Temporarily Gay Pt. 15
Heya guys!! Its been a bit, I got sidetracked making a lil animation and then got busy with schoolwork, but hey! here we got pt 15!! Enjoy.
Part 14 Masterlist Part 16
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Sam was halfway asleep, tucked on her bed and finally getting some rest after a stressful day, when her phone screamed into the quiet of her bedroom.
Her first instinct was to be annoyed, she was comfy, she was tired and she wanted the day to end. Who was calling at this hour anyway? But she still couldn’t help but feel a fine line of dreadpool in her stomach. So, with a defeated sight, she untangled herself from her bedsheets, and fumbled for her phone on the nightstand. Calls this late were never good, and seeing Wes name on the screen just proved it.
She answered, her voice sharp, defensive against the fear already coiling in her gut. "Wes? What's going on? It's late."
The sound that came through the speaker wasn't words. It was a choked, wet sob.
Oh, no.
"Wes?" Her voice dropped, all pretense of sleepiness gone, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. "Talk to me. What happened?"
"It's Danny." His voice was shredded, raw. "There was... an explosion. At his parents' lab."
The words felt like a blow to the face. His parents' lab. The most dangerous place for him in Amity Park. A place she’d begged him to stop going to alone. A place where even being there with him, makes her want to drag him all the way back to his apartment and keep him there. A fresh wave of guilt, separate from the initial fear, washed over her. She’d been so focused on her class project and work at the local botany, secretly happy to play the "mature exes" cover story for Wes’s play, that she’d missed the ongoing, physical danger Danny was still willingly walking into, forgot how much of a self-sacrificing idiot he was. She had hoped that keeping the ruse up would distract him from going back, or at least discourage him. She didn't agree because of that. She just kinda thought it would be a change of pace for him, get him out of the negative monotony he was subjecting himself to. Maybe she also wanted them to finally work through their past, but that was before she knew what said past actually was. This stupid fake-dating scheme seemed like a lighthearted opportunity to do so, she didn't think there would be so much trouble on it, but doing so, she’d left him to face his personal demons alone, she wasn't there like before, she didn't take into account how much Danny would subject himself to if he thought it was for someone else benefit. This made guilt start to build up higher in her throat.
"Is he conscious? Is he breathing? Are you at the hospital?" she demanded, her body already moving, swinging her legs out of bed. The cool hardwood floor was a shock against her feet.
"That's the thing—we couldn't go to the hospital." Wes's voice dropped to a desperate, horrified whisper. "It was... it was one of their explosions. There was this... this green... it was eating the bandages, Sam. Nothing was working."
Eating the bandages?. This wasn't just Ectoplasm, this was corrosive. Ectoplasm shouldn’t be corrosive by itself, it should have to be intended to hurt for it to have this effect. This wasn't just a burn; it was poisoning. Her mind raced. He could fade. Dnny could be gone for good. With new urgency, she went back to focusing on the call
"Where is he now?" she asked, her voice low and deadly calm. She was already in her closet, yanking open the door.
"My apartment. We got him back. Wally patched him up. But..." Wes's voice broke again. "He passed out. He's so pale, Sam."
She took a deep breath, she needed to keep calm. The most concerning thing right now was that Danny was unconscious, him being pale must be due to the bloodloss "Okay. Listen to me." She kept her voice an anchor, pouring every ounce of her will down the phone line. "Is he breathing steadily? Is the bleeding under control?"
Wes’s answer was a trembling affirmation. Good enough..
"Good. That's the first thing." Her fingers found the hidden panel at the back of her closet, clicking it open. Inside was a sturdy, unmarked backpack, a relic from the worst days of their ghost-hunting youth. She never thought she’d need it again. "I'm on my way. I'm leaving right now. Do not leave him alone, you understand me? I don't care who else is there. You stay with him."
She slung the pack over her shoulder. It was heavy, stocked with specialized gauze, shears, and, most importantly, two sealed, lead-lined thermoses filled with thick, swirling ectoplasm. Pure energy. It could kickstart a half-ghost’s healing factor when critically depleted. It was a risk, but the alternative was watching him slowly destabilize.
"Tell me everything Wally did. What did he use? Was it just normal stuff?"
