A Rush of Blood to the Head
Theme #15: Silence | Angst/Tragedy | 2031 words | Danny F., Sam M.
(warning for dissection)
He always was too forgiving for his own good.
-x-
Oh, I'm gonna buy this place and start a fire
Stand here until I fill all your heart's desires
Because I'm gonna buy this place and see it burn,
And do back the things it did to you in return.
- Coldplay -
-x-
She screws the top back on the empty jerrycan and tries to take a deep, stabilising breath, but ends up choking instead. She had always liked the smell of petrol; before, he'd often remarked on how strange she was for that, in that light-hearted, joking tone of his - the same one he used when making terrible puns at the dinner table. Oh, how they'd all groaned! They'd even begun to wonder if that was his ghostly obsession; knowing him, it was entirely possible. They'd never got a straight answer out of him - just that stupid evasive smile. She mis-
No. Stop. She has a job to do. There is no time for nostalgia. Not yet.
She works loose the cap of the next jerrycan.
-x-
Christmas had never been a good time for Danny Fenton, even despite the Truce, and the whole Ghost Writer Incident, and having moved out. Maybe it was some sort of curse. Frankly, he wouldn't be surprised if it was. Take the previous year: he'd been visiting friends in New York over the holiday period, and lo and behold the Apocalypse came. Again. For the third time in six months.
It was getting ridiculous, even for him.
All things considered, he really shouldn't have expected this one to be much better. But...it was. The morning he spent in bed, as always; it was the only time of year that he could properly catch up on sleep, and as such he spent about twelve hours doing so. After he'd woken up, he'd gone to the Ghost Zone Christmas Party, something he'd come to really enjoy over the years. Sure, it was kinda weird, hanging out with people who regularly made attempts on what remained of your life, but once you got past the whole 'world domination' thing, they were good company. He'd been sad to leave this year; nobody had walked into his mistletoe trap yet, and he'd been angling for some good quality blackmail. But alas, dinner at the Fentonworks beckoned and he'd lingered as long as he could. He only hoped Dani didn't fall for it…
-x-
It's done. She kicks the empty jerrycans into a pile in the front room. She will leave no fingerprints. At the door, she peels off the petrol-soaked hazmat and drops that to the floor too. She wouldn't mind staying so much, but he wouldn't want that for her. He'd say it was a waste. She spares one last glance at the suit before turning away. She walks three paces, fumbles in her pockets for the matches and, cursing her gloves, brings out the box and a single white firelighter.
She strikes a match, waits for the flame to grow, and lobs it through the open door. The reaction is almost immediate; a fierce glow spreads rapidly through the room. She retreats to the opposite side of the road, but no further.
She has to see this.
-x-
They were all together again this year. Well, almost. Sam had been dragged halfway across the world by her parents - despite her protests of being twenty two and how they couldn't do this - and Dani, though in town, couldn't be included due to the whole Phantom thing; eight years on, and the elder Fentons still hadn't a clue. He'd promised her the whole of Boxing Day, though, and she'd been just about satisfied.
Tucker was there, for once taking a break from his beloved job; Jazz was there, one last visit before the final push until she got her degree; the Fentons themselves, who'd be jetting off in a week to Moscow for a lecture on the nature of ectoplasm; hell, even Valerie and her Dad had been invited. Danny had been looking forward to it since the arrangements were made.
Dinner was surprisingly successful, compared to the usual. The turkey hadn't been reanimated for once, and the only things that glowed were the sprouts, and nobody but Jack Fenton liked those anyway. Pudding came and went, and still no earth-shattering disaster occurred; truly a Christmas miracle. After a minor squabble over the TV remote, Danny began to properly relax.
It couldn't last, of course. He had never been that lucky.
-x-
Hours later, and the flames roar ever higher. A crowd has formed; they watch the inferno with a savage satisfaction, its orange glow drowning out their own. They refuse passage to the firefighters; they will see this place in ashes, come what may.
She starts as a cold hand grips her shoulder, looks up into a face that is so familiar and yet so not, it's painful. But she won't be waylaid by the grief, not now. Not until it's gone. She sees that same broken determination in her companion's face, and she realises how difficult it will be for her friend to look in the mirror and see his face staring back, forever. She offers a supportive hand and an all too understanding expression. It's hard, but they'll manage. They always do.
Two grown women hold hands and watch the house burn.
-x-
This year's misfortune arrived a few hours later, in the form of a news bulletin; nobody had gone home yet, happy to stay and watch cheesy Christmas films in the company of friends and family. In a break between movies, there was a quick news update; one about the most recent ghost attack, and the damage caused by it. Danny cringed; it had been a messy one. He still had the limp to prove it.
Of course, this had sparked a new topic of conversation. He tried to ignore their comments about how Phantom was clearly faking the 'hero' act and how he obviously didn't care a jot about the local populace, but Danny couldn't stomach the abuse for long when his entire lower leg throbbed painfully at every heartbeat, reminding him every second of exactly how much he did care.
So he joined in. And twenty minutes later, he stomped out of the house, remembering exactly why he'd never told his parents anything since he was fourteen. He rounded a corner, checked for onlookers and, coast clear, became his alter ego. There was nothing like a late-night flight to calm the nerves.
Unfortunately for him, the Fentons thought the same of ghost hunting. The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was, "Don't worry, Mads, we'll show Danny we're right! Evil runs in their ectoplasm!"
