A/N: I like how I said this was all going to be quick and dirty edits and here I am rewriting half a chapter because I don't like how melodramatic 2015!me was.


Valerie goes on patrol nearly every night, eager for an excuse to get out of their dingy little apartment and do something worthwhile with her life. Tonight though, she's less concerned with protecting Amity Park as much as she just wants to burn off some steam. She needs a distraction; a ghost to fight, a robbery to stop, something. Anything to take her mind off the C she'd gotten on her chemistry project. There'd been a brief fight with a giant ghost fish—real salmon don't have teeth that big, what the hell—on her way home today, which made her run late for her shift at the Nasty Burger, which made her dash haphazardly through the house while she changed, which meant she left her backpack dumped out on the countertop, which meant her daddy had seen the grade before she could squirrel it away where he wouldn't ever need to worry about it.

He should have been furious with her. She'd promised to get at least a B since her grade in chemistry's been flagging so badly. He should have shouted, or grounded her, or taken away her phone for a week. Something. But he'd just looked at her with weary disappointment and sighed. He told her she was so smart, that she was such a good girl, that she could do so much better, that he knows she hates working, that he blames himself for not getting that promotion last year, that he's sorry things have been so tough for so long but they need to be a team on this, doesn't she understand? And then he'd signed again, like he'd known he'd already lost and there wasn't enough left of himself for fury, and he'd gone to work without punishing her at all.

And that—

That was so much worse than the yelling or grounding she would have gotten—should have gotten—once upon a time.

She knows her daddy knows she's still out hunting ghosts, that she's just about always lying to him, that she's putting her life on the line three or four times a week. Her daddy's a brilliant man; of course he knows. He just doesn't know how she's doing it anymore. He'd taken away her old suit and all the ghost fighting gear Mr. Masters had supplied her with, taken them to the Fentons to be studied and dismantled or modified with gaudy, shoddy Fenton tech that got redistributed out to their stupid kiddy militia. He'd wanted her to join their stupid kiddy militia, to take their laughable defense classes and hide behind jury-rigged shields with Jack Fenton's grinning face stickered all over to hide the duct tape and scuff marks.

But Valerie didn't need to do that in the end. She got to keep fighting right on the front line after all, and since her upgrade she's gotten better with her ghost fighting, gotten smarter, gotten sly. And besides, her new suit's as much a part of her now as her own skin. Even if her daddy caught her in the act one day he'll never be able to take this away from her again.

Still.

Valerie's not upset, or angry, or pissed off at her daddy or her stupid, shitty project partner who'd dumped the whole thing in her lap before swanning off to flirt with half the basketball team. She's just… frustrated. She's tired. Can't she just graduate already? What's the point of chemistry or trigonometry when she could be out saving the city from the monsters that go bump in the night? What's the point of playing pretend, of being soft little has-been Valerie Gray, when she'd rather be the battle-hardened badass in sleek black and red armor, cutting ghosts with teeth like scimitars down to size? That's who she really is. That's who she wants to be. Hunting, defending, protecting. A hero.

(A hero who gets appreciated now and then too would be nice, but she's not gonna hold her breath for that one.)

She sighs, banishing her visor with a thought. The cold wind dries her eyes and stings her cheeks, tugging a few strands of her long curls free to whip out behind her as she flies. The bite of late winter saps her exhaustion away, leaves her humming with more energy than any amount of coffee ever could. No sense in thinking about any of that while she's out here. She sets her shoulders and arcs south for Casper High.

She's not expecting to find last night's mystery ghost there. There hasn't been so much as a whisper of anything half as strong as him on her scanner all day. She should be worried; a ghost that can hide itself so completely from her is way too powerful to let roam. There's no telling what else Dee might be capable of; not without putting civilians at risk anyway, and that's not a gamble she expects to win cleanly.

But.

But.

She's worried, sure, but not as much as she should be. Because Dee...

Dee had been the first—

—entity?

—sapient creature?

...Person?

—who'd wanted to have a conversation with her in...

In too long, if she's honest with herself.

