Be Jazz Fenton.

Watch your world fall apart.

Piece by piece, slowly, and then all at once.

It is December 27th now, and you're very proud that you keep track with a calendar even though it's mostly because you're counting the days that Danny has been gone. Mommy and Daddy forgot all about Christmas this year. They forgot the presents and the tree, forgot to put on Christmas carols and make lots of food for their special dinner. They even forgot to argue about Santa Claus.

Dash is your new best friend and you do everything together. He sits with you at lunch and gives you his Honey Bun in the morning and he doesn't let Christian or Paulina ruin your pretty braids anymore. Everything is a mess, and some mornings you're ready to just go to sleep and never wake up, but Dash is always there. There with a smile or a hug or something nice to say. And it's Dash that you sit next to in class when Mr. Robbins gives you paper to make letters to Santa.

He asks you for help spelling lots because his letters get all jumbly like your numbers. Mr. Pendergrass lets you because he says it's "good to get along." Sometimes, you think Mr. Robbins looks at you funny, like he's sad. Sometimes, you get called into Nurse Hampton's office, and she gives you ice for bruises and asks lots of questions. When that happens, Dash is always the first one you talk to and the only one to give you a big hug.

When Dash shows you his letter, it makes your chest ache, because he asks Santa to make his Daddy be nice to his Mommy and sleep at home instead of at the firehouse. Dash also asks Santa to make letters not be so difficult and to make sure they would be friends for always, and when you read that, Dash panics because you start crying. No one has ever wanted to be your friend for always before.

You sometimes help Dash with his reading, too, and when he reads your letter to Santa, he looks at you with his blue serious eyes and says, "Does your Daddy hurt you?"

And you can't lie to him. That's wrong, and Dash is your friend, and he doesn't ever lie to you. He makes things better. Always. Gives you hugs and Honey Buns and his serious eyes only come out when the questions are really important.

So you tell him everything.

You tell him that there was an accident and there was a boy, white hair and green eyes, and he called himself Danny because he was Danny. Except Mommy and Daddy didn't believe you. And then Danny just wasn't there anymore, your baby brother who made everything bright, and now Mommy doesn't hug you anymore. Daddy doesn't kiss your forehead. There's lots of yelling, lots of fighting, brown juice in strange bottles that smell and holes in the walls. You tell him that you don't get new clothes anymore 'cause Mommy never comes out of the lab and Daddy is always so angry.

You didn't ask Santa for new clothes or new toys like other kids do. You didn't ask Santa for friends this year because you have Dash, and he's the best. You didn't ask Santa for new books or new shoes, didn't ask for ribbons or bows or teddies.

You asked Santa to bring Danny back. To make Daddy and Mommy not fight, to make them love you again, to make the house smell clean and make everything better. You ask Santa to fix what broke.

Dash looks at you very quietly for a long time when you finish, and then he gives you the biggest hug he can. It's nice even though it's too tight, makes your ribs ache where Daddy pushed you into a chair on accident, but you hold him back just as tight. He sounds like he's trying not to cry when he talks again, shaky as his fingers curl in your shirt. It's quiet. Mr. Pendergrass isn't paying attention – there's a couple of boys that are too rowdy – so he doesn't make them stop.

"It's gonna be okay," Dash whispers. "I'm gonna make it okay."

You don't like talking sometimes. It makes everything hurt.

But this time you choke back on tears that make your throat close and say, "How're you supposed to do that?"

Dash holds tighter. "I dunno. But I mean it."

Be Jazz Fenton.

Wish that things will get better.

And then realize that is a mistake.

Because then, suddenly, it's December 30th and policemen show up at the door with another man in a suit. Watch quietly from the stairs, peep through slats, and listen as they question Mommy. Her voice is loud, cracks at the edges, but the officers don't yell. It's strange. All the policemen on Cops shout a lot. But this isn't a TV show.

If this was a TV show, the man in the suit would be very handsome; instead, he's got large, buck teeth and his voice is rough.

One of the police officers sees you. He has dark skin, a thick black mustache, and he's got very serious eyes like Dash sometimes has. But then he smiles at you, ignores how Daddy is snoring on the couch and how Mommy keeps trying to yell at him, pointing fingers and talking with that mean glint in her eyes, the one she gets when you do something wrong. The other police officer is a lady with blonde hair and makes Mommy stop yelling, makes her sit down and be calm and answer questions. The man in the suit has sad eyes, like he's very tired, and you feel a little bad for him when he tries to talk. Because Mommy doesn't let him talk because she's very very mad.