They used the "Ecto-Dejecto." The name was so absurd it was heartbreaking. But it was hope. It meant the active corrosion was suppressed. The rest was just damage. Terrible, profound damage, but damage that could, in theory, be healed.
"I'll be there as fast as I can. You just keep him safe until I get there. You've done good, Wes. Just hold on a little longer."
She didn't wait for a reply, ending the call and shoving her phone into her pajama pants pocket. The guilt was still there, a sharp stone in her chest, but it was now eclipsed by a fierce, protective fury. She had failed to protect him from this, but she would be damned if she failed to put him back together.
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The apartment was unnervingly silent. The air was thick with the lingering scents of antiseptic and copper, a fine trail of blood drops from the entrance to the kitchen and the chairs all over the place to make space for Wally and Tim. It looked like a war was just fought and none knew who won. Roy collapsed in an armchair, his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. Wally sat on the floor, his back against the couch, still wearing the nitrile gloves smeared with rusty brown and faint, sickly green. He wasn't looking at them, though. His gaze was fixed on the middle distance, hollow and shattered. Victor stood like a statue by the kitchen entrance, his massive frame tense and early still.
Tim, on the other hand, was the opposite of still. He was like a live wire of frantic, silent energy, pacing a short, tight path, his phone in one hand, the laptop he brought from the van open on the coffee table. He was digging, his fingers flying over the screen, searching for anything—scientific papers on anomalous energy, FentonWorks patents, anything—that could explain what he had witnessed, trying to force the illogical into a logical framework to combat the fear and uselessness he felt eating him inside out. He fucked up big with the accusations, he unintentionally harassed a civilian due to his own suspicions. He let his suspicions override his judgment, and then he couldn’t do shit when said civilian, Danny, was bleeding out on the kitchen table; being burned alive by something Tim didn't know anything of, something he couldn't comprehend, couldn't categorize, couldn't fight..
His breathing was getting erratic, sharp little inhales that didn’t reach his lungs. and his pacing grew sloppy, his knee clipping the corner of the couch hard enough to make the lamp on it wobble dangerously, his hands trembling exponentially more, making it hard to read the info on his phone, words mixing together making no sense.
Suddenly, a figure was in front of him, blocking his path. Tim flinched back, his head swimming. It was Gar. Why was he here? Why was his face so close, his expression so pinched? Gar’s mouth was moving, but the words were muffled, distant. All Tim could focus on was the exaggerated rise and fall of Gar’s chest. Why is he breathing so hard? Was he hurt too? Did I miss something? A hand landed on his shoulder, firm but not harsh, a solid anchor that grounded him despite the room spinning.
"Hey. Tim. Look at me," Gar's voice was low, cutting through the static, just a little. He kept his other hand on his own chest, still breathing in that slow, huge, deliberate way. "Just breathe with me, man. In… and out. Come on. Copy me."
It took a few long minutes, but eventually, the tight, frantic bands around his chest began to loosen. His breathing, while still shallow, evened out, syncing with Gar's steady pattern. As the panic receded, a deep, bone-melting exhaustion rushed in to take its place, so profound his knees buckled. He leaned sideways, his strength utterly spent.
"Whoa, I got you," Gar murmured, his voice soft and sure. He quickly shifted his grip, catching Tim under the elbows and taking his weight, guiding him the short distance to the couch. Tim collapsed into the cushions, his body heavy and limp, his head lolling back as he stared blankly at the ceiling, drained and hollowed out.
It was then that the apartment door opened.
Every head except Wally’s snapped toward the sound. Sam stood in the doorway, her black pajamas making her a stark silhouette against her fair complexion. Her eyes, sharp and blazing with a terrifying, focused drive, swept across the wreckage of the living room and the people in it. The heavy, unassuming backpack was slung over her shoulder.
She didn't greet them. She didn't ask for an update. Her gaze went past them, down the hall, to the closed bedroom door.
"Where is he?" she asked, her voice a blade, cutting through the heavy silence.
Wally was the one who answered, his voice rough as gravel, his eyes still locked on some invisible point in front of him. "The bedroom. Wes is with him."
Sam was already moving, a force of nature striding past the wreckage of the living room and its inhabitants without a second glance. She pushed the bedroom door open, and the scene inside made falter for a single, heart-wrenching second.
