#besides diving and fixing things. and we know he doesn’t like killing & that it’s stunted his emotional/mental growth/made him distant

[venti-death-watch]

yknow based on freminet’s emphasis on being controlled & the director’s weapon vs making his own decisions, and looking at xiao’s everything, if one of the house of hearth kids is going to betray the fatui/join the traveler i’d kinda expect it to be him

[greensaplinggrace]

Hey! If you're still taking prompts for FF7R, I was wondering if you could write something where Cloud gets hurt when he jumps off the train with Tifa. But it's a Secret Injury that he keeps to himself, because they've got a job to do and he doesn't want to appear weak. It becomes a problem at a really inconvenient moment and Tifa and Barret have to take care of him.

Hey! Sorry it took so long to fill this prompt XD. This is kind of the shorter, slightly different version of a longer fic I’m thinking of working on centering around this premise, but I hope you like it anyways! Thanks so much for the prompt :)

*TW for self esteem issues, self hatred, head trauma, and injury

- If you want to send in a prompt, the guidelines are HERE and HERE!

The walls echo with the sound of Barret’s distant fight as Cloud follows Tifa down the railways, and every step brings with it a jarring, agonizing pain. He’d known as soon as he hit the ground that something had broken on impact. Tifa’s weight and the momentum of the train had only exacerbated the issue of colliding shoulder first with the stone cold ground - bouncing off of the concrete and rolling end over end on battered ribs. 

He doesn’t regret it, of course. Landing with Tifa had been the only option. Helping her - protecting her - had been worth the injury. Yet now his ribs ache and his chest stutters and his shoulder feels like it’s on fire. Breathing hurts almost as much as moving his arm does, and walking makes something shift in his side that has him desperately wishing he could break composure even for a second to shudder through the pain.

They’re on a mission, though. Already one woman down and waiting on a deadline. Tifa trusts him to do this and Barret would be more than angry at the inconvenience. Cloud isn’t weak, either. He’s a SOLDIER and a damn good one. No small, insignificant injury should be able to stop him from doing his job. Any fighter worth their salt should be able to power through something like this. Tifa probably could and Cloud knows Barret could, and Cloud’s not going to be the one holding the party back when anybody else would just keep going. 

So he ignores the pain, grits his teeth through the worst of it and runs down the railways behind Tifa like he means it. Every step makes his stomach turn as he fights back the crawl of bile up his throat, and when Tifa turns to him from the gate between her and Barret. Worried and rushed and saying “we’d better hurry.” All he can do is let out a breathless, pained “yeah,” and power through in the hopes that she won’t notice.

Dashing up the stairs is dizzying. Worryingly so, if Cloud were to truly focus on the extent of his injuries, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes it all from his mind, blank and soundless in a void of calming white as the world rushes by around him. Crossing over to Barret and pulling his sword from his back when even so much as lifting his arm makes his chest flare and his shoulder burn.

But he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about anything as he fights, movements that much more reserved, and it’s only by the sheer skin of his teeth that he doesn’t end up getting torn to shreds right then and there when he falters on an offensive strike and overreaches. Saved by Tifa’s furious blows and a ring of gunfire from Barret. They’re both still focused on their own battles, intent and unaware of his current state, and he’s more than grateful that they didn’t see his fuck up - that they didn’t witness his pathetic show of weakness like he’s some sideshow attraction and not a fucking SOLDIER.

Shame wells in him when the battle ends. A confusing mixture of wishing he’d told them and being grateful he hadn’t. At risking their lives by allowing them to rely on him when he’s so weak and at being so damn weak in the first place. For letting it get to him and for even being hurt at all when he’s not supposed to be.

He’s supposed to be better than this.

Cloud’s fingers twitch with the need to wrap around his shoulder and hold it steady, but he swallows the urge and puts away his sword, blinking away tears as he walks over to Barret and Tifa. They’re standing together, happy and pleased as Barret sings a victory song, and Cloud is overwhelmed with another surge of burning self hatred as he realizes that he’d been the one to almost take that away from them.

He clenches his jaw and pulls inward, arms crossed and muscles shaking from the tension as he listens to Barret and Tifa explain their plans. He tries to act natural through the haze of pain, but standing still doesn’t settle it down nearly as much as he’d hoped it would, and when they start moving again he can barely remember where the hell they are, let alone anything Barret had said in the past few minutes.

Fool. He’s a fucking fool. He’s going to get them all killed because he can’t keep his head through a few bruised bones. Telling them about the injury would help them, but if he speaks now then they’re definitely going to know what a failure he is. That he’d tried to be strong and he still couldn’t do it. That he’s as worthless and as selfish and incompetent as Barret had thought he was the very first time they met. That he isn’t even worth the time of day.

Cloud thins his lips against a whimper when they come to a halt in front of a set of stairs, trying to hide the shaking in his arm as Tifa and Barret go up ahead of him. Gathering the courage to follow after them is a quick endeavor, because he can’t let them know and because if he waits too long then he won’t ever end up doing it, but every step up has him biting his tongue to stop from screaming.

When he reaches the top alongside Tifa and Barret and sees another set of robots waiting to hold them off, the nausea that pools in his gut feels a lot like dread.

“Well, come on! These bots ain’t gonna fight themselves.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Little set of stairs got you winded, SOLDIER boy? Maybe we should have brought Jessie along. after all.”

The sting of the words has nothing on the pain he’s feeling right now, but for some reason they hurt so much more. His heart drops, throat tightening, and Tifa’s sigh isn’t enough of a defense when Cloud knows Barret’s right - knows he’d been a poor substitute when a simple fall has him out for the count.

He doesn’t say anything in response, raising his hand with forced speed to grab the hilt of his sword. Lifting it has his entire torso protesting, but he steadies the shake of his hand and brings his other around to help prop it up, charging in right alongside Tifa and Barret. Just as he had the last battle and the battle before that. Just as he should be doing for every battle afterward.

