Penelope had decided within the first hour that she hated the Far-Frozen.
Not just because it was colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra, though that didn't really help her opinion of the fucking place. Living with Danny for so long had left her with enough energy to survive the Ninth Circle, sure, but that didn't mean she had to fucking enjoy it. No – she hated the Far-Frozen because of the people.
They were too goddamn nice.
In her experience, there were very few people – human or ghost – that were genuinely kind. Genuinely good. Everything always wanted something. And most would do just about anything to do it. You caught more flies with honey, which meant you could con more dumb-shits with a grin and cheery attitude. Experience as a psychiatrist taught her the first part. Bertrand had beat the second part into her head within a month of forming.
The point was, the giant fucking furballs kept bring her things, faces split in kind grins full of fangs, and Penelope didn't trust it. . .
At all.
Beside her, Walter grumbled and shifted in his sleep. Penelope rolled her eyes and squeezed his hand for a moment, running her thumb over his knuckles. He'd fallen asleep after about fifteen minutes even though it was fucking freezing – God, her toes were numb – and had been snoring for the past hour. In that hour, there had been no less than three separate monsters who'd come and checked on Danny. All of them had offered her kind smiles and stated that Danny was doing well.
"Your boy is strong. He will be fine."
"He's growing more stable by the hour, young one."
"You three will be able to return home by day's end. Is there anything else we can do?"
The kindness. . .
It burned.
Because there was no possible way it was all real.
Penelope growled to herself and snuggled deeper into the fur-cocoon they'd made, listening to the deep rumble in Walker's chest as he slept. He grunted again, an arm reaching up and wrapping tight around her shoulders before he settled back against the couch. It was heavy. Physically heavy. What the fuck did the man eat to get all that muscle?! Still, she couldn't help but smirk a little. The big, bad warden was a snuggler.
Who would've thought?
She tucked further into his side and kept the motion of her thumb going, staring over at Danny as he floated in the massive de-icing tank. Leads were plastered to his tiny chest. They kept track of his core-output, trying to monitor the amount of energy his body was producing in measured beeps that set her teeth on edge. He was still wearing his Sesame Street underwear. His favorite pair, the ones with Elmo and Big Bird. He'd picked them out all by himself, chattering with excitement as she'd gotten him dressed.
Looking at them now made Penelope's throat clench.
When the fuck would things be okay again?
She was so tired.
Tired of panic attacks and tired of looking over her shoulder every second of the goddamn day and tired of being somewhat close to happy one second then ready to eviscerate someone the next. She was tired of thinking that the monster under her bed was going to tear out her spine for being in the same room as another man and tired of hoping he it would snuggle against her back and wrap arms around her stomach and sing her a lullaby because she just couldn't sleep.
And she was tired of being confused by Jeremiah fucking Walker, of all people.
Walker, who could and would toss someone in solitary just for the shits and giggles but spoiled Danny shitless without a second thought. Walker, who thought it was great fun to terrorize the Box Ghost – which, really, wasn't that big of a character-flaw in her opinion – daily but snapped at her for swearing, even though she was a grown fucking woman and could do as she damn well pleased. Walker, who teased her relentlessly over the fact she couldn't cook but wouldn't let her help him with the laundry because she didn't fold the towels "right."
Walker, who tucked Danny in every night and Walker, who dressed like a fucking redneck hobo when no one was paying attention and Walker, who'd looked at her with those damn eyes when he'd realized that Bertrand was an abusive ass.
Walker, who'd dissociated completely when it looked like Danny was going to Fade and saved their boy anyway and dragged her along for the ride.
No shoes and all.
Penelope hadn't realized she was crying until the arm around her shoulders tightened and a kiss landed on the top of her head. She froze, cheeks wet and icy. Danny's hair floated in thick white spirals in the de-icing fluid. It was too quiet. But too loud. That damn machine wouldn't shut up and every rhythmic beep seemed to mock her.
Your. Fault. Your. Fault. Your. Fault.
Useless. . .
"Shhh," Walker rumbled. "'s okay, hon. Jus' a bad dream. I gotcha."
He wasn't awake, obviously. She could tell that by the way he immediately started snoring again. The way his arms were tight but not so tight she couldn't get away and that he wasn't questioning everything. What's wrong-what happened-who hurt you-why didn't you ask for help-let me help even if it won't do anything and...
Once Penelope started crying, she couldn't fucking stop, because she hadn't let herself really cry since everything began, not even after Bertrand's warning or Danny's confession or anything that had happened over the course of the past fucking month because this bullshit would happen. The inevitable breakdown that made let everyone know she was a weak, worthless mess.
It all came out at once, a messy explosion of tears and mascara and snot that clung to her lips and teeth as she dissolved into a horrific sniveling coward that couldn't keep it together to save her afterlife. Because she couldn't even save herself way back when she was a real person, so how the fuck was she supposed to save that sweet little boy, who was covered in scars that he didn't deserve and had his eyes ripped out of their sockets. A sweet little boy that couldn't listen to a laundry timer without hyperventilating but loved to play with rockets, who always had a smile just for her when he woke up and, Christ. . ..
