Author's Note: On TV Tropes, a picture of Vicky yelling at Timmy appears under the trope "Babysitter from Hell". But what if she and Timmy had completely different personalities, and she was actually a "Badly Battered Babysitter"? With that as my inspiration, I hope you enjoy this combination of "Vicky Loses Her Icky" and "Nega-Timmy"!
Vicky will be called 'Vee' throughout this fanfic because Vicky minus Icky equals V, but Timmy will still be called 'Timmy' even when he acts like his Nega-self.
Role Reversal
Mr and Mrs Turner are waiting by the front door, all dressed up with somewhere to go – the midnight grand opening of the "bigger and better" Dimmsdale Mall, to be specific.
"Thanks for babysitting, Vee," the father says. "This is the latest we've been out since Timmy was born."
"No problem, Mr Turner!" the red-haired teenager beams with rosy cheeks. "I just love children! And I especially love Timmy!" she adds with a twirl, yellow dress flying.
"Yes, quite," the purple-clad boy pipes up from behind her. He hugs her legs. "We're bosom buddies, aren't we?" He grins up at Vee and Vee alone. Is that – is that a forked tongue poking out between his teeth?
"Yeah, what he said," Vee hurriedly agrees, trying to conceal the wobble of fear in her voice.
Satisfied that their son is in safe hands, Mr and Mrs Turner soon depart, hopping into their car and zipping away.
"Have fun at the mall!" Vee calls after them, waving from the doorway and blowing kisses. "Goodbye!"
She closes the door with a shaking hand. She takes her time. She knows by now that he only strikes once no-one can see what's going on. The longer the door is open, the less he can hurt her.
The lock clicks into place. It sounds so final. She turns to face her raven-haired charge.
He's standing where he was before, hands behind his back. In a tiny, desperate part of her mind, Vee wonders if she still has a chance.
"Okay, sport," she begins, "you know the rules. Play nicely, go to bed when I say so, and let's have fun together." She is perky but firm, nice but authoritative; she knows what she's doing. She's the perfect babysitter.
"Hmm, yes. What game shall we play tonight?" Timmy reveals the box in his right hand. "Checkers?" He brandishes the mace in his left hand. "Or Dungeon?"
"Checkers," Vee instantly answers. It's the safest option.
"Dungeon it is!" he cackles.
…
The coldness of the stone floor pricks at Vee through her bare legs and travels up her spine until she is shivering all over. Her hands are lifted above her head and locked in place by iron shackles. She has no idea how long she has been here.
The wooden door creaks open. Light streams through – until a familiar shadow falls across the dungeon walls.
"Timmy! There you are!" Vee struggles once again to free herself, the chains clattering, the babysitter grunting. She fails once again. "This is ridiculous. How do you even win this game?"
"You don't win anything," Timmy explains as he approaches. "I'm the one locking you up. So I win by default. The sweetest win there is."
"You're being such a doofus!" Vee whines. "Let me out!"
"You're being such a doofus, let me out!" Timmy mimics, his voice harsh and scratchy. Then, back to normal, he tells her, "Sorry, ginger. You're staying here while I watch the four-hour Maho Mushi Marathon."
"What? No! You're only allowed an hour of edu-tainment, not four hours of violent cartoons!"
"Oh, what are you going to do about it? Scream?" He leers at her face, fangs dripping with drool. "I'll just turn up the volume so I can't hear you."
He slams the door and scuttles away with a guffaw. "Enjoy your imprisonment!"
There is nothing more Vee can do except listen out for the cry of "BANZAI BUBBLE!" that lets her know he is breaking the rules. Sure enough, it pierces her ears, followed by all the other meaningless catchphrases.
Vee curls up and squeezes her eyes shut. She's been babysitting the kids of Dimmsdale for two whole years. She should have mastered it by now. Why is there still one kid she can't control, one kid whose sole delight is making her life a misery?
Why does Timmy Turner have to be so icky?
…
By the time the boy returns (with bulging bloodshot eyes and candy crumbs around his mouth) to release her, Vee's wrists are rough and red from the rusty shackles. She bolts out of there before he can change his mind, dragging him behind her by his clawed hand, heading for his bedroom. "What are you doing?" he protests.
"Have you seen the time?" she shrieks. "You need to get your jim-jams on or you'll be exhausted tomorrow. And an exhausted boy is a grumpy boy!" she teases him, plopping him on the bed and pinching his cheek.
"I'm not going to bed," he snaps. "You can't make me."
"Yes, I can."
"You can't. You're too nice," Timmy sneers.