Cutting through the first bot is no trouble. Lighting arcs through the air and fire explodes around it, and within seconds he’s turning to another and swinging his blade in a wide arc. Only this time his arm explodes, acid burning him from his shoulder to his fingertips as he cries out in pain, buster sword clattering to the floor. He staggers, clutching his arm to his throbbing chest and curling inward as he tries to push through it. He just needs to-

“Cloud!”

“The hell is going on, merc?!”

“It’s fine,” he forces out, diving for his sword as a deadly flash of steel cuts through the air where his head had once been, “I just-” He’s cut off with a gasp when he tries to lift his sword again, choking back another cry as he’s forced to abandon it, dodging beneath another blow. Scrambling to put some distance between himself and the bot attacking him, he looks around wildly for the others, relieved to see that they’re both safe and holding their own.

Then there’s a glint and a hiss as a bot’s blade snaps down for a killing blow and his arm gives out completely as he falls to the floor. His heart hits the back of his throat in fear, and when Tifa’s hair whips in front of his eyes, gauntlet catching against the blow to deflect it aside, the flood of relief is indescribable. 

“Cloud, are you alright?” Tifa sounds worried and stressed, already fretting over whatever she thinks might have happened, and Cloud can’t even speak through the shame. Can’t do a thing as Barret shoots down the last bots in front of him and Tifa puts hers into the ground with such ferocity Cloud thinks she might’ve sent it straight into the underworld. 

As soon as it’s dead she turns to him in a panic, eyes wide as she falls to her knees beside him and looks him over. He pushes himself to a sitting position on one arm and wavers as his vision spots.

“Is he okay? Shit, kid, you had my heart nearly jumping out of my chest with that stunt! Think I lost ten years of my life…”

“I’m fine-” his voice breaks unconvincingly on the word and he scowls, “really, I- I only…”

“You only got injured,” Barret huffs, “shit happens. We’ll look it over and see if we can’t heal it up.”

Tifa nods with a smile, relaxing ever so slightly when he doesn’t appear to be on death’s door. “No need to push it, Cloud.”

He blinks, not quite processing, and has to swallow against the gathering of tears in his eyes. “I’m not- It’ll hold up for the mission.”

“Mission ain’t goin’ anywhere until everybody is ready to go!” It’s Barret who says it. Barret, of all people, who Cloud knows hates him. It’s Barret who wants to hold up his own mission to take care of someone like Cloud.

“I’m already ready to go,” Cloud pushes, because he’s not fucking weak like he knows they think he is, now. Like he knows he is every second of every day that he has to live with himself and with Sephiroth- “I can take care of myself.”

“Cloud.” Tifa’s voice is gentle and soothing as she puts her hand on his knee, and he has to look away from the compassion in her eyes before he drowns in it, “we just want to help. Let us take a look?”

“It won’t fix anything.”

“It’ll fix plenty,” Barret huffs, and the next thing Cloud knows there’s a hand grabbing his good arm and hauling him up. Pulling until Cloud is gasping, nearly collapsing from the surge of pain that sears through his body as Barret moves him. “Sorry, kid. Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Cloud’s seated on a box of some kind, heaving with each strangled breath as he teeters on the edge of consciousness. Fingers prod at him, a large hand in his hair to keep him steady as someone pulls up his shirt and draws lines of agony across his skin.

“Shit, that looks bad.”

“This didn’t happen a couple of minutes ago, Barret.” Tifa’s whispering but Cloud still hears her anyway, and the tears are harder to keep at bay when he can hardly think from the pain.

“What the hell?! Have you been hiding this from us? For how long?!”

“Barret, dont-”

“I’m sorry,” Cloud finally breaks, squeezing his eyes shut as Tifa keeps prodding, “I’m sorry. I- I fucked up.”

“Damnit. Look, I didn’t mean it like that, okay? You can’t keep things like this from us, though. This could'a killed you, do you understand?”

“I’m not weak. I can still...I can still do the mission. I didn’t fail you. Please don't abandon me, I swear I didn't fail you.”

"Hey!" Cloud jumps. "Nobody's abandoning anybody. Is that really what you think of us?"

"No...no. 'm sr..." he slurs and fades, world spinning sickeningly.

“Is his head okay?” 

“No, I- Shit, I think he hit it.” 

There’s more prodding, this time with thick fingers running over his forehead and through his hair, carding at the strands in a way that would usually make him want to purr in satisfaction. Except this time the fingers brush against something swollen and hot and his head splits in two at the feel of it. He whines and jolts, attempting to twist away from his attacker. Yet not two seconds later there’s a small apology, fingers smoothing away the pain in a bid for forgiveness, and he submits again to the touch.

“That one’s recent. It has to be from the fall.” There’s a sigh, irritated and frustrated and lengthy enough to make guilt swarm in Cloud’s chest, another apology falling from his lips before he can stop it.

“It’s okay,” Tifa whispers, patting comfortingly at his knee. Cloud reluctantly opens his eyes, expecting to see any number of accusations or deceptions, fearful of her inevitable fury. Yet all he sees is her peering up at him with a furrowed brow, expression one of complete concern. It isn't enough, though. Because he knows he failed - he knows he fucked up - and now they know it, too.

“I’m not weak,” he repeats desperately, “I can still go on. I won’t fail again, I swear.”

“Nobody here thinks you’re weak, merc. Hell, don’t tell anybody I said this, but you might be the strongest damn person I’ve ever met.”

Affection makes Cloud dizzy for a moment, high on the feeling of caring for someone - of knowing they care back. Then Tifa speaks as well, and his heart bursts.

“You didn’t fail us, Cloud. We failed you. We should have noticed and we should have done something. I could never think you’re weak.”

“I’m not...I’m not like I promised I would be.”

