Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and sit in your hospital bed and wonder why Santa didn't give Danny back. Wonder why he couldn't make Mommy less sad and Daddy less angry and why you can't go home. Hold Bearbert Einstein tight and watch cartoons on the TV and remember to thank Officer Sanchez for grabbing your buddy when he visits.

Don't let anyone see you cry.

That's very important – you do not let them see you cry.

It is the day after New Year, and the nurses have been very nice. They sit with you when they can, ask if you need something or want a snack or a blanket. Nurse Miranda helps you brush your hair after bath-time, puts braids and ribbons in it, and she even lets you wear fuzzy socks. The doctors sometimes use lots of big words like "malnutrition" and "multiple contusions" and "hairline fractures" but she explains them the best she can.

It means that you didn't get enough food, so your body is very hungry. It means that you've got lots of bruises – even though some of them aren't from Mommy or Daddy. It means that some of your bones are broken, but only a tiny bit, not like your heart, which feels like it's in big cracked pieces.

Sit in your bed and wish that things were better.

Try not to flinch when there's a knock at the door.

Mr. Turner walks in. He told you that he was a social worker, that he made sure that she was taken care of and that her house was going to be safe. That he was going to try and help her get better as best he could. Don't trust him.

Grown-ups, you're learning, can lie.

There's another man with him and he's different. You don't know how. But there's just something there. Something. . . weird? He's tall, but not quite as tall as Daddy, and he's got long silver hair. It's kind of pretty, pulled back in a ponytail. His beard isn't quite as pretty, a little darker grey, and his eyes are blue. But not like Danny's blue, the kind of blue that smiles and twinkles. They're cold. They don't smile, and the laugh in them is mean.

You don't know if you like this man.

Mr. Turner smiles again, and he sits in the chair closest to your bed. He's got a nice smile, even though his two front teeth are big.

"Hey, kiddo. How're you doing today?" He keeps his voice very quiet, and you like that.

Try to smile. Try not to be disappointed when it doesn't work. "I don't like the hospital. But the nurses are nice."

Mr. Turner looks kind of sad, but he doesn't tell you it's going to be okay. He doesn't tell you not to feel that way. He just says, "I know, Jazz. But you've got to stay here until the doctors say you're good to go, okay?"

Nod.

Try not to cry.

"I have someone here that wants to see you." He waves towards the other man. "This is your Uncle Vlad. He's who you're going to be staying with until your Mommy and Daddy are better. Do you remember him?"

No. No you don't. But Daddy used to talk about him sometimes, when he thought you and Danny were asleep. He always sounded so sad. Not like the Now-Sad, which is more mad-sad. But really sad.

Like you are.

Uncle Vlad is different, and it doesn't sit right in your tummy, but when he smiles it makes his eyes less scary. He steps up to the side of your bed and sits in the chair. Even how he moves is different. It reminds you of a shadow, very quiet and very quick and almost scary. Hold Bearbert a little tighter, try to curl up so he can't see how skinny you are, how small. He stares at the bruises on your arms. But it's almost like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

There isn't a bit of Uncle Vlad that feels sorry for you, and you don't know how you feel about that.

"Hello, Jasmine." Uncle Vlad's voice is soft but deep. "I haven't seen you since you were very small. You've grown."

Except you're still small and still sad and still scared, weak in your scratchy hospital gown, and you want to curl up in a hole and wait for Danny to come home. Your hands are shaking.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And watch as this man who calls himself your uncle smiles a cold smile. Watch as he takes your hand and know that his skin is too hot. It's blistering your fingers, and everything hurts, but you won't cry. Mommy said don't cry, not now and not ever, so you don't. You just look at Uncle Vlad and try to figure out what's wrong in his eyes. What's wrong with his smile.

Everything is wrong in your life and you can't figure it out.

"Jazz. . . Mommy and Daddy call me Jazz." The words taste thick in your mouth, and they're trying to jumble like numbers on a page, but it's all you can do for now.

Uncle Vlad tilts his head and you feel like a puzzle piece. You don't quite fit, the edges all wrong, and they clack and click until something breaks. Then he smiles, and it's a little softer, not quite so scary. He squeezes your fingers then he lets go.

Your fingers are on fire but there's nothing wrong with the skin. They're pink with reddish nails, no blisters, nothing wrong. It's not right. Nothing's right anymore.

"Jazz it is then. Are you okay here in the hospital? I know they can be rather scary. I spent lots of time here when I was younger."

Really?