She was so fucking stupid.
Danny could have Faded earlier, and she'd just fucking panicked like some sort of useless goddamn damsel, and how ironic was that? She busted Walker's balls constantly over thinking she wasn't strong enough or tough enough or capable of handling a trigger point and when everything boiled over, she'd been the one staring instead of doing something. And because she couldn't get it together, Walker had fallen into soldier-mode, Thousand-Yard-Stare included.
It had been. . .. scary, watching him work on autopilot like that. There hadn't been any hesitation. He'd just tore Danny from her and tossed him at Ember, barking orders like usual. Except it hadn't been business as usual because the words fell flat and his eyes were hyper-focused at something she couldn't see and he'd dragged her along by the hand even though it had hurt and she'd been yelling at him, eyes watering because the ache in her hands was creeping up her wrists like hellfire. Walker never did things like that. He might've been an ass but sometimes he could be downright chivalrous, so when he just didn't stop it had smacked in the face like a foot-long dick.
He'd dissociated because of her incompetence and everything was falling apart and Penelope just couldn't with this right now.
She clenched her fist and bit down until she tasted the distinct sick-sweet of her own ectoplasm. Her eyes were on fire. She couldn't get a good breath. Everything fucking hurt, from the gashes on her arms to the ache in her toes to the agony racing up her knuckles as they met enamel. But Pain was concrete. Pain was something she could deal with.
They had a mutual understanding.
So Penelope huddled tight against Walker – who was dead (ha!) to the fucking world and deserved the sleep – and tried to get a grip on herself.
It took a few minutes. More than a few minutes, if someone were to drag the truth out of her. Sometimes, Penelope thought it was easier to gauge one of her "fits" by the number of mouthfuls of ectoplasm she choked down, gagging on the over-sweet taste and using the pain as an anchor.
This one took eight mouthfuls.
When it was all over, it was like nothing had happened. The machine de-icing chamber kept beeping. Walker kept snoring and his arm was heavy on her shoulders but warm against her skin. Fire danced in the hearth and ice crept up her spine and there she sat, wrapped like a package in a fur-cocoon.
Penelope Spectra, bane of the Ghost Zone. The Witch. The Demon. The Monster. With big black tear-tracks running down her cheeks and snot dripping from her nose, red-eyed and puffy and pathetic.
She could practically hear Bertrand clucking his tongue. And she knew what he'd do if he were here. He'd reach out and rub at the mess on her cheeks with his fingers, but he'd make them too long and sharp to be comforting. And he'd lean in close to nuzzle at her cheek and coo about what a mess she'd made, about how weak such a loss of control was, and laugh when she glared at him. Then he'd kiss her forehead and pull her hair and hiss clean yourself up! before fading away into the shadows like some sort of nonsensical fucking monster and. . . .
Penelope sniffled, scrubbing angrily at her eyes with the heel of one hand. No – she wasn't going down that road. She didn't need Bertrand. And Danny didn't need her like this, all brittle and stupid and weak.
"Are you quite alright, young one?"
She startled.
Violently.
"Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?!" Penelope's voice barely rose above a strangled hiss, but it seemed to echo in her ears. "You can't just sneak up on someone like that!"
Frostbite held up his hands, a universal gesture of surrender. The look on his gnarled muzzle was serious, but it was tinged with just the slightest bit of amusement, and he circled the sofa to sit on the coffee table in front of them.
"My apologies. I had not realized you did not hear me enter." The snow-beast's eyes grew solemn again. "But my question still stands – are you quite alright?"
Penelope wanted to punch him.
In the fucking face.
"I'm fine. Peachy. Never been better. Now do me a favor and fuck off." And if she sounded decidedly not fucking fine, then that was none of the furball's business.
Somehow – probably the work of some deity that got a kick out of her suffering – Walker hadn't woken up when she'd jumped. He grunted angrily in his sleep, arm tightening just a bit over her shoulders, and his forehead creased in a frown. Penelope glanced over at him for a second, thumb idly resuming its path over the top of his knuckles. The warden's expression relaxed.
Frostbite had the goddamn audacity to smile at her.
"You are a strong one, Penelope Spectra." His voice was deep, and it rumbled through her like an avalanche. "My doctors have been commending your composure throughout this ordeal. But sometimes, even the strongest of us need support."
The giant's amber eyes turned pointedly to Walker, who seemed to be trying to pull her into him, and Penelope felt her face grow even hotter.
"I'm a psychiatrist, asshole, I know all about support systems and mental exhaustion," she snapped. "Are you done mimicking a fortune cookie? Because I have better things to be worrying about."
One fuzzy eyebrow rose in a knowing expression. "It seems to me that knowledge and execution are very different things, young one. You seemed very upset a moment ago."
Something cold rushed down Penelope's spine, angry and venomous and spiteful.
Useless little whelp, it hissed. He knows how stupid you are, how worthless. See how he pities you? How are you supposed to help Danny? You can't even help yourself. . . what a pitiful little fool you are.