“Oh, Cloud," she sighs, and it sounds like grief and understanding and something he could never name, strung together by a heart of gold. His chest pangs even with the sound of her voice. "Everyone needs help every once in a while. Would you blame me for needing it. Would you call me weak?”

“Of course not.” Cloud would never. He riles just at the thought of it, head aching with the sudden rise of emotion. Barret’s chuckle is a low rumble above him, accompanied by Tifa's hum of amusement as she rummages through her bag for something. After a time she brings out a glowing green materia, giving it a triumphant look before turning her beautiful red eyes back to Cloud.

“Then you shouldn’t do so to yourself, either. You aren’t held to a different standard here. Nobody in the group is expected to hurt themselves and punish their bodies just to get a mission done. We care about our own.”

“I'm not…”

“You are,” Barret states, firm and unrelenting, "you're one of ours and you're one of mine, and we care. All of us."

"...oh." It's small and pitiful, but Barret doesn't seem to take it for a sign of weakness, either. Instead, he turns joking as he ruffles his hand through Cloud's hair.

“Uh-huh. So I think you owe Wedge an apology or twelve.”

“And you owe him several as well, Barret, now hush and let me work.”

Cloud fades after that, lulled by the gentle cradle of Barret’s hand on his head and the wash of energy through his veins, light and healing as it wipes the pain away. Until his eyelids are heavy and his limbs limp, exhaustion tugging at his bones until he's falling into a warmth, wrapped in a tender embrace. There's breath across his cheek when he rests his head against a steady shoulder, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his hands as Tifa speaks.

“Sleep, Cloud."

"What about..."

"Sh..." She presses a kiss to his forehead, soft and loving. "Sleep. Trust us. Don't worry about a thing."

[trans-darkwing]

talk yourself up

DWD + DT17 drabble | written before the the Double-O-Duck ep aired, but I still like it | Darkwing and Steelbeak | ~1800 words

-

Darkwing scrabbles backward across the floor, his gas gun has been kicked across the room, in the corner behind the director’s desk. His cape is gone, torn away and with it all the other gadgets he kept stored in hidden pockets. Steelbeak stalks closer, a sadistic smirk twisting the joints of his metal beak.

“What now, Darkwing Duck?” he mocks, drawing out the name, “I’m on the edge of my seat to find out what happens next. No, really,” he goes on, “you’ve got a whole script for this, am I right? Or did you not plan this far ahead?” He laughs. Steel beak talks a lot, he likes that. It suits Darkwing just fine.

“Don’t have a script,” he starts to respond, “but I am very good at improv.” His hand hits on something heavy and metal and he grabs for it, flinging it in his best overhand towards the towering titan taunting him treacherously. The wrench flies through the air and hits him squarely on the mouth, with the sickening clang of metal on metal. It stuns him, only for a moment, reeling as he clutches at his face. Darkwing takes the scarce instant to look for something, anything to get himself out of this.

The rooster lowers his hand, baring his teeth furiously, “I think you just gave me a dent. That’s gonna cost ya. An arm and a leg!” The man lunges for him, apparently growing tired of playing with his food. But Drake has already started scrambling to his feet and rolling out of the way. He’s off balance though, being thrown across the room seems to have done more than just knock the breath out of him. He steadies himself and dances further out of reach, letting the loquacious lug of larceny lumber closer to him.

“So... how do you fix a dent in your face?” Drake wonders conversationally, going for diversion now, “you just open it up, pop the dent, and buff it out…? Or do you just have to replace the whole model?” He inches around him as he does, slowly circling the scoundrel in a stagnant stand-off.

“They really only have to replace the one joint that’s dented, but you got me in two.”

Darkwing Duck’s face splits in a grin, trying not to let on how woozy he feels. “Ooh, two for one, do I get a prize?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna give you a dent of your own,” Steelbeak says sweetly, “how do you fix those?”

DW gives him a look of faux innocence. “My face? It just always looks this good,” he shrugs, all bravado.

“Not when I’m done with you,” he snorts, “and don’t think I don’t know where you're going. Your stupid little toy-gun is over there, but you also backed yourself into a corner. Deadmeat Duck.”

Darkwing stays silent this time, darting his eyes around the room once more, this time though, it’s an act.

“What now, pretty boy?” 

Drake backs away from him further, reaching the edge of the desk. He clutches at it blindly, pressing himself against it as he holds onto the edge with tense fingers.

Steelbeak sneers, “guess that’s gonna be a big nothing, then.” Still getting closer, right where Drake wants him.

“Have you ever done a coordinated stunt fall?” He asks calmly, looking up at the rooster with his hands gripping onto the lip of the desk behind him.

It takes Steelbeak off guard, looking bewildered by the sudden change in his demeanor. “What? No.”

“Oh,” Drake says gravely, “then this is gonna hurt.”

With that he deftly throws himself up, using the table for leverage and kicking out as he does, and landing the blow to Steelbeak’s head, knocking the man heavily to the ground. Then he uses the backwards momentum of his movement to flip behind the desk. He stumbles on the dismount, clutching at his own head and willing the dizziness to dissipate. Without further hesitation he reaches for what had been his actual goal, sliding his hand across the underside of the desk.

“There,” he mutters to himself, flipping the switch and activating the silent alarms. “They’ll know you’re here now, Steelbeak,” he announces helpfully, to the man now just recovering enough to stand, “in fact, we should have company in just a few minutes.”

“That’s still plenty of time for me to kill you!” he roars, diving over the desk now. Drake doesn't dodge quick enough this time and gets tackled bodily to the ground, his head knocking into the polished marble flooring once more. This time— rather than just dizziness and the fuzz of pain at the back of his head, marking the start of a headache— it feels like his head is splitting open. He doesn’t mean to let out the breathless noise of pain, but he doesn’t seem to be fully cognizant anymore. He struggles for breath, this fall also having forced the wind from his lungs.