You watch him for a second and think. He's right. The hospital is scary. Because it smells like the lab, chemicals and sick people and something else that makes your stomach twist. And at night, when it's dark and too quiet, sometimes you dream of little boys with no eyes and white hair. You dream of a little boy named Danny, who doesn't scream but looks at you like his whole wide world is coming down and asks you why why why and you just. . .

Nod and say, "I get nightmares sometimes. And it smells."

Uncle Vlad nods, then looks at Bearbert for a second. "Does your friend here help? Nightmares can be scary, but sometimes it's nice to have a friend."

Bearbert used to help. He used to help her sleep through nightmares, used to be her only friend. And he used to help Danny with his nightmares, on the nights when he came in with big tears and snot on his cheeks.

But there is no Danny and Mommy hates you and Daddy is angry.

There is no help with these nightmares.

So you shake your head and say, "Bearbert can't chase away all the monsters. He's just a teddy."

You feel silly, admitting that you believe in monsters. But what else could that little boy be? The one with no eyes and your bubby's voice? What else could make Mommy hate you and Daddy so angry he puts bruises on your arms? Monsters ruin everything just like ghosts ruin everything. And Bearbert is your best snuggle-buddy but he's fluffy and soft. He isn't meant to protect you from monsters with claws and teeth and no eyes.

Uncle Vlad nods like he understands. And you think he might. "Monsters are frightening, too, milaya. But, if I remember correctly, you should be ready to leave the hospital very soon. Isn't that right, Mr. Turner?"

He turns, and then his eyes are very blue. Almost too blue. Bright and hard and like ice in his head, and you realize that Mr. Turner is watching very carefully.

Nodding, Mr. Turner kind of smiles. "He's right, Jazz. You'll be out of here before you know it."

Watch him. Know something is different.

You're going and living with Uncle Vlad. Mr. Turner told you this before. And when he left, Dr. Chang made sure that your IV tubes were clear, that you weren't hungry.

And then you were alone.

Just like always.

It's the same.

"I want to go home. I want my bubby back."

They leave your mouth before you can stop them, and the words make Mr. Turner's smile disappear. And Uncle Vlad leans in close, his eyes very serious. Something cold runs down your back. You feel like a bug. A fat, ugly, slimy bug that got stuck under a magnifying glass.

"You can't go home just yet, Jazz. There are many things that your parents need to work on before that can happen." Uncle Vlad's voice is so quiet, so soft, but there's something hard at the edges you don't like. "But I promise that everything will be fine. No one will ever hurt you again."

He can't promise that.

He can't promise that, and you know it. Because even though you are very small and very weak and so tired, you can see there's something wrong in his eyes. There's something wrong about all of this, and you can't understand why.

But there will always be people who hurt.

And you're starting to realize that grown-ups sometimes tell the biggest lies.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Talk with your Uncle Vlad for a little while longer. Listen as he tells you which foods are good and how to get the best Jell-O. Watch your cartoons for a bit and listen as he talks about his house, about how you will have a big bedroom. How you can have whatever toys you want and how they will decorate it in whatever way you want. Try to ignore the big pit in the middle of your stomach.

Notice how Mr. Turner doesn't talk the whole time, even though he normally does all the talking.

Wave goodbye when it's time to leave. Don't talk when Nurse Miranda helps you with your bath, just sit quiet. Listen to her chatter. Don't flinch when she pulls your hair too hard. She doesn't mean it, not like Mommy or Paulina do, so it's not nice to make her feel bad.

She helps you put on the hospital pjs like always and sits on the edge of your bed, fluffs your pillows and smiles. It's a sad smile. You wish adults would stop sad-smiling at you. You wish they would smile at you like Dash does, like you're normal and happy and something to be happy about. Don't say that, though. It'll make everything worse.

Smile back. Ignore how it pulls at the edge of your lips.

Nurse Miranda brushes her hand over the top of your head. "Are you ready for bed, sweetie?"

No. You're not. The nightmares are waiting for you.

"Yes, ma'am."

Her smile gets sadder for a second. Then it brightens, happier, and she leans in close. "Can you keep a secret from the other nurses?"

Can you keep a secret Jazz? Don't tell them anything Jazz. It was a ghost, Jazz. Nothing is wrong, Jazz. Keep the secret keep the secret keep the secret don't open your mouth

Nod and hug Bearbert tighter to your chest.

"We got a call from one of your friends from school today. He and his Daddy are going to come visit you tomorrow. Doesn't that sound fun?"

Feel your heart skip, do a happy dance, and whisper, "Is it Dash? Dash is coming?"

