A/N: This is the last of the Danny POV bits. I ultimately chose to do the majority of the sequel from the perspective of other characters for two reasons. One, to emphasize just how different Danny is from when he was taken, and two, to feel less like a shitheel for writing a mostly negative fic about a blind character when I myself am not blind. I'm glad I realized very early on that the story I wanted to tell wouldn't fit the narrative of a fully blind perspective—at least, not without an enormous amount of research 2015!me wasn't willing to put in for fanfiction. Ultimately I think the reward from other characters' perspectives was worth it, but a part of me is still low-key fascinated by the limited narrative of a story told from a blind person's POV. I'm pretty sure this stems from my obsession of limited narration in general rather than from anything creepy, but if any blind folk (or friends of RL blind folk for that matter) want to call me out, by all means call me out. This fic might be dead and abandoned, but research is a constant and I want to do my utmost to not offend anyone who might otherwise enjoy the stories I'm telling.


Alone again.

He slips his backpack off and breathes in deeply. The smell and taste of dust, of disuse and stillness and avoidance, is thicker here. Three years without regular use would do that to any room. Out in the hall he hears his parents walk toward their own bedroom.

"Oh my god," Jack whispers. It's as clear as a scream to Danny, even with his ghost half's sensitive ears tucked away. Guilt floods him. He focuses on the soft rush of evening traffic outside, the thrum and throb of the Ghost Portal two stories beneath him, the electricity humming in the walls. Anything to drown out their conversation. He wants them to have their privacy, to have time to come to terms with—with everything.

He doesn't need eyes to know he's not the same skinny kid he used to be.

He reaches out his right hand until he bumps his knuckles on—his old desk. That's right. That means his bed should be directly ahead.

He shuffles forward, kicking up dust that tickles his nose. His right knee brushes against something soft. A comforter. His bed. "That's right," he murmurs.

If memory serves the bedroom door is closer to one corner of the room, the bed situated between two tall windows. The streetlight outside used to help him sleep when he was little; a warm glow that drove away the darkness and the imaginary ghosts lurking under his bed. The streetlight is still there, probably, but he won't be taking any comfort from its glow now.

The mattress creaks when he sits down. He unlaces his boots, sets them down by the foot of the bed. He scoots sideways up the mattress until his fingers grope the nightstand, gritty with a thin film of dust. He sets his sunglasses there, rests his backpack against the nightstand's leg. He slides his jacket and hoodie off, folds them each in half and drapes them over the headboard within easy, knowable reach. He never used to be half so organized, not even when he was Freakshow's, but now there's not much choice unless he wants to trip over an errant boot and break his nose for the...

Eh. He can't remember how many times he's broken it.

He can hear and feel a steady electrical buzz coming from the nightstand. An alarm clock, most likely. He'll need to get an analog clock or something, pry the cover off so he can feel out the time by touch. It's hopelessly low-tech and there's sure to be far better options out there for—for people like him, but it'd work in a pinch. He's just sick of not knowing what time it is. Back at the safe house the other ghosts would patiently tell him even when paranoia drove him to ask every couple of minutes. For now, at least, he'll have to listen for the traffic and the birds.

He pulls his legs up onto the bed, twists and sits cross-legged so he's facing the door and/or his desk. He plucks his glass eyes out and places them in their leather case, pulled from the front pocket of his backpack. His sockets ache fiercely. Something else for the to-do list. He'll get to it, eventually.

He buries his face in his hands and waits for morning.