“What are you gonna do now, huh!?” Steelbeak demands, looming over him and lifting Drake by the collar. Limp form hanging from the grip fisted in his shirt, his head lolling back uselessly. He drops him again, giving a low chuckle as he pushes himself to stand over him, staring down at him and lording himself above Drake.

“Now that you don’t have all your weapons and your little gadgets, what are ya gonna do?” he asks, metal jaws gleaming in the low light, “you’re nothing.”

Everything is still blurry and Steelbeak sounds far away, as if he’s underwater. Still, as he listens to the words, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.

So Drake gasps a laugh of his own, fighting back control of his voice if nothing else. “You know... back before I had all that stuff, way back... I used to deal with guys like you,” he shifted, trying to push himself up little by little as he forced the words from his chest, still recovering his breath. “The kind of person who hurts people because they can. Does it make you feel good?” he asks from his place on the floor.

“A little,” Steelbeak responds, his smile curling awfully.

“Does it make you feel like a big man?” Drake hisses furiously, propping himself up on his arm now.

At that, Steelbeak laughs, hearty and cruel. “You really took this hero thing to heart, huh?” He laughs again, stepping back to look down at Drake on the ground like he’s admiring his handiwork. “So, what did you do when these big mean bullies pushed you on the playground?” He asks, pitching his voice like he’s talking to a child.

“I got back up,” Drake breathes, voice low and barely audible. 

Steelbeak leans closer, holding a mocking hand up to his ear, “What was that?” He asks.

The thing about Steelbeak is that he likes to hear himself talk. And for a long as Drake can talk back— which is forever because Drake is about exactly as full of hot air as Steelbeak is— Steelbeak will draw it out. He likes gloating. He likes boasting, and preening, and talking himself up. And that suits Darkwing just fine. And it’s useful.

“I got back up!” He shouts and without hesitation he forces himself to his feet, coming up swinging. He spins his fist out, catching the man in the stomach first, then he whirls another fist towards his face. But this time he stumbles back after his hand slams into solid metal plating. He laughs in hysterical panic, shaking out his aching hand.

Steelbeak looks at him wild-eyed and grinning, “you know, I’m starting to like you. Too bad this is where you die,” He grabs for him again, Drake just barely staggers out of the way, falling to his hands and knees as he does and scrambling to get on his feet again.

“Well, you’d better hurry up—” he starts, and as if on cue a door in some other part of the building opens with a bang. Drake grins up at him, feeling jovial and entirely off-kilter as he says, “time’s up.”

Steekbeak does back away this time. “Next time,” he growls and Drake can only smile and nod at him, still half-way fallen down.

Steelbeak then breaks through the window and dives out and for a moment Drake can’t fathom why until he watches him catch onto a rope ladder he hadn’t known was there and is pulled away with the roaring sound of a helicopter flying off.

Drake collapses fully to the ground at that, in relief, and maybe exhaustion. The door behind him bursts open not a moment later. And Drake lets himself be rolled over by strong paws, squinting up at Grizzlykoff kneeling over him.

“Great, it’s my favorite SHUSH agent,” Drake intones dryly.

“Darkwing is alive,” he calls out flatly over his shoulder.

“You’re late,” Drake informs him, lifting one heavy arm to point out the broken window, “I already fought the bad guy, as you can see.”

He ignores that and helps Drake to sit up, pulling out a thin flashlight to shine in each of his eyes.

“You definitely have concussion.” The bear says gruffly in his thick Russian accent.

“I could have told you that,” Drake bemoans bitterly, blinking spots away with his headache growing. He rubs a hand to the back of his head where it had hit the floor, not once but twice. Then he glances around, suddenly realizing he'd lost his hat at some point.

“You are acting childishly immature, as always, along with your unnecessary jabber. It comforts me to know your head is in normal state,” the agent responds in a heavy deadpan.

“I always have some spare sass for you, Grizz,” he tells him with a single pat to the shoulder, “now, do you see my hat a— Ah! Hey!” without preamble, the grizzly hefts him up to toss him across his back. Then looping an arm around Darkwing’s leg and securing his wrist with the same hand

“I can walk!” he protests, though he's not certain it’s actually true. “And you could at least carry me like a gentleman!”

“This is fireman hold. Standard procedure for transporting injured civilian out of potentially dangerous area.”

“I know what a fireman’s hold is!” he screeches, punching his free first into Grizzlykoff’s back. It doesn’t do much. “And I am not a civilian!” he growls furiously, then, once more for good measure adds, “and I don’t need you to carry me!!”

The bear shrugs, unfazed, “Procedure still applies.”

Drake just groans heavily dropping his head where it hangs freely beside Grizzlykoff’s shoulder. His heartbeat pounding too loudly in his skull, which felt as if Steelbeak had taken a sledgehammer and opened it up like a coconut. Actually, why would you open a coconut with a sledgehammer? Seems like overkill. Just— however you open a coconut that is his brain, a coconut. He needs help.

The agent doesn’t pause his walking but he does ask seriously, “do you want me to cradle you like baby, instead?”

Drake snorts, but that just makes his headache worse so he’s moaning in pain again, “no, just— get me to a doctor.”

“That is what I am doing.”

“And call Launchpad.”

“I will.”

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Day 17: Witching Hour - Hyper Concentrated

Sometimes I’m more ghostly than others and that’s just fine. Just another messed up aspect of a messed up half-life.

April 12, 3:42 am

April 24, 3:28 am

July 6, 3:11 am

August 1, 3:56 am

August 13, 3:47 am

Danny sighs as he shakes his head adding another date to his little notebook.

August 29, 3:03 am

Even his dumbass, that was perpetually focused on other things, could see the pattern here. It was always between 3 am and 4 am. He didn’t yet know if it happened exactly at 3 am and would stop instantly at 4 am. And really, if it wasn’t for all the late-night or early morning -depending on how you looked at it- ghost sense wake up calls, he never would have noticed.

