Penelope woke up entirely too early.

Again.

It was starting to become a frightening trend that she did not like. Mostly because sleep was the one consistently good thing in her afterlife. Well – sleep and Danny. Maybe Walker when he wasn't being a dick. Either way, she was awake even though she still felt like someone had taken her out back and beat her with a stick, and that just wasn't okay.

Why was she awake?

Penelope grumbled and pulled Danny closer to her chest, smiling a bit as he smacked his lips in his sleep. Her little man burrowed right in, fingers curled in the fabric of her top, and sighed. And he was actually warm for a change, no freezing nose stabbing her in the throat or ice-cube toes pressed against her belly. It was almost enough to make her go right back to sleep. . .

"C'mon, bud, what's wrong? I can' fix it if ya don' tell me."

. . . fuck.

Cracking open one eye, Penelope looked around the dark room. Walker's side of the bed was empty, the sheets tucked tight around Danny so he wouldn't get cold. How the actual hell did that huge-ass cowboy manage to move so quietly? Confused and still pissed-off that she was awake, Penelope craned her neck around and glanced at the clock. Five a.m. It was five in the fucking morning and they'd gone to bed at midnight.

And now she was awake again.

A tiny sniffle drifted in from the hall. "It's stupid. I don' wanna talk about it."

Walker sighed, and she could picture the long-suffering expression on his face. "Tay, if it's gotcha this upset, it ain't stupid. Now, ya wanna tell me what's wrong? Or am I gonna have ta put ya back in bed?"

Oh – well, how was she supposed to fall asleep after listening to that? Penelope fought with herself for another minute or two, listening to Walker and Taylor – God, it was weird thinking of him by his actual name – talk quietly in the hall. The little boy was obviously trying not to cry. His voice was thick and stopped through his nose, and his breath hitched every couple of seconds. Walker, it seemed, talked to all of his kids the same way he talked to Danny.

Like they were tiny adults.

Well, okay, maybe he talked to Johnny and Ember differently because they were stupid teenaged shits. But he talked to Danny and Taylor the same way, at least, and it was making her core do a weird flutter thing that was fucking nauseating to think about. She was almostready to let Walker handle his own brat and go back to sleep.

Then Taylor whispered, "Do you think Danny's gonna hate me now?"

. . . fuck it.

She was awake already and the brat was being fucking depressing, so she needed to go stop that shit real quick.

Penelope growled at herself under her breath. Not loud enough to bother Danny, of course. He was exhausted and needed the sleep. But it was enough to make her wounded pride feel a little better. Moving carefully, she maneuvered her way out of Danny's grip and tried not to gasp when the cold air smacked her in the face. Wearing tank tops to bed was comfortable and all but Jesus Christ, trying to stay warm after getting up was impossible.

Walker was a big dumb cowboy, but he'd had enough sense to put a large rug underneath the bed, so at least her feet didn't freeze along with the rest of her. Penelope grabbed one of his robes from a foot-post and threw it on. There was the smallest sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door. As she got closer, the voices got a bit louder.

"Bud, Danny ain't gonna hate ya," Walker reassured. "He could'a had that attack anytime. Y'just got unlucky, that's all."

Another round of sniffles. "I just. . . I wanted to be the big brother for once, and I screwed it all up. Just like I always do."

He sounded resigned and more than a little heartbroken, and she could taste his self-hatred like a lollipop on her tongue. Penelope had never been Youngblood's biggest fan. He was an obnoxious, loud, destructive little shit on a good day. He was dangerous on a bad, mostly because he was so fucking reckless. But sometimes she forgot that, in all reality, Taylor was still a ten-year-old boy. Ten-year-old boys were wild, loud, reckless little shits.

Bleeding hearts of the universe unite, but she felt her core ache a bit listening to him.

Penelope opened the door and squinted against the sudden light. And there stood Walker and Taylor, blinking stupidly up at her like a pair of confused puppies. For some reason, Walker was fully-dressed in his suit. Hair slicked and hidden under that stupid hat of his. Shoes polished. Gloves on.

