Author's Note:

A surprisingly domestic encounter between Danny and the Ghostwriter got stuck in my head. A big thank-you to thehobblefootalchemist over on Tumblr for giving me this prompt, which the fic is named after.

Respite

The Ghostwriter was just sitting down to continue writing the second book in a series of novels when an unholy crash shuddered the very foundations of his house.

He ignored it and put a few more pen strokes down. After all, this was Amity Park.

Unfortunately the crashing seemed to continue. The pen was placed carefully upon the table after one of the windows nearly shattered, only to be bumped off by yet another earth-shaking thump. It felt like living in the pits of a battlefield — usually ghost fights didn't get this bad, did they? Not that he ever participated in them enough to know. He understood exactly how weak he was and pushing that wasn't a rabbit hole he wanted to fall into.

He opened the front door to find one Daniel Fenton wasted on the concrete outside. The ghost he'd tangled with was already flying off into the mid-morning sky, its need for violence apparently satiated by beating Amity Park's ghost boy senseless.

Writer crept out of his house. They weren't on the best of terms, yet. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm lying spread-eagle on the ground after a ghost mauled me. I'm fantastic."

… Well, one thing was for sure. This Daniel Fenton certainly wasn't an imposter.

He also didn't seem particularly able to move — the man was staring up at the sky as if still quite dazed even though his speech didn't slur, and Writer, in spite of himself, felt a mollusc of pity well up within his chest. "Do you want some help?"

Danny snorted his laughter and looked away. "As if I want help from you."

The Ghostwriter looked around — there was no one else here. After a commotion like that most Amity Parkers would be hiding in their closets and trying their best not to be seen. At the very least, probably no one saw Danny get beaten into a pulp and then presumably lose grip on his ghost form. It might be better for everyone if his human form wasn't found lying out to dry on the sidewalk sometime later.

"What are you doing?" Danny asked. Writer ignored the question and kept his pace up the driveway until he was standing over him, holding out a hand. "I said I don't want your help."

"Actually, you said 'as if I want help from you', which if you studied English a little harder in your school years, you would understand doesn't quite literally mean as much as it implies. And in any case, I think we both realise your sister would have my head if I didn't help you, and your head if you chose not to accept."

Amity Park's resident ghost boy glared at his equally miffed helper, but finally, with the air of someone expending great effort, reached up an arm. The Ghostwriter wasn't sure, though, how much was actually great effort and how much was simple reluctance to be helped.

Danny was pulled to a standing position, but wobbled to the side just before Writer caught him.

"You might not want my help, but it's fairly obvious you need it."

"Yeah, yeah," said Danny. He stumbled along as Writer guided him back down the driveway, up the stairs of the decking, and through the front door of the house. The front door of course was never opened — it was easier for the Ghostwriter to just haul the man in there intangibly, and considering Danny knew who he was and was himself quite used to intangible hijinks, it was the preferable method. "Thanks, I'll be fine from here."

The Ghostwriter let him go, and he collapsed in a heap on the lounge room floor.

"Mm. Yes. Fine, as you say."

Danny glared, and had to be helped back up off the floor and hauled into the Spare Room.

There is a reason that the author, here, chose to use capital letters for the Spare Room. It wasn't that the room itself was anything spectacular, no, but what was in the room was a different story entirely. Sure, it had a nice relaxing bed and a decent reading lamp, but one hardly needed any extra light with all of the strange glowing books, native Ghost Zone plants that were suspiciously potted and domesticated, and the downright off-putting ghostly fragments, smaller than the size of the tip of your nail, that seemed to go along with this. Danny got the most suspicious feeling that they were all somehow watching over the plants.

"Glad to see you drag Jazz into all of your creepy Ghost Zone shit," Danny shot, even as the Ghostwriter carefully laid him down.

"I'm glad to see you're willing to drag Jasmine into all of your dangerous ghost fights," Writer shot back, glaring. "Mind explaining why you ended up on this side of town?"

"I don't choose where the ghosts show up!" His voice was full of indignant rage from just having lost. "Anyway, that ghost wasted me! I tried to draw it away from here but it kept hooking me from behind!"