Getting up and walking over to his bedroom door nob, wiggling it to hear and feel the reassuring lock. If his parents ever walked in on this, it would be flat out awful. Not ‘walking in on him mid-transformation’ awful, but definitely up there with ‘seeing him bleed ectoplasm’ awful.

Shuffling back to his bed and getting started on his nights stitching and bandagings. Most would come off by morning, it was an easier fight after all. Which really just meant he hadn’t sustained any injuries that would typically kill a human. A few scratches, read: deep gouges. A cracked rib, read: probably broken earlier. A sprained shoulder, read: dislocated. And a deep jagged slash running down his arm, read: nearly bisected. Okay, maybe that last one could be deadly; but that lady in Saw survived it, didn’t she?

Watching the vibrant glow coming off his human skin as he sets to work on his arm, having already fixed up his shoulder.

It was kind of annoying doing stitching while his body was ‘acting up’ like this. The ectoline blending in too easily with his glowing green fingernails. But it was something that had to be done. Otherwise, a gaping wound would stay a gaping wound by the time it was genuinely morning. And hiding that was more than a little difficult. At least on the simple scratches he could just use butterfly bandages.

Watching a trail of red blood with a white glow flow lazily over the side of his wrist. It really did something to your brain. Seeing something glow the completely wrong colour. At least with other colours you could trick your brain into just thinking it was a washed-out version of the colour. Pale green or pale blue or pale yellow. Can’t do that with red, you just get pale pink. And the brain just doesn’t like that, it’s honestly a good thing weird and not right and impossible, are Danny’s normals.

One more prick and pull and he’s patting at the finished stitching somewhat fondly. Sometimes he liked to fiddle with the edges of the stitches when he was feeling bored or stressed. Like squeezing a stress ball. It was calming and grounding.

Standing and stretching some before taking the first aid kit with him over to his bedroom mirror. He never used to have one, but after one too many times nearly being caught treating head or back wounds in the family bathroom, that had to change. Ruffling up his glowing green hair before setting to work butterflying closed four cuts. He hated head wounds, they always bled so damn much. This fact being emphasised by how he had to dap at his forehead every so often with his assigned blood rag. Honestly, the thing just looked tie-dyed now. A somewhat pretty collidascope of dark rust reds, darkening cherry reds, deep forest greens, fuzzy lime green, and the glow of neon green. Now adding a splash of vibrant white-glowing red, it really looked out of place. But it would fade all the same. Sometimes he found it funny how the reds always faded faster than the greens. Maybe if this rag didn’t see so much action it would all fade into an off-putting brown. Not off-putting because of the fact that it was brown, but rather that you could always just tell there was something sinister about that particular shade with that particular texture.

Running his tongue over his teeth and pausing, tilting his head. Opening his mouth to look at his green glowing teeth, “huh. Lost a tooth”. Shrugging, he’ll just have to keep his mouth closed for the morning and take his breakfast to go. Walking back over to his bed and staring down at the notebook. Before looking down at his chest, patting at his PJ top. At least whatever this was didn’t force him to be in his jumpsuit. And he still looked normal in Phantom form. It was just Fenton that was all weird and glowy and green.

Stretching again but with a yawn before flopping back in bed to sleep. Stretching up in the morning, poking his tongue around in his mouth. Yep, tooth still missing. Well okay, it was half-formed. Pushing his tongue against the half-formed tooth, it was weird feeling the inside of a tooth. Plus the nerves were all exposed so anything cold, hot, sweet, spicy, salty, -really anything that wasn’t plain- would hurt like Hell.

Taking the steps two at a time and making sure not to jar his arm on the banister. Sliding into the kitchen and speaking with his head towards the ground to hide his mouth, “mornin’!”.

Jack and Maddie smile, exchange greetings and the normal stereotypical pleasantries. That were honestly just for the routine of it nowadays. It wasn’t that it’s was insincere, there was still love in it. It’s just that they were all nearly strangers to each other.

Waving bye to them with a piece of bread in his mouth. Everyone with smiles on their faces, genuine smiles yes but he knew they’d disappear near instantly. Wondering just what he was up too and wishing they could ask without feeling awkward and knowing they wouldn’t really get an answer. Just the same they didn’t really give him answers about their inventions anymore. Having caught on that once he, his friends, or Phantom caught on to what any of it did, it suddenly wouldn’t work on Phantom or at all.

Shrugging, well if he could keep secrets from them, it was only right they could too. Fair is fair after all. Besides the mystery and challenge added a bit of spice to everything. Kept him on his toes and always searching for the what, why, and how. Also known as paranoia, but that was just a close friend to him nowadays.

Waving to Sam and Tucker as he spots them by the fountain, “hey guys! So I’ve got some ghost weirdness to shoot off ya!”. Danny can see the slight strain as they try to hear him, even though he shouted. Human hearing really was awful. Clapping Tucker in the shoulder as Danny plops down on the edge of the fountain. Sam smiling, “alright shoot. What’s gone straight strange in ghost ville this time?”.

Danny pulls out the little notebook, “it’s been a few months at least actually. Might even have been an always thing, just hadn’t noticed it yet”, flipping the book open and pointing at the times he’s got recorded, “always seems to be between three and four am. Basically-”.

Sam cuts him off with a laugh, “whatever it is, easy answer. Witching hour”. Both Danny and Tucker raise an eyebrow, “huh?”.

Sam rolls her eyes, “oh come on. I would have figured by now all of us would have a healthy interest in the supernatural and spooky. The Witching hour is commonly known, you idiots”.

Danny points to her, “I am literally the supernatural and spooky”. “Then be more interested in yourself”.

Danny looks around quickly before creating a clone and promptly kissing it, “that interested enough for you”.

Both of them start laughing, Tucker falling over. Making Danny grin wide, always appreciating how neither will call him on his injuries, teeth included. Sam shakes her head, “so anyway, dumbass. The Witching hour is three am to four am every night. Where the supernatural is more active. More powerful, more noticeable, more common. All that jazz”.

