy silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of Wes dumping his failed attempt in the trash and rummaging for a replacement. It was Tuesday. They had three days.
"So," Wes said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "We need to get to work."
Danny looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Work?"
"Yeah. The apartment," Wes said, gesturing around the clean, modern space. "It looks like a showroom. We need to make it look like someone has actually been living here for more than a night."
"You want me to decorate?" Danny asked, incredulity seeping into his tired voice.
"More like 'strategically place your things around the apartment' to sell the illusion," Wes corrected. "He's not stupid. Wally notices things."
________________________________________
The next few hours were a strange, silent blur. They moved Danny's meager boxes into the living room, and Wes began his meticulous work. Danny watched, a feeling of unease slowly being replaced by morbid fascination as Wes, the guy who had once stalked him, carefully arranged his astronomy books alongside his own on the shelf. It was a bizarre, unsettling intimacy.
"This one goes on the nightstand," Wes said, holding up a small picture frame.
Danny's breath hitched. It was a photo of him, Sam, and Tucker at Nasty Burger, taken by Jazz after they’d survived their last high school project. They were making silly faces, looking happy. He’d almost forgotten it existed, hadn't realized he’d packed it—a tiny, precious artifact salvaged from the chaotic danger of his parents' house.
Wes was standing in the middle of his own bedroom, holding up a photo of Danny's life before this weirdness began—before he had to pack his life into a few boxes and basically flee his parents' house to face adulthood on his own. The thought of sleeping in this room, in this bed, with Wes made a wave of nausea roll through Danny, a thick, sour feeling rising in his throat as if he were about to throw up.
"W-Why?" Danny began, the word strangled. He forced himself to try again. "Why... here?"
Wes noticed the strain in his voice, his confident posture deflating slightly. He looked from the photo to Danny, his expression softening with a flicker of genuine concern. He didn't answer immediately, instead placing the frame carefully on the nightstand. The simple act was weighted with unspoken meaning.
"Because couples have pictures... in their bedroom," Wes said, his voice quieter than before. He ran a hand over the wooden surface, not meeting Danny's eyes. "It's for Wally. It makes it real."
Danny just stared at the picture, the memory feeling like it belonged to another person. He had to become that person. He cleared his throat, the sound rough. "I'm... going to use the bathroom. I'll be right out."
He didn't wait for an answer, turning and fleeing down the hall, leaving Wes alone.
Wes stood there in the sudden silence, looking at the photograph of a grinning, younger Danny. A twinge of something that wasn't panic—concern—pricked at him. This was more complicated than he’d anticipated. He’d seen Danny’s empty apartment, figured he was just a broke kid seeking independence. But the way he talked about his parents, the reaction to the photo… it hinted at something else. A tiny part of his brain, the part that had been obsessed with Danny Phantom, wondered.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. This was for Wally. Perfect, impressive Wally, who he’d always struggled to measure up to. This boyfriend, this complex, interesting person, was supposed to be his way to finally be enough. But looking at the photo, Danny didn’t look like a trophy. He looked tired. The knot in Wes’s stomach tightened. He’d roped Danny into this out of pure desperation. Now, he was starting to wonder if it was a terrible mistake.
________________________________________
Danny closed the bathroom door behind him, the click of the lock a final, definitive sound. He leaned against it, his head swimming and the sour feeling still lingering in his throat. He ran the cold water, splashing it onto his face until the chill numbed his skin. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes wide and panicked, his face pale.
Get a grip, Fenton.
He’d done this a million times. He spent all of high school pretending he wasn't half-ghost, faking normal for his friends, his teachers, and his parents. He'd put on a show of being a normal teenage boy because he didn't want to burden Sam and Tucker with his problems or make his parents any crazier than they already were. He was a professional pretender. He could do this. He was just out of practice.
The thought of spending the next three days in a state of constant, low-grade panic, digging his heels in at every step of Wes's chaotic plan, made his head pound. He could either let the situation drive him insane, or he could commit. He had to make this work, for his own sanity. This wasn't about his rent, or his classes, or any of those flimsy excuses he'd told himself to justify it; it was about dealing with a disaster waiting to happen without losing his mind.