"I'm fine." It came out a rasping snarl. "You can go. Nothing to see here. Don't let the door bite you in the ass on the way out."
Nothing seemed to ruffle Frostbite. Not her tone, not her expression, and not her words. It set Penelope's teeth on edge because there was only one other person who treated her acerbity with the same sort of disregard, and he was an ancient fucking psychopath. She squeezed Walker's hand a little tighter as the monster crossed his thick arms over his barrel chest.
Then Frostbite smiled again, and Penelope was reminded how different the two creatures really were. Because the smile was warm, understanding, and even though the kindness in it made her skin chafe, she could feel her shoulders relaxing.
"When young Ember first brought Danny into our sanctuary, do you know what my first thought was?" Frostbite's tone was conversational, but there was an undercurrent of something very solemn underneath. "My first thought was that there would be no way that poor boy would pull through."
Penelope's core leapt into her throat. "What the fuck does that mean?!"
"He was almost too far gone to do anything with. His bones had already begun to freeze, right to the marrow. Newly-formed ghosts are resilient, yes, but that sort of damage is incredibly difficult to come back from. Especially for someone who formed with so many scars from life. I thought that there would be no saving a little boy so very far gone, even though young Ember was very insistent we do everything we could. The sedation alone to transfer him into the de-icing chamber could have very well snuffed out his core.
"But then Danny did something that changed my mind. He opened his eyes, reached towards me, and asked for his Mama and Papa. Understand that most ghosts who come to our sanctuary that frozen can do nothing but shiver. Groan, perhaps, if they are lucky. But Danny? Danny was strong enough to fight through and ask for something. That was when I knew he would pull through."
Penelope could feel herself shaking. Her grip on Walker's hand was too tight. He kept squirming, frowning. She was going to wake him up. Which was selfish as hell because the big guy had just had a fucking dissociative episode, but when had she ever been anything but selfish? That was something Bertrand had always called her. Selfish little star and selfish little piyavka – which didn't make sense because he sounded Scandinavian so why the fuck did he speak Russian? – and selfish little whelp.
"I now see that he gets his strength from you."
Okay, fuck him. That was a cheap shot. And now she was fucking crying again.
Christ, she hated crying.
A massive clawed paw squeezed her gently on the knee. Frostbite left without another word, returning to whatever icy fortune-cookie hellscape he came from. Penelope glared into the fire for another few minutes. But the tears wouldn't stop. So she lifted her fist and started gnawing on it again, trying to ground herself with the familiar burning agony of tooth-on-knuckle.
It only took three mouthfuls to calm down this time.
And then it was back to what it was.
Penelope sat in the silence, clinging to Walker's hand and listening to the sound of the de-icing chamber and the energy-trackers.
Failure. Worthless. Screw-up. Weak.
She scrubbed the mascara off her cheeks with a corner of one fur and gulped, ignoring how her mouth still tasted over-sweet and her jaw ached. As she sat there, the ragged indentations of her teeth seeped ectoplasm onto the furs beneath them. They would seal up in an hour or two. Self-inflicted injuries healed faster than ones made by other ghosts. Personal experience had taught her that.
Penelope could feel the bone-deep exhaustion catching up and finally allowed herself to relax into Walker fully, cheek pillowed on his shoulder. The low thrum of his core was pleasant white-noise under her ear, and cocoon around them was heaven compared to everything else. He smelled earthy, like cedar and something else she couldn't quite make out. But it was nice all the same.
And in the back of her mind, Penelope knew that Bertrand was going to find out about this. Knew that there would be hell to pay later. But, in the moment, exhausted and wrung-out and comfortable, she couldn't bring herself to care about anything but sleeping. As she drifted off, the last thing Penelope thought was how entirely unfair this whole situation was.
Walker squeezed her hand gently, heaved a great sigh, and rested his head on her own.
God was a fucking sadist.
She was sure of it.
~*O*~
danny is floating.
he likes water even though he's not very good at swimming because it's warm and heavy around him like a blanket and sometimes, when mommy or daddy holds him by the belly, he can pretend that he's flying. flying like a superhero or flying like an astronaut or flying like an angel, high into the sky where no one can ever hurt him again but. . .
this isn't what flying is like.
flying is. . .
flying is being at home with mr. walker and ms. penny and flying is going into the air above the house and playing games and flying is sitting on the couch under lots of blankies and taking a nap with ms. penny while mr. walker reads stories and flying is taylor having a robot arm, ember having blue hair, calling mr. walker and ms. penny "mama" and "papa" in his head even though he doesn't think he deserves to and. . .
danny is floating.
why is he floating?
there's something on his face and it tingles and there's something soft under his head and something furry around his body and he's confused? his eyelids feel so heavy, like they're made of metal, and danny thinks that this is what fishies must feel like. floating in the ocean or their bowls, just swimming around like there's nothing else to do.
danny opens his eyes and they don't ache like they usually do, and his arms and legs are heavy but they aren't cold anymore. there's no cold in his chest and no ache in his bones and danny is confused but it's a good kind of confused. he moves his head, but it doesn't want to move like he wants it to either, so it just kind of flops to the side. someone is petting his hair. he smells mint and raspberries.
mama?
and then there she is and she's smiling even though there's tears in her eyes. danny smiles back and the fingers in his hair keep moving and he wants to go back to sleep now, please. but he just woke up? he wants to tell mama that he loves her but his tongue is really thick in his mouth and it doesn't feel quite right, so he just keeps smiling. mama kisses his forehead hard, and danny feels his body make a happy noise.