It makes your tummy do a back-flip.

Watch as the police man walks up to you. Try not to cry. Hold tight to Bearbert Einstein and bite your lip and try not to think about how there's ketchup stains on your Christmas sweater. How your tummy is grumbly and you have dirt smudged on your nose. Think very hard about what Mr. Pendergrass said to do if you talked to a police man. Be nice. Be polite. Tell the truth.

The police officer kneels down at the foot of the stairs and smiles at you, and his dark eyes kind of twinkle. They remind you of someone. But don't be impolite, don't let him see you're scared, don't do anything to make Mommy any madder than she is. The police man takes off his hat, tilts his head a little bit.

"Hello there," he says, and his voice has a thick accent. It reminds you of cartoons, of Dora the Explorer and Manny Rivera. "I'm Officer Sanchez. Are you Jasmine?"

No one calls you Jasmine. Not even teachers. But this is a police officer, and he does not know you. Smile very quietly and say, "People call me Jazz."

Officer Sanchez seems like a nice man. He smells spicy, like cologne, and he's warm when he sits on the steps next to you. Feel your guts twist and then unwind. Because Mommy told you what to do and you don't want to mess this up. Because you're six-years-old and scared because Mommy and Daddy took Danny and he hasn't been back and what could they do to you?

You wish that Dash was here to hold your hand.

"That's a very pretty name," Officer Sanchez says, smiling under his big mustache, and you think that it's a nice smile even though his eyes are sad. "Jazz, do you think we can go in the kitchen? Mr. Turner and Officer Star need to talk to your Mama and Papa about some important things."

Bite your lip. Squeeze Bearbert Einstein. Take a deep breath through your nose and do not cry because Mommy is watching over the lady officer's shoulders and she looks so angry. There's gonna be lots of yelling tonight, you can tell. But. . .

You're so hungry and he said kitchen, and police officers are supposed to make things better, right? They're the good guys, right? Maybe they can make Mommy and Daddy nice again, take away the nasty brown water and the yelling and the fists through walls. Maybe they can bring Danny back, too, and you can have your bubby back.

Be very careful when you nod and make eye-contact because Mommy says eye-contact is important. Watch as Officer Sanchez stands up and then go down the stairs. One, two, four. . . or is it three? Five, maybe? You don't know – the numbers jumble worse when you're nervous. Make sure that Officer Sanchez is following and don't look at Mommy as you walk towards the kitchen.

Try not to flinch when she starts yelling.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And sit in the kitchen with Officer Sanchez until it's very late, way past your bedtime, and try not to fall asleep in your bowl of Cheerios. It was all that you could find, 'cause Mommy's not very good at keeping food in the fridge anymore. You're so tired. But Mr. Turner and Officer David – that's what Officer Sanchez had called her – are still talking to Mommy. You think Daddy might have woken up, but you're not really sure. Answer all the questions that Officer Sanchez asks you.

Don't lie.

That's a very important rule – we do not lie in this house.

"Jazz, how old are you?"

"I'm six, sir. My birthday was in October."

"Did you have a nice party? I bet you have lots of friends."

"No, sir. Other kids don't like me. Except Dash and Danny. But Dash wasn't my friend yet and Danny. . . Danny's not here anymore."

Officer Sanchez kind of frowned when you said that and that makes you feel bad, like you've said the wrong thing, but then he smiles again. He pushes your Cheerios closer, very gently, and lets you keep eating.

"I have a daughter that's about your age," he says, very quietly. "Her name is Paulina. Do you know her?"

Swallow even though your throat gets tight and remember sticks, mud, mean words, slaps on the face, freak freak freak freak. Think about a little girl with pretty braids in her dark hair and nice new clothes, always pink, who likes to hit your books until they fall to the ground. A little girl who hates you and you don't understand why?

"I know Paulina, sir. We don't talk a lot. I don't think she likes me."

It isn't a lie, but it isn't all the way the truth. Does that mean you've broken a rule? Gosh, you hope not. You're too tired for a punishment. Officer Sanchez kind of chuckles and ruffles your hair. Very gently, though. He's a big man but he's not rough like Daddy, even though his hands have big callouses and there's a scar on his pinky finger.

"I think my Paulina is a bit jealous," he whispers, like it's a big secret. "She talks about you a lot, about how you're the smartest in your class. I'm sorry if she isn't always the nicest. Her Mama spoils her terribly."

Wrinkle your nose. "Are you sure it's just her Mommy?"

