Word Count: 1,439 (See, I said they'd get longer!)

This is a less Canon-Altering WMG, but it makes sense to me and I like it.

I'd like to quickly thank the reviewers who pointed out my mistakes. Thanks! And if there's any more - tell me, please, so I can fix them.

By the way, I'd love to hear any ideas you guys have for me. :D

#86 (Seeing Red)

"I want to go home." Django snapped, crossing his arms and glaring out the window of the car. He refused to admit that he was pouting, because teenage boys didn't pout. Every summer was like this. For the first week (sometimes two, and there was that one year where it was three weeks) he'd goof around with his friends, Phineas, Ferb, Isabella and the rest of them, and then he'd go traveling with his dad. Beppo Brown was an artist, known for his over-sized recreations of everyday objects – many that could work. During summer, they were on the move.

Usually the summer was punctuated by two visits home. The first one was always in time for the annual Sci-Fi and Fantasy Convention, and the other was just a quick hello to everyone before they were off once again.

This was normal for him since he started kindergarten. Beppo loved traveling, talking to other artists and getting feedback on his work, but his son's school was important. Summer was the time he could travel – Django had no one who could watch him, and Beppo wasn't the type to just dump his son on someone and go off to travel.

But as soon as Phineas and Ferb were old enough to pick up tools and blueprints, he'd return home to hear all about the amazing things they did over the summer. Some of the more sheltered kids believed they were crazy, but plenty of them knew it was true. Not that Phineas and Ferb bragged. Django was usually invited to join them on the days he was still there.

He felt like he was missing out.

Every trip would have one tantrum from him, sometimes two in the recent years, since this made his dad happy, but he wasn't. Beppo was on cloud nine during the trips, and it didn't go unnoticed by his only son, so he swallowed his annoyance and left it at that. He was luckier than most – who else had seen both coasts, Yellowstone and the Lincoln Memorial and all the stops between by the time they were thirteen? And his dad was an artist. Isabella had laughed at that once when he pointed it out, saying "So much for the starving artist myth" and then everyone was laughing.

He felt guilty when he started to get angry, even worse when he started to almost hate the end of school because it meant a week of seeing his friends followed by two months of people he didn't care about (sans his dad. Django loved his father.) with only a few calls between.

At this moment, he didn't care too much.

His dad sighed, turning the ignition. "You can drive, if you want to." But he couldn't. His permit was back at the hotel, Django's own fault, but it was just more bitter icing on the cake. He scowled.

Beppo didn't say anything, and after a long moment of silence, where more guilt started to creep into the anger, the artist stepped on the gas and pulled out of the institute.

The day had started off normally, with hotel breakfast (he ate two doughnuts before Beppo came down from the room and made sure he ate a real breakfast) and a quick swim while his father made sure everything was packed. Their next stop was a good seven hours away, but at least he could draw (on the smoother roads) or listen to his music player with the car charger.

But then Baljeet had given him a call. Django liked Baljeet – he was nerdy and shy most of the time, but he was nice and had moments where he was funny. They shared a love of science-fiction and crime shows, but his mood plummeted when the other teenager said goodbye. He mumbled something about having to go – Phineas and Ferb were building some new, huge, amazing thing that Django couldn't recall now, without realizing that it would ruin the day for the teen on the other side of the phone.

He was missing out. Again.

He calmed down as the day went on, but he couldn't stop thinking about what his friends were doing back home. Then, at the institute, some snotty art critic had insulted Beppo and his artwork – claiming it wasn't real art, and he'd snapped.

Critics were a part of life, and most of the time they didn't even make Beppo glance twice at them. He liked critique, but if it was obvious that they were only going to insult him, he didn't bother. As a child, Django would childishly argue with them, calling them stupid and idiots because they didn't like his dad. Now, he tried harder to not do that. But this woman, with her too-snide look and her nose permanently in the air, added to knowing that he was missing out on so much back home. It boiled over, and he was all but screaming at her and his dad.

Shame welled up in Django now. He'd made a fool of himself and his father. It would be in the papers tomorrow, a small article on Beppo Brown and the breakdown his fifteen-year-old son had. Django sunk into his seat. He just wanted to go home, and hang out with his friends and maybe even paint with them. The Unpainted Desert remained that way since his, Phineas & Ferb's painting was washed away.

"Are you okay, Django?"

He jumped, surprised, and glanced at his father. Beppo kept his eyes on the street, but he'd spoken.

Django debated lying for a bit, before he decided that his father would be able to tell. "No," he muttered. "Not right now. It's just… It's not really you, Dad, it's…" he trailed off, struggling to find words. "I'm just sick of it. I hate having a different bed every night during summer, I hate not being able to hang out with my friends, and I hate that I hate this!"

"That was wordy." Beppo said.

"I know you love it, and it's what earns us money, but I'd like to just stay home once in a while! I want to go home!" He was whining now, and pouting, but he wasn't about to cry or anything.

His dad pulled into the hotel's parking lot without a word, and Django was starting to feel like he was just being a hormonal teenager when his dad reached across the car and hugged him. It was a little uncomfortable, with the armrests between them, but Django hugged him back, wondering why his dad was hugging him.

"I'm sorry, Django."

"For what?"

His dad let go of him and smiled sadly. "I didn't know this all bothered you so much. I can't cancel the thing tomorrow, but we can go home after that, alright?"

"I—Really?" Django shook his head, only half believing his father. "W-we should compromise or something, right? Maybe every other summer?" Adults did that, right? Compromise?

Beppo ruffled his son's hair. "Probably not. But how about only half the summer, then?"

"Deal." It sounded much better than the whole two months. Actually, it sounded nice. He unlocked the car door and stepped outside. The air was downright freezing, but he still peeked back into the much-warmer car. "And Dad? I'm sorry for freaking out like that."

Beppo shrugged. "Critics know what buttons to push. I saw red plenty of times when I was just starting." He smiled broader and clapped a hand on Django's shoulder. "You can tell me anything, you know. I'm not going to get mad at you for feeling miserable."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Sorry." He added after a moment, breaking into a grin. Beppo laughed. "Let's go set up that easel. I bet you want to get some painting done."

"I'd rather sleep." Django yawned, as if to emphasize this, but he was really was exhausted. "I'll be an angsty artist tomorrow, thank you." After a long moment, he added, "Really Dad, thanks." and Beppo laughed as they made their way back to the room with a quick promise of a monster movie if he wasn't too exhausted.