Nurse Miranda nods, grinning, and you can't help it. Hug her tightly around the neck and listen as she chuckles a little. She smells good. Like honey and fresh laundry. Don't cry. Be happy even though you're sad, and laugh even though you feel like crying, and be certain Dash won't let you down even though everything else is a confusing mess.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Hug your Bearbert close and whisper "thank you" to Santa, even though your Christmas present was late.

Go to sleep.

Try not to dream.

~*O*~

Bertrand is old.

Far older than he lets on. So old, in fact, that Bertrand is a chosen name, not the human one he arrived with. He is ancient, a form made over twelve hundred years ago, swirling with ectoplasm and morphing at will. He feeds on misery and he feasts on bones, watches the years roll by with a grin that makes his fangs run slick with saliva. There are many who fear him. Hundreds. Thousands.

And there is one who knows him, who fears him more than any other.

She's beautiful. She's broken. She's worthless.

She's his.

Bertrand is over twelve-hundred years old and knows how to slip through the cracks. He keeps to the shadows because the shadows are friends, keep all the dark creeping things safe in their hovels and leaves the monsters free to roam. Bertrand knows these monsters. Takes care of them. Appreciates how they do him favors and cashes those in when he sees fit. It's funny, really, watching the others scramble to make sense of their chaos when all they need do is be.

Chaos is energy and power and life and they don't see that.

Bertrand does.

He growls at a crawling beast, small and angled. It scurries away, leaves him to his work. Bertrand returns his attention to what is his, the kind who formed in his lair and whom he molded in his image. So angry. So confident. So spirited and intelligent and his. Sometimes, the little one strays, returns to what she once was when he first found her. Gullible, broken, intelligent, naive.

Sometimes, the little one has to hurt.

Pain is a tool. Bertrand wields it with aplomb.

As he watches, what is his picks up a boy, who reeks of agony. Emotional, physical, mental. He can taste it. It's like a deep rich wine, oaky and aged. Bertrand watches. He observes. He waits.

Gods, but he is hungry.

The little one is bandaged, bruises fading, but he can see the marks lingering in her eyes. It's in the way they dart to each corner, the way she clings tight to the child. It's in the way she gravitates to that insipid fucking warden, who has the audacity to be offended by his discipline. His girl is weak. He's making her stronger. Surely a man worth his salt would know this?

But the warden is not a man worth his salt.

Bertrand watches.

Bertrand waits.

The boy without eyes nuzzles into his little one, plays with her hair, and she holds him like a precious thing. She's attached. He can taste it. The anger surges forward and Bertrand feels his tail lash. Ectoplasm and lightning, energy given matter. Shadows roll in time. Monsters cackle, chitter, crow.

Watch.

Wait.

The warden feeds the pair, lingers too near what is his, and Bertrand feels his fangs grow long. Anger poisons his heart and he becomes the great serpent. Not like the dragon-children, with their burning hearts and mercurial tempers. He is cold. He is calculated. He is the blizzard and ice and bitter sea-cold.

Bertrand was once named Calder, for the cold rough waters. Though he goes by another, his true name sits deep in his breast, remains near what was once his heart.

He watches.

His little one glances into his eyes, and he smiles.

Sometimes, lessons require patience.

~*O*~

Penelope woke up to the feeling of her arms sticking to Danny's comforter, dried ectoplasm pulling on the edges of her wounds, and had to work down a panic attack for a solid five minutes. She was ready to bolt, ready to puke, skin slick with sweat and body clawing for any sort of purchase on reality.

Bertrand had gotten a bite out of her, gotten a taste.

But not her boy. Never her boy.

Penelope beat the fear back with a stick and set it on fire in her mind. Set fire to everything. The walls, the bed, the floor. The monster who'd named itself Bertrand, who crept through the dark spaces with his rattling breaths and his dripping teeth. Who waited to swallow everything she cared about whole and digest it slowly. . .

Penelope gagged and rolled away from Danny.

Don't be sick.

Don't you dare be sick.

Too hot. It was like a furnace in here.

Penelope scrambled to get out of the bed, wrenched herself from the blankets as fast as she could without waking Danny. She landed on the ground with a thump, gasping for breath. She scrubbed at her face, smearing at leftover makeup but removing the remnants of cold sweat from her skin.

It was sweat. Not saliva. Sweat.

Bertrand hadn't taken a bite out of her.

Her stomach heaved again. Don't be sick. Do NOT be sick.