Freeze.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You're not supposed to be sassy, it's against the rules, and that means that there's gonna be a punishment and Mommy's gonna get real mad and what if this makes Officer Sanchez mad too? He's a police officer. Can policemen take you to jail for being sassy?! What if he hates you what if he won't fix this what if what if what if?!

Officer Sanchez laughs, tips his head back and everything, and doesn't seem to notice how big your eyes are or how you're white or how your hands rattle the bowl. Instead, he looks back at you with a big grin. His teeth are very white.

"You've caught me, kiddo! I spoil Paulina just as much as her Mama does. We might need to work on that, eh?"

Don't say anything. Don't say anything at all. Because you got lucky that he wasn't mad, wasn't leaving or yelling or telling Mommy. Who has gone very quiet in the other room, almost like she isn't there? Didn't the door open a second ago?

You're very tired. It's obvious when you yawn and your jaw pops.

Officer Sanchez puts a hand on your shoulder. It's nice, not hard or heavy, even though his palm is very rough and his fingers have lots of scars. There's a bruise there. But there's always a bruise somewhere. So it doesn't really matter. Everything feels kind of floaty, fuzzy around the edges, and you can hear someone talking to you in the background, but it's like you're underwater. Sinking down, down, down until there's nothing but black. And it's kind of nice for a little bit.

Until. . .

There's a little boy standing in front of you and it's black, too quiet, so quiet that it presses on your ears and they ache and you're scared, and this little boy looks just like Danny. But Danny doesn't have white hair (he does now) and this little boy doesn't have eyes, just big pits full of green goo that leaks down his cheeks and they're too skinny, like he hasn't eaten in a very long time. He stares at you. States and stares and stares and your heart's beating too fast. Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump-thump-thump. You're scared. What's going on?! Where is everything?!

The boy opens his mouth and more green spills out, over his chin and down his black-white jumpsuit, the one with a big Y-cut in the front and when he talks it's Danny's voice, small and he doesn't sound scared, but quiet and sad and confused.

"Jazzy, why didn't you help me?"

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts please go away, not Danny, not my bubby, go away!

Take a step back and your ankle catches and you fall. Hit the ground even thought there isn't ground and it's cold, hard like concrete. And then the boy is sitting next to you. No eyes, mouth open, green dripping from his teeth and chin and. . .

"Jazzy, please help me. I'll be a good boy. I promise."

No.

No, Danny, that's not Danny, can't be Danny is it Danny?!

Open your mouth to talk except you can't, the words won't come, because there's sticky green and red oozing up your throat and you can't breathe. Make it stop make it stop please make it stop you want Mommy Daddy Dash Bubby anyone please make it go away you didn't mean it, honest, you'll find bubby you have to please!

"Jazzy, why didn't you help me?"

NO!

Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and wake up in a hospital on New Years Day. There's lots of tubes and needles sticking out of your arms, tubes with blowing air in your nose. Your clothes are gone. The hospital gown you're wearing is itchy. Take a deep breath and cough because the air tastes yucky, nasty like antiseptic, and this isn't right? Where did Officer Sanchez go? Why are you in a hospital? And then you're scared, very scared, because Mommy and Daddy won't be happy because you're not supposed to be noticed, Mommy said.

It's not right.

You shouldn't be here.

Everything is spinning and your head still feels fuzzy, cotton in your mouth, and you want to get out of bed but you don't want to fall? It doesn't matter anyway. A nurse walks in the room. She's kind of short and a little chubby and her shoes squeak on the too-white floor. But even though she looks surprised you're awake, she smiles, and it's a nice one. Warm and bright.

"Oh! Well, hello there, sweetie!" Her voice is quiet, but it's nice enough. "I'm Nurse Miranda. Do you know where you are?"

Shake your head. Stay quiet, though. Don't let her see how scared you are.

Watch her smile and know that it's twisted around the edges. "You're at Amity General, the hospital. Do you remember what happened before you woke up?"

Frown. Nod. But don't talk. Your throat still feels too scratchy for that.

"You don't have to talk right now if you don't want to, sweetie. That's alright. I'm going to take a few tests and write them down. Is that okay? I promise they won't hurt."

They won't hurt.

They won't hurt.

She promises they won't hurt.

Nod again. Watch closely as she puts a stethoscope on your elbow, listens, then writes. Take deep breaths when she tells you. Try not to flinch when the cold metal touches, when she stares at your bruises too hard, when she smiles and it doesn't reach her eyes. Try to smile a little bit when she pats the back of one hand and notice she has a gap between her front teeth.

"Alrighty, sweetie, all done. Now, there's a couple of people who are here to talk to you, is that okay?" Nod but don't talk. "Good. They'll be in here in just a second."