Danny lay on the bed, swathed in bandages, his face pale and still against the pillow. The only color on him was the faint, ominous stain seeping through the dressings on his side. And there was Wes, seated on the floor, his side pressed against the bedframe. He held Danny's limp hand in both of his, his head bowed over it, forehead resting against their joined hands. He was so still he might have been carved from stone.
The sight of Wes like that surprised her. Danny had said things were better, that Wes was trying. But this wasn't just "trying." Wes looked utterly wrecked. His clothes were stiff with drying blood, his hair a mess, his posture one of complete and total exhaustion. But the way he held Danny’s hand…
This was the moment Wes really witnessed the severity of everything. All his past obsession, his desperate attempts to expose Danny… he was now seeing, in the most brutal way possible, what that exposure could have meant. This wasn't an abstract secret; it was a life, fragile and bleeding out on his kitchen table. The danger wasn't a thrilling mystery; it was this—the smell of blood and antiseptic, the terrifying stillness, the very real possibility of loss. He was facing the grim reality that Danny lived with every day, and he was completely wrecked by it.
And Sam understood that specific flavor of terror intimately. She could see the tremor in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip, and she recognized it. This was the cold knot of fear that had lived in her and Tucker’s chests for years—the constant, low hum of dread that accompanied every siren, every late-night absence, every time Danny grinned and said, "I'll be fine." They trusted him, they believed in his strength, but they had also seen him fall. They knew, in a way Wes was only just learning, that there was always a chance he wouldn't get back up. Watching Wes grapple with that horrifying new knowledge felt like looking into a mirror from years ago, and her heart ached with a grim, shared understanding.
She stepped fully inside, letting the door click shut behind her. "Wes," she said, her voice softer than she’d intended.
He flinched, his head lifting slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, staring at her as if from a great distance.
"I brought something to help," she said, shrugging the backpack off her shoulder and setting it on the floor beside him with a soft thud. The sound seemed to anchor him, his gaze sharpening slightly, focusing on her. "I need to make sure his core is stable. The Dejecto stops the reaction, but it doesn't replace what was lost."
He didn't speak, just watched, motionless and still holding Danny’s hand, as she knelt by the bed and unzipped the pack, pulling out one of the lead-lined thermoses. The air in the room grew several degrees colder the moment she unscrewed the cap, a faint, eerie glow emanating from the thick, swirling liquid inside.
Wes’s breath hitched. He knew what that was. He’d seen it in photographs, in the blurry edges of his long-lens shots, on the streets after a specially brutal ghost fight, whenever the Fentons were on the loose shooting and running after ghosts. Ectoplasm. But seeing it here, in Sam’s steady hands, feeling the unnatural chill it cast, it was real in a way it had never been before. Yet, it was different, but he couldn’t tell exactly why… It also wasn't the same as Danny’s burn, less nasty, more clear and vibrant
Sam worked with a grim, practiced efficiency. She gently pried open Danny’s mouth and carefully trickled a small amount of the ectoplasm onto his tongue. "This is raw ectoplasm, it's more pure and has to be filtered. His body needs the raw energy to jumpstart his own systems," she explained quietly, not looking at Wes, her focus entirely on Danny. "Otherwise, he could just… stall out."
The explanation landed on Wes with the weight of a final verdict. Stall out. Fade. Die. The words made his stomach threaten to make him sick. He turned to look at Danny with wide terrified eyes and squeezed his hand tighter.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing changed. Then, the faint, sickly green glow visible through the bandages on Danny’s side seemed to recede, not just lying dormant but being actively absorbed. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Danny’s lips. The waxy pallor of his skin lessened, replaced by the barest hint of color returning to him, a living warmth color.
Sam sat back on her heels, her own shoulders slumping in relief. "He's stabilizing," she murmured, her voice hushed with the gravity of it. "His core is accepting it. The worst is over."
The tension that had held Wes rigid finally shattered. A shuddering sob escaped him, and he buried his face against their joined hands once more, his entire body trembling with the force of his relief. He didn't let go of Danny's hand, but his grip softened from a vise-like clutch to something protective, reverent.
The vigil wasn't over. But the freefall had stopped. And for the first time that night, Wes felt the ground was solid beneath him.
It was a little under an hour later when Wes finally untangled his stiff limbs and rose from the floor. Every muscle protested, stiff from being locked in one position for so long. The numbness had settled in, a thick blanket smothering the sharp edges of panic and grief. He felt hollowed out, but in the emptiness, there was a strange, serene calm.
