During that period of two weeks in which they were confined to Amity Park, the Fenton house had fallen mostly silent. Danny was never there; whenever he got the chance, he retreated to the park near Casper High to sit moodily beneath the tree. Sometimes, he spent money that he didn't have; inside Vlad's wallet, there was an abundance of it, and he would often take as much as a hundred dollars from it at a time. Vlad, of course, noticed the absence of money, and the new clothes Danny began to wear—clothes that were clearly evolving rapidly—, but he never said a word, for having Danny out of his hair for any period of time even if it meant having to dole out hundreds of dollars a week was a blessing.

His bullet wounds, to Danny's amazement, had healed, leaving small, almost invisible pockmarks in their place. The teenager did not know how he had done it, but he was certain he'd never gone to a hospital—the door had not once opened, and when it did the sound was clear, like a siren, meaning that no one could leave the house…or come home late without being discovered, as he'd come to learn. But in the days that followed, the door seemed to be opening and closing more than ever, and neither of them seemed to care, unlike his parents, or Jazz, who would have tattled immediately upon the door's signal.

Vlad spent his time alone, usually cleaning the house simply because it kept him from going mad. He had already packed Danny's things neatly…twice; in a moment of weakness, he became convinced he'd left something up there—a cell phone, perhaps, because he had many of them, but whatever it was he could not for the life of him remember now—and had gone and destroyed the place looking for this thing his mind had created. When it was disheveled to what looked to be the point of no-return, he began to clean. Danny came home that day with a shopping bag in his hand and went up the stairs to his bedroom. Inside it was still a mess—he couldn't make his way to the bed, for all his clothes, old and new, lay in heaps on the floor—but he cleared a path and never mentioned it.

Of course Vlad was deathly terrified of what else Danny might be doing in the time he spent out of the house; he was shopping evidently, which was innocent enough, and Vlad gave him heads of lettuce to keep him from doing the things everyone said were naughty—smoking, drinking, hunting down the prostitutes in the nether-regions of downtown Amity and paying them for sex, etc, etc. Vlad could only hope that Danny had stayed out of trouble, but God knew he wouldn't ask—he'd been skirting around Danny as if the boy were a large, unneutered dog and he were a small, frightened rabbit, terrified, afraid that he would ruin what they had…or rather, what they were rebuilding.

While they went to great lengths to avoid each other, often making a point to remain in separate rooms, getting up and leaving if the other came in, they were also in the process—the long, wearing process—of picking up the pieces, impossible it may have seemed. Danny came home from some of his many trips to the mall, stone-faced but armed with large boxes of chocolate, the kind Vlad liked best. He would leave them on the kitchen table and go to bed, and in the morning—like a diluted visit from Santa Claus with no presents—there would be a note, saying simply, plainly, Thank you. Though he would not say it to Danny's face, he was incredibly grateful—it made him feel as though there might be hope for him, for them…even if Danny had not purchased it with his own money.

Vlad kept Danny's room clean, going out of his way to make Danny's bed and dust the shelves and wash his clothes after he'd gone out for the day. He consciously made dinners Danny liked best, coupled with dessert every day, both in hopes that it would appease the boy as well as put some meat on the lanky thing. But Danny did not take weight well, and Vlad realized soon enough that Danny could eat as many helpings of strawberry pie or scoops of ice cream as he wanted—and he did—but that scarecrow-like figure of his wasn't going to change. It made him more than a little upset, he supposed—Danny was unhealthily thin, more so now than ever, and if he was unsuccessful in fattening the boy up, he would have to take him to see a doctor. Wanting to avoid this at all costs, he bought over-the-counter medicine he hoped would help, which he crushed up and put into the milkshake he'd made Danny that night.