Danny whimpered in his sleep, shivering a little bit as the air bit into his skin, and she froze. It broke through the fear. Through the panic. Penelope took a deep breath and held it. Her teeth were chattering. Was she cold now? She couldn't stop shivering. There was ectoplasm leaking down her forearms. The scabs had busted.

Penelope moved to the bunk. Quiet, always quiet. Danny didn't like loud noises.

He was still sleeping, face contorted in a frown. Gently, Penelope tucked the blankets around him. Smoothed a hand over his forehead. Tuck the blanket, brush his cheek, kiss his forehead. Cool like always. No fever. No blood.

Bertrand hadn't gotten a taste.

He hadn't.

Penelope swallowed a thick wad of saliva. Stood up. Walked to the door and looked at the little clock by the nightlight. Five-fifteen in the morning. She'd slept four hours, maybe. Her fingers were still shaking. Her face hurt.

Fucking great.

She turned the handle, opened the door, closed it, breathed. Down the hall four steps. Into the bathroom. Light on, door closed. Another breath. It was sweat, not saliva. Claw-marks, not bites. He hadn't gotten a taste.

Penelope rummaged around in the medicine cabinet for a second. Grabbed the disinfectant, some gauze pads, bandage tape. Her forearms were still weeping, dirty from the blanket but scabbed over. Great – they'd bled overnight.

She'd have to be careful Danny didn't see the stains.

The mirror was staring at her with wide eyes. There was a bruise around her eye, huge and swollen and purple. There were broken blood vessels. A split in her lip. She looked pathetic.

Forever pathetic, little piyavka. You should've listened. You should've known. You should've been better.

Penelope ground her teeth and turned away. Opened the door, closed it, breathed. Then she floated down the stairs – fuck the rules, this was important – towards the kitchen. Danny didn't like the smell of antiseptic. He'd panic if she'd used the bathroom for this. She flipped the light on, kept quiet, and went to the sink.

The cuts were deep. They hadn't healed yet. This was going to hurt like a bitch.

Thank God.

She could only focus on one thing at a time. Pain usually overrode fear.

Penelope started scrubbing at the wounds under running water, hissing in agony. It burned. It hurt so bad.

Ah, agony, her dear old friend.

Eventually both arms were clean. There were no bits of fibers stuck in them, no ghost bugs or dirt. She just needed to pour the antiseptic and bandage. Simple. Painful, but simple. Her hands wouldn't quit shaking. She couldn't keep the bottle still.

"C'mon, Penelope," she muttered to herself, "it's just a couple of cuts. Quit being a fucking bitch-baby."

She poured the antiseptic. It burned like hellfire.

"Fucking shit!"

It burned. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, it was like molten iron being poured on her arms. Bertrand always made sure that his wounds hurt the worst to clean, to heal, to be. She didn't know how, but she was somewhat grateful for the pain. She could focus on pain.

Pain was a friend.

She and pain were pals.

"What in the name of Jesus Christ happened to you?!"

Penelope whirled, ectoplasm dripping, sweating and panicking and looking for the sound of the voice. She'd been quiet. She'd been good. How had he found her?! This wasn't supposed to happen. Nope. Not now. Not here.

Bertrand had wanted a taste and he'd tried for it and now Walker knew. . .

Her stomach heaved and she snarled. "What the fuck, Walker?! Why the shit are you even down here?!"

Anger was good.

Anger she could work with.

Better than panic and the feeling of saliva dripping down the back of her neck, hot breath on her face and the smell of decay all around. It was sweat, dammit, get it together.

Walker looked like he couldn't decide whether to be furious or really fucking concerned, and something about that was kind of funny. He was still dressed in his pajamas – his favorite ones, with the red-on-blue plaid bottoms and black tank – but his hair was wet. It kept dripping into his eyes, too wide and entirely focused on her.

Why was he so focused on her?

He crossed the room in about two steps – holy shit, since when was he so fucking tall? – and stepped into her bubble. Uncool, fuckhead. The bubble was sacred. One did not simply invade the bubble unless she made it so. Her hands grasped at the dripping green to keep it away. Keep it hidden.

It wasn't working.

"What happened?!"

Bertrand was hungry so he wanted to take a big bite, but she hooked his claws instead.

But that wouldn't go over well. Hold onto the anger, Penny, it's better in the long-run. Work with it. Focus. You can do this.

"It's nothing." She was lying, badly, because she couldn't keep looking him in the eye like this. "Just had a bit of an accident, that's all."

