And here we have Sam getting the reveal.
Going through all this old fic has been really interesting, I must say. I'm still pleased with 80% of it, but the reason the whole thing isn't up yet is because I'm doing sort of a, ehhhh, quick and dirty second draft? So I'm sure there's still typos galore (beta who?), but though the meat and potatoes is all 2015!anthrop, the gravy is a bit more 2019!anthrop.
I feel like the devolution of the story is apparent here too, though not as much as it will be for Tucker's initial chapter and beyond. Sam feels way too weak in her reaction for the actual reveal of Danny's blindness, but even now I'm not sure how else I'd write it. I think that was a strong contributing factor as to why I shelved the fic for "later," which eventually turned into "never." I wanted to give the reveals the same amount of screen time per character, but there really is no good way to do that without boring the reader, I think. So it goes.
Thank you again for all the sweet comments. You guys are awesome. :)
Sam's cell phone is ringing, and she's pretty sure she's going to strangle whoever it is that's dared to interrupt her hard-won beauty sleep. She doesn't have a clue what time it is, only that it's sometime way too damn early on a Saturday. She didn't get home until almost four a.m. because she was pounding the pavement after Cujo. Everyone swears up and down the stupid mutt listens to her best, and sure, maybe, but that still doesn't mean he listens to her enough to stop terrorizing people at all hours. Mostly he just seems to foam a little less at the mouth around her. The big lovebug knows all sorts of commands, she knows he does, but he's never once obeyed her. All she can do is play with him until he wears himself out enough to trot off to the Ghost Zone on his own. She remembers when Danny would—
"Nngh."
Bad train of thought first thing. Better to take out her frustration on the idiot who's woken her up.
She slips a hand out of her quilt cocoon and paws around until she finds her phone. She uncovers just enough of her face to squint blearily at the blue-white square of light, blinking until her sight adjusts. Please don't be important, please don't be important, please don't be—
Ah, crap.
"Nngh," she repeats, but thumbs the answer button and taps speakerphone anyway. "Mr. Fenton," she starts, but has to clear her throat of sleep fug before continuing her rant, "You promised me the day off if I handled Cujo yesterday. I did. I got corrosive dog slobber in places I don't want to think about too hard and he used my favorite backpack as a chew toy, but I handled him. He's back in the Ghost Zone. He won't make an appearance for weeks thanks to me. So unless something really, really, really important's come up, I'm not getting out of bed until three p.m. at the minimum. Are we clear?"
"Since when do you work for my dad?"
She blinks. Well. That's definitely not Mr. Fenton. "...Huh?"
"Still not a morning person, are you, Sam?"
Her phone says FentonWorks. It does. "...Who is this?"
The boy—Man? They sound young, anyway—chuckles, soft and hoarse. "Aw, c'mon. I know my voice was still cracking adorably last time we talked, but it hasn't gotten that deep."
"I don't—" She knows this voice. She does. Her heart skips, her breath hitches. Please, don't be a dream. Please be real. Please. "—is this a joke?"
"It could be, if you like, but mostly I'd prefer shaking my best friend out of bed so we can catch up. How 'bout it?"
She bolts upright, blankets and pillows scattering. She can't—she doesn't trust—she has to make sure. "...Danny?"
"Hi, Sam."
"How did you—when did you—where—is this even—what?"
Another soft chuckle. Now she recognizes it; the tired, been up all night fighting ghosts laughter of his. Loose-limbed and bruised with exhaustion, grinning through a mouthful of red and green and not regretting it at all. "Maybe finish asking one of those questions and I'll see about an answer."
"Danny," she repeats reverently. And again, because she just can't believe it yet, "Danny."
"That's my name, don't wear it out."
"You can't—we thought—fuck, it's you, isn't it? It's really you?"
"Maybe I should call back later when you're a little more lucid—"
"Don't you dare hang up." She's on her feet now, tripping over last night's still-damp clothes and dragging her bangs out of her eyes. It's him. It's him. "When did you get back?"
"Two nights ago. Same night as my parents were out hunting, or whatever. I dunno, I didn't ask."
"They don't—it's not like that anymore," she says, and wonders why the shit she's talking about this instead of asking him roughly ten thousand relevant questions. "No experiments or dissections or anything else like that either. All that stuff's voluntary nowadays. Like, consent forms and everything kinda voluntary."
"Huh," he says. Neutrally. She can't make any sense of it, of what he thinks of that. "What exactly does that—"
"Never mind that. How'd you get away?"
"Get a—" He breathes in sharply. "...You knew?"