The Ghostwriter decided to leave that information where it was. "I assume you'd like some water?" he asked, skipping ahead.

Danny made a grunt that was taken as a vague form of acceptance. When the Ghostwriter returned with the glass, Danny took it without thanking him and almost threw three quarters of the liquid down his throat. The rest he splashed over his face. It was supposed to be a warm day today, Writer recalled.

"Where's Jazz?"

"Shopping, I believe."

"Good," said Danny. Writer arched a brow. "Hey, you know what she's like when she fusses."

For the first time in their exchange the ghost cracked a genuinely amused smile. "Oh, I do. Now, mind if I leave you there and get back to my work?"

"I dunno, are these plants gonna eat me if you leave me alone in here?"

Writer shrugged. "No one's died yet."

"I feel so much safer," said Danny, apparently unable to restrain his sarcastic tongue. The Ghostwriter ignored him, and left the room.

Writing this book was very much like attempting to restrain a lion. Difficult, messy, and if you were very unlucky it was dangerous — if only in terms of sanity. It also meant that breaks were frequent and frustration always imminent on the edge of the swimming pool that was his mind. The Ghostwriter sighed, put the pen down (this time it did not rattle its way onto the floor), closed his eyes, and tried to think.

"Those books are weirder than the plants."

Writer's head shot up — it seemed Danny's exceedingly quick natural healing cycle had reinvigorated him enough to peel himself off that bed, and he seemed to be balancing rather well too for someone who'd just been so knocked around.

"They do tend to have minds of their own," Writer agreed, quickly flipping closed his notebook, but trying to leave out just enough urgency that the other wouldn't get curious enough to read it. "You seem to have recovered quite well."

Danny just seemed to shrug oddly. "Yeah, I guess."

"No 'thank-you'?"

Silence. Obviously that was too much to ask. The Ghostwriter let out a heavy sigh and began tying all of his nice pens together with a rubber band. Danny had been more than just irritated when he found out just who Jazz was getting so friendly with, and when they'd eventually decided to go out with each other and live together, Danny had nearly exploded.

It had been a quiet explosion, of course. Precious few others knew Writer was a ghost, and anyone who didn't know was under the keyboard's spell; they simply didn't notice the grey, glowing skin, the luminescent green eyes, the teeth. They could look at it all day and they would never be the wiser, for that was how his keyboard worked — he typed in a command, and reality changed to suit.

"I see you're still upset with me."

The direct query seemed to catch Danny off-guard. "I— but— you…" he stumbled, before collecting himself. "Dude, you're a ghost. And you're going out with my perfectly normal, perfectly human sister. It's weird."

"I'll admit to it being unorthodox." Writer found his arms crossing, and his muscles getting tight. Being questioned on his life — or perhaps post-life choices was one of his least favourite activities, and he'd already had enough teasing from Randy to last into the next century. "But that's between Jasmine and I."

"Sure it wasn't just you?"

The words came out with just as much accusation as they implied. Danny had found himself taking a step forward, falling — out of habit — into an almost aggressive stance. Like a challenge. The Ghostwriter decided to play his game, and stared him right in the eyes.

"I never intended for any of this to happen the way it did, but I assure you the feeling was mutual. And with all of that amateur surveillance you did—" Danny's face twisted to abject horror. "—Yes, I do know about that, you should know by now that I hold the utmost respect for your sister. Is this how you would treat me if I were human?"

Danny grunted some noncommittal answer or another. The Ghostwriter's frown grew as he stood from his chair, book and tied-up pens in hand.

"Mm. I see how it is, ghost boy."

"Don't call me that!"

Writer shrugged. "Well, I'll admit to you not being a boy anymore, but you most certainly are — at least in part — a ghost. Perhaps you should use that knowledge to enhance your perspective."

Oh yes. And there was the huff, the turn away — for an adult he certainly remained well within the throes of teenager-hood. The Ghostwriter found that the best strategy was simply to ignore him and continue going about his business. In this case, that involved carefully putting away his writing equipment in a draw and wandering over to the kitchen to make lunch. Jazz would be home soon. Danny 'settled' into a chair, face sour, arms crossed, and generally looking rather miserable.