And it had been a conversation, a proper give and take of information and jokes and honesty. Vulnerability. She hasn't regretted her rare moments of vulnerability in a long time either. She'd...

(Shit. If she can't admit it to herself, who can she admit it to?)

She'd enjoyed talking to Dee.

Maybe that's the real reason why she didn't forward her suit's scans of Dee to Mr. Masters like she would have any other ghost. She's gotten to know Mr. Masters well over the years; of course he'd be interested in Dee. He'd ask her to bring Dee to him so he could study the strange ghost, and she'd do it without hesitation. She knows too, that she'll never see Dee again if—when—she does send her report to Mr. Masters.

Still.

Is it wrong, to want to see Dee one more time before she does the job Mr. Masters expects of her? Is it selfish, to want one more conversation with the strange ghost? To get to know more about him?

She's... curious. Yeah, that's a good word for it. She can admit that much to herself if nobody else—not that anybody's asking, mind. She's never met a ghost quite like Dee. He had every opportunity to attack, had every reason to retaliate, yet the worst he did was growl at her some, and he'd only done that after she'd fired the first shot. Never mind his blindness; she won't consider that the same handicap she would for a human. He's got all the makings of a predator otherwise; she's got to assume his other senses are superior to make up for what he can't see. Any other ghost she's dealt with half as feral as him would have tried to make pulled pork out of her the second she'd gotten within fifty yards of it.

But he hadn't.

Shouldn't she be worried that he hadn't? That he still didn't seem interested in attacking her after she had attacked him? Any other ghost would have out of simple self-defense if nothing else. Dee's an outlier. When it comes to ghosts every outlier is dangerous. Look at Plasmius. Look at Phantom. Look at Undergrowth and Nocturne and the Fright Knight. Look at fucking Pariah Dark. Sure, Phantom's gone now, destroyed or hidden away in the GIW's labyrinthine facilities, but the rest? Powerful and clever and cruel to a one—and still out there.

She'd never beaten any of them one on one. She'd never had a snowball's chance in hell of capturing them, for that matter. The best she ever managed was to get a few good hits in alongside the militia. The best she ever managed was to help push those monsters back into the Ghost Zone before they could do too much damage. Those things are still out there, licking their wounds and biding their time. Hell, some of them have already made repeat appearances. Others she's still anticipating the day they rend the sky with fire and lightning, and she can't decide if she dreads or anticipates those future fights more.

But Dee...

Shit.

She's curious. She wants to know—

—more.

She wants to see what makes him tick. She wants to push his buttons. She wants to know just how much of a threat she ought to consider him, even if he doesn't seem interested in hurting anybody. Can't trust a ghost at their word, after all.

Her scanner pings. A level seven, maybe even a smoldering eight. At the football field again. Must be a place he remembers from when he was still alive, a place he remembers well enough to find now that he can't—

Her throat closes up for reasons she doesn't dwell on. She swallows and swoops around Casper High, spotting the white and pale green shape making its way around the track almost immediately. An ethereal flare of unreal light in the otherwise dark field.

He doesn't slow as she swings low, though he's at least paying attention enough to lay his ears back like an irritated dog when she draws near. She hovers watchfully. Warily. Last night he'd seemed keen on playing at human, if not convincing in his attempt. Tonight though, he prowls on all fours, hunchbacked and skeletal, neon green spittle hissing as it drips from his jutting fangs to the red rubber track. He walks on his knuckles like a gorilla, gait jerky and wrong-footed like something out of an old video game. Frustration has stripped him of his ghostly fluidity, pressed him into harsh angles.

Valerie knows the feeling.

"Bad day?" She asks glibly.

That earns her a drawn-out growl, deep and thunderous enough to resonate in her diaphragm. Not bad. Not impressive, but still. She gives it a four out of ten on the intimidation tactics scale.

She banishes her board, falling lightly to the springy turf.

So. Dee's grouchy enough to forgo talking, but not angry enough to attack outright. She can work with that.