He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the living room where the boxes sat. Wes, lingering in his bedroom doorway, looked up, confusion on his face.
"Wes," Danny said, his voice flat and devoid of its earlier exhaustion.
Wes blinked. "Oh. Hey. Are you... okay?"
"I'm fine," Danny replied, a tone of finality closing the subject. He knelt and ripped open a box with his keys. "You said we needed to make this place look 'lived-in,' right?"
"Yeah, but... " Wes stammered, thrown by the shift. "I thought we were done for a bit."
"We're behind schedule," Danny stated, already pulling out items. He placed a battered math textbook on a side table, a moon-shaped charm on the mantel, and with a practiced flick, draped his space-themed blanket over the couch arm. "This makes it look like I actually live here and don't just exist," he said without looking up.
He held up a tattered copy of Moby Dick. "This one. Should it go here, or is that too obvious?"
Wes stared, completely thrown. The exhausted, nauseated guy was gone, replaced by a focused, no-nonsense strategist. "I don't... I don't care where the book goes," he said slowly.
"You should," Danny countered, finally glancing at him. "It has to look natural. Like we have a shared interest." He placed it on a shelf among Wes's books. "I started reading these because of Lancer. He said classic novels were 'the original ghost stories.'"
Wes's eyes widened slightly at the offhand ghost mention, but he recovered quickly. "Okay. Wow. I see. You're... on board now."
Danny didn't stop. He simply shrugged, picking up more books. "I told you. I commit to the bit."
________________________________________
By lunchtime, the apartment looked genuinely lived-in. Danny stood in the kitchen, staring into the pantry with a clinical focus.
Wes walked in, a mix of bewilderment and amusement on his face. "So… lunch? Or do you have to consult a schematic for that, too?"
Danny didn’t crack a smile. "We need a shared narrative for meals. What do you have?"
Wes raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, fair. My brother's a food snob. What's the story? I can't cook."
Danny nodded as if filing data. "You can say I'm the designated cook. My parents… their 'work' contaminated the house. Specimens in the fridge, ectoplasm on the countertops… proper food prep wasn't an option. I taught myself. I'm particular about cleanliness and method. I follow recipes. I've also had to eat the same few things on a loop for most of my life, so I'm determined to try a new recipe whenever I can."
Wes’s jaw dropped slightly. He’d expected a grumble about sandwiches, not a full tactical briefing. The clinical, detached way Danny spoke was unsettling. The idea of ectoplasm near food sent a shiver down his spine. This wasn't just a bizarre performance for his benefit. This was real. A small pang went through his chest—not at the monotony, but at the resigned way Danny explained it. He wasn't an enigma here; he was just a tired kid who’d never had the simple pleasure of a safe kitchen. He didn't know if it really made it any better to be honest.
"Okay," Wes said slowly, processing. "I've got the 'meticulous rookie chef' angle. What do I tell them about you?"
"That's for you to figure out," Danny said simply, turning back to the pantry. "We have meat, potatoes, tomatoes. I can make a stew."
"A stew," Wes repeated. "Alright. We're a stew-eating couple." A beat passed. "I'll do the chopping if you handle the, uh, meticulous cleaning."
Danny simply nodded, grabbing a knife and placing it on the counter with a quiet, definitive thud.
________________________________________
The next hour passed in a quiet rhythm, a natural and easy flow that was a stark contrast to the strained silence and uneasy conversation that had defined their morning. Danny, armed with a cutting board and a knife, moved with a practiced, almost surgical precision. He meticulously chopped vegetables, his hands a blur of motion as he separated the bits that were too bruised or old and discarded them. Wes, a bit clumsy at first, was put on chopping duty, and Danny's voice, a steady, calm hum in the background, guided him through it.
“Make sure the cuts are even,” Danny said, his tone devoid of emotion, “it ensures they all cook at the same rate. You want consistency. It’s important.”
Wes nodded, his knife-work a bit clumsy at first, but he quickly fell into a rhythm. Danny continued, explaining his reasoning for every step, the words sounding more like a lecture than an instruction. He talked about the importance of a clean surface to prevent cross-contamination, the science behind browning the meat before adding liquids, and the precise moment to add spices to maximize their flavor. It was still far from what he expected, but this felt more natural than those first moments after Danny came back from the bathroom. Danny was meticulous, precise like a surgeon, but he had a serene aura that made him look more relaxed than Wes had ever seen before.