"Hi, baby!" ms. penny is mama and she sounds so happy it makes danny's chest ache. "Are you feeling better?"
danny hums. it hurts his throat but the hurt isn't so bad here where it's warm and his head still feels floaty.
another hand sits on his forehead, turns it so he's looking at mr. walker. papa. the word tastes right when he thinks it. because it means train-pancakes and sneaky-candy and stories told in voices that mama can't do. it means bath-time tugboats and watching the cowboys together on the couch even when mama starts complaining because "football is so boring" even though she sits with them and sneaks papa's queso dip when he isn't looking.
danny wants to cry because they didn't leave even though he was a very bad, cold little boy. something in the back of his head whispers that maybe, just maybe, he isn't a bad boy and that's why they stay? that's why they love him.
he wants to believe it.
he wants to believe it so bad.
"Hey, punk. Ya scared the bejeezus outta us, ya know that?" papa's voice is thick but he's not crying. "Are ya feelin' better?"
danny swallows. nods.
he is feeling better even though everything is still a little floaty and the bubbles in his head are popping against the bones. his tongue still doesn't wanna work right though, too thick and too big in his mouth, and danny tries to pretend that there isn't metal in his arms and picks one up so he can touch papa on the cheek. it works a little bit – he can touch papa even though it's clumsy and babyish and dumb – and so danny pretends his throat doesn't feel like sandpaper and his tongue isn't like a balloon and says, papa can we go home now?
and then papa's eyes get huge, like plates, and he swallows hard. they're turning all shiny and red at the edges. papa doesn't ever cry, not even when he stubs his toe or hits his elbow because he's tough, so he's not crying now. his eyes are just sweatin'. that's what he likes to call it.
it's pretty warm here so danny thinks it makes sense. papa's gotta stay cool somehow.
then papa laughs and it's rough and low but not scary because danny knows that papa isn't scary even though he likes to pretend he is.
"Sure, kiddo. Let's go home. Ya wan' me ta carry you?"
and danny frowns. he wants papa to hug him because those kinds of hugs are always warm and tight and they make him feel safe. but he what he really wants is mama. because even though papa keeps him safe, mama's hugs are soft and she smells nice and her voice is quiet. mama's hugs are what keep the nightmares from getting him at bedtime and they're warm like hot chocolate, fingers through his hair and danny wants his mama, please.
so his too-big tongue mumbles, i want mama even though his stomach knots a little because what if he hurts papa's feelings?
danny hears something like crying behind him and he knows that it can't be mama because mama doesn't like crying. she's told him so. it messes up her makeup and makes her eyes burn and danny understands that, because crying makes his eyes and chest hurt too. but papa grins and a big hand ruffles his hair gently. the knot in danny's tummy gets looser even though it doesn't quite go away.
"Alright, kiddo. How's 'bout a compromise? I'll carry ya home, an' yer mama'll tuck you in. That sound good?"
that sounds nice.
danny likes when papa talks to him like a big boy. it makes him feel important, like he's not a big dumb baby who made his other mommy and daddy hate him. so danny nods and papa picks him up. the air is really cold outside of his blankies. it makes him shiver. but papa wraps him up tight again, tucks his face against the crook of his neck and danny relaxes a little bit.
papa's big and papa's strong and papa won't let anything hurt him.
even though daddy used to laugh when danny cried and daddy helped mommy hurt him and daddy laugh laugh laughed while danny cry cry cried and, no, daddy I don't understand? why aren't you helping me, daddy, please stop it hurts it hurts it hurts no
yeah, that sounds right.
danny hides his face and feels mama grab his hand. her fingers are different than papa's, that's how come he knows it's her. they're smaller and they don't have big rough patches. he thinks papa might be talking to someone but he's so tired even though he feels like he's slept for a very long time? it doesn't really matter because mama kisses his forehead again and whispers that he's very good and she loves him very much.
and danny thinks he might believe her.
he's floating again.
bubbles floating to the top of his head and popping – pop, pop, pop – one by one until danny can barely keep his eyes open anymore and he thinks mama and papa are talking again. it sounds really far away. but it's not scary this time. danny doesn't know why it's not scary, but he's tired of being scared, so he doesn't really think about it because he doesn't want to. he wishes he wasn't so tired.
he misses playing games.