"Since when do ghosts eat?" Danny shot, as Writer pulled some ingredients out of the cupboard.

"They don't. Your sister however does, and since I don't have any sort of job the least I can do is make some meals for her."

"Mm. Okay."

The Ghostwriter didn't argue, because "Mm. Okay." was probably the most positive response he'd gotten out of the half ghost all morning. He continued on with what he was doing: Sandwiches. Sandwiches were easy, and easy was important when your cooking skills were subpar at best and unable to be supplemented with a sense of taste.

"It's weird watching a ghost look so domestic."

Writer kept cutting up the carrot as he spoke. "No more strange than watching a human turn into a ghost and vice-versa, I assure you."

"…Eh. I guess not."

The sandwiches came together into little sets of four. There was chicken, lettuce, tomato, salad onion, and cucumber in there, with a bit of salt and pepper for good measure. Hard to mess that up, right? You just put equal amounts of each ingredient in except for the onion, which you went easy on. He could do Rules. He just couldn't do anything that required taste testing to get right. At the end he had four sets; two went on one plate, two went on another.

"Eat."

Danny looked up to the sandwiches as if they were about to attack him. Just… really? The Ghostwriter thought? This reaction still, even when he was obviously trying to be civil? He was willing to give having a neutral relationship with Jazz's brother a go, but his stubborn demeanour made it all the more difficult. A slight of anger whipped around in his stomach, and he quelled it.

"It's lunchtime and you've been mauled. Take it, or I'll type on my keyboard that you did so whether you wanted to or not," said the Ghostwriter, frown increasing with the seriousness of his expression.

Danny was still suspicious. "Is this forced care?"

"I understand what you're like. And I also understand what Jasmine would be like if she found out I didn't look after you properly after a ghost fight. So I suppose the answer to your question is yes."

There was a ginger way he took the plate, before finally he cracked one of the first smiles Writer had ever seen on him. There was even a genuine laugh. Writer found one of his eyebrows cocked, unable not to show the scepticism he was feeling.

"No, just—" Danny stuttered. "I mean, I guess Jazz would lecture you endlessly about needing to nurse me back to health, or something." He took a bite, screwing up his brow as he did, though not telling the Ghostwriter why. "As if I need nursing when I can heal like this.

"Nursing present or not, you still need energy from something," said Writer, turning on his heel and returning to the kitchen counter. "Human bodies are unforgiving, that way."

Danny paused halfway through a mouthful, thought about this, and swallowed. "How do ghosts get more energy, anyway? I mean, it's gotta come from somewhere, right? Or doesn't anyone know?"

The Ghostwriter had picked up the knife to go and wash it, but slowly put it back down as his curiosity about this question piqued. "We absorb ambient ectoplasm from the air. Obviously it's not so plentiful in the Real World, but that's one of the reasons I revisit the Ghost Zone every so often. Doesn't your ghost half require some similar type of nutrition?"

A shrug. "… Not really, I just eat and sleep, then I'm fine."

Writer found himself frowning. "Isn't that curious?"

"Is it really?"

"Mm. It's just another impossibility about you, really."

In the absence of any further comment he went back to dealing with the dishes — much as he disliked them he didn't really want to leave them all to Jazz, not when she'd had such a busy week and this was her only day off.

"I gotta get out of here before Jazz gets back," said Danny, suddenly, having finished the sandwich. In a surprising gesture of politeness he brought the empty plate to the kitchen and placed it neatly by the sink. "She'll start, y'know… fussing."

The ghost gave a sagely nod in reply. "If being coddled after injury isn't your thing, then I can't imagine this will be a fun place for you very soon."

The Ghostwriter washed the plate as Danny gathered his things together. And if Writer hadn't been listening for them, the words would have been so quiet that he'd have missed them: "Hey… thanks," said Danny, as he slipped out the door.

After a few seconds of it sinking into his mind, the Ghostwriter laughed. It was in a way that was perhaps a little self-satisfied. And then he drained the water and sat in wait for The Great Fusser of Things to arrive home.