Despite his strictness, Danny was surprisingly patient. When Wes's knife slipped and he sliced a potato unevenly, Danny simply reached over, took the knife, and with a few swift, efficient motions, fixed the mistake. He didn't get angry or even sigh in frustration. He just corrected it and then showed Wes how to hold the knife properly to prevent it from happening again. For someone who sounded so serious about his process, he was incredibly chill and helpful.
As they worked, a comfortable rhythm settled between them. The clatter of knives on the cutting board, the sizzle of oil, and the gentle bubbling of the stew on the stove filled the silence. The tension that had been a constant companion since Danny had arrived began to dissipate. For a brief, blissful hour, there was no fake boyfriend, no secret deal, no looming disaster. There was just a quiet kitchen, the warm smell of spices and tomatoes, and two boys working together to make a meal.
________________________________________
Hours later, the apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. The decorating was done, the kitchen spotless. Danny was curled on the couch under his space blanket, reading a textbook. Wes was in an armchair, scribbling in a notebook.
The silence was comfortable now, a shared space.
“You know,” Wes began, his voice low. “My apartment has never been this… clean. Or this quiet.”
Danny didn’t look up. “Some habits are hard to break.”
“The way you cook… it’s intense. It’s like you’re doing science.”
Danny finally glanced up, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face. “It’s a form of control. When everything else is a mess, you can control a recipe.” He paused, gesturing to the notebook. “What about you? Still documenting everything?”
Wes looked down, a small smile playing on his lips. “Some habits are hard to break.” He huffed softly. “Yeah. Just class notes now. No more ghost-hunting obsessions.” He looked back, a question in his eyes. “So… what now? Do we… rehearse?”
Danny’s expression sobered. He leaned forward. "We should. We need a story. And ground rules."
Wes nodded, grabbing a pen and clicking it. "Yeah. I already gave Wally the broad strokes. Told him we met at the library a year ago. You were working on astrophysics, I was doing research. We started talking. It clicked."
Danny considered it. "A year? That’s a long time to keep quiet."
"Wally's not going to audit us. It's long enough to be serious, not so long we need a detailed history. It works."
"Right." Danny nodded slowly. "Library meet-cute. A year. I'm a good judge of character." A dry look crossed his face. "What else?"
"That's it for now. We'll fill in the rest." Wes's amusement faded into seriousness. "Ground rules. You said it. What are they?"
Danny leaned forward, elbows on his knees, focused.
“First rule: No touching.”
Wes blinked. “No touching? At all?”
“Not unless absolutely necessary,” Danny clarified. “And only in front of Wally and his friends. We agree on a few things—a hand on the shoulder to guide me, maybe a brief arm around the waist. Nothing that suggests a long-standing physical relationship. Nothing that gives away we've known each other only for a few days."
“Wally’s a hugger. His friends will be too.”
"I can handle a hug," Danny said, a hint of his old annoyance returning. "I'm not shy about being affectionate, but I'm talking about the stuff that people in a long-term intimate relationship do without thinking about it. Things like a hand on the small of the back, or your arm around my waist, or you playing with my hair while we watch a movie. We don't have that history."
"You're okay with touch, just... not from me?" Wes asked, the question laced with a sardonic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Not that kind of touch," Danny clarified, his gaze steady. "Sharing space? Sure, no problem. I’m used to it. Sam and Tucker practically use me as their personal air conditioner, and Jazz is a hugger. I'm comfortable with that kind of touch." He said this casually, but his expression hardened instantly. "But don't forget that we have a real story together, one that has all to do with me actively running away from you and you creeping the living shit out of me. You don't expect me to be all touchy-feely with you so easily after that, do you?" he finished with a sarcastic bite.
Wes's smile vanished. The truth of Danny’s words landed with a sickening thud in his gut, an unwelcome understanding washing over him like a bucket of ice-cold water.
"Okay," his voice suddenly a little choked. "Not that kind of touch. I can do that." He said softly, "I'm sorry."