Tucker slaps Danny’s chest, “so what the Hell’s happening? To you probably”. Danny snorts and rolls his eyes, “of course it’s to me. When is it ever not?”. They laugh while Danny chuckles before speaking up again, “the problem with this though, is it happens to Screaming Fan not Frying Pan. And it seems pretty involuntary. Frying Pan is perfectly normal-looking but Screaming Fan is all glowy. Even blood glows white. Then there’s the green. Teeth, fingernails, eyes. All green and glowy. Like as bright as ectoline, glowy”.

Sam and Tucker exchange a look, speaking in unison, “sleep over time”. While Danny chuckles and kicks his heel hard enough on the stone to crack it.

That night, surprising no one, is more of an extended patrol than a traditional sleepover. Tucker whacking an ectobeaver over the head with a ectostun stick, “it really says something that this is our idea of a fun past time!”.

Danny chuckles blasting away an ectopuss, “honestly, it’s more telling that our folks aren’t even surprised by any of us just off and disappearing anymore!”, coming to float on his back just above the ground, “pretty sure they’ve all given up”.

Sam snorts, dragging another ectobeaver across the ground and whacking it, for good measure, before sucking it into her thermos, “don’t know what took mine so damn long. You fucks have only been the family black sheep’s for a few years. I’ve been doing it half my life”.

Danny snickers and pokes her, “I’ve been doing it for all of half my life”. “Okay, I asked for that one”.

Danny just smirks as they do another lap around the town. Danny soaring over buildings and diving into alleys. Sam and Tucker following across rooftops, balconies and the ground. Frequently doing completely unnecessary parkour stunts.

Tucker whacks Danny on the back, “well looks like we chased everything away. Even Boxy isn’t making anymore repeat appearances”, looking at his smartwatch, “and it’s, like, just past two-thirty”.

Danny snorts, deadpanning, “too thirsty”.

Sam rolls her eyes at him, “you don’t have any more shame do you?”. “It’s dead, rolling around in its coffin and slamming on the lid. Firmly being ignored by all the groundskeepers, ‘cause the fuckers got no place amongst the living or dead”.

Tucker shrugs, leaning over as he shoves the remnants of a cold burger into his mouth, “none ofgh urse dow”.

Sam rolls her eyes, prompting Danny to point at her. Sam raises an eyebrow, “what?”.

“Sam you’re literally running over rooftops and fighting mean nasty ghosties, in a bedazzled bra and Halloween novelty panties you’re passing off as shorts. Which honestly, yeah, they’re closer to shorts”.

Sam points down at her steel toe combat boots with a smirk. Tucker snorting, “you probably bathe in those things”.

“It’s happened”.

Danny laughs as he picks them up to fly to his room, “see? No shame”.

Landing and all three promptly collapsing on the floor. None of them opting to get up. Wounds left ignored to add to the stains on the floor. Danny eventually grunting, “think my room qualifies as a biohazard?”.

“Dude, some of your clothing piles probably have mould. And is there anything without blood or ‘plasm stains?”. Danny shrugs, “prob not”.

Sam laughs a little hollowly, “you know that means we’re all nose blind to blood and viscera”.

Danny, in human form now, sits up on his hands, “I prob always smell like that”. He really was always injured. It was a rare thing that he wasn’t bleeding at least a little bit. And the only aspect of that that bothered him was that sometimes he didn’t notice it bleeding through clothing. People might notice that sort of thing and replacing clothing was expensive.

Danny then jerks slightly, his friends following suit near immediately. Danny feeling his ectoplasm pulse and slosh around of its own accord. Feeling closer to the surface and vibrating slightly more than it had been before. Tilting his head down and seeing the glowing human hands and green fingernails, “huh, never actually been awake during”.

Sam checks her phone, “yup, three am on the dot”, before flipping it around to show them.

Tucker snorts, “that was easy to figure out then”.

Danny sticks his arms out to the side, “but why? I mean obviously it’s the whole supernatural, aka ghost, being stronger or whatever”.

“Duh”.

“Dude, that's basically the why entirely”.

Danny facepalms, muttering into his hand, “if this ‘witching hour’ brings ghosts closer to the surface because”, lifting his head up and snapping his fingers, “shit yeah, I could feel this. My ectoplasm bubbles up to the surface, more so anyway”, Rolling his hand, “but really, shouldn’t this just make me Noten Phantom looking? Not green? If this time makes ghosts more ghostly or the Ghost Realm closer to the Mortal one?”.

Tucker blinks at him disbelievingly before laughing, “you answered your own question”, gesturing to Danny’s green glowing form, “your green cause your ectoplasm is closer to the surface”.

Sam tilts her head, “the Witching Hour is the time where, if we apply this to knowing ghosts are indeed real, ectoplasm would be more active”, pointing at Danny, “hence your ectoplasm being more active”. Smirking at him, “you could say, that just as the Ghost Realm is closer to the surface, to the land of the living. So too is your ghost closer to the surface of you, the body of the living Danny”.

Danny fiddles with his stitching some and starts laughing, “so I’m spooky Danny. Spooky Danny Fenton”, snorting, “Phantom’s a Spook and Fenton’s a Mortal. But Witching Hour Fenton is Spooky Fenton”, sticking his glowing arms out to the side, “not quite a Spook and not quite a Mortal! The true in between!”. Tucker throws an arm around Danny, “and since only Fenton’s affected that means it’s a halfa thing. In between indeed”.

Sam throws her arm around Danny’s other side before the all dramatically fall back down onto the ground, “at least you rock it, very cybergoth. Vlad probably looks like an absolute fool”.

Danny goes wide-eyed and slowly grins maliciously, “well it is only 3:24, we can pay our favourite unlovable fruitloop a visit now can’t we?”.