Watch her leave. Try not to cry and know it isn't working because your eyes burn.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Listen to Mr. Turner and Dr. Tang explain what happened. Listen as they tell you that you will be living with your Uncle Vlad for a little while, just until Mommy and Daddy get better. Just until they find Danny. Just for a little while. Listen as they talk to you about "abuse" and how Mommy yelling and Daddy pushing was wrong, how you were so tired that you fell asleep for two days and that wasn't okay. Listen as they explain that you won't have to change schools, that you'll get lots of food and clothes and toys and everything will be the same.

Except it won't be the same.

Because Danny will still be gone and all you have is a teddy bear.

When they leave, hold Bearbert tight and cry until you can't.

~*O*~

Vlad Masters.

Billionaire, businessman, inventor, genius.

Loner.

He wasn't precisely happy about all the monikers he'd acquired over the years, particularly those that pertained to his status as a bachelor. However, Vlad understood the need for disguises in the world of the wealthy. More a veil of polite normalcy in a world that was nothing of the sort. He'd learned well in all that time spent in the hospital.

Not that there was much else to do when confined to a bed and crippled by chronic pain.

Still, Vlad Masters had grown accustomed to being alone to a degree. His mansion in Wisconsin was a primary residence, and he shared it only with the cleaning and kitchen staff throughout the week. Business associates were sequestered to Dalv Corp headquarters in nearby Madison, and though he rarely visited the mountain chalet, it had become a wonderful place of seclusion in his recently-acquired fame. Not to mention the many nights spent exploring deep corners of the Ghost Zone. He'd also built a modest manor – four bedrooms, three and half bath, nothing particularly grand – on the outskirts of Amity Park.

He imagined Maddie would want to remain at least close to the town where she'd settled and had her children.

Speaking of children. . .

"Mr. Turner, I really don't understand the situation. Are you telling me there is no one else able to care for Jasmine? You doubt the Fenton's competency as parents this strongly?"

The man sitting across from him looked older than his twenty-seven years, graying at the temples and stress creasing the corners of his eyes despite an otherwise neat appearance. His bucked teeth were somewhat prominent, and Vlad idly wondered if that endeared him to the children in some way. With a tense shake of his head, Mr. Turner took a swig of the black coffee he'd been offered by the secretary.

"No, Mr. Masters," he insisted, solemn and sincere. "We had received a report on the Fentons from Mr. Hawthorn, the principal at Jasmine's elementary school. A number of teachers had reported bruises, behavioral changes, disregard for hygiene – all classic warning signs for child neglect or abuse. Upon my arrival at their home, Jack Fenton was passed out on drunk on the couch and Madeleine Fenton had no idea where her daughter was. She was belligerent throughout our interaction, aggressive, and it wasn't until Jasmine passed out from hunger that we'd realized she hadn't fed the poor girl in almost two days."

Vlad felt his shoulders tighten. Surely not Maddie. Jack, he could understand. The oaf had been a lush in college, and he'd always suspected that a wicked hangover had been a damning contributor to his own accident. But Maddie? She was. . . she was strong-willed and possessed a fiery temper when provoked, sure, but he knew firsthand that his Madeleine loved her children more than anything. She was a brilliant mother. There had to have been some terrible mistake.

"Mr. Masters, I know this can be difficult to hear, especially when you were so close to the Fentons in your college years." Mr. Turner's voice was urgent, his blue eyes disgustingly earnest. "But right now? Jasmine needs you to be there for her. The Fentons have you listed as her primary guardian in their will. And I'm personally reluctant to put Jasmine in the foster system."

Foster system?

Well, that simply wouldn't do. No child of Maddie's was going to suffer in a state home if he had anything to do with it.

Vlad placed his own mug of tea on its coaster, eyes narrowing as another thought occurred to him. "If I remember correctly, Mr. Turner, Jasmine has a younger brother – Daniel, I believe his name is. You haven't mentioned him once throughout this entire meeting."

A clenched jaw. Eyes flicked towards the ground. Fingers twisting on themselves. The younger man was upset. Anxious, nervous even. An interesting reaction, to be sure, especially when one considered that they were discussing a four-year-old boy and his six-year-old sister. Though he'd cut contact with the Fentons about a year prior to Jasmine's birth, he wasn't completely out of the loop.

"Daniel Fenton has been missing since September, Mr. Masters. A full investigation is being conducted, and I'm afraid I can't discuss the details. For now, you'll only be responsible for Jasmine, should you agree."