She keeps the width of the track between them as a precaution, far more familiar with how damn fast this ghost is than she'd prefer to be. She walks with him around the curve of the track, keeping her eyes trained on him. Just in case. It's strange, amusing even, to see a ghost bother to touch the ground at all. Even on all fours he's faster than her; it's an effort to keep pace with his skinny frame. Must be a benefit of not having any actual muscles or bones to haul around.

Once they're on the next straightaway she asks, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Dee stops on a dime, swinging his toothy muzzle toward her. "What are you doing?"

His voice is deep, rasping, demanding. Hard to understand, too; unrecognizable to the dry sarcasm and polite hesitance he'd spoken with last night. Teetering on an edge of bladed teeth; the slightest aggravation would push him over.

And really, she should know better by now not to push.

But never let it be said that Valerie Gray is a coward.

She raises an eyebrow habitually, remembers too late he won't see it. "...Talking?"

"Exactly!"

Her other eyebrow crawls toward her hairline of its own accord. "And that's a problem because...?"

Dee growls again, tossing his head and rolling his broad shoulders as he stomps on. What, like he really expects her to just leave him here to sulk not even a block away from sleeping humans? He must not know her half as well as he pretended to if he thinks that. "I'm gonna need you to try that again in English."

The next growl cuts off with a grumble like a lawn mower failing to turn over. Visibly restraining himself—from what? Attacking her? Running off?—Dee bites out, "I don't get you."

"What's there to get?"

"This. You—being friendly with—me. A ghost." He barks laughter. "Less than that. Some freaky little monster any ghost hunter oughta put down."

She grits her teeth, steels herself for the worst. Just in case. "Is that what you want me to do?"

Dee—

—sighs.

"No," he says, and sounds so, so tired for admitting it. "I don't—ha ha. I dunno why the hell I'm trying to take this out on you. You're the only one around who might actually call my bluff."

Well. That raises some questions, doesn't it?

But.

Better not to push him, not now when he's already so on edge.

Makes sense though, doesn't it? How much he wavers between appearing human and, well, this. She wants to ask, but—later. If she gets a chance to anyway. Once she tells Mr. Masters about him there won't be any time for questions. Whenever she does get around to telling him, anyway.

"Don't tempt me," she says, and puts a smile in her voice so he knows she's kidding. It must work, because he snorts.

"I'm not stupid. I know how a fight between you and me would go. Personally speaking, I'm pretty happy not being a green smear on the pavement."

Ghosts don't pay compliments. Ghosts don't admit failure, especially when the fight hasn't even begun. How strange. But is his strangeness dangerous? She has to know. "You sure about that? I bet you've got a few tricks up your sleeve."

He stops, sitting back on his heels. She hadn't noticed while they'd walked but his shape's been shifting; already he has more human proportions, shorter limbs and a less pronounced backwards hook to his legs. She wonders if he can walk on two feet or if that's beyond him, if dying twisted him too much.

A smoldering eight though. There's no telling what he's capable of until he decides to make a show of it.

"Sure," he says, "but I wouldn't bother with any of that with you."

She's tempted to ask him outright, but that's never worked in the past. Ghosts always lie. "What, you already figure out my weakness?"

He chuckles; softly, apologetically. "You're human. That's weakness enough."

Anger—righteousness—gets the better of her. "Being human automatically makes me weak?"

He shrugs, but there's something defeated about it, like he's tired in a way no ghost she's ever gone toe to toe with would ever show around a potential enemy. "I can take the kind of hits that'd leave those fragile human brains of yours oozing out your ears."

"I'd argue that's because you don't have the brains to spare," she snaps.

He barks laughter and starts walking again. "Wow. Who was dumb enough to piss in your Cheerios today?"

"Nobody," she retorts, and then grimaces. If she wants the truth out of him, it only makes sense to dole out small truths of her own to him too. "Well—me, maybe, if I'm gonna blame anybody."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"I asked you first," she replies, smug.

He bares his teeth at her, but no growl accompanies it before he huffs. "It's... it's been a rough couple of days back, is all."

Mm. Well that's not all that surprising, is it? She makes a face. "I'm gonna repeat myself at the risk of gettin' you all snarly again. Do you wanna talk about it?"