His tone—accusatory, dismayed, hurting—is like a knife buried in her chest. She aches to hear him so miserable after three years—three years—of Freakshow's creepy mind control. She can't even imagine what it had been like. She's not sure she wants to. "Th-there were a couple witnesses." She digs through her dresser for clean clothes, settles on a purple turtleneck, loud socks, and the first bra she puts her hand on. "A senior working at the Baskin-Robbins you fought Lydia in, and some guy in our year who'd been trying to record Phantom for some reason. He got most of the fight on camera."
Danny mutters darkly under his breath. She must have misheard him, because it sounds an awful lot like, "Glow sticks."
"What?"
"Never mind. Did you ever tell my parents? They haven't mentioned anything about Lydia, the recording, or anything else."
Bra on, shirt hanging around her neck, she trips again reaching for her deodorant. She really ought to clean up in here. Or at least draw the curtains. "Of course we did! The day after Tucker and I saw the video Wes posted on YouTube we told them—" She winces. This isn't anything like the hundred ways she's imagined this conversation going. She never thought she'd feel this guilty. "—everything. About the accident, and all the ghost fighting, and—and everything. I'm sorry. I didn't want to, but Tucker—"
"No, it's okay. Made catching up with them a lot easier, actually."
...Seriously?
She didn't think he'd be so casual about it. Dismissive, even. His parents used to threaten to do all kinds of horrible things to Phantom if they got their hands on him. He'd been genuinely scared to tell them anything. "Danny—"
"Hey, how about we all get together today? You, me, and Tuck?"
"I—yeah. Yeah, of course. Where, uh, where do you want to meet up?"
"Eh, I'll leave that to you two. D'you mind calling him? I can't remember his number and I don't want to bother my parents right now."
Bother? Like they'd be bothered after thinking he was dead for real for three years? "Sure, yeah."
"Cool. Oh, you must have your driver's license by now, yeah?"
"Yeah? Why?"
He laughs again, a little too loudly and definitely forced. Static crackles across the connection. "Think you could pick me up?"
Sam pauses in buttoning her black jeans to stare at her phone, set haphazardly on her dresser. "Uh. Sure? But uh, why not just, y'know, fly?"
Silence.
Shit. Open mouth, insert foot. "I—I mean, I don't have a problem with that, yeah! It's just, y'know—"
"It's weird. I know."
No explanation, no stammering justification. Not even an apology she'd have to tell him wasn't necessary. "...Are you okay?"
He does the worst thing possible. He hesitates. "...Sam, I—"
"Fuck," she blurts. "Did Lydia—did Freakshow—" Her hands find the edge of her dresser and squeeze. "Are you dead? Is that why you took so long to come home? Did they—"
"Sam," he says in a voice that's entirely too calm, considering. "Stop."
She shuts her chattering mouth so quickly her teeth click. "Please," she whispers. "Just—tell me you're okay."
There's a long, frustrated sigh. "I... Christ. I'm not dead, alright? I'm fine. I am, but—" But. "—augh. Ugh. Guh. I don't want to do this over the phone. Can you come get me? Please?"
"Okay," she says numbly. Something's wrong. She knows something's wrong. Three years. What could have happened to him in three years? "Just gimme a few minutes to turn into a person here, then I'll be right over."
"No problem. Seriously, take all the time you need. Corrosive dog slobber is no joke."
She laughs, and regrets it immediately. It sounds fake even to her own ears. "Right."
"Thanks, Sam."
"Don't thank me yet. I'm gonna punch you right in the teeth when I get there!"
He laughs too, and unlike her own it sounds honest. Easy and carefree. "Yeah, I deserve that. Bye, Sam."
"See you soon!"
"...yeah."
He hangs up. Sam finds herself just standing there, grinning at her phone as the screen goes dark. Three years. She'd just about given up—but he's here. He's alive. He said so, and she believes it.
It isn't until she's in her car fussing with the heater that she realizes Danny didn't answer her question. He didn't tell her how he got away. Should she...? No, never mind. He probably just wanted to hold off so he doesn't have to repeat himself needlessly. That's all. And besides, she doesn't care how he got away. She's just happy he did. She's just happy he's back.
She pulls Tucker's cell up and calls it as she pulls out onto the street. He picks up on the fifth ring, panting heavily. "Hey now. I didn't think I'd hear from the Sleeping Horror 'til sunset on the third day."
"Very funny. Look, we need to meet up ASAP."
"Ghost attack?"
"No—"
"Then can it wait? I'm doing a group thing right now and Tetslaff is giving me the evil eye—"
"Danny's back."
"—I don't want to get on her... bad... Uh. Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I've begun to hallucinate vividly all of a sudden. Can you repeat what you just said?"
"Danny's back," she repeats. Her free hand is crabbed on the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles hurt. "I just got off the phone with him. I'm going to go pick him up from FentonWorks right now. Danny's home."
Tucker swears loudly. "I—okay. Okay. Is—he's not... is he...?"