His movement drew Sam's eye. She had pulled the chair over from the desk and was now seated beside the bed, one hand resting gently on Danny's. Her presence there was right; it was where she was meant to be. Wes knew his part in this particular act was over. The crisis was stabilized, and the space belonged to them now.
He didn't speak, merely meeting her gaze for a moment before turning toward the door. It was time to take a breath, to let the reality of the last hour settle somewhere other than this room.
Pushing the door open, he stepped back into the living room. The scene had shifted, but the atmosphere was still grim. The chairs were still askew, the trail of blood droplets now a dull brown on the floorboards. The Titans were still there, scattered around the room like statues in a garden of guilt.
Roy had moved to lean against the wall by the balcony, his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the floor. Victor was in the same spot, a silent sentinel. Tim was no longer pacing; he sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, looking more like an exhausted student than a master detective. Garfield was beside him, just offering his presence.
All eyes turned to him as he entered. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, but the usual defensive prickliness didn't come. He was too tired for it.
Gar was the first to move, standing up and meeting him halfway. "Hey," he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual theatricality. "How is he?"
"Stable," Wes said, the word feeling like a benediction on his tongue. "Sam's with him." He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on the dried, stiff patches. He looked down at his clothes, at the dark, flaking stains that covered his shirt and jeans. He was a mess.
"You did good, man," Garfield said, sincerely. He didn't try to hug him or clap him on the back, sensing it wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead, he just offered a small, supportive smile. "You kept your head. That was… that was really brave."
Wes just nodded, the praise not quite landing. It hadn't felt brave. It had felt like the only thing to do.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Wally slowly get to his feet. His brother looked as wrecked as Wes felt, his face pale and eyes shadowed. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, stopping a few feet away. The distance between them felt vast.
"Wes…" Wally's voice was rough, choked with emotion. He looked at the blood on Wes's clothes, and his face crumpled. "I… I'm so—"
"Don't," Wes interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. He couldn't handle an apology right now. It was too big, too raw. He met his brother's gaze and saw the same hollowed-out fear he felt reflected back at him. "Just… don't. Not yet."
Wally closed his mouth, swallowing hard. He gave a single, jerky nod of understanding. The words weren't there yet, but the shared trauma was. For now, that was enough.
Wes moved past him, heading toward the kitchen sink. He needed to wash his hands. He needed to feel something other than the phantom stickiness of blood and the cold grip of terror. The calm held, a fragile peace in the aftermath, and for the first time, he thought that maybe, just maybe, they would all find a way to get through this.
The kitchen faucet hissed to life. Wes scrubbed at his hands under the warm water, watching it spiral down the drain, tinged pink and carrying away tiny, dark flakes. The physical act was grounding, a small, manageable ritual. He focused on the sensation—the heat, the slip of soap—anything to avoid the memories.
He stood there for a long moment, just watching, the numbness in his mind finally allowing him to process the scene.
The chairs were all back in their positions. The blood was gone from the floor, leaving behind only a damp, clean patch on the linoleum. Gar was now working on the table, his movements slow and methodical. Then, Wes saw Tim move from the couch. He didn't look at anyone, his expression still drawn, but he went straight to the open first-aid kit on the counter. He pulled out a bottle of peroxide, walked over to the table, and, without a word, began carefully pouring it onto the remaining stains, the liquid fizzing as it worked. Gar looked up, offering a small, grateful smile. Tim didn't smile back, but he gave a single, curt nod, just shared the task at hand. The stain on the table faded.
"Here."
Wes looked over. Wally was holding out a small, neat stack of clothes—a soft grey t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. "From my duffel in the van," Wally said, his voice low. "You should… you can't stay in those." His eyes flickered to Wes's blood-stained shirt, then away, pained.
It was a simple, practical gesture, but it cut through the remaining numbness. “You shouldn’t stay with that,” he said, pointing to his ruined shirt and jeans. He'd also clearly grabbed a change for himself, his own gloves and jacket discarded.
"There's the bathroom down the hall," Wes said quietly, accepting the clothes. His fingers brushed against the soft fabric.
"You go first," Wally said, not meeting his eyes. "I'll, uh… I'll wait."