Something heavy settled in Vlad's chest at that. Anxious and cold, like a poison-coated stone. He swallowed, allowing his mask to rest over his face, and thought about the pros and cons of his next decision.

Pros: Maddie would consider him a savior, a hero, for taking her daughter in until this misunderstanding blew over. Taking in his goddaughter would be a wonderful boost to his political and business image. Jasmine was young enough that he could rather easily usurp the role of father-figure in her tiny eyes.

Cons: He would have full custody of a six-year-old child. Silence and easy-scheming would be a thing of the past. He'd need to take special precautions to keep his identity as Vlad Plasmius a secret from Jasmine. And finally. . .?

There was a distinct, terrifying possibility that he would actually grow attached to his little charge, only to have her stripped from him at the drop of a coin.

Vlad Masters did not consider himself a coward. Nor did he consider himself a particularly brave man. Taking leaps of faith such as this had never been his forte; however, sometimes, a situation required him to do exactly that. It was chess. Flaunt a pawn, lose a knight, or sacrifice a bishop – it didn't matter if one captured the queen. Maddie was the endgame, the final prize.

Perhaps her daughter would be his perfect ticket in.

"When would I be able to meet young Jasmine, Mr. Turner? I would imagine a young girl would wish to meet the person she is to be staying with before arriving in a strange place, yes?"

Mr. Turner blinked at him, as though he'd been expecting the opposite reaction. Vlad's responding smile was thin and wan. Having masks proved effective, yes, but sometimes the reaction they garnered were tedious at best and infuriating at worst. Still, to his credit, the social worker rallied quickly and began pulling various files and legal documents from a battered briefcase at his side.

"We just need to get this paperwork signed and notarized – temporary acceptance of guardianship, medical forms, other legal junk – and then we'll head to the hospital to see her. If that's alright with you, of course?"

Vlad almost wanted to like Mr. Turner. He was brisk, efficient, and he carried himself with purpose. That was something that he could respect, especially after having to claw his way to success. With a secret smile to himself, the billionaire took the proffered ink pen and began carefully sorting his way through the paperwork laid out in front of him, idly listening to the social worker explain each piece. This would be difficult, he realized. Having little to no real experience with children under the age of ten had him at a disadvantage. He'd be fighting an uphill battle, would have to strategize and plan carefully.

He signed his name on the first sheet with an elegant flourish and a true, wicked grin.

Chess had always been his favorite game to play.

~*O*~

"Danny, baby, I know you're excited, but you know better. Don't jump on the couch."

"Wanna see stars, Pen! Wanna f'y!"

"I know, sweetheart. We're waiting on Walker. You just need to be patient, okay?"

The tiny ghost, perched on a couch cushion, sighed quietly, flopping down with slumped shoulders. "Oh-kay. . ."

Three weeks.

It took exactly three weeks for Walker to grow used to having both Danny and Spectra in his house. Which, honestly, was a lot less time than he was expecting. It had taken him almost two months to get accustomed to having Taylor as a charge, and Ember had been a dadgum nightmare for the better part of a year. Still, Danny was a good kid. Skittish as all get-out, touch-starved, and near-silent for the most part, but good.

The first week or two had mostly been spent coming up with a routine and figuring out what his triggers were. Routines were easy, thankfully. Routines had rules – times, dates, settings, etc. And Walker excelled at those.

So it was wake up at seven, then breakfast at nine, followed by playtime or stories. Lunch at noon, nap time at one, then Spectra would have a make-shift therapy session around two-thirty or three. Between the end of that and supper at six was pretty much a free-for-all. Then it was baths at seven, a story (or four), and bedtime at nine.

Simple, clean-cut, easy.

The kid responded to the structure well – seemed to soothe his frayed nerves – and he'd opened-up some. Bit by bit and piece by piece. It was a smile here or a giggle there, allowing himself to take a bit of food without watching someone eat it first or playing with clothes before asking permission. He'd even put a little bit of weight on.

His triggers, though. . ..

Those were a bit harder to swallow.

Little things seemed to set Danny off. Loud noises and strange faces they'd noted, which was why forgoing the annual Truce party had been the best course of action. But sometimes the panics seemed to come out of nowhere. Laundry day, for example, had been uneventful until the timer went off, and Danny started shrieking in horror. It'd taken Spectra almost twenty minutes to figure out what he was so dang scared of. He wouldn't touch anything pink or white. Liquids, food, toys, it didn't matter. The little boy shunned anything in those two colors. Antiseptics were a no-go – found that out when he'd cut his hand working in the shop – because the smell reminded him of a laboratory. Honestly, it'd been a rough beginning. But there were certain things that made it all worthwhile.

