"Morning," Daphne said offhandedly as Fred walked into the lounge and got some coffee from the old espresso maker in the corner. Fred said hi back but his mind was buzzing with his dream the night before and a long yawn courtesy of his disturbed and sleepless night drew some attention from the redhead.
"You ill or something?"
She walked over and put her hand on his forehead, smirking as he drew away sharply.
"I'm fine. I was just… up late."
"That's not like you."
Fred had always been keen on getting enough sleep, especially since becoming a teenager. Late nights were OK once in a while, but they were in no way a habit of his. He shrugged as she directed the statement at him.
"Just had too much coffee for one night."
Daphne smiled, but she didn't believe him.
"What's up?" she asked, sitting down on the sofa next to him and taking an espresso for herself. He looked at her though slightly narrowed eyes, wondering if she would laugh at him.
"You can tell me," Daphne said gently as she saw the look on his face. "I won't make fun of you."
He smiled slightly and leaned back, taking care not to spill his espresso as he did so and raising it to his face to take a sip.
"I had a dream about my uncle James. The one who gave me this," he added, reaching up and flicking his ascot. Daphne smiled.
"I remember him. Go on."
"It was a dream of a fishing trip, the one when I caught my first fish. Everything was so real-life and vivid, it was like I really was there. I didn't think it was a dream. It was exactly as it had been, down to the trees and the fish scales and the smells of the river and my uncle's cologne and everything. I could actually feel his hat on my head, physically feel it. Every little bit was identical, and he said the same things, I did the same things- but I only realised it afterwards. At the time, it was like I was doing it for the first time ever, not like it was a repeat at all."
"Are you sure it wasn't just your imagination? We all know how vivid it is," Daphne teased, smirking again as he rolled his eyes at her and took another sip of espresso. It had been Fred's imagination and his story-telling that had made one sleepover so memorable- the entire gang, including Fred himself, had been frightened senseless by the story Fred had told seemingly being re-enacted by the shadows on the walls. Velma had actually wet herself with terror, something that none of the gang were ever going to forget but didn't tease her about. She was only ten at the time.
"It wasn't my imagination, no matter how vivid it is. It was real, it was all so real. And then, when I woke up, the wind outside changed into his voice and it told me that he had a message for me, he needed to tell me something. Explain that away."
Daphne blinked, surprised. It wasn't like Fred to say things like this.
"OK… I can't explain it, but I will. Are you sure it wasn't Mitchell? You said his voice is like your uncle James's."
"Certain. Mitchell's is deeper, and besides, he moved out when Ella became pregnant, you knew that."
Daphne nodded.
"Well… maybe you were still dreaming?"
"Since when has anyone dreamed waking up? It doesn't happen."
He had a point, and Daphne had to admit he was right.
"Well… I don't know. After seeing so many fake ghosts, it seems a little hard to believe that your uncle has come back as a ghost and is trying to tell you something, but I can't see any other logical explanation for this…"
She stopped and blushed as Fred laughed.
"OK, Velma. Point taken."
"Someone say my name?" Velma asked from the kitchen, poking her head round and seeing both members of Mystery Inc. on the sofa laughing. "What's so funny? Guys?"
"Nothing, nothing…" Daphne smiled, quietly treading on Fred's toe and stifling more giggles as he yelped.
"Hey! I didn't deserve that!"
He gave Velma a wounded look as she started laughing as well.
"Hey, whose side are you on?"
"Mom?"
"Yes, Freddy?"
Fred braced himself as he sat down on the sofa next to his mother, taking a deep breath and clasping his fingers in his lap. She didn't seem to notice his nervousness.
"You… you remember my uncle James?"
Mrs Jones gave a sad smile.
"Yes, I do. Ever the prankster when he was younger, and then he matured a bit. He was a great uncle to you, you spent so much time with him… Why?"
Fred took another deep breath.
"I… I had a dream about him last night, and I think he's- he's- trying to tell me something."
Fred held his breath as his mother turned, surprised.
"What's got into you? Of course he isn't, Freddy Jones, and you of all people should know that. Don't you say things like that in front of your father! Goodness gracious, I don't believe you! You had better keep this little chat between us."
Fred turned, defeated. He'd thought his mother might believe him, but every hope of that had been dashed in a few seconds.
"Thanks a lot, Mom." But he didn't say it loud enough for her to hear; there was no point, she either believed him or she didn't. He'd just have to find someone who did believe him.
But when he looked at the people he knew, he had to admit that there weren't that many who would. Velma- no. Dad- well, this wasn't a good topic to bring up with his uncle's brother, so no. Daphne had already said she wasn't sure. Shaggy- mm. Hard one. Probably not. Scooby- again, probably not.
Who did that leave? Himself. He was the only one left.
Mrs Jones reached out and tapped her son's shoulder, trying to get him to turn round, wondering if maybe she had been too harsh. It was nine years since he had lost his uncle, more or less, but it had been hard on him and he could be forgiven for wanting to hear his uncle's voice again. He couldn't have actually heard his uncle's voice or anything like that, it must have been his imagination or a dream; but all the same, she could have let him down more gently, and maybe he hadn't merited the telling off after all.
"Freddy?"
He ignored her, standing up and walking towards the stairs. He wasn't giving her the cold shoulder. He just badly needed to be on his own with his thoughts for a while.
"Freddy, answer me!"
Fred simply swiped his phone from the coffee table and ran up to his room.
"Alright then, have your little sulk," Mrs Jones yelled up the stairs, indignant at her son's treatment of her. "Like a little boy."
As she had expected, there was no reply, just the sound of his door closing softly.