the world pushes
d
o
w
n
and danny feels his stomach jump into his throat. oh – that's the feeling he sometimes gets when mama gets excited and flies into the air super fast, so fast it makes his hair blow back and his chest catch and it's a good feeling. a happy feeling. papa must be really excited to go home. the air is cold on his ears, rushing like the bubbles in his head. he shivers a bit. the rushing gets slower and his tummy falls back to where it should be and there's a hand tucking the blankets back around his head. they're heavy and thick and danny doesn't really like the dark but there's enough light that it isn't scary.
it isn't scary and danny is confused but happy?
it's hard to think about so he doesn't. he's just too tired for that.
they're flying faster than what they do at home and danny thinks it must be a really big trip because he doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until papa hands him over to mama. he smiles and snuggles in tight and takes a big breath that doesn't hurt his chest because mama smells like home. the house is warm and quiet.
danny likes the quiet, but now that he thinks about it, sometimes it feels a little lonely.
he really misses jazzy.
his eyes still don't want to open so he just lets mama carry him to bed like normal. they have something called a "rit-oo-well" that she follows at bedtime every night. mama tucks him under the covers, makes sure he's covered from his toes to his chin. then she sits next to him on the bed and lets him snuggle close and she reads a story. sometimes, if he asks real nice, she'll tell him two. then she kisses his head and tells him that she loves him, that he's a good boy, that things are gonna get better real soon. papa comes and kisses him goodnight after mama leaves. papa likes to tell him that he's tough, that he's gonna grow up big and strong and that no one is ever gonna hurt him again.
sometimes, mama comes back when she thinks he's asleep and hugs him real tight.
but tonight is different.
he doesn't go to his own bed. mama carries him to papa's room instead – he can tell by the way everything smells like papa - and rocks him back and forth and back again until he's almost back asleep. papa brings in his pjs. they're soft. probably his spaceship ones. but he just can't keep his eyes open long enough to look so he just lets them put them on.
mama tucks him into bed. kisses his forehead. whispers she loves him, that he's very strong and very brave and that things are gonna get better soon. papa kisses the top of his head. tells him that he's tough, that no one is ever gonna hurt him again because he's papa's boy now, and that means he'll always be there to protect him.
danny smiles and wraps his hands around the blankie that mama uses to tuck him in. it's heavy, lots heavier than his own blankie, and it smells just like papa. mama gets into bed and hugs him real tight. she kisses his head again. then papa gets into bed behind him. there's a big arm that wraps around him and mama and papa hugs them both real tight, kisses the back of his head.
"Love ya, punk."
"I love you, baby."
he smiles even wider because. . .
"I lub you, too, Papa. Lub you, Mama."
he believes them.
~*O*~
Vlad Masters did not fidget.
It was a behavioral tic he'd had during childhood. He tapped his fingers, bounced his knee, clicked his pens until it became distracting. Teachers had often complained of his lack of attention during lessons, prompting his mother to beat his hands with switches she'd cut from the trees outside their country home. As an adult, Vlad forced the incessant need to move down until it was nothing but a small ball in the back of his mind.
Standing outside the nurse's station, however, made the small ball of repressed energy turn into a small ocean of repressed energy.
He made sure that his smile remained cordial and pleasant, though internally he vowed to ruin the head nurse's career. The woman was short-tempered, unpleasant, and – the worst crime of all – utterly rude. She'd steam-rolled through the discharge process as though it warranted little to no thought, dismissing many of his questions about Jasmine's dietary and supplement requirements moving forward. After the doctors had left, she'd acted as though his other questions were asinine or unintelligent in some way. It was unprofessional, unsafe, and it made his skin itch.
Nurse Vermiglio. An odd name, one his photographic memory would have no problem hanging on to for future reference.
"Sign this here and then you can take her." Vermiglio sounded terribly annoyed by his intense scrutiny of the discharge paperwork and medication list. "Hospital policy says she has to leave the building in a wheelchair, but once you're outside she can do whatever. Any other questions, Mr. Masters?"
One eyebrow twitched in anger. Vlad signed the final document with an elegant flourish and offered it up to the middle-aged shrew. "No other questions, my dear. Have a lovely day."
Silently, Vlad made a mental note to summon some low-level brute to terrorize her.
With one last polite smile, he made his way down the corridor towards Jasmine's room. The whiteboard outside with her name was decorated with drawings of flowers, and it was obvious that the nurses – those who were actually competent – had taken a shine to the child. He took a moment to straighten his tie and smooth the lapels of his suit jacket before stepping through the door.
Inside, the room had been stripped of whatever personal items Jasmine had acquired throughout her two-week hospital stay, leaving it white and sterile and bare. It sent a pang of anxiety spiraling through his stomach. Vlad smiled regardless, greeting Mr. Turner with a smile and firm handshake. Everything had been set in order. The home inspection had proceeded without issues, no spectral persuasion required, and the paperwork had been approved without hesitation. Jasmine's new room had been decorated, clothes and shoes bought, and he'd notified the school district of her new guardian status.
And it had all happened because Mr. Turner had proved himself a rare creature – a social worker who hadn't been beaten into submission by the system.