Vee folds her arms. "I may be nice, but I am not a doormat. Now, let me-" She tries to tug his shirt off. He smacks her away.
"Get off me," he bellows, "or I'll tell Mom and Dad you stole money from their mattress!"
Vee stops and lets him go. "Timmy, you parents are a little … how shall I put this delicately? Unobservant. I can't imagine they'll believe you." She smiles. Even when she's sugar and spice, he's no match for her.
"They will believe me, because I got it on tape." He pulls a recorder from his pocket and presses the PLAY button. "Hi, my name's Vee, and I-" The tape crackles. "-stole money from Mr Turner's mattress." The first section sounds like Vee, but the second really does not. It's too deep.
"That's clearly not me talking," Vee laughs. "I never stole money from Mr Turner's mattress."
Timmy shows her the other tape recorder. He plays them both.
"Hi, my name's Vee, and I-"
"-stole money from Mr Turner's mattress."
Separately, they are nonsensical. Together, they are fatally incriminating.
"Besides," Timmy continues, "I'm not tired." He starts to leave the room.
"Come back here." But the command is too squeaky, more of a plea than an order.
He turns and shakes the rattling tape recorders at her. She freezes. She doesn't respond. He carries on.
Vee fingers the purple bow in her hair. Timmy has always held the power over her. It's been that way from the start. If she wants to take the upper hand, she needs to toughen up. She knows that much. But the thought of doing anything remotely sadness-inducing tugs at her kind heart too painfully.
A car engine splutters. She looks out the window – and her eyes pop out of their sockets.
He's escaped!
He's taking his mother's car!
"GAH!" Vee dashes downstairs, but it's too late. He's already disappeared over a hill.
"This is horrible!" she frets. "If I don't find Timmy before he hurts himself, I'll look like a bad babysitter! And no parent will hire me ever again! And I'll never get to babysit the sweet kids that I'm not afraid of!" She's practically tearing her hair out with worry.
She hops into her own car, an old red vehicle advertising Vee's Precious Gift Babysitting Service in huge green letters, and speeds away. Dark grey storm clouds are gathering.
…
The rush from the parking lot to the mall is hampered by the rain lashing down on Vee. The ground is so slippery that she has to slow from a run to a powerwalk. By the time she bursts through the revolving doors, she is soaked through. She peels her hair away from her face and squeezes the moisture out.
The new mall is crowded with people and things. There are four stories of shops, arranged in a wide, wide circle and seemingly held up by a series of rusty-coloured marble columns. The centrepiece is an elaborate fountain where gold-plated statues of famous inhabitants of Dimmsdale (such as Dale Dimm, Doug Dimmadome and Chompy the goat) spit into a pool of water. Behind that, a giant screen looms before Vee, currently displaying a detailed map of the mall. There's even an orchestra playing Vivaldi's Spring, First Movement.
But the only thing Vee needs right now is nowhere in sight.
"Timmy!" she calls. "Where are you?"
She needs a better vantage point. She squeezes between conversing couples and gossiping groups. "Excuse me, please, thank you! Excuse me, please, thank you!" She repeats it, over and over, as if she has been cursed to speak only those five words for eternity.
She doesn't stop until she reaches the edge of the fountain. She cranes her neck. The domed roof is made of stained glass, red and blue and yellow in the centre, then green and orange and purple around the edges. The pattern seems to shift as Vee watches, like a kaleidoscope. It's beautiful (and must have been expensive). But where's Timmy?
"Ma'am?" Vee taps the shoulder of a curly-haired lady in a sparkly red number. "Sorry to bother you. I could use your help right now."
"What's the matter, dear? You're incredibly wet!"
"I'm looking for a boy. He's very short, and he has black hair, and he's wearing purple clothes, and he has red eyes and fangs and a lot of tentacles. Have you seen a kid like that?"
"You mean like the one who's unhooking a hanging basket and throwing it at you?"
"Pardon?"
The lady shoves Vee to the floor just as a green mass whizzes over her head. It shatters against the statue of Chompy.
The music stops abruptly. Yelps and gasps from the adults spread like waves across the mall.
"Hello, adults!"
Vee staggers to her feet, stomach sick with dread.
She's found Timmy. He's leaning over from the highest floor, clutching a megaphone and smirking at the trouble he's caused beneath.
"You thought you were free, didn't you?" he calls. "You hoped you could have just one night without the kids screwing up your lives. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but that will never happen!"
He scrambles onto the railing.
"Timmy, get down from there!" Vee howls. "You'll kill yourself!"