"He's alive."
More swearing, this time sounding far more relieved. "Jesus. Okay. Good. Great. That's—" Someone on his end barks his last name. "Shit, hold on."
"Tucker, wait—!"
"Okay, okay!" His voice muffles for a minute as he talks to whoever it is, then comes back. "Sorry. Yeah?"
"We were right." It's like swallowing hot lead to admit it. "Freakshow had him this whole time."
"Oh god, you're kidding."
"I wish I was."
"How is he?"
"I dunno. He sounded..." She hesitates, thinking of the rasp to his voice. Like an old man's, almost. Or like someone hoarse from screaming. Probably not something to share with Tucker. Shet settles on, "Exhausted. He wants to catch us both up. Think you can get away?"
"What, like I'm not gonna ditch running laps to go share a tearful reunion with my best friends? Damn, how much of a dick do you think I am?"
She laughs, ignoring how it sticks in her throat. "You don't want me to answer that honestly."
"Rude. Where d'you wanna meet?"
"I was thinking your place. Your parents are still out of town, aren't they?"
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead and let yourself in if you get there before I do." There's more yelling on his end that makes him sigh. "Ugh. Okay. I really gotta go now, Sam. I'll get away as soon as I can."
"Sounds good. See you soon."
"Sure thing—oh, and Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Please don't punch him in the face."
She laughs again, and it's easier this time to mean it. Tuck's good like that, for all that they fight otherwise. "Well darn it, I already warned him I would."
"Well, then never mind! Can't have you breaking your promises to him first thing, right?"
"Bye, Tucker."
More yelling on his end, and his snarky goodbye is cut off halfway.
Sam tosses her phone onto the passenger seat and turns her full attention back to driving. She's already halfway there. If she steps on the gas just that little bit harder to shave another minute or two off, well, it's early on a Saturday morning. There's practically nobody out yet.
The RV is parked as haphazardly as ever just outside FentonWorks, and the rest of the curb is taken up by their neighbors' cars. She bites down on a frustrated curse and loops back around to park across the street. She doesn't bother locking her car, practically sprinting for the familiar front door—
It opens before she can let herself in, and there he is.
He's taller, is the first thing she latches onto. Broad-shouldered too, and he's finally grown into his hands and feet. He's bundled up in enough black layers to pass for a regular at the Skulk 'N' Lurk, and he's got cheesy reflective sunglasses on that don't do a thing to distract from the gray pallor of his skin. She stares and doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty, finding all the subtle yet startling changes compared to what she's memorized from well-creased photographs. The hard angles of his too-thin face, his clumsily cut hair, the taut tendons in his neck, scars he hadn't had before. He should look ridiculous, like somebody playing at Goth for a costume party or something. But he doesn't. He looks... calm. At ease. She can't remember him ever looking so comfortable in his own skin.
If she walked past him on the street, Sam's not sure she would have recognized him.
"There you are," he says, and leans forward to present his cheek. A scar on his lip stretches weirdly when he gives her a sly grin, burning white. "Well come on. Where's my welcome home punch?"
She can't speak. Everything she's wanted to say, everything she's dreamed of saying, curdles on her tongue. There's too much, and not enough, and she doesn't know where to begin besides. So she rushes up the last two steps, wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder. "You're back," she says, ignoring the prickle in her eyes. "You're really back."
He goes rigid, hissing surprise, but relaxes after a beat. He returns the hug carefully, like he thinks she's made from tissue paper. "Aw, hey. Don't get all weepy on me. I finally got my parents to stop crying and get some work done. I'd appreciate a break from the waterworks."
"S-sorry, it's just—"
"I know." He pulls away just as carefully, fumbling behind him to shut the door. Light catches off his ears and a bubble of incredulous laughter escapes Sam.
"You pierced your ears." She reaches out to touch one of the gold earrings, faltering when he twitches. He recovers before she can apologize, mustering a crooked, slightly nervous grin.
"You like them? I had a sixth one too, but it got ripped out at some point." He gestures to his left ear. There's a notch in the lobe, badly healed, that makes Sam wince. "I thought about letting them all heal, but I dunno. They've kinda grown on me."
"You look great." Damn, her voice has gone all wobbly. She hopes he doesn't notice. "And black is definitely your color."
The grin loses its nervous edge. "I bet you say that to all the boys. Where's Tucker?"
"On his way home. We're, um, we're going to meet him there since his parents are out of town at a—uh, a seminar. Or something." Why is she stuttering so much?
"Well, then what are we standing around here for? I've got like, a million questions for you guys, and I bet you do too."