Walker swelled, jaw clenched, taller than ever. "An accident?! And accident that gave you a shiner the size'a Dallas an' sliced you up like a Christmas ham?!" He was loud, too loud, why loud? "Jesus, sugar don' gimme that!"

Away, away, get away, too loud.

Penelope felt the fear clawing back in, chewing at her stomach and throat. She set it on fire again. But that didn't stop the flinch. Her grip tightened on her forearms. Pain, pain, pain, focus on the pain. So much better.

Walker looked like he'd been slapped. Deflated a bit and sighed. "Alright, alright. 'm sorry. Didn' mean ta yell. Let's get'cha cleaned up 'fore Danny rolls around. Can't go scarin' 'im."

His accent got thicker when he was stressed or tired. She'd noticed that. And he was always focused on Danny. That made him a little more tolerable, at least. Even though he was still a fucking prick.

Penelope glared at the wounds, focused on the pain. She didn't want to look him in the eyes. Not when they looked at her like that. Like she didn't deserve this for being a fucking moron. Because she did. She did deserve this.

Her jaw clenched. Penelope turned the water back on, made it hot and kept scrubbing. Focused on the pain and ignored how gentle Walker was as he took the antiseptic towel from her. How he took her wrist like it was made of glass. How he dabbed at each gash instead of scrubbed and asked periodically if she was okay and, fuck, this was not how this was supposed to go. She couldn't handle this.

Not like this.

"Jesus, Pen, who did this to you?"

Walker sounded disgusted. Like he couldn't believe it.

Sometimes, Penelope couldn't believe it either.

She looked up and caught his eye. They were so. . . honest. God, when was the last time someone else had bothered to look so honestly at her? He was a hard-nosed, rule-obsessed asshole, but Walker was also the most stubborn, honest son of a bitch she'd ever met and that burned.

It burned because she could handle liars. Could handle thieves and psychopaths and miserable narcissistic bastards. But honesty was a foreign animal, one with sharp teeth and soft fur and she just couldn't figure out what the fuck to do with it. Couldn't trust it because no one ever meant it, right? Honesty was the perfect way to get something right?

Wasn't that just pathetic?

"Why the hell do you care?" Her voice wasn't shaking even though her stomach was doing backflips. "The bruise'll be gone by the time Danny wakes up, and I can cover these with bandages. I wouldn't let him see. You know better than to think that."

He did.

Danny was her boy. Her boy. She wouldn't do that anymore than he would break one of his precious rules. Penelope focused on the burn in her arms and the ache in her face. It took away from the kicked-dog expression on Walker's. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched, knotted and cording like steel-cable.

She'd struck a nerve.

"Do y'all really think 'm that shallow?" He voice was a rumble, thunder and lions and landslides. "That I don' care that someone beat ya silly? You're a sassy pain in my rear with a filthy mouth, sugar, but I ain't about ta sit by an' let someone beat the fire outta ya when 'm not lookin'."

Sugar – why did he always call her "sugar?" She was about as far from sweet as it got.

But. . . he had a name for her. And it didn't make her sick to her stomach. Not like piyavka or dýrr or Penny darling. The ones meant to belittle and mock and degrade, that spilled over her like ink and left a stain.

He just. . . she didn't. . .

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to fight down the burning in her eyes. She was so tired. Walker broke the stare-down first. He looked back down to finish bandaging her arms. The callouses on his fingertips made goosebumps rush down her arms, but he wasn't hurting her. Never rough or too firm, grip always light. For such a big man, he managed to be less of a bull on a rampage than she suspected.

When he was done, Walker pushed her towards the table. "Sit down an' I'll pour ya a drink. You're shakin' an' those've gotta hurt. It'll take the edge off."

. . . was she still shaking?

Penelope kept her mouth shut. Sat at the table picking at the edges of her bandages. They burned, still, deep and heavy and aching. She could hear Walker cleaning up her mess, a thick wad of saliva building in her throat at the thought of the ectoplasm that was staining the floors, the counters, the sink. This shouldn't have happened.

But it did.

Then there was a tumbler in her face, a finger of whiskey in the bottom. "Here. Sip it slow – don' want a repeat of last time."

Fucker.

Penelope glared at him as much as she could, trying desperately to hold on to whatever anger she could muster. It was difficult. But she took a sip, relished the burn in her throat as opposed to the burn in her limbs, and tried to ignore the way her fingers trembled on the glass. Walker was staring.

His expression darkened the longer he looked, twisting into something terrible in its concern.

He was staring and she just could not do this right now.