The apology hung in the air, a fragile acknowledgment of the past. They sat in a new, heavier silence.
________________________________________
The apartment had gone dark except for the single lamp over the kitchen table, where they moved to continue outlining the rest of their shared "history." Wes, dutifully taking notes, would ask a question, and Danny would provide the information.
"Favorite coffee shop?" Wes asked.
"The one on the corner with the terrible Wi-Fi. It reminds me of my first laptop," Danny said, his voice flat, hanging his head on the back seat looking at the ceiling.
"Mine's the one with the good Wi-Fi," Wes replied, jotting it down. "Oh, and I have a weird allergy to garlic."
Danny looked up, a flicker of genuine dismay crossed Danny's face. "Garlic? That's… a tragedy."
They went over a few more minor details—Wes’s inability to keep a plant alive, Danny’s complete dislike of toast and turkey—until Wes paused, his pen hovering over the page.
"Why the toast and turkey, by the way?" Wes asked, half-joking.
Danny's gaze went distant, his eyes taking on a far-away, haunted look. His voice, when it came, was a deadpan whisper. “Don’t trust the turkey. It can be very brutal.”
Wes stared at him for a long moment, the humor draining from his face. He decided he didn’t want to know any more.
It was late when they finally called it a night. They stood awkwardly in the living room for a moment, the day's events creating a heavy quiet between them.
"Well," Wes said, gesturing to the bedroom. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Wes," Danny replied, grabbing his textbook from the couch. He gave a small nod and walked into the guest room, leaving Wes alone in his own bedroom. The echo of Danny’s brutal honesty repeated in his head, something, he was sure, was going to haunt him. Heh.
"Yeez," Wes mumbled to no one, turning to his bed. "I really was a piece of shit, wasn’t I?" He decided he would deal with that later. Right now, sleeping sounds very nice.
____________________________________
Taglist: @thought-u-said-dragon-queen Didn't know if you wanted to be tagged here too, but i though it wouldn't harm to do so, hope its ok
The next morning arrived not with a bang, but with the quiet, persistent insistence of a city slowly waking up. Danny was the first to stir, his internal clock—a relic forged in the chaos of ghost fights and late-night lab sabotage—pulling him from sleep at an ungodly hour. He slipped out of the work study and into the living room, where the faint, orange glow of streetlights filtered through the blinds. The apartment was still, the air heavy with the lingering scent of stew and the fragile truce they’d built the night before.
He started a new pot of coffee, his movements quiet and precise. As the machine hissed and gurgled, he pulled out his laptop and began working on a paper, the soft clatter of the keys the only sound in the apartment.
An hour later, Wes shuffled into the kitchen, his hair an impressive disaster. He stopped and stared at Danny, who was already on his second cup of coffee, a look of profound bewilderment on his sleep-softened face.
"You're a morning person," Wes mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
"Not really," Danny said, not looking up from his screen. "I just wake up early." He took another sip of coffee, the picture of weary efficiency.
A strange, quiet normalcy settled over them. They were roommates now, navigating a shared space with a cautious, unspoken agreement. The first day had been about building the set. Today, Danny decided, was for a dress rehearsal.
After a silent breakfast—Danny with his coffee and cereal, Wes glaring daggers at the toaster as it produced another charred slice—Danny pushed his laptop aside and cleared his throat.
"So," he said, his tone all business. "We should run through scenarios. Wally is going to want to see us interact. We need to be prepared."
Wes blinked. "Prepared? Like... a script?"
"More like improv," Danny corrected. "We have our foundation—the library—but we need to fill in the gaps. We need to act like we have a genuine, shared history. Simple scenario." He leaned back, eyes fixed on Wes. "You're in the kitchen. I'm on the couch reading. One of Wally's friends—" He gestured vaguely, searching for a name. "Jim, was it?—comes in and asks me how we met. What do you do?"
Wes frowned. "Well, you'd tell him the story. We met at the library."
"Exactly. But what do you do?" Danny pressed. "Do you come out? Smile? Act like you're hearing it for the first time? The details matter."
Wes put his hand on the table, distractedly drumming his fingers, discomfort plain on his face. "I... don't know. I'd probably just go with the flow."