Taylor, though, was wrapped in an obviously well-loved Crash Nebula blanket, the tips of his mismatched toes peeping out from the hem. His hair was messy. His eyes were red. And he looked so pitiful it made her chest ache.

Goddammit, she missed not having emotions. This was a pain in the ass.

"In what circle of Hell did you two decide to have an early-morning pow-wow?" she griped, voice thick and raspy. "Because, in case it's slipped your attention, I'm not a morning person."

Taylor sniffled again, eyes watering, and retreated into the hem of his blanket. Walker chose to glare at her instead.

"We didn't mean ta wake ya up, your highness," he growled. "Go back to sleep. We'll take our pow-wow t' the kitchen."

Penelope tried not to bristle at his tone. But there were just some things that irked her and someone coping attitude at the ass-crack of dawn when she was already exhausted was one of them. She ground her teeth together, folded her arms across her chest.

"Be a sarcastic ass all you want, Tex, but I'm awake because you're an idiot and this conversation's giving me anxiety," she snapped right back. "Now, would you like to let me help or do you want to go back to floundering on your own? I'll gladly do whatever his highness chooses."

They were both exhausted and crabby and probably neither one in the best mood to deal with this, but dammit, he'd gone and pissed her off. So she'd fight dirty if she had to. Judging by the way a vein popped in Walker's temple, she managed to push his buttons, so that was a small battle won. Then she glanced down at Taylor and regretted being a total bitch. He looked heartbroken and guilty, trying so hard not to cry it bordered on heroic. Had he always been so small? He barely came up to her hip.

"H-how much did you hear?" the kid whispered, lower lip wobbling.

Huh – so this was what it was like to be empathetic again. Well, color her shocked, but it blew. Emotions were terrible. She wanted to return them for a full refund.

Sighing, Penelope uncrossed her arms and knelt in front of Taylor. He refused to make eye-contact, instead staring at the way his toes curled and un-curled in the thick carpet of the hallway runner.

"Taylor, honey, what makes you think you've screwed everything up?" Sometimes, asking a question was easier than giving a response.

His face crumpled, and he scrubbed one hand viciously over his eyes. "I was supposed to make Danny feel better 'cause that's what Johnny tries to do for me when I'm scared, but I just made him panic 'cause I'm a big dumb baby an' I always mess stuff up."

Oh, God, why? Why? That was fucking sweet enough to give her cavities, shit. . .

Penelope glanced up at Walker. He was frowning, forehead creased in concern. It wasn't a strange expression to see him wear anymore. When did that happen? Whatever – she needed to deal with this. She put a hand on top of Youngblood's head and started playing with his hair. It was finer than she thought it would've been, soft and silky as it slipped between her fingers, and he relaxed a bit at the gesture.

"Did you know that your dad and I have made Danny panic before?" That seemed as good a place to start as any, letting him know that mistakes were universal.

Taylor looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed and a little wet. "R-really?"

A tiny self-deprecating smile curved Penelope's lips. "Really. Danny has had a lot of really bad things happen to him, and we don't always know what's going to scare him. What happened wasn't your fault, sweetie. You just didn't know."

His lower lip wobbled dangerously as Walker knelt down next to her, and Taylor looked between them with a sort of desperation that made her chest ache. "That's right, bud," he rumbled softly. "Ya couldn't've known what was gonna scare 'im. Heck, I dunno what's gonna scare 'im half the time! One time I set him off jus' by washin' m'hands with the wrong soap."

It was true enough; Taylor didn't need to know that it was actually antiseptic. Penelope caught a stray tear as it fell from the corner of his eye and tapped the little boy's button nose.

"See? Even your Papa makes mistakes, brat. They happen. There's no point in making yourself miserable over them." She shrugged. "Trust me – I'm an expert in what makes people miserable."

Taylor managed a wet giggle. He sniffled again, forehead still creased in genuine concern. "You really think Danny isn't gonna hate me?" he whispered. "I scared him so bad he froze the whole room."

This time, it was Walker who answered. "Bud, I don' think Danny's gotta hatin' bone in his body. Jus' take it slow for a lil' bit, 'kay? Give 'im some time. You'll be a good big brother."