Tucker jerks to sit up but Danny’s got a hold on him and isn’t moving, dragging Tucker back down onto the carpet with a huff.

Sam raises an eyebrow, staring at the ceiling, “portal?”.

Tucker nods at the ceiling, “portal”.

While Danny smirks, “portal”, before opening up a portal on the floor, the three fällig backwards through it. Danny whispering, “now fall”.

The three come flying out of the portal formed on Vlad’s bedroom wall, making Vlad jerk and spit out his whiskey as he was finishing off the glass and was about to get ready for bed. Vlad follows them as they fly across the room while laughing at him, with Tucker taking a photo, before disappearing through another portal. All in the span of a second or two.

The three fall from the portal formed on Danny’s ceiling and land on his bed. With multiple injuries reopening and jostling Danny’s rib enough to turn a crack back into yet another break. Danny wheezes, “my ribs can never catch a break”. Tucker snorts, “the bed caught it for you”, before holding his PDA straight up for everyone to see the image.

“Oh Ancients green eyes do not suit him!”.

“He looks like he’s got neon green nail polish! Very goth. Way too much with that suit of his though”.

“See it works on Danny dude cause he looks like a damn mess, so it’s a fucking accent piece. Vampy just looks like a try-hard!”.

“Excuse you?!? I’m a natural disaster sight! ‘Mess’ is, clearly, far too modest”. Sam pokes his cheek, “well you know what’s not modest? Besides calling you a colossal idiot? Your green glow looks like a sick rave effect. Vlad just looks ill”. Danny snorts, “sick and ill are both mine. Vladdie can have afflicted, since that’s not inadvertently a compliment”, snapping his fingers, “and! He was and is literally afflicted by his ghostliness, ectoacne and all that. Being a halfa is literally an affliction for him”.

Tucker smirks, “and so what is it for you then?”.

“Unlike the fruitloop, I didn’t get my shit slowly after a bout of extreme illness. I just straight half died. I ain’t afflicted by shit, I’m modified”.

“Now who’s being modest by saying ‘modified’ instead of ‘enhanced’?”.

“Oh don’t you know Sam? Danny only flaunts his bad traits”.

Danny, speaking with mock offence, “what do you mean being a walking disaster zone isn’t a positive trait?”.

Tucker sprigs up off the bed and takes a couple of steps before stopping and looking down at the floor, looking back to Danny and bouncing slightly on his toes, “dude, your floor is squishy. Being a flaming trash fire is one thing, accidentally becoming the biohazard apocalypse is another”.

Danny sits up and screws up his face, pokes the floor with his foot and shrugs, “my floors saturated, blood ‘n ‘plasm probably”, snickering and lifting up his glowing arm, “just like how I’m ectoplasm saturated”.

Sam laughs, grabs Tucker’s phone and zooms in on Vlad’s mouth. Snickering, “hey halfwit?”.

Danny leans his head over hers, “what?”.

Sam shoves a finger in Danny’s mouth and pushes it open, showing off Danny’s green glowing teeth, “you look like you drank glow-in-the-dark paint”, flipping around Tucker’s phone so Danny the close up of Vlad’s teeth, “he looks like he’s wearing a tacky novelty mouthguard”.

Danny raises an eyebrow and lets his fangs pop out, making a show of sounding overactingly threatening, “what about now?”. Only maintaining the scary facial expression for a few seconds before pitching off the bed onto the floor while laughing.

Sam shakes her head and kicks his face. Tucker shrugging and joining in, kicking Danny in the stomach. Who just wheezes in laughter.

As Danny calms down and just wheezes on the floor, limbs spread out, Tucker pokes Danny cheek with his shoe, “now you look like you cannibalised a ghost and liked it”.

Danny smirks up at him, “maybe I would”.

Sam kicks him in the side of the head, “don’t eat Boxy”.

“Naw, Skulkie is More bite-sized”.

Tucker rolls his eyes and joins Danny on the carpet, “but he’s canned. Canned food is so salty”.

Sam grunts as she wiggles herself off the bed and onto the floor, laying across the boys, “and you’re salty enough”.

Danny licks over one of his wounds, “naw, I’m pucker power”, screwing up his face like he bit a lemon, “and with an extra helping of sour powder apparently”.

Tucker snorts, “I’d ask for free samples but I like my tongue intact”.

“Oh come on Tuck, live life! Like me!”.

Tucker shakes his head, “is it sad that we all only started really living our lives once you lost half of yours?”.

Danny shrugs exaggeratedly, “well you two are the only ones living it to the fullest”.

Tucker pushes his face, “but you get to live and unlive. Two for one is a much better deal”.

Danny laughs, “livin’ it and deadin’ it!”.

Sam smiles at the ceiling, “death gave us the guts and drive to live”.

“Well maybe it could do me a solid and stop tearing out my guts”.

“You say that like deaths never done anything for you”.

“It hasn’t! That little bastard keeps running away from me. Never granting me that sweet sweet eternal sleep”.

Both Sam and Tucker sit up then and look over his green glowing form, raising their eyebrows at him. Only for him to give a devilish toothy grin as e can feel the ectoplasm in him sloshing and digging itself deeper inside himself, his body returning to normal as he cackles. Point at himself, “the bitch ran away”.

Both of them grab a pillow and hit him in the face. End.

[mangokiwitropicalswirl]

Paging Dr. Scully, chp 5: Ice

Paging Dr. Scully 1: Squeeze / 2: Jersey Devil / 3: Shadows / 4. Ghost in the Machine

“Dad, do you think I’m becoming detached?” Scully leans back in the dining room chair, fingering the stem of her wineglass. “Emotionally stunted? Immune to feeling?”

“Oh Dana, what would make you say that?” William Sr. replies in a soothing tone. “You were always my soft-hearted girl.”