"Stop telling us what to do!" Timmy blasts in return. "Stop getting all mad and surly when we do something that might be even a little fun! And if you don't, prepare to be – whoa!" He wobbles. He waves his arms.
He falls.
"NO!"
Vee can't let him die, no matter how evil he is.
But what can help her now?
The Stick-E-Mart: Superglue Specialists?
Feldman Flammables?
Natty Nellie's Nets?
Without really thinking, Vee grabs the biggest butterfly net from the biggest barrel. She knocks the container over, strewing merchandise everywhere. A wizened old creature (maybe Natty Nellie herself) yells something. But Vee is not listening at all to the words. Her priority is the child plummeting to his death.
She makes a great swipe with the net.
There's a shriek from both Timmy and Vee.
They crash to the floor together.
Vee's head is spinning. Colours dance in front of her eyes, and they're not coming from the domed roof. She blinks furiously, waiting for her vision to clear. Eventually, she remembers why she's on the floor and reaches for the body lying next to her, which is tangled up in mesh.
Timmy looks different. She cannot see his face, but she is sure his hair was never such a light shade of brown. She peels the net away and turns him onto his back. His eyelids flutter rapidly; Vee can glimpse the blue irises that used to be red.
"Ugh," he groans.
There's a movement not far away. It comes from a bizarre beetle, with glowing red eyes and a white skull shape on its black wing cases. It seems to take one look at Vee and narrow its eyes before scuttling away into the crowd.
That was an icky bug. Vee did a Show-and-Tell project on them years ago. She knows what they can do to people.
And Timmy must have been carrying one around this whole time.
"Where am I?" he murmurs.
"Um … the mall. Don't you know what happened?"
Vee helps him to his feet. He pays no attention to her. Instead he beholds his hands, turning them over, flexing his fingers. He wipes his mouth, finding buck teeth but no fangs. "I thought I had-" He peers over the edge of the fountain and studies his reflection. "I thought I was-" He watches some security guards sweeping up the mess from the hanging basket, and then he notices the many pairs of eyes upon him. "I thought I did-"
"Timmy!"
Mr and Mrs Turner burst through the gathering and rush over. Their son says, "Eep!" and clutches Vee's dress.
"There'd better be a good reason for this!" Mrs Turner frowns.
"Uh … D-D-D-Dinkleberg?" Timmy stammers.
"I can explain," Vee cuts in. "There was an icky bug nesting in Timmy's butt, and it's made him do a lot of bad things. That's why he tried to wreck the mall. But he doesn't have it anymore, so we're safe."
"A bug in his butt? That's the most ridiculous-"
"It's true!" Vee cuts over Timmy's dad.
"You didn't let me finish: That's the most ridiculously credible theory I've ever heard!" He shakes her hand. "Thanks for saving the mall – and our son! Have some more money."
When he pulls away, Vee's fist is stuffed with dollar bills.
"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly … are you sure?" She shrugs. "All right, then." She pockets the green. "That's going straight to the orphanage. But first, I should take Timmy home. It's way past his bedtime. Isn't it?" she asks the boy himself, ruffling his hair.
…
Vee lets Timmy ride shotgun in her car. He is wrapped up in a soft pink blanket; she always keeps a pile of them in the trunk in case she finds a helpless creature to rescue.
"You've been on quite an adventure, haven't you?" Vee remarks.
"I guess." Timmy absent-mindedly chews the blanket. "Listen, I need to tell you something."
"Shoot."
He shifts in his seat. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you. And I'm sorry I threw that hanging basket at your head. I don't know why I did it." He follows the world flying past the window. "I keep thinking about what happened and it doesn't feel like me."
"Of course it wouldn't. That wasn't you at all. It was just a mean old beetle." She shifts the gearstick and then pats his shoulder. "But it's gone now. You have nothing to worry about."
"So … can we be friends from now on?" the boy asks.
Vee smiles. "I'd like that."
They pull up on the driveway. The babysitter and the kid unstrap, but as Timmy leans to the right to open the door, Vee halts him with her hand.
"Timmy?" she whispers. "Is that you crawling up my leg?"
A short sharp nip. A scream. A head falling onto the steering wheel. A lack of movement.
"Uh, Vee? Are you okay?" Timmy pokes her arm.
She lifts her head and stares at the boy – the twerp who has spent the past two years embarrassing her and tormenting her. For a fraction of a second, her eyes glow blood-red.
"Call me Vicky."
THE END
Author's Note: I've basically ignored the canon of "Abra-Carastrophe", which explains how Timmy got his fairies. I hope no-one minds.