His little shoulders sagged under the Crash Nebula blanket. "You really think so, Papa?"

Walker grinned and ruffled his hair, callouses brushing over her own fingers long enough to send a shiver up Penelope's arm. "Yeah, bud, I do. Now, why don'tcha try goin' back ta sleep? 's still early, an' nobody else is gonna be up for a while yet."

She caught sight of the shadows under Taylor's eyes, and a pang of something smacked her in the gut. When did the little shit get so damn cute? It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. As the boy shifted from foot to foot, Penelope cursed herself for about the third time in as many minutes and shoved him towards the bedroom door.

"Go get in bed, kid," she ordered, even though her tone was way too gentle. "There's plenty of room. I'll be in in a minute."

He looked from her to Walker and back again, all wide eyes and disbelief. She caught the warden shaking his head out of the corner of her eye. "Don' look at me! I'm headed t'the prison fer a bit. She's the boss while 'm gone." He waited for Taylor to move and prompted him again when he didn't. "Well, g'on then. She ain't gonna bite ya."

Taylor nodded, worrying his lower lip between two bucked teeth, and suddenly darted forward to hug Walker around the neck. "Be careful, okay, Papa? Love you."

"Love ya, too, brat. Now go back t'bed. Ya look like somethin' the cat puked up an' shook."

Another giggle, then Taylor suddenly hugged her, and Penelope felt like her brain short-circuited a little bit. It was different from how Danny liked to hug. Because Danny always squeezed like you were about to disappear on him, arms and legs wrapped so tight it bordered on painful. Taylor hugged firmly, but not so tight it ached, and the way his left arm buzzed with energy was strange. But he also tucked his cheek close to her neck and relaxed into her in a way Danny never did unless he was asleep.

It was weird and it was wonderful and holy fucking shit, she hadn't been ready for this.

"Thanks, Pen," he whispered.

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat and squeezed him back. "You're welcome, brat."

Taylor let go and stumbled back towards the master bedroom, dragging the Crash Nebula blanket behind him as he went. The door closed. And Penelope was alone with Walker. Again. Like always.

She turned and caught sight of the huge shit-eating grin on his face. "Not a fucking word, Tex, and I mean it."

Walker's grin somehow got wider, and he stood up to lean against the bannister. "An annoyin' brat, huh? You were awful sweet t'that annoyin' brat. Makes me think you ain't quite as bad as ya let people believe."

Penelope snarled and rounded on him. "You bite your fucking tongue! I will actually fucking murder you, and don't think for a second I won't!"

"Nah, ya ain't gonna do that, sugar," he taunted. "Who'd ya have ta fight with if ya did? 'sides, 'm jus' pointin' out that yer sure bein' nice, especially since it's s'early. Maybe there's a soft-spot in that cold little core a yers."

This was not happening. Why was this happening? It was too early for this to be happening and Penelope was Not Okay. She shushed him quickly, smacking her hand against his pec. Which was stupid because it felt like hitting a wall but her impulse control was nil at best so here the fuck they were. Him in a goddamn three-piece and her in an old robe.

"Shut up! Shut the hell up!" she hissed. "Do you know what would happen to me if people figured out I have a soft spot for little kids?! What the fuck Bertrand would do to me?! Keep that shit on lock-down, Yosemite Sam, or I swear I will fucking bury you."

Walker's face had sobered during her rant, and Penelope noted that he hadn't once told her to stop swearing, which was a sign that he'd either removed the stick from his ass or he was pissed off at someone other than her. Breathing hard, cheeks flushed, she pulled the thick robe tighter across her waist and held it. Kind of like a hug without requiring contact with someone else. Not that she would want contact with someone else. . .

"I ain't gonna tell anyone, Pen," Walker rumbled. "I jus' thought it was awful sweet of ya ta help Tay like that. There ain't a whole lot of people'd do that for 'im 'cause everyone thinks he's jus' wild an' ornery. Which he is, I ain't gonna lie 'bout that. But he's got pretty bad anxiety, too. Makes 'imself sick worryin' over stuff he can't control or somethin' he messed up on." The warden shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I do the best I can, but it was kinda nice ta have someone else helpin' me. Didn' mean ta get'cha all wound up like that. Sorry."