“I don’t know, Dad.” Scully looks to the distance, then down into her glass. “I saw a friend lose somebody close to him in the ER this week. And I barely cried. It all seemed so rote, so normal. And then I saw him tear up, and I realized I’m giving more attention to all the notations in my charts than the people in the rooms.”

William Sr. nods and places an arm on her shoulder. “You are a good doctor, Dana. You always want to fix people, to make everything better.” He pauses until she looks up at him. “But you can’t fix everything. Some things are out of your control.”

Scully swallows, a lump forming in her throat. Her response is a choked whisper. “I just worry I’m becoming so cold. I don’t want to close off my heart from my work, you know.”

Maggie has stopped clearing away the dishes away and is listening in. “You just sound burned out, dear,” she offers.

“That’s such a cliche, mom,” Scully rolls her eyes and sits up a bit straighter, taking a sip of wine to help steady her voice. “If I’m burned out, then all doctors everywhere are always burned out.”

“I mean it,” Maggie presses further. “When was the last time you stopped working and took a vacation? First, you graduate college early and you start straight into med school. Then you choose emergency medicine as your speciality and dive into your residency without so much as a week off between getting your coat and your first clinical rotation. You’ve been going non-stop since you were 17, dear. I’d say you might be dealing with burnout.”

“Now now, Maggie,” William Sr. chides her lightly, “You know Dana thrives on achievement.”

“It’s true, dad,” Scully adds with a sigh. “I do.”

Even so, hearing her mother give the details of the last 12 years of her life like that, she is suddenly exhausted. “But… but mom might be right.”

She looks back and forth at her mother and father and the remnants of the first after-church dinner they’ve managed to schedule in months. She has never felt like she had more stress than the average person, but when looked at objectively, it’s a wonder she hasn’t collapsed from the pressure.

“What do you think I should do?” She looks at her father, the stalwart Navy captain, as if he should be the one to chart a course for her. The idea that any kind of stress would be too much for her is vaguely embarrassing in light of his rigorous standards. But he is, after all, her dad.

“I can’t answer that for you,” he shakes his head. “But in my opinion, it’s nothing a little more sleep can’t cure.”

“Mom?” Scully knows her mother will see things a bit differently.

“I think you might want to ask about a brief leave of absence, a sabbatical,” Maggie suggests, “I mean, when was the last time you even had time to go out on a date?”

Scully sighs. So often with her mother, it always comes back to her love life. Or lack thereof. Now doesn’t seem to be the time to get into that subject, even if for once, Scully thinks she might have something to share. But now’s not the time to delve into that.

“Honestly mom, dating is the least of my concerns right now…” she trails off wearily, too tired to mount her usual defenses.

“I’m just saying,” Maggie interjects. “These things don’t just happen. It’s not like the right guy is just going to stumble into your ER.”

Scully does her best to hide a smile as she stands up from the table and begins gathering her things to go. In fact, back at home there’s a message on her answering machine from a guy that she met in her ER. A message she’s probably played a half dozen times over the course of the last few days.

She had finally listened to it the night Mulder’s friend Jerry had died, once she made her way back to her apartment for the first time in days. She had stumbled her way to the couch and barely pulled off her shoes before passing out. When she woke in a puddle of drool, the blinking red light on the console table was the first thing she saw. She had leaned up on her elbows and slapped “play,” trying not to hold her breath as the machine ticked through a couple robo-sales calls and a reminder from her mother that they were due to have lunch after church the next Sunday. Then, his voice filled her apartment, on a message dated from Monday night.

“What’s up Doc? I’m guessing you’re probably on shift at the hospital now. I’ve been thinking about ways to get myself injured so I’d have a reason to see you, but I got a weird case this morning. I’ll have to tell ya about it – what do you know about artificial intelligence? Because it looks like our robot overlords might be arriving sooner than scheduled. Anyway, I’ll be kinda busy this week with this case, but I wanted to call and say thanks for making the drive up to Philly. You were right about the bell – it’s a big bell with a big crack, but at least we didn’t have to wait in any long lines. I don’t think I’d mind waiting in a long line with you anyway though. I know you have my number. Call me when you get a chance.”

The smile that had started when she heard the first words of his message only brightens the longer it goes on. She can hear the grin in his own voice as he pauses at the end of the message before hanging up.

She hasn’t known how to call back, though, after their interchange at the hospital. She has wanted to give him space, and she knows that he’s probably confused that she hasn’t responded. It’s just all kinds of awkward, so what exactly is she going to tell her parents? Nothing, yet.

“Thank you for dinner, mom. It was wonderful as usual.” Scully hugs her mother and clears away a side dish and some glasses on her way through the kitchen.

“Things will be alright, Dana,” William Sr. stands and places an arm on her hand as they stall by the door. “You have a good head on your shoulders.”

“Thanks Dad.” Scully squeezes his forearm, smiling faintly. “Thanks for the advice.”

In the car on the way home, she decides she has two things to do. First, she needs to call Mulder back, awkwardness be damned. And second, she needs to schedule a meeting with hospital HR and find out about leaves of absence.

Her stomach lurches wildly as the little plane dips and dives through a cloudbank. She hates small planes. She’s not much of a fan of big ones either, but small ones are infinitely worse. She pulls the white fur hood of her puffy jacket closer around her face to try and block the view of the towering peaks looming a little too close through the windows.

She glances at Mulder in the seat beside her. He’s looking at her with an expression somewhere between “I’m so sorry,” and “please don’t kill me.” He reaches over and laces his fingers overtop her right hand that is gripping the armrest. He squeezes.  “Almost there.” He tries to make it sound like a promise, but she hears the hesitation in his voice.

It’s moments like this that it hits her that she barely knows this man, but here she is, quivering in a tiny prop plane, on their way to God-knows-where for who-knows-why. But she is on a sabbatical and she’s going to Alaska with a man she just met. Her face and her fingers are freezing, but this is the warmest she’s felt in years.