Dee's quiet as they come to the next curve of the track. For a moment Valerie thinks she'll need to say something to keep him from straying onto the grass, but he only veers to the concrete edge before correcting himself.

"I came back to Amity Park for... closure," Dee says, picking his words with care. "You know. Unfinished business. All that junk. I wanted to... say goodbye, I suppose. And there are certain people here, people I used to care about—that I still care about—and they're taking it all so much harder than I ever imagined. I mean, it's not like I was expecting rainbows and unicorns, y'know? It's just..." He sighs. "It's been a lot harder than I thought it'd be."

Valerie—

—hesitates.

It's rare, to come across a ghost native to Amity Park. She's destroyed at least one for sure, and chased a few others back into the Ghost Zone besides. A town as haunted—as dangerous—as here is bound to end up with casualties, and the three-letter agency the Fentons sold their souls to don't seem all that concerned with the odd grisly accident now and then. At least Dee is proving to be one of the more lucid locals.

"Well," she says with feigned disinterest, "What else did you expect?"

He tilts his head, toeing the line between doglike confusion and birdlike focus. Altogether inhuman. "What?"

"I mean, just think about it for a minute. Say I died—"

"I'd rather not." The corners of his mouth curl with private humor, and Valerie smiles too. Check it out, he passed the test.

"Hush! Say I died, and it took me ages to muscle my ghost out of the Ghost Zone back into the real world, and when I finally did make it back I didn't look like I did when I was alive. Say I came back and looked like—uh—"

Dee chuckles. "C'mon, Val, don't mince words. It's not your style."

She rolls her eyes. Like he knows her as well as that. "Say I came back looking like you, and you seem to know so much about me, so I bet you know who my dad is too, right?"

"I might, yeah."

"Thought so, stalker."

"Wh—I am not!"

"Hush!"

He grumbles, as prickly as a cat with wet paws, but lets her continue.

"Imagine how my dad would react if I ended up a ghost."

Dee nods like he doesn't want to, but understands the point of the exercise she's steered him toward. "He'd be devastated. I know. I know. It's obvious, when you take a minute to think about it. But—still."

"Still?" She presses.

The corners of his mouth twist so much that his teeth seem to follow the downward pull of his unhappiness. Maybe they do. Logical anatomy doesn't apply to ghosts, after all. "I wish I hadn't come back. They were better off thinking I was dead."

"I hate to break it to you, but you are dead."

He makes a show of throwing his head to one side, like he'd be rolling his eyes if he had any. "No shit, Sherlock. You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," she concedes. "But I think you're wrong."

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

He's not mad that she's contradicting him. He's not even irritated. He seems genuinely curious to hear her out. What is his deal? "Before you came back, did they know for sure that you'd died?"

Well. That stops him cold, doesn't it?

The last unhappy hunch to his shoulders bleeds away as they come to the next curve of the track. "No," he admits quietly. "But—I've been gone a long time. It was the only logical conclusion."

She can't help but laugh at him for that. "And when has family ever been logical?"

He doesn't growl or snap his fangs at her or try to set her on fire. His face flits between frustration and—well, something. There's just not enough expression to discern what he's thinking, all teeth and sharp cheekbones and empty eye sockets. Whatever's running through his mind, it's heavy. "It's—it's not just my family. That's been hard, really hard, but I'm handling it. I... I met up with my old friends today."

Is it strange that she winces sympathetically for the ghost beside her rather than the humans he probably terrorized? It is too easy to imagine how her old friends—old alliances, bridges burned and the ashes spat on for good measure—would react if they knew she was Amity Park's reviled ghost hunter. It's not that much of a stretch to imagine herself in Dee's shoes—metaphorically—or those of the other local ghosts she's come across. It's terrible. It's terrifying.

"I guess that explains the stomping," she says.

"I wasn't—!" He gnashes his teeth, a rumble deep in his chest. "Fine. I was. What do you care?"

"I wanna know what happened."

In the blink of an eye he's off the ground, curling in serpentine circles around her, but he's out of arm's reach before she can make a grab for him. A rifle flashes into existence with a thought; she has it up and trained on him in no time, ready to defend herself—

"Huh," she says after a moment. "Wasn't sure you could do that."