She snapped.

"Would you quit staring at me?! I know I look like shit. You don't have to paint a fucking billboard on my forehead."

Walker blinked and his expression darkened further. His jaw clenched. She'd noticed that tic before – it meant he was furious, but trying to hold his temper. "Spectra, you got handprints on yer neck! Forgive me fer bein' old-fashioned, but I grew up thinkin' it wasn' right to beat a woman senseless."

Old-fashioned. Right. He was a jackass, but also kind of, sort of a decent guy.

"Yeah, well, not everyone seems to have gotten that memo." Penelope was nervous and in pain and pissed off, nails toying with her bandages and body shifting without meaning to. "It's nothing, really. I'm a big girl, can get drunk and put on bandages all by myself next time."

Walker stared some more. It was difficult to read his expression. But she could feel his frustration, his anger. It was pouring off him in waves and smacked her in the face. He really needed to work on not feeling things so strongly.

"Hon, do ya really think it's okay for someone ta do this to you?"

His voice was quiet, without a rumble, and Penelope felt her stomach twist. She glared at him with all the heat she could muster.

Yes.

"No. I don't."

I deserve all of this, every single bit of it.

"But it's not like I can really do anything about it. So here the fuck we are."

Walker growled, lip curled over his canines, and went for the automatic response she was looking for. "Watch yer mouth." But then he went and fucked it up. "An' what d'ya mean ya 'can't do anything about it?' I know you ain't weak; fight back! Or call me fer backup!"

He. . . he didn't think she was weak? Walker had been steamrolling along for a month now, pushing her buttons as often as he could, but he didn't think she was weak for caving? What kind of fucked-up bullshit head-game was he playing?!

Penelope threw the mask down with a clang. Lock it tight, don't let him see.

"I just couldn't, okay? Drop it."

Drop it, drop it, drop it, don't look closer, please.

Walker's eyes were glowing, furious, and he snarled. "That ain't gonna fly an' y'all know it! What. Happened?"

Penelope felt the anxiety explode, ripping at her skin and clawing at her throat, and it came flying out her mouth. She slammed the tumbler down, hoped it would shatter. It didn't. The only thing that shattered was whatever composure she'd possessed.

"HE COULD'VE HURT DANNY, OKAY?! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO FUCKING KNOW?! THAT I'M A DUMBASS AND CAN'T EVEN PROTECT A LITTLE BOY RIGHT?!"

She couldn't protect him then and she couldn't protect him now and, shit, she was so fucking stupid. Danny was a little boy, her boy, and Bertrand was hungry. How was she supposed to keep her kid safe from monsters when she was indebted to one?

Tears kept burning at her eyes, heat pooling in her skin as it crawled, and Penelope couldn't entirely keep her breathing under control. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Including the way Walker was looking at her.

"Is that. . . is that what you think? That you gotta get beaten to protect Danny from some. . . waste who would do this to you?" His voice was hoarse, rasping over her eardrums, and it hurt.

Because she knew the answer, and it wasn't pretty.

"Jesus, Pen! What did they even say?! I would'a come in a sec if you'd a jus' called me!"

She was still crying, which was pathetic. And even more pathetic was that she knew he was telling the truth. Walker wasn't exactly her best friend – did she even have those anymore? – but he would've come if she'd called. Without question. He would've helped.

But. . .

"He didn't have to say anything. I know him. He'd break Danny. And he wouldn't even bat an eye."

God, she sounded pathetic. She was pathetic.

Walker looked like he was torn between breaking something and being afraid. "How did Bertrand even get here?"

That was the thing. She didn't fucking know. And that made her core freeze in her chest, hopeless and angry. She couldn't look at Walker. Instead, Penelope dropped her head into her hands. Tried to breathe.

"I have no fucking clue how Bertrand does anything. But it was better to let him hurt me. Because then he was focused on me, not Danny. I can take it – I don't think Danny can."

Walker was staring again.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck.

What she hadn't counted on was hearing the lump in his throat.

"Hon, you shouldn' hafta take it. Nobody should get tossed around like he did you."

This was the same man who'd threatened to lock her in solitary confinement for a thousand years. This was the same man who called her a sassy pain in his rear. This was a man who hated chaos, who hated swearing, who hated anything that didn't conform the way he formulated his rules. And he cared. It didn't make any sense. How the hell. . .?

Penelope felt her breath catch in her chest, choked down the sob. Slowly, because she didn't want to overwhelm herself, she looked up at him. He looked so concerned. What the actual fuck? And why?