Like now.

Walker chuckled and tossed his flannel shirt into the laundry, rolling his shoulders a bit as he shrugged into a heavier jacket. "Alright, punk, what d'ya say we go flyin'?"

Danny's head snapped towards him, a huge grin splitting his face, and he started bouncing excitedly on the couch again. They'd quickly figured out that blue and red were his favorite colors, and it was even more apparent when they let him pick out what clothes he wanted to wear. The outfit of the day consisted of the boy's favorite pair of overalls – blue corduroy – and a bright red shirt with bees on it. He still hated wearing shoes, though, but Walker wasn't bothered by that.

His furniture was probably better off for it, really.

Behind him, Spectra rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. "Danny. . ." Her tone stayed gentle, but the warning was clear. "No jumping on the furniture."

Before Danny could do much in the way of pouting, Walker scooped him off the couch, tucking him up against his chest.

"Don' go ignorin' her now, punk," he growled. "She's awful cranky on a good day. Make 'er any worse an' she'll turn into a dragon."

The expression Danny wore shifted to wonder, and he spun to look at Spectra. "You tu'n to a dwagon?!"

If the look that Spectra tossed him didn't scream "eat dog crap and die," Walker would have to eat his own shoe. He contented himself with grinning, bouncing the over-excited toddler against his chest until the witch could come up with something suitable. Which took a whole three seconds, dadgum it.

"No, baby, I don't turn into a dragon." A sly, almost cat-like smile crossed her lips, and for some reason that made his anxiety spike. "But that doesn't mean I don't bite on occasion."

Was that. . .?

Spectra flounced past him to the front door, practically sauntering away in her thick sweater and leggings. Walker felt his mouth go dry.

Holy crap, it was.

"Walk? We gonna f'y now?"

Danny's tiny voice, still painfully raspy and quiet, broke him from the shock. Looking down at his boy, the warden managed to smile. "Yeah, kid. Let's go – think y'all 'll be able ta go higher today?"

They'd been working on showing Danny the full extent of a ghost's powers, and it was already starting to affect his perception of them. Though Danny himself still hadn't manifested any abilities – shocking, considering he'd formed nearly a month ago – he'd quickly grown used to watching both him and Spectra use their ghost powers outside the house. Flying was a big hit, even though they had to be careful about not triggering his anxiety.

The smile returned in full-force, and Danny nodded with every ounce of enthusiasm his tiny body could muster. Walker couldn't help but chuckle a bit, helping coax the wriggling ball of energy into a heavier coat before carefully lifting him to ride on his shoulders. He had to do a bit of creative walk-crouching to get through the front door, and thin hands that gripped his head were freezing, but it was worth it to hear the punk laugh.

Spectra was waiting in the front yard impatiently, arms crossed with a mock-disapproving expression creasing her brow. Though there weren't true seasons in the Zone, it was decently cool, and Walker could see faint tremors run up her arms.

"Are you two almost ready?" she griped. "Because I'm cold and want to move to warm up."

Walker snorted. "Should'a wore a coat if you were cold, sugar. Danny here's all dressed for it."

Danny nodded, deathly serious. "You ge's a co'd, Pen. Coat is impo'tant."

He would never be able to understand it, but somehow the woman who gave people depression for fun was absolutely smitten with a little boy who couldn't even stand the sound of a kitchen timer. Spectra's frown melted into nothing, and she floated over to tap his button nose with her pointer finger.

"You're absolutely right, precious. But I don't have a coat here, so I'll have to be tough like you, hmm?"

Danny's frown deepened, and he wriggled until Walker relinquished him (rolling his eyes all the while) to the red-headed shade. The ectoplasm pits in his head had solidified greatly over time, and they now resembled something closer to a true eye than before. So when the four-year-old focused his gaze on Spectra, the concern could be felt like a tangible thing.

"I keep you warm, Pen," he said quietly. "No be co'd, p'ease."

Walker felt a tug in his chest at that, and the grin that crossed Spectra's face did nothing but make it worse. She hugged Danny tight, bouncing into the sky so quick that it made him dissolve into shrieking laughter, and kissed his cheek. The little punk knew exactly how to make someone smile. It didn't matter if he'd just come out of a panic attack or a nightmare (of which there were many) or even if one of them was having a garbage day, Danny knew how to make it better. Somehow, this little boy – who had scars so deep they affected little things like eating – had become good enough at reading the pair of them to accomplish it.

At four-years-old.