Wes just nodded and slipped down the hall. Suddenly acutely aware of how nauseating it was to be drenched in Danny¡s dried blood.
The shower was a relief he didn't know needed. He stood under the spray, head bowed, as the water turned pink, then clear, swirling around his feet and carrying the last visible traces of the horror down the drain. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, washing away the smell of blood and smoke. When he stepped out, pulling on Wally's clean, slightly too-big clothes, he felt like a different person—lighter, hollowed out, but clean.
When he emerged, the living room had transformed further. The worst of the blood was gone from the floor, though a faint shadow remained. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner instead of copper.
Roy looked down at his own clothes, at the dark, drying stains that marked where he’d carried Danny’s broken body. The fabric felt heavy with it, a weight he couldn't bear to keep on his skin a moment longer. The inertia of the room, the collective shock, was stifling. They were all just sitting in it, stewing in the aftermath. He couldn't do that. He needed to move.
"I'm gonna make a supply run," he announced to the room, his voice a low rumble that cut through the heavy quiet. He didn't wait for a response, didn't look to see if anyone agreed. He just turned and headed out the door, the click of the latch behind him sounding like a release.
The night air outside was cool and sharp, a welcome assault on his senses. He made a beeline for the familiar van, its solid, utilitarian presence a comfort. Inside, the faint smell of grease and old coffee was a grounding anchor to a different, simpler reality. He definitely decided to ignore the dried blood stain on the floor on the back. He shrugged out of the stained shirt and jeans, balling them up and shoving them deep into a gear bag in the back—a problem for tomorrow along the floor stain. Pulling on a clean, soft Henley and a pair of sweatpants
But he wasn't done. The emptiness in the apartment wasn't just emotional; it was a physical void left by spent adrenaline. They needed fuel. They needed something to do with their hands, something to anchor them in the mundane. He also needs something to focus on.
He drove to the closest 24-hour convenience store, its fluorescent lights a harsh, contrast to the night sky. The aisles were too bright, too normal. A teenager with headphones was mopping the floor, one of the over lights flickering, a very obvious sleep deprived guy in his 20 at the cashier, completely oblivious to anything going on around the store, the fat tabby cat asleep on one of the lower shelves. It was familiar, he could deal with this. So Roy moved with focus, his large frame navigating the narrow spaces. He didn't think, he just acted. His cart becoming a haphazard collection of survival: bottles of water and bright blue Gatorade to fight dehydration, a box of donuts for a quick sugar hit, granola bars for something vaguely substantial, and several family-sized bags of chips—the kind of mindless, crunchy comfort food that could be shared in silence.
He paid in cash and carried the bulging plastic bags back to the van. The drive back was quiet.
Pushing the apartment door open again, he was met with a different atmosphere than the one he'd left. The sharpest edges of the panic had been worn down by time and simple acts of cleaning. They were all seated now—Victor in the armchair, Tim and Gar on the couch, Wally and Wes on the floor—they were a collection of people too drained to even pretend things were normal, but no longer frozen.
Roy dropped the bags on the newly-cleaned coffee table with a crinkling thud that drew every eye.
"Eat," he said, his tone less a suggestion and more a gentle command born from too much experience with the brutal come-down after a crisis. "Adrenaline crash is a bitch. You'll feel worse if you don't."
For a moment, no one moved. Then, hesitantly, hands reached out. Garfield was the first, opening a bag of chips with a quiet rip. Victor took a bottle of water, his large hand making it look small. Wes picked up a granola bar, his stomach clenching at the thought, but he unwrapped it anyway.
They didn't talk. They just sat in the dim light, the sounds of quiet chewing and the rustle of packaging filling the space. It wasn't comfortable, but the sharp, jagged edges of the crisis had been smoothed over. Roy leaned against the doorframe, watching them. The empty, gnawing fear was still there, in his gut and probably in all of theirs, but it was now padded by this fragile, shared resilience. They were, for the moment, a unit, bound together not by friendship, but by the sheer, brutal necessity of getting through the night. And they would.
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Sup guys! We got Danny's emotional support gf on this and also her pov about this situation. But ngl, I worried I'm dragging this a bit too long. does it feel like that? should I move things a bit faster? I just dont want this to feel choppy just for moving it too forward, lemme know what you think.