"I was sitting watching Danny, and he was just there." Maybe if she explained, he'd see she wasn't worth it. "I didn't even hear him get in. How could I not have heard him get in?"

How could she have not known?

Not seen.

Bertrand was always hungry, always wanted another bite. S

She should've fucking known better.

"Now you stop that." It was a growl, but a soft one, like he didn't want to scare her off. "It ain't yer fault he got in. Nothin' 'bout this is your fault. Jus' tell me next time. I promise, he ain't gonna touch you again. Not if I got somethin' to say 'bout it."

Walker still didn't blame her. He. . . he didn't blame her. And he wanted to protect her. What the fuck? Penelope stared at him. She couldn't stop the tears rushing over her cheeks. Fucking stupid stress reactions.

"You can't promise me that."

Promises like that only made shit worse.

Except Walker didn't seem to realize that, because he set his jaw and glared, eyes bright. "The heck I can't! You watch me."

More tears. Faster. Hotter. Penelope couldn't seem to make them stop.

Then Walker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Aww, c'mon, sugar! I ain't good at dealin' with cryin', makes m' skin itch."

It almost made her laugh.

Penelope chose to scrub at her eyes and lie instead. Things were easier that way. "I'm not crying, asshole. My eyes are watering because my arms burn like a motherfucker."

She caught him grinning at her through the film of tears. "Watch yer mouth. Danny'll be up in a bit."

"Fucking bite me."

Walker laughed. He actually fucking laughed, and it made her stomach do a flip that had nothing to do with anxiety. Jackasses like him weren't allowed to have stupid sexy laughs. It wasn't right.

"What 'm I gonna do with you? 's like everythin' I say goes in one ear an' out the other."

Instinct ruled the next motion. Penelope reached out and punched him in the shoulder. Hard. Walker flinched just a little, but that was probably more reflex than anything. It was like slamming her fist into a wall. Jesus, how did he even get muscles like that? He didn't even work out!

But it somehow managed to make her smile, so whatever.

Walker, it seemed, did a lot of things without thinking of the implications. He reached out and brushed the tears off her cheeks. The callouses on his thumbs rasped against her skin. Too uncomfortable to be familiar, too pleasing to be offensive. When he was done, Walker smiled and gently tapped her on the chin.

"Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole, Tex?"

. . . that wasn't what she had meant to say, but it would do because it was less embarrassing.

Walker laughed again. Okay, it was more of a snort. Still. . . "Please – I hear that at least four times a day, sugar. An' I ain't been to the prison in nearly a month."

Sugar. The nickname used to annoy her a lot more.

He stood and grabbed her tumbler, forgotten on the tabletop. It was now or never. Before she could lose her nerve, Penelope reached out and grabbed his wrist. She squeezed it gently, avoiding eye-contact.

"Thank you, Walker."

God, it burned.

For a second, he didn't say anything. It seemed like he was trying to find words. Then, Penelope caught Walker's grin in the corner of her eye. "You're welcome, Pen. But tell me somethin' – did that hurt? Sounded like it did."

This time, it wasn't a reflex that made Penelope slam her fist into his bicep. It was her pride. "Fuck off! I'm trying to thank you like a normal person!"

That was what people did, right? Thank others for not thinking they were a fuck-up?

The grin on Walker's stupid face never fell, even as he rubbed at the spot she'd hit. "There ain't nobody that's gonna believe that. But like I said, you're welcome." He made a vague gesture towards the door. "Y'all might wanna get back up there. Danny'll work 'imself up if he wakes up an' you ain't there."

Danny was pretty attached at this point. Especially when he was sleepy or just waking up. He wanted her there, holding him or close enough to touch. They'd made the mistake of letting him wake up on his own once. It'd taken half an hour to get him calmed down.

Penelope nodded. "I'll be down with him in a little while. Are you making pancakes again?"

Pancakes were Danny's favorite. They probably always would be, now that his stomach had gotten re-accustomed to eating regular food.

That, and Walker spoiled the shit out of him.

"Either that or French toast." The warden shrugged. "You got a preference? Since we're both up, I figured we could have an early breakfast. 's not like we ain't got time."

Dammit, he was being nice again. He knew she liked French toast better than pancakes. He was giving her a choice. Stupid Walker, being all sweet and shit. Penelope thought for a second, then made her decision with a shrug.

"I like French toast better, but I'm pretty sure Danny would rather eat pancakes because someone spoils him and makes shapes."