He's standing on two feet. Two normal and proportional feet that are presumably humanoid enough to fit in the white boots he's wearing. He's stood on the turf a few yards off, long arms loose at his sides and his face unreadable. The faint pink light of his sockets seems brighter, or perhaps the rest of him shines a little less than it did.

"You don't," he says quietly. "You don't wanna know."

Now, if that's not a red flag if she's ever seen one. Ghosts that clam up instead of boast? There are skeletons buried in this one's closet, and she's not gonna trust anyone else to do the digging that needs doing.

She eases her finger off the trigger, lowering the rifle a little. With ears that big he can probably hear the pounding of her heart, but she can at least keep her voice steady. "Sounds like I oughta insist you tell me. I mean, me being a ghost hunter and you lurking around my city and all."

"Ha ha. Like I'm gonna give you any more ammunition to justify handing me over to Vlad."

She stays quiet. She stays still.

His ears twitch. His head swivels. His claws clack against themselves. Funny, how easy it is to unnerve monsters. How easy it is to find their weakness, to exploit their own deep-rooted fears.

He sighs, any argument he'd been ready to hash out forgotten. "I was—taken. Years ago. The ri—ha ha. The man that took me was—was awful. He made me do... he made—me—this." A sweeping gesture, disgust roughening his voice. "I wasn't the only one he took either. Years, Valerie. He had us all for years, made us do—awful things. In the end someone else freed me. The very first thing I did was kill the man that took me."

Well.

He gave up more than she'd expected, but the ending isn't any surprise at all. Ghosts like him always get blood on their hands, eventually. She narrows her eyes, deliberating, and takes a risk. "He killed you first, didn't he?"

Dee hisses, long and slow, a memory of breath steaming in the cold night air. "Didn't think you'd see it my way."

"I don't," she snaps. "I'm just wondering why you didn't fly away five minutes after you went ghost."

He laughs, and this time it's raucous and artificial and loud. It rings out across the football field, echoing off the bleachers until it sounds like there's a horde of ghosts laughing unseen in the night. She grimaces, gritting her teeth against the shiver that crawls up her spine. She can't play that one off on the cold, but at least he can't see her unease.

"You don't get it!" He shouts once he's finished laughing. His voice is aggressively gleeful, a pantomime of human happiness, exaggerated to the point of mockery. "You weren't there! And you wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

"Try me!"

"M-i-i-ind contro-o-ol," he sneers in a high sing-song, waving his long hands theatrically. "He mind controlled me! He made me and a-a-all the other ghosts he collected his puppets, and we danced to his tune day in and day out because he made us want to! Every idle wish, every stupid chore, every dirty deed, he made us want to make him happy no matter what we might have felt about it when we were still alive! I killed him the second I could think for myself again and I don't regret it. I won't. I'm glad he's gone and I'm glad I pulped his ugly face."

And he stands there, hunched and breathing raggedly, ready and waiting for her to attack.

And Valerie—

—dismisses her rifle.

"Now why wouldn't I believe you?" She asks softly. "You were a local, weren't you? You know how crazy this city is."

Check it out, she's left him speechless. There's more than one way to beat a ghost at their own games.

"How'd he do it?" She asks.

Dee's muzzle opens and shuts. "You... you're not gonna believe me that easy. Are you?"

"You already told me you murdered the guy." How he justifies it to himself, well, that doesn't much matter to her or Mr. Masters. But she's curious. She wants to know why, even if it's not what really happened. Ghosts lie, but nobody ever said they were good at it. Ghosts, she's learned, are a bit like funhouse mirrors. The truth's always in there, stretched and warped though it may be.

"I... he... used magic," Dee falters. "Or something like it. Didn't really get a chance to question how it worked, y'know? Uh. It—he had this amulet. As long as he wore it I couldn't fight him. None of us could. I didn't even know he had it until—after."

"After you'd killed him."

"Yeah."

No remorse. No hesitation. Simply agreeing with the facts. Jesus.

"He deserved it," Dee says when the silence begins to stretch. "The ringmaster deserved to die."