"That's not good enough," Danny said, a flicker of his old annoyance returning. "You said Wally notices things. The small stuff that feels fake. You need to act like you're not paying attention because it's a story you know by heart."
Wes took a deep breath, then pushed his chair back. "Okay. Okay, I see. Hang on." He stood and walked over to a drawer by the fridge, rummaging for a moment before returning with a cheap spiral notebook and a pen. He sat back down, the chair scraping against the floor, and clicked the pen open with a definitive snap. The gesture shifted his energy from flustered to focused. "Alright, let's do this properly. So, in that scenario..." He looked up, his journalist's mindset kicking in. "I'd stay in the kitchen, but I'd smile, glance at you over the counter, and then go back to whatever I was doing." He scribbled a note. He hesitated, then added, "And it's Tim."
Danny gave a curt nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes at the sudden professionalism. "Good. But don't force it. Be more like yourself."
A flicker of Wes's normal mischief returned. He jotted down a quick note. "I'd make some sarcastic comment about you being a nerd. That's more my speed."
"It works," Danny conceded. "It adds realism. Next: favorite restaurant?"
Wes tapped the pen on the now-open notebook. "Something a little fancy but believable. That Italian place downtown? The one with the checkered tablecloths."
"Okay." Danny pulled his laptop back and typed a note. "Next scenario. Wally asks you what your favorite meal is that I cook."
Wes paused, looking at the notes he was taking. "Uh... the stew from yesterday? That was really good." He made as if to write it down.
Danny sighed. "Wes, that's the first thing I ever cooked here. It sounds like we've only been together for a day. We need something general. A type of cuisine."
"Right, right," Wes said, the pen hovering over the page. "How about... you have a thing for Italian? Since our favorite restaurant is Italian? It ties together."
"Good." Danny’s nod was approving. "Classic, but not suspicious. Favorite thing to do on a Friday night?"
A grin spread across Wes's face. "We should say we go ghost hunting!" he joked, and immediately regretted, maybe it was insensible?
Danny lifted one judgmental eyebrow, arms crossed. "With those sticks for arms?"
"Hey! Not everyone can shoot lasers," Wes pouted, the nervous energy leaving him. Talking to Danny felt like navigating a minefield blindfolded, but he was starting to learn the terrain.
"Mind you, I also know how to throw a punch, thank you very much," Danny retorted with a good-natured smile. "But for real, what do we do? They're arriving on Friday. We need an answer."
Wes shrugged, tapping the pen against his chin. "We can just say we like to watch movies. Nothing extravagant. I'd rather stay in than go out if it's not for work."
"Touche. I'm the same." Danny hummed. "So, what do we like to watch?"
"I don't know. I just enjoy whatever's on. What's your favorite?" Wes propped his head on his hand.
Danny's relaxed posture shifted, becoming more reserved. He looked to the side, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I... don't have one." He avoided Wes's eyes, a clear discomfort settling over him. "I never had time for movies."
The comfortable banter evaporated, replaced by a heavy, solemn silence. Wes stared, the pen stilling in his hand. The puzzle pieces of Danny's life clicked into a much sadder picture.
"Okay," Wes said quietly, breaking the tension with a deliberate clearing of his throat. He looked down at his notebook, giving Danny a moment. "We'll work on that later. What about documentaries? You seem like the type."
Danny finally looked back, a single eyebrow raised. "For the record, I am. Used to watch them while doing homework before. Space, mostly. Wildlife if it was interesting." He slowly relaxed back into his slouch.
"Then we can say you get me to watch them with you," Wes offered, writing it down and feeling the atmosphere lighten slightly.
Danny considered it, then nodded. "That works. It's a shared interest, and it sounds like you indulge me. We don't need a specific title; it gives us a safety net."
He leaned forward again, his tone shifting back to serious. "We need a backstory for our careers. Wally's friends will ask."
"Okay." Wes poised his pen over a fresh page in the notebook. "What do you do?"
"I work at the planetarium," Danny said, his voice calm. "I give tours and presentations. It's a part-time gig while I finish up my degree. I actually have to…" He checked the time on his laptop; it was already 11:43 am. ”...a shift in about three hours. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 3 pm to 7 pm. If your brother gets here early, I can welcome him and then go to work, but I should probably ask to have that day off just in case."