It just beat all he'd ever seen.

Walker shook his head, lazily floating up to join the odd pair, and half-heartedly glared at Spectra. "Yer downright spoiled, y'all know that? Could'a just asked me for a coat, but no, you gotta take my boy an' make him keep ya warm."

Smug as ever, she grinned over the top of Danny's head, pressing the giggling boy closer to her chest. "It's not being spoiled, Walker. I can't help it if Danny loves me best. He's got good taste. Unlike someone I know. . ."

"Now that's just downright rude," Walker griped, crossing his arms as they began flying in circles. "Yer mama didn't wash yer mouth out enough as a kid."

Before Spectra could do much more than open her mouth, Danny piped up. "Pen, no be mean! I wuv you bo'f bestest."

They both froze.

Had he just. . .?

Danny looked up at Spectra with wide, scared eyes. "Did I say some'fin w'ong? I sowwy."

It looked like he was about to panic, thin body just barely trembling. But, thankfully, Spectra recovered quicker than he could. Walker floated in stunned silence as she hugged Danny hard, watching as the boy's thin arms squeezed back with all the strength they could muster. It looked like there were tears in the corners of her eyes, but that could've been a trick of the light. The galaxy of ectoplasmic stars overhead shone brighter tonight.

"No, baby!" She giggled, smile so wide it threatened to split her cheeks. "You didn't say anything wrong at all! You just surprised us, that's all."

Danny looked confused. "How come, Pen?"

Something like heartbreak flashed over Spectra's face, and Walker moved to float beside her. "We just didn' know y'all loved us best, bud. It's a big piece a news."

The little boy glanced up at the stars – well, what passed for stars in the Zone, anyway – and then looked back at them. He'd come so far in such a short amount of time, but Walker still couldn't get over the scars that lined his face and peeked out from under his shirt. Danny had been shattered, almost irreparably, by the people who were supposed to love him most. And he'd somehow found the courage to love them anyway.

"I do," Danny murmured, serious as a sermon. "I wuv you an' Pen bof bestest. 's why I twy an' be good. 'cause you good an' I don' wanna make you hate me like I did Mommy an' Daddy."

It was the most they'd managed to pull out of Danny concerning why he thought he was such a bad boy, why he was so afraid to mess up or do anything against what they recommended for him. Walker felt his core freeze in his chest once the words connected. Holy crap, is that what he thought?! That everything that happened was his fault?! That he'd somehow made his parents hate him and that he could do the same to other people?!

If he ever found the punk's parents. . . .

For once, it seemed like Spectra had been muted. She just stared at Danny, arms trembling and eyes glassy with horror. Her throat worked. But nothing came out, just a strangled whimpering noise that made Danny hug her tighter. Walker understood what she was feeling. It was like a punch in the chest, having to listen to this little boy tell you that he was terrified of making the people he loved most hate him. That he loved them and was still afraid regardless.

"Danny, kiddo, I need y'all to listen to me, okay?" Walker floated until his shoulder brushed Spectra's, one hand resting on the top of the kid's head. "There ain't nothin' you could do to make either one of us hate you. Ever. We love ya to the stars an' back, bud, an' nothin' in this world or the next is gonna make us stop. Got that?"

Eyes widening, Danny looked up at him like he'd pulled down the moon and put it in his pocket. "Y-you mean it?! Pwomise?"

This time, Spectra answered him. "We promise, baby. Cross my heart."

Gnawing at his lip, Danny reached up with both hands and patted her on the cheeks. "Pinky pwomise?"

Her smile was awfully watery, but she offered him a pinky nonetheless. "Pinky promise."

Danny sealed the pact solemnly before turning to look at him with big, serious non-eyes. "Walk? Pinky pwomise?"

Walker didn't like making promises unless he could keep them. But this one he would keep without question. He offered the little boy his own pinky, a crooked grin spreading as they hooked together.

"Pinky promise."

Usually, Danny didn't like making big, sudden moves. Like he was scared of going too fast, scared of someone lashing out at the slightest provocation. Which was perfectly understandable given how he'd died. But neither one of them seemed ready to be near-squeezed to death by an excited four-year-old. Walker suddenly found his head pressed right up against both Danny and Spectra, the smell of strawberries and cream washing over him.

"I wuv you," Danny choked out, body trembling with the force of his newfound courage. "I wuv you lots."

Spectra was shaking right along with him, and Walker heard tears in her voice when she answered. "We love you, too, big man. So, so much."