Walker scowled, scrubbing the glass she'd used with more force than was necessary. "I do not spoil him! Jus' 'cause I'm good at makin' Mickey Mouse pancakes don' mean I do it every time."

Denial was more than just a river in Egypt. Penelope shot him a look, shoulders slumped a bit. "You made him an actual train last week. With bacon tracks. And steam."

Was that a blush she spotted? It couldn't be. Walker was shrugging her off with a blush. Now she'd seen everything.

"He's had a rough go of it. Figured if he wanted a train, I should give 'im a train. That ain't spoilin' – that's just bein' decent."

Penelope didn't know whether to laugh at the logic or coo over it. Jesus, he was such a dad sometimes. Still, she couldn't afford to lose anymore face, not when he'd seen her crying like a bitch. So she rolled her eyes at him. "God forbid someone accuse you of being the soft parent, Tex."

Which he was.

For someone who loved rules so much, he was shit at enforcing them with Danny. Other than the routine, which they'd managed to stick to like glue.

Walker's blush darkened, and Penelope took an obscene amount of satisfaction in that. "Would you get on?! 'm tryin' ta get yer French toast together, an' I can't do that if someone's standin' there sassin' me!"

But sassing him was her favorite pastime. . . . "Whatever, cowboy. I'm going to wake him up and get him dressed. Half an hour good?" She was grinning.

Why was she grinning?

Walker glanced at the clock, noted the time, and nodded. "Yeah. Shouldn't take much longer 'n that."

Penelope chuckled and moved to leave. It was a dull throb in her forearms that made her pause, turn back to face Walker. "Does my face still look like a poster for Haven House? I don't want to go up there if I'm just going to traumatize him the minute he opens his eyes."

For a second, he scrutinized her, eyes suddenly too serious. Penelope felt small, but she refused to let it show. Walker finally dropped his gaze back to the kitchen cabinets, rummaging through them way too intently.

"No. You ain't gonna traumatize him when he wakes up."

Something in Walker's eyes told her that he was going to traumatize someone else, though. Penelope wasn't quite sure what to make of that. She managed another smile and bolted. Up the stairs, down the hall, into Danny's bedroom.

The red night-light still gave her chills. But Danny was still curled up under his blankets, sleeping and relaxed and precious. Penelope felt her shoulders relax a little bit. She smiled and tip-toed over to him, brushing her hand through his hair. Danny leaned into the touch, grumbling in his sleep. The smile on her face widened again.

Gently, Penelope disentangled the little boy from his blankets, making sure to hide the ectoplasm stains from him. "Danny. Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Danny grumbled for a second, glowing ectoplasm pits peeking up at her from beneath his lids. Penelope just rubbed his back and talked to him, voice low. "Come on, baby. Wake up. Walker's making French toast. Doesn't that sound good?"

Stretching, yawning, Danny finally opened his eyes all the way. And then he looked up at her.

And he smiled.

"Good m'rnin', Pen!"

Penelope scooped his little body up and held him tight, relished the way he snuggled into her neck. He smelled like raspberries, like laundry soap, like home. His fingers were twisting in her hair, thin arms wrapped tight around her neck. She couldn't help but press a hard kiss to the side of his head.

"Let's get ready for breakfast, baby." Somehow, her voice didn't shake.

"Oh-kay!"

Danny kept toying with her hair, giggling and talking as she made her way around the room, getting his clothes ready for the day. He'd gotten so much better. And Bertrand. . .

He'd claw at his little boy and toy with his little mind, chew him between razor-fangs until there was nothing left but a shredded corpse that was once a baby.

Her baby.

Her boy.

Hers.

Penelope smiled at Danny, kissed him on the nose, and made another promise.

This one wouldn't be broken.

A/N:

Holy shit. It's been another month. And I want to die.

BUT!

Here is a chapter! It is long. And broken. But good. . . still good. Right? Maybe? Please, for the love of Christ, tell me it's as depressing as my life has been. Initially, I was going to forward to Danny and Taylor playing together, maybe show Jazz and Dash's interaction. But I figured that the last couple of chapters had been kinda somewhat fluffy. So I had to go with the angst.

That, and this monster is somewhere in the range of 7,000 words long. I wasn't about to add more.

So please let me know what you think! I may be kind of slow adding to this moving forward. However, I do plan on starting like a mini-fic series over on Ao3, as well doing a couple of character profiles, maybe some mood boards. It's all very vague and up in the air but, rest assured, there WILL be more content!

Thank you so much for all of your wonderful comments and support, and I hope to see you in the next one!