Guess that joke about the circus last night wasn't a joke after all. Something about that niggles. Why does that sound familiar? Later. Maybe Mr. Masters will know. "Why were you the one who got to make that call?"

Dee's head tilts, wry amusement curling the corners of his muzzle. "Like any cops would've listened to me."

"Still. You were just a kid, once. Look at you now. It's no wonder your friends freaked."

He flinches, then snarls. "The second I start to bore you or you decide I'm too dangerous to let roam you're gonna destroy me. You're the same age as me. What's your excuse? How do you justify it when you kill somebody?"

She purses her lips, counts to five. Just another lie, another head game, digging under her skin looking for a weakness to exploit. He'll have to do better than that. "Who said anything about destroying you?"

He huffs. "Right. You'll just turn me over to Vlad instead."

She should. She should notify Mr. Masters now.

"I haven't told him about you yet," she says instead.

"You—really? Huh." He crosses his arms over his skinny chest, long fingers curling with too many joints. "Why not?"

Well. Truth for truth, and maybe she'll get a little more honesty out of him instead of a firefight. She'd prefer to not be the one responsible for leveling the school just a few months shy of getting free of the damn place. "You're weird. I wanna know why."

"Wh—" He laughs, baffled. "Is being a ghost not enough of an explanation for you?"

"Please. I know ghosts. I've been fighting them long enough to figure out the general idea, and you don't fit it. But if there's one ghost like you there's bound to be more, and I don't like surprises."

"You—you're using me? For data collection?"

She grins. "Glad you're keepin' up, Dee."

He drops his arms so he can smother his laughter in one long hand, his shoulders shaking. "The hell—" he chokes out. "You're a real piece of work!"

Eh, she's been called worse by things far more interested in finger painting with her entrails. She'll let it slide, this time. "Doesn't sound like you object."

"I—ha ha—what, do I get a vote?"

"No, but it'd be even weirder if you were cool with being studied by a ghost hunter."

Dee closes the distance between them, way too fast again, circling her in a boneless smear of eye-watering light and smoke. "Do you plan on telling Vlad about me?"

She doesn't draw a weapon, though instinct shrieks at her to push him back, to take the high ground, to strike before he has a chance to tear her down and open. "I... I don't know."

He stops to hover; not quite before her, not quite facing her. Off by inches, because for once logical anatomy does apply to ghosts. One ghost, anyway. "I thought you'd hate me."

"I do," she replies automatically. "I hate all ghosts. Doesn't mean I can't be curious too."

"Huh." He sprouts legs—scarecrow skinny but humanoid down to the tattered knees of his white jeans—and lands without a sound. "Tomorrow."

"What?"

"Come back here tomorrow. I'll tell you whatever you wanna hear. Y'know, for data collection."

She has to bite her cheek before answering, glad he can't see her smiling. "Were you on the football team or somethin' when you were alive? What's got you coming back here every night?"

He shrugs like he's embarrassed, but not like he minds it. "It's the only place I've been able to find without getting lost."

Jeez, talk about depressing. You'd think his family or whoever would be out here with him, if they're not so scared of him they haven't notified the militia. "Well, I dunno how much of high school you remember, but I for one could do with a little time away from here. I can show you how to get somewhere else tomorrow, anywhere you like."

His mouth opens wordlessly for a moment before he cackles. "Did—did you just offer to take me for walkies?"

Shit, and she was doing so good too. Now she's cackling right alongside him. "N-no! Oh my god! I was just—if you're gonna be like that, then fine! Offer rescinded."

"Aw, no, c'mon!" He waves his hands apologetically, but he's close enough that Valerie has to take a step back to avoid getting sliced. Fluid as his shape is, you'd think he'd do something about being a glow in the dark Edward Scissorhands. "I was surprised, that's all. Please?"

"Alright," she says. "Alright. Just—don't go causing any trouble tomorrow, ghost, or I might go changing my mind about Mister Masters."

His mouth stretches—eesh, yeah, that's teeth and all on that bit of freaky ghost anatomy—in an easy grin. "Pinkie promise," he says, and vanishes.