"Great to see you again, Mr. Masters," Mr. Turner greeted. "Jazz is all packed and ready to go. Nurse Miranda is fixing her hair in the bathroom one last time, then we should be set to go. Have the doctors and Nurse Vermiglio gone over her discharge instructions with you?"
Vlad nodded. "Yes. It was all very detailed. Though, Nurse Vermiglio isn't precisely the friendly sort, is she?"
It had obviously not been the first time someone had brought up the dear lady. Mr. Turner rolled his eyes and grunted in disgust. "That woman has no business being a nurse on a children's floor. Or any floor, really. She's dumb as a sack of hammers and meaner than a junkyard dog."
Everything in Vlad was begging him to laugh. Instead, he shook his head and plastered on what he hoped was a jovial expression. "I'm sure she was simply having a bad day. It's nothing to, oh, say, ruin her life over?"
The look Mr. Turner offered said he couldn't decide between laughing and being concerned. Vlad's smile grew wider, cheesier. He was an expert at this sort of interaction, the kind that made others try to figure out whether he truly was a sociopath or just an eccentric billionaire. Mr. Turner, it seemed, was one of those who decided to go with eccentric billionaire. The social worker smiled in return and laughed, scratching the back of his head with one hand.
"I wouldn't go so far as ruin her life," he conceded, "but she definitely needs someone to talk to her about her attitude. It's getting to be a problem."
Ah, humans – so gullible, so well-intentioned. It made his half-life so much easier.
"Yes, yes, of course! Dalv Corp prides itself on ensuring that all our staff is well-trained in customer service and positive attitudes. I'm sure the hospital is much the same. She'll be dealt with in time."
Vlad kept his tone light even as dark satisfaction built in his chest at the thought of the woman's face, crumpled in horror, when he brought her life crashing down around her ears.
He didn't have much time to dwell on the feeling, however. The bathroom door opened a second later, revealing young Jasmine in a wheelchair, a rather plump middle-aged nurse pushing her. The little girl had more color to her cheeks today. Her little face wasn't quite so sunken. But though her hair had been pulled into twin braids – laced and tied with blue ribbons – and she'd been dressed in one of the new dresses he'd bought, there was something about the girl's eyes that made him uncomfortable.
They looked too old for her face.
Nurse Miranda was smiling, lines crinkling in the corners of her eyes, but it seemed strained. She brushed her hand over the top of Jasmine's head and turned that smile to the little girl. Jasmine returned it. But the expression was flat. It didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Are you ready to go home, Jazz?" This nurse was obviously very good at her job – her tone was soft, empathetic. "It's going to be a big new adventure. And you'll get to eat something besides hospital food!"
Jasmine managed a hollow giggle that was closer to genuine. "But how is Kyle supposed to bring me candy now?"
Chuckling, the older woman pinched Jasmine's button nose gently. "Sassy little monkey! You be good for your uncle, alright?
The dead look in her eyes returned. Jasmine nodded, hugging her worn bear tight to her thin chest. He shouldn't have bought such a blue dress. It made her look horrifically pale. Still, Vlad kept his smile. Years in business had taught him the importance of an unwavering pleasant expression. Beside him, he could see Mr. Turner's buck-toothed grin fade along with the nurse's.
Vlad took his opportunity.
He stepped forward and crouched in front of the little girl. He didn't pay attention to how the seams of his tailored Louis Vuitton trousers protested the movement. They weren't his favorite pair, and money was no object. It was more important to set his new daughter at ease with his presence.
After all, they were going to be a family either way. They might as well be comfortable with one another.
"Are you ready to go, Jazz?" She didn't like her full name, though he thought it was quite beautifully chosen. "The car is ready outside."
She looked at him with big violet eyes, so much like her mother's but not, and nodded. Mute. Jasmine was a quiet child, he could tell. Quiet and introspective. Maddie had always possessed such an outgoing personality, even when they were children. Jack, the fat idiot, didn't have a meek bone in his body. The oaf could shatter granite with that damn voice of his. How they'd managed to have such a quiet child was beyond him.
Vlad let his smile become smaller, more private. "It'll work out in the end, dorogoy. You'll see. Now, shall we tell Nurse Miranda thank you and goodbye?"
Again, Jasmine nodded and turned towards the nurse standing just off to the side. "Thank you for everything, ma'am."
There were tears welling in her dark eyes, but Miranda fought them back valiantly. Her smile was wide and white against her mocha skin. She grabbed the little girl's thin hand and squeezed. "You don't have to thank me for anything, sweetie. You just go home and get better, okay?"
Jasmine squeezed back. Nodded, mute once more.
Vlad stood tall and cleared his throat. "Thank you for everything, madam. Truly."
The nurse responded with a sharp jerk of her chin and quickly left the room, obviously wiping away tears as she went. Quirking an eyebrow, Vlad rounded the back of the wheelchair and gripped the handles tightly. He could feel anxiety creeping up his spine, mounting each second spent in this hellhole. His palms were sweating on the cheap rubber grips.
"Alright, my dear. Let's go home, hmm?"