There was no improvement yet in the boy's weight, though he was steadily eating—perhaps a tad more than steadily—like an animal—but Vlad hoped he would soon see a change, one that would not only improve his physical health, but his mental health as well. He prayed the new weight would change his attitude; in a perfect world, Danny would realize that life was not hopeless if he could, as if by some miracle, gain back all the weight he'd lost in the days before, and then some. The world was, by no means, perfect, but Vlad had seen anorexia affect his late mother, who cooked the day away and was brilliant at doing so but never touched a drop of anything she'd made. At some point, his father had taken her to a hospital, almost by force, where she'd been treated. Then, a few weeks working with doctors, dieticians, and counselors, and the weight had come back on. Her whole demeanor changed, and soon Vlad saw that she had gone from exercising in the pouring rain to singing as she cooked, and frequently tasting her creation.

Danny couldn't be anorexic—he had no problem eating, and didn't seem to care what he ate—but Vlad hoped new weight would affect him similarly. At least, he prayed, because he knew how unstable Danny was and how, without question, un-perfect the world really was.

If Vlad was successful, perhaps things could begin the shift into normality. Perhaps. He didn't want to get his hopes up because he knew all too well how easily they'd been crushed so mercilessly in the past, but he had nothing else. Nothing that could calm him like that childish hope he'd so swiftly developed, so naively.

Danny came home from the mall one night, bag in each hand, his face pale and his eyes cold as they always were. He was wearing a black button-up t-shirt and a pair of worn gray shorts on which he'd attached a heavy metal chain connected to his wallet. Upon smelling Vlad's cooking, he walked carefully into the kitchen and plunked down the shopping bags on the tile floor.

Vlad turned around briefly and gave him a small, apprehensive smile, one which looked like he was trying to hold back vomit. Danny saw him gulp as he swiftly turned back to the pizza he was making, one which was comprised of a thick slab of dough and mounds of tomato sauce, cheese, and pepperoni, as much as he could add without making a mess.

"Hello, little badger," he said uneasily, making a point to use that name he'd oh-so-affectionately dubbed the boy for the first time what seemed like years ago.

"Hi, Vlad."

"Dinner won't be ready for another forty minutes. It has to cook."

"Sure."

For a moment neither of them knew what to say, and an awkward silence filled the room abruptly. Danny shifted uncomfortably where he stood, staring down at his feet which wore new Converse shoes. His black-painted fingernails gripped the shopping bags unconsciously, as if this would end the silence, put him out of his misery. Vlad stabbed the uncooked crust of his pizza in the same desperate fashion, but he, like Danny, began to realize that the silence wouldn't fix itself. At the same time, they started to talk, quickly and very conservatively.

"Maybe we should—"

"Do you want to—?"

Another silence followed this, but it was very brief, and after a moment, Danny said quickly, "You go ahead."

"I was just going to suggest we eat together tonight. You don't have to take your dinner up to your room," Vlad said reservedly.

"Have I ever had to?"

"No, Danny."

The boy paused briefly but then sat down at the kitchen table as Vlad slid the pizza into the oven and clicked it on. Danny watched his back apprehensively, feeling as if he were about to give a presentation in front of the class, tasting iron and blood in his mouth as he, too, now held back vomit. When Vlad sat down at the table with him, Danny made himself swallow it, whether it was vomit or simply a lump in his throat.

Vlad regarded Danny for a small moment, his face remaining mostly monotonous, his hands folded on the table.

"I see you got your ears pierced."

Unconsciously, the boy reached up and touched one ear, which had been pierced four times—three in the lobe, one in the cartilage. The other ear had only been pierced three times, and the cartilage here remained unscathed. At the bottom of each lobe, there was an onyx stone. Next, a small steel ball, and lastly, highest on the ear, a tiny black ring. In the cartilage that was pierced, there was a smoky purple stone.

"Yeah," he said softly.

"I like them," Vlad lied. "The purple stone is nice."

"I got it for Sam," Danny said, and touched it.

Vlad regarded him for a long moment, his eyes drooping in sadness. Timidly, he reached a hand across the table to touch Danny's, and surprisingly, Danny took it.

"We need to talk," he told Danny softly.

"I know."

A/N:

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I wasn't going to write tonight, but I told myself I could only watch Dragonball Z if I updated, so I'm gonna watch the Frieza saga now even though it's six in the morning! I love Frieza but he's such an assh*le for what he did! HE RUINED MY FATHER/SON PAIRING! Gah!

~VC