-x-
Dawn comes and goes, and the crowd has only gotten larger. The house had collapsed in on itself long ago, but still they watch the smouldering ruins. The ghosts, friends and enemies alike, stand like sentinels. They are accustomed to grudges, they live for retribution and closure; this is the only revenge he has allowed them, and they will enjoy it. He always was too forgiving for his own good.
The few mortals among the silent multitude sit together on the curb, energy exhausted but still mostly awake. Between them and the house, not one glowing figure blocks their view; it is only common courtesy. Five's hands are linked, each gripping tightly to the other as if their lives depended on it. The sixth sits apart from them, his empty blue eyes fixed unblinking on the rubble. Lines mar his face and the dark bags indicate weeks of sleepless nights; age has finally found him.
The bespectacled redhead in the other group beckons him, for the hundredth time since his arrival; he doesn't move. He doesn't deserve any degree of comfort.
He should have been there.
He was not.
-x-
It was Vlad that found him, in the end.
Somehow he'd escaped the straps - they'd never know exactly - and rolled himself off the table onto the cold, hard floor, spattered with his own ectoplasm. Face down on the concrete, he laid shuddering, focusing all his remaining energies on not changing back.
Vlad wasted little time lifting the boy - well, he was hardly a boy anymore, was he? - back onto the table, right-side up so gravity could keep his insides, inside. Plasmius ignored the boy's complaints - perhaps putting him back on the table where he'd spent hours being vivisected was not the kindest thing he could have done, but he needed to assess the damage, something he could not do from the floor. Besides, he was trying not to think about what must have happened; now was not the time for rage. Daniel needed urgent medical atten- oh.
Oh.
Maybe not.
-x-
By the time the sun has reached its peak, most of the crowd has dispersed, and the firefighters are finally allowed near the burning hot cinders of the house. It is just the one house that they need clean up; the fire was contained expertly by select members of the crowd. The ghosts have no quarrel with the neighbours; they want justice, not destruction.
The six mortals on the pavement is reduced to five; one, the original one, kneels by the ruins, scooping ashes into a small tin. Her knees are padded, protected from the heat, but her gloves were shed long ago and her palms are blistered and burnt. The attendant firemen have tried to pull her away - it's too dangerous, they say, she could get hurt - but always one of the remaining ghosts blocks their path. She is already hurt. They are all hurt. And they have waited long for this day. The wounds on her hands will heal easily enough; those on her heart, less so.
When at last she rises from the ashes, the last dregs of the crowd depart together, supporting each other as best they can. Six humans, six ghosts. Silent as his grave.
-x-
By the time everyone important and immediately contactable had arrived, Daniel had been moved to the more comfy sofa upstairs and swathed in warm blankets; it was the least Vlad could do, and Daniel's friends didn't need the extra trauma. Danielle, Jasmine and Tucker arrived together, within ten minutes of the call; between them, they had probably broken every rule of the road there was. They rushed to Daniel's side, not waiting for an explanation; Plasmius had no desire to tell the story twice, anyway.
Valerie arrived later, not as pressed; not much later, granted, but late enough for the sobbing to have started, for the blame to be mislaid and threats declared. Vlad tries to explain gently to Valerie how, yes, that is Phantom on the sofa, and yes, all assembled have come to say goodbye. How… yes, Phantom is dying, and yes, this involves you, dear Valerie, because Phantom never was 'just' a ghost. Just say goodbye, Valerie, you will not get another chance.
Daniel, to his credit, was taking it all very well. He smiled at those who had come to send him off, and only the distance in his dulling eyes and the green stain beginning to show through the blankets gave away the fact that he was fading quickly. He told them he was okay, that he was sorry for being so careless, and when Jasmine started making death threats towards the monsters who had done this to him, he caught her wrist with a rapidly weakening hand, and told her,
dont. they dont need to know. i dont want them to live with this. it's my fault. my fault. dont hurt them. let them… let them live. please.
He smiled a sickly grin, showing off teeth stained green by the ectoplasm he'd been coughing up since Vlad had found him; before, someone might have joked that he sounded like he was coughing up his internal organs. They all knew that wasn't possible anymore.
please. my dying wish.
-x-
It's just her, right now. They had decided to take it in turns. She's dressed all in black, as per usual, but today it seems darker. It's only right.
She gently places a small tin beside the grave. Her hands are bandaged tightly and she hasn't taken her painkillers, but she ignores the sting; it's not important right now.
"It's done, Danny," says Sam. "It's over. You can rest in peace now."
The grave does not respond.
It never had.
-x-
A/N: a few little clarifications. What's the deal with the ghosts? The ghosts are explicitly bound by Danny's dying wish to neither hurt or inform his parents of what happened to him - what they did to him. Years later, they're gone and finally, finally the ghosts can get their revenge. Because Danny was never a bad guy to them. A spoilsport, maybe, but not much worse than that.
Why does Sam have the honour of burning down the Fentonworks? She was one of Danny's closest friends, but she was far, far away when he died. It only seemed right that she strike the match.
The hell did Vlad come from? It's Christmas; I don't think he'd pass up a chance to wish the love of his life and his future evil apprentice happy holidays. Maybe he was compelled to come by the Christmas curse, only Danny's Christmas was already kinda ruined…
Written and posted on Tumblr just in time for Valentine's day, as this is probably the closest I'll ever get to writing romance. Oh, and one last little fyi: this is now where I'll be uploading my DP oneshots prompted by the 100TC; expect a few more crosspostings from Tumblr over the next few days.