Having been forgotten in the goodbyes, Mr. Turner gestured for them to go first, blue eyes suspiciously wet. Vlad pushed forward without hesitation. They were on the sixth floor, far wing. It would take them approximately three minutes to go down the corridor, where they would wait anywhere from two to five minutes for an elevator to arrive. Following its arrival, the elevator's journey would last anywhere from a minute and thirty seconds to three minutes, depending on whether or not they picked up another passenger on their way down. Traveling from the elevators to the loading bay where his driver waited would take no more than two minutes – he'd timed it on the way in.
The minimum time to exit was seven minutes and thirty seconds. The maximum was thirteen minutes.
He didn't know if his heart could take thirteen more minutes in a hospital.
Thankfully, during all his mental calculations, he'd made it down the hall and an elevator had arrived. Three minutes down. Mr. Turner stepped on immediately after them, meaning that Vlad didn't have to wait around for the social worker. No one boarded the elevator on their way down. Another minute and a half gone. Some part in the back of Vlad's mind whispered that his incessant rushing might have been scaring poor Jasmine, but his anxiety was screeching warning claxons. It was hard to listen to the whispers.
Their journey through the lobby to the loading bay was uneventful, and he glanced down to see Jasmine's face when she first caught sight of the Rolls-Royce. It was the latest special edition model, customized with his family crest and black-leather seats dyed with his specific allergies in mind. The ebony and red paint shone, even in the shadowed lighting of the canopy. Most children would be excited to be riding in such an expensive car.
Jasmine simply looked overwhelmed and hopeless.
"Alright you two," Mr. Turner called. "This is the part where I wish you luck and say my goodbyes. I'll be in touch in a couple of weeks, Mr. Masters, just to see how you two are settling in." The social worker's voice softened, and he crouched to be more on-level with Jasmine in her chair. "I know this is really hard, Jazz, but give it a go, okay? Things are gonna get better. You just gotta give it time. Be good for me?"
Jasmine squeezed her teddy bear tighter to her chest. "Okay, Mr. Turner. I'll be good. I promise."
Anxiety was still trying to squeeze his throat in a vice. They were too close to the hospital. Someone was going to reach out and grab them and never let them go again. They'd be stuck in those damn beds again. Vlad squeezed until the wheelchair groaned in protest, the metal caving under his fingers.
"Everything's ready to go, sir." Bless Smith for his impeccable timing. "Shall I pack the little miss's things?"
Joshua Smith had been his butler for nearly five years now, and he'd proven himself to be the diligent, hard-working sort who, most importantly, knew how to keep his mouth shut and his ears open. He offered the man a nod and held out the pitifully small bag containing Jasmine's personal belongings.
"Yes, of course. Thank you, Smith."
His butler lifted an eyebrow, threaded with silver and skepticism, but didn't say a word. Rather, he took the purple bag covered with butterflies and stowed it safely in the boot. Jasmine watched him the whole time. Silent, close-lipped, and entirely too skeptical for a six-year-old child.
Children may not have been his forte, but Vlad knew that young girls were not normally so silent.
Despite the anxiety thumping in time with his pulse, he reached down and squeezed her shoulder gently. Jasmine stiffened as though ready to fend off a blow of some sort, and his heart sank. A few feet away, Mr. Turner watched and jerked his chin in a final silent goodbye. He then spun on his heel and strode back into the hospital, leaving Vlad alone with his goddaughter. Foster daughter, he supposed, was the more correct term.
All he knew was that the accusations against the Fentons may have been more accurate than he previously believed. And that he might have bitten off far more than he could comfortably chew.
"Would you like me to help you into the car, Jazz?" Vlad asked, removing his hand from her person.
Those big eyes turned to him again, suspicious, but Jasmine nodded regardless. Vlad rounded the wheelchair and gently, ever so gently, lifted her from the seat. His strength had been augmented by his ghost-powers, of course. But even without them, the child weighed next to nothing. He could feel her heartbeat flutter under his palm, tiny and frightened like a bird in a cage. Breaking her would be easy. He could do it without thinking, carelessly, accidentally.
Saliva turning thick in his mouth, Vlad carefully deposited the little girl into the car-seat his secretary had purchased for the occasion. There were too many damn buckles on the thing, and he muttered angrily to himself in Russian until he finally go Jasmine safely secured. Smith had just come back from returning the wheelchair when he finished, and Vlad settled himself in the seat across from his new charge as his butler slid into the driver's seat. The car pulled out of the hospital and onto the road, purring quietly.
Jasmine looked over at him with frank curiosity, which was a welcome change to the dead, suspicious expressions she'd been pinning him with all morning. "What was that language you were talking in a second ago?"
It was a well-worded question. Jasmine was quite eloquent for such a young child – Maddie's influence, to be sure. "My family is from Russia, and it was what my mother and father spoke around the house when I was a child. English is actually my second language."
She quirked her head, and the ribbons woven through her red hair caught the morning sunlight. "Really? How many languages can you speak in?"
Vlad could feel a smile, genuine for once, forming as she asked. "I speak four languages fluently: Russian, English, German, and Polish. I am conversational in Japanese, French, and Spanish. I have just begun learning to speak Mandarin."