Wes's eyes widened as he scribbled furiously. "The planetarium? That's… perfect." He looked up, the journalist in him visibly connecting dots. "I'm a journalism student, doing my dissertation on local events for the Amity Park newspaper. Our fields are completely different, but it still makes our meeting at the library plausible. It's a solid story." He was already mentally piecing the headline together.
Danny sat back, watching him construct the narrative. "What else?"
“Maybe about your family?” Wes asked, not looking up from his notes. “I've only ever told him you have an older sister and your parents, but nothing more than them existing.” He drummed the pen onto the paper.
Danny's expression hardened instantly. "We don't talk about my past," he said, his voice cold and final. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree. "We can say I'm not close with my family. But we don't get into details."
The weight of the unsaid hung heavy in the air. Wes's drumming fingers stilled. His mind, always racing, put the pieces together. The proximity to the Fentons' house, their very public and eccentric profession, Danny's strange evasiveness. He swallowed hard. The puzzle was forming, but he didn't want to solve it. Not now. He just wanted to get through the next two days without making things worse.
He ran a hand through his hair, his earlier professional confidence evaporating. "Okay. No past. We'll stick to that." He scrawled NO FAMILY - NOT CLOSE in all caps on the page, underlining it twice. He looked up, his expression a mix of nervousness and resolve. "So... we have the career, the meet-cute, and a few shared interests. What about the smaller stuff? How do we act like we're a couple when we're just... sitting here?"
Danny’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly, the cold look in his eyes softening just a fraction at the clear boundary being respected. He leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his now-cold coffee. "Small stuff. Right." He gestured vaguely to the kitchen. "Do we have a system for chores? Who cleans the dishes? Who buys the groceries?" His voice was back to its flat, pragmatic tone. "These are the things that people in a real relationship just know. If we have an answer, it'll make it all look more believable."
The morning's intense strategizing was put on hold as Danny rushed out for his shift at the planetarium. The apartment fell silent, the detailed plans feeling more like a bizarre dream.
Wes felt a wave of relief. This was a safe topic. This was logistics, a problem to be solved with lists and systems. He could handle this. He flipped to a new page in his notebook, a meticulous glint in his eye. "Right. Okay. Chore wheel. I hate dishes, but I don't mind laundry. You're clearly the better cook, so you handle meal planning. I'll do the grocery shopping; I have a system for the coupons." He leaned forward, ready to discuss the perfect division of labor, the perfect grocery list, and the perfect system for their perfect lie. For the first time all morning, he was on solid ground.
____________________________________________
The silence broke hours later with the sound of the door opening. Danny was back, and with him, the peculiar energy of their project returned. "Okay. Showtime. What's next on the agenda?"
The negotiation continued in front of the open pantry. Danny stood there for a bit, assessing everything they had, his expression one of profound disappointment."We're low on rice, and your spice rack is a tragedy. It's just salt, pepper, and something called 'Ghost Pepper Dust'?" Wes, from the couch, shrugged without looking up from his own laptop. "It's versatile." Danny's deadpan reply was instant: "It's a biohazard."
Wes presented his detailed chart with the pride of a general unveiling a battle plan. Danny, however, scanned it with the critical eye of a seasoned project manager. "You've scheduled deep cleaning of the bathroom for Monday," he pointed out. "That's my late shift at the planetarium. Switch it with vacuuming on Tuesday." Wes blinked, then nodded, making the change with a muttered, "Noted." The first of many concessions.
They moved on to practicing "casual" proximity on the couch. Wes "read" a magazine held upside down while Danny scrolled on his phone. The first attempts were stiff, a full foot of tense space between them. By the third try, a quiet understanding had settled. Danny had naturally tucked his feet up under himself, his shoulder just brushing Wes's arm, both of them focused on their own tasks in a silence that was no longer awkward, but... companionable. Efficient.
Emboldened by this progress, Wes, determined to contribute beyond paperwork, decided to start a load of laundry. He emerged from his room with a hamper full of blacks, whites, and a single, vibrantly red shirt he’d gotten as a gift and never worn. Danny, walking by on his way to get more coffee, did a double-take.