Jeremiah Walker didn't do emotions. He wasn't particular to hugs, kisses left him decidedly uncomfortable, and thinking about anything that didn't deal with anger or frustration left him grasping at straws.

His kids, it seemed – particularly this one – were an exception.

Without thinking twice about it, he put both arms around Danny and Spectra, pulling them hard against him. Danny giggled near-hysterically. Spectra buried her face in the little punk's hair, even as one hand reached up and grasped the back of Walker's jacket. They were shaking. But something told him it was the good kind of shakes. The kind you got after a good cry or a tense situation resolved.

"Love you, brat," Walker rasped. "Don't forget it."

Danny nodded. "I won'. Wuv you."

They stayed like that for a long time, floating above the property with nothing but the stars overhead to keep them company. Eventually, though, Danny's tiny voice broke the moment, little hands twisting gently in the fabric of their shirts.

"Walk? Pen? I go's a question."

Beside him, Spectra cleared her throat and managed to answer. "And what sort of question do you have, baby?"

Danny glanced up, worrying his lip between his teeth in a sort of nervous tic. Walker clucked his tongue softly and pulled it out from between the little teeth. "Come on, big guy, none of that. Y'll hurt yerself again."

Without his teeth to trap them, it seemed the boy's lips had a mind of their own, and he blurted, "Does dis mean you an' Pen won' ta'e me back ta Mommy an' Daddy? I don' has ta go back, right? 'cause I don' wanna."

Both Walker and Spectra had the same idea.

"Punk, y'all ain't goin' anywhere!"

"Hell no, you're not going back there!"

Danny blinked at them in shock, silent and startled by their combined outburst. Then he looked Spectra dead in the eye and said, "Dat's a quarter in da swear jar, Pen."

Walker couldn't help it.

He nearly fell out of the sky because he was laughing too hard to stay airborne. Spectra didn't seem to think it was as funny as he did, though, cheeks burning as she bounced the little boy back onto her hip. Danny himself kept giggling, albeit a bit nervously, and the giggles became full-blown shrieks when Walker darted back up and snatched him.

"Tell 'er, punk! Swearin's against the rules, ain't it?!"

The four-year-old nodded, still giggling. "Uh-huh!"

Spectra gaped at him in outrage. "Quit poisoning him, Walker, I'll swear if I want!"

"No, Pen! No swear, p'ease!"

The glare that Walker received probably should've killed him. Or at least cowed him. But this was just too dang funny to pass up. He kept chuckling even as Spectra elbowed him in the ribs – which hurt, dangit, her elbows were sharp – and shot past him towards the house.

"I hate you, Tex."

"No ya don't, sugar. Otherwise, we wouldn' be here talkin'."

"Shut up."

"Does 'is mean I won?"

"Not by a longshot, Grandma Clampett. Not by a freakin' longshot."

The last growl echoed through his lair bounds, and Walker almost felt a little intimidated. But that didn't keep him from grinning smugly as he and Danny touched back down, the kiddo perched on his shoulders. Little hands with freezing fingers gripped his ears, and he could feel a little core thrumming gently against the back of his head. It felt right.

"Walk, don' be mean! You make Pen mad. An' dats no good."

"Punk, y'all might just have a point."

Walker plucked Danny off his shoulders and strode back into the house, finding Spectra curled up on the couch with a pout. Immediately, the kid stretched towards her, wriggling until he was tucked back into her chest and under a blanket. His eyes drooped, a content smile on his thin face as fingers trailed through his hair, and Walker sat himself next to them.

"Wuv you, Pen. Wuv you, Walk."

Spectra kissed his forehead and snuggled down into the couch. "We love you, too, baby. Don't forget that, okay?"

Yeah. . .

This felt right.

A/N:

So holy fuck, I'm alive? I swear to God, I do not keep meaning to take so long on these chapters but they just don't. . .? I dunno how to describe it, but something here wasn't clicking and it pissed me the fuck off. But here I am! With lots of angst and a little fluff! Vlad showed up, as many of you guys have clamored for, and he's such an asshole. I love him. Still, things might get worse before they get better where Jazz is concerned, and as far as Danny goes, he's made leaps and bounds but we're still a LONG way from being a normal four-year-old boy.

That being said, the last bit of fluff made my heart happy. Along with double entendres because we all know Spectra's a perv. And Walker's just this side of being a fucking nun. I'm having a ball with these two. Honestly, why aren't there more fanfics of this pairing? I've seen, like, one? Y'all need to rectify this situation. Or me. I might have to rectify this situation.

Once I get my shit together.

Anyway! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and i would love it if you could leave me a comment down below!

Deuces!