Sam grins. That's the Danny she remembers; cheery sarcasm and a willingness to dive right into the mess, no matter what it was. "You bet. And you're not going anywhere until you've told us everything. C'mon!" She grabs him by the wrist—whoa, he's freezing!—and starts hauling him bodily down the steps.
Danny yelps. "Sam! N-no, wait—wait, stop—stop!"
Her arm goes numb to the elbow as his weight vanishes; she stumbles down the last step. She turns to ask what's up with him but the words die in her throat. Danny—
Danny's fallen to the steps, collapsed in a rigid heap of skinny limbs, his head squeezed between his hands. His breath rattles out of him in raw, ragged heaves as his unlaced boots scrape, scrape, scrape against the concrete. He's... in a split second he's—is this a panic attack? What—what did she do? What should she do?
"I can't," Danny gasps, folding further in on himself, folding up like the sharp angles of a paper crane. "Don't—don't do that. Don't suh-surprise me like that. I—I can't."
"Danny—" She reaches out, unsure if she ought to touch him again. Better not. She drops her hand, stands there like an idiot because she can't figure out what else to do. Danny had never done anything like this, before. "I... okay. Sorry. I won't do that again. Are you okay?"
He doesn't relax so much as he curls up enough to rest his forehead against his knees. Muffled laughter shakes his shoulders. "Fuck," he laughs. "I'm blind, Sam."
What?
What?
"Uh," she tries, and can't get any further than that.
He breathes out explosively, wrenching himself out of his fetal position to sit ramrod straight. He gives her a sickly grin. Were his teeth always that sharp? "I'm blind," he repeats in a tight voice, like he might just throw up. "Freakshow, he…. I can't see anymore."
Oh, she thinks feebly. He's serious.
She forces her jellied legs back up the steps, sits down beside him and grips the edge like gravity might call in sick today. She watches the tendons in his pale hand flex and relax, flex and relax, as he wrestles his breathing under control. His hand, she realizes numbly. There's something wrong with it. His fingers—
Never mind. Not now. Not now.
"I'm sorry," she repeats quietly. She doesn't know what else to say.
He huffs thickly, raises his head to—not look at her. Not if what he told really is true. Just—he turns to face her, tilts his head. Listening intently. "Don't be," he says. The rasp has crawled back into his voice, lowering and sharpening it. He barely sounds like himself. "It's not—you couldn't have done anything. Nobody could have."
No, that—that has to be wrong. Guilt burns and twists her stomach, though she does her best to keep her voice level. "If we'd told our parents sooner we might have had a better shot at finding you, o-or if we'd told the police—"
"Stop," he says. This time without the high note of panic threaded through it. "Even if you'd found me that night it wouldn't have done any good. I'd still be blind and freaking out over—what? A couple of stairs I wasn't expecting?"
He laughs, two sharp barks, and Sam recoils. It's been over three years since the whole Circus Gothica fiasco, but there's no way she'll ever be able to forget the awful bray of Freakshow's laughter. "Danny—"
"I'm okay," he says, which isn't what she was looking for at all. "I know you want—details. But it's—fuck, Sam. This is hard enough as it is. I wasn't kidding about my parents. They've been crying all over me since I got back. I don't want to repeat myself any more than I have to, okay?"
"But—"
His expression thins. Even with those ridiculous sunglasses on she knows he's giving her the puppy eyes. Or—well. "Can we go to Tucker's now? Please?"
She should—not let it go, no. But she should be kind. He sounds so meek, plaintive. He can't just get up and walk away. He can go back in the house with his weeping parents or stay here with her, and he's already told her which one he'd rather do.
But she's never been any good at being kind.
"Danny," she says, miserable, "Why did he—do this to you?"
His scarred lip curls. There's a long, cold moment where she thinks he might just stand up and go back inside after all, but then he asks, "Remember that staff he had?"
"Yyyes? But it broke when you saved me."
"There's more than one way to skin a cat," he says.
She shivers.
"He wanted revenge," he goes on. "And he got it. I couldn't fight him this time around. He made me forget everything. Everything, Sam. My family, you and Tucker, my name... everything. If Lydia hadn't freed me, I'd still be in that cage."
"Cage?"
"Shit, it's not—" He grimaces, mentally backtracking. "It wasn't as bad as bad as you're thinking."
"Danny," she tries, but he cuts her off.
"Don't tell my parents, okay? I haven't gotten into any real details with them yet. I... I'm trying to figure out how to without it devolving into tears too much."
She nods, then remembers. He can't see her. "Okay," she chokes out.
He reaches out, bumps his fingers against her knee, her thigh, her forearm, squeezes her fist with a smile she thinks is supposed to be reassuring. He's so cold. It's like someone's pressing a soda can fresh out of the fridge against her knuckles. "Let's get going, okay?"
"Okay," she says. She doesn't trust herself to say anything else.