"Whoa, hold on," he said, holding a hand up like a traffic cop. He pointed at the red shirt. "Is that new?"
"Yeah? So?" Wes said, confused.
"So, it's going to turn everything in there a lovely shade of pink," Danny said, his voice dripping with the experience of a thousand laundry disasters. "My sister Jazz went through a 'rebellious red' phase. We had pink socks for a year. Separate your darks and lights, Weston. It's basic science."
Wes looked down at his hamper, then back at Danny, a newfound respect for his domestic intelligence warring with his pride. "...Noted," he grumbled, and began meticulously sorting his socks.
“Good boy!” Danny cheerfully mocked from the doorway.
"Alright," Wes said, pen poised. "We need milk, bread, eggs..."
“Oh, shut up!” Wes yelled, his face flushing with embarrassment. He grabbed a balled-up pair of socks and launched them at Danny’s head. Danny just laughed loudly—a bright, unguarded sound that was still foreign to Wes—and dodged, disappearing into the kitchen.
________________________________________
"Standard," Danny nodded.
"...AA batteries, coffee filters, and a new pack of highlighters."
Danny stared at him. "Highlighters? For what?"
"For highlighting things!" Wes said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Important passages. Suspicious statements in the newspaper. You know."
"Right. Of course." Danny paused. "Well, while you're in the stationery aisle, we also need industrial-strength air fresheners, a bag of rock salt, and a five-pound bag of flour."
Now it was Wes's turn to stare. "Flour I get. Rock salt? For the icy steps to the lair?"
"How can you watch this?" Danny asked, grimacing at the news channel Wes had put on.
"For the ghosts, obviously," Danny said, completely deadpan. "You sprinkle it on them. It's a classic. The air fresheners are for after Skulker visits. He leaves behind this awful smell of diesel and failure." He said it with the same casual gravity Wes had used for the highlighters.
Wes opened his mouth, closed it, and then simply wrote ROCK SALT - GHOSTS on the list, deciding, once again, some questions were better left unasked.
_________________________________________
"It's called being informed about the world, Fenton."
"It's depressing. Put on the science channel. There's a thing about Neptune."
"We are not watching a documentary about a planet that's just a big, blue ball of gas," Wes retorted, snatching the remote.
"Says the guy who was literally just talking about highlighters!"
"That's practical! This is... celestial gossip!"
They bickered for a full minute, before they both stopped and realized what they were doing. A beat of silence passed.
The apartment settled into a final, quiet hum. The chore wheel was taped to the fridge, the grocery list was finalized (a bizarre testament to their respective neuroses), and the subtle art of sharing a couch had been, if not mastered, then at least rehearsed.
"...We can just tell them we read together," Wes said finally, turning the TV off.
"Good idea," Danny agreed, the tension broken. "Much quieter."
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They ordered chinese for dinner, Danny too tired to cook and Wes too much of a disaster. The easy camaraderie from the afternoon lingering. They even managed to watch a nature documentary without dissecting it for potential lies, the sound of the narrator's voice filling the comfortable silence.
As night fell and they turned off the lights, retreating to their separate rooms, the apartment felt different. It wasn't just a set anymore. The books on the shelves were his. The blanket on the couch was his. The faint, lingering scent of burnt pizza and laundry detergent was theirs. The lie had been meticulously furnished, and in the process, the space had started to feel, against all odds, a little like a shared home.
Lying in the dark, Danny stared at the ceiling of the guest room. The scripts were written, the blocking was planned. There was nothing left to do but wait for the curtain to rise. A low thrum of anxiety buzzed under his skin, a familiar sensation before a fight. But this time, the opponent wasn't a ghost; it was a well-meaning brother and his observant friends.
In his own room, Wes listened to the quiet sounds of the apartment. He could hear Danny shift in his room down the hall. The guilt from earlier had been soothed by the unexpected normalcy of the evening. The sock thrown, the laughter, the pizza—it felt... real. Maybe this would work. Maybe they could actually pull it off.
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You don't know how much fun i had writing this one, like, the little montage of them doing some mundane things around the house? gold, i love it.