He decided to forgo telling her that he was also very familiar with Esperanto, which was what most Ancient ghosts and specters spoke. Best not to frighten the child on her first day home.
Little brow furrowed in though, Jasmine asked another question. "What does 'fluent' mean?"
"It means I can speak the language very well without stumbling over my words or thinking about what I have to say. Conversational means that I know enough to ask for simple things, but I still have to think about what I'm going to say in certain situations."
Jasmine's little sneakers – white with purple laces – bounced quickly against the leather interior. Which was expensive and leather. But, somehow, Vlad couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her. She'd been through quite an ordeal, after all. And besides, what were a few scuff marks when he could have an intelligent, albeit simplified, conversation with someone new?
"There's a girl in my class," Jasmine said quietly, "that speaks Spanish. Her mommy and daddy are from Columbia. That's in South America."
"Oh? Has she taught you any words? Learning different languages is quite useful, especially when you're young. It helps your brain grow."
For a second, Jasmine's expression closed off, and it was startling because it reminded Vlad of himself when he looked in the mirror. Then the child shrugged her tiny shoulders and began toying with a loose thread on her bear's laboratory coat.
"No," she stated simply. "Paulina only teaches Spanish to her friends. She and I aren't friends."
Oh, she even used proper grammar! "Really? I would imagine you would have lots of friends. You're very smart."
Again, Jasmine shook her head and shrugged. "I only have Dash. He's my best friend. The other kids don't like me very much. I guess it's 'cause I don't think the way they do. And besides, I'm not that smart. I can't do math very well. The numbers get all jumbly on pages, and sometimes I can't tell which number is greater than another."
How curious. Mr. Turner had never mentioned that the girl had dyscalculia. It was a rather uncommon learning disorder. At least, uncommon to have a definitive diagnosis of. Come to think of it, Maddie had never been the best at math when they were younger, though she'd eventually learned to work around her hang-ups.
It was the most Jasmine had ever spoken to him at once, and Vlad found his heart doing an odd sort of leap in his chest. As they made their way down the long drive towards his Amity Park home, the billionaire felt a pang of something that made him question whether or not this was a good decision. There were shady characters passing to and from his home, both of the ghost and human variety. Would Maddie really appreciate him exposing her daughter to such things, precocious and observant as she was?
"Do. . . do you think you could teach me how to speak Russian, Uncle Vlad?" The question almost went unheard, quiet and timid as it was, and Jasmine refused to look him in the eye as she voiced it.
Vlad felt himself smile again. A true, genuine smile. "Of course, malyshka. I would be honored."
Her head jerked up, expression wide-eyed and disbelieving. "What does 'm-malishka' mean?"
She stumbled over the pronunciation, and her accent was atrocious, but it was a valiant effort. Vlad chuckled.
"It means 'little one'. That is how you will be learning, if you wish. I will speak to you in Russian, and you will ask me questions about what it means. Is that alright with you?"
Jasmine nodded, the tiniest spark of life coming to light in the back of her eyes, and smiled. "That sounds amazing!"
The something in his chest melted, and Vlad recoiled from his own emotions. Looking at those big eyes, Maddie's eyes, he realized that there was nothing this child requested that he would not deliver. He was putty. He was goo.
"We've arrived, sir."
He was fucked.
A/N:
GUESS WHO PASSED FINALS FUCKERS?!
In case y'all were guessing, it's me. I passed finals. I'm dead on the inside. But I fucking passed so HA! The universe can suck a bag of elephant dicks.
Okay, so this chapter has been another month in the making, and for that I'm sorry. It took a shit-ton of writing and re-writing to get each segment exactly where I wanted it to be, and I'm working without a beta reader so it's a bit more challenging to get everything lined-out spelling and grammar-wise. Thankfully, the only POV change that is sort of challenging to write is Danny's, and he's in a funky drugged-up euphoria (in case you couldn't tell by his lack of freak-out) so that was nice.
Vlad's section was honestly SUCH a treat for me as an author. He's one of those characters that had so much potential for complexity in the original show, especially concerning backstory, intelligence, and personal interactions with other characters. And the third season (and some of the second half of season two) fucked that potential right up the anus, so I wanted to explore it here. Because fuck you, I guess. Because of his potential, I really want to flesh out his interactions with Jazz. At this point in time, she's endearing to him simply because he sees her as an extension of Maddie, whom he idolizes and idealizes. BUT as he spends more and more time with her, her own personality is something that he's going to have to contend with and recognize.
Jazz is NOT Maddie, and Maddie is NOT perfect, and that is something that Vlad is going to have to come to terms with before he can stop being an actual fuckass.
ANYWHORE, once again I would like to thank you all for sticking with me for this long. Your comments and constructive criticisms have been so helpful and amazing. I couldn't have made it this far without you. Please, leave whatever remarks you wish - questions, theories for the future, and characterization details included - in the comments and I'll try to respond to them if possible.
I'll see you guys in the next chapter!