. . . fuck.

Fuck.

What the actual fuck?!

This was not allowed. Walker wasn't allowed to be that sweet. Or that considerate. Or that fucking soft. That stupid, bashful look on his face was trying to kill her again, and it was Not Okay that he'd apologized for her going off like that because she'd been having a bitch-baby tantrum. Penelope didn't know if she wanted to hit him or scream at him or give him a hug.

Or do all three.

"Stop that," she managed to choke out. "Stop apologizing. It's weird. I don't like it."

Walker blinked at her owlishly for a second, then chuckled. And it was cute, dammit, what the shit?

"I'd 've thought you'd want an apology after bein' forced ta spend all this time with me, sugar," and the smile in his voice was stupid. "What's wrong? Scared if 'm nice t'ya you'll start likin' me?"

Yes. . .

"Fucking no!" Penelope snapped back. "I was worried you'd had a stroke. They can cause personality changes, you know. Now, are you going to tell me what the fuck you're doing dressed at five in morning? Or am I going to be forced to guess?"

Walker rolled his eyes and stood up straight again. "First off, quit swearin' 'fore I wash yer mouth out." Oh, there the swear-Nazi was. "Second, I got a call from Bullet. He's got somethin' I need ta take a quick look at. Then I thought I'd go talk ta Technus 'bout makin' Danny a regulator. I should be back by one or so."

Seriously? Did he ever fucking slow down? "And you couldn't wait until a reasonable time to do it? Like noon? Noon's a good time to wake up after all the bullshit from yesterday."

Shaking his head, Walker crossed the two steps between them until she had to crane her head up to look him in the eye. "Nope – Bullet said it was important, an' I don' wanna wait for another episode 'fore we get goin' on getting' Danny t'regulate his core. Best get it outta the way so I can collapse later."

Penelope snorted despite herself. "Collapse sounds about right. I'm ready to fall over."

A big hand shoved gently on her shoulder towards the bedroom door. "Get on back t'bed. Kitty'll take care a breakfast an' Tay if ya want help."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Not Johnny?"

"Poor kid tries but, good Lord, sometimes he's dumber than a sack a hammers," Walker groaned. "Best leave things t' Kitty. She's got a good head on 'er shoulders."

He wasn't wrong. Kitty might've been a bit jealous and obsessed with her dumbass grease-monkey sometimes, but she was level-headed and took care of things when it got down to the wire. That was why they got along so well. Penelope grinned and opened the bedroom door.

"Well, if you're sure," she mock-groaned, "then I'm going back to sleep for the next thirty years. Wake me up when our kids aren't so depressing."

A surprised bark of laughter followed her even as she closed the door, and Penelope felt a bit more centered than before. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim bedroom again, but she navigated pretty well all things considered, tossing the filched robe into some random corner. Just to piss Walker off later, she told herself. Certainly not because she was too lazy to hang it back up.

That was just nonsense.

She cheated a bit and floated up to the bed instead of trying to walk around. Danny was still curled in the same spot she'd left him, one thumb tucked in his mouth and blankets tucked tight around his body. Taylor, though, had tucked his body as close to the edge of the mattress as he could without falling off. The old Crash Nebula blanket hid everything but his hair and mis-matched toes.

Another pang of something shot through Penelope's chest, and she rounded the bed to his side and knelt down. "I know you're still awake, brat. You might as well come out from under there."

There was a pause. Then a pair of bright green eyes peeked out at her from under the worn fabric.

"How'd ya know?" Taylor grumbled.

Penelope smirked at him. "You're not a very good actor, kid. Too stiff – you looked like you were paralyzed instead of sleeping."

A childish frown creased his forehead, and the boy pouted. "Nuh-uh. I'm a great actor. That's how I get Papa to quit giving me chores." His eyes got wide again. "You're not allowed to tell him that!"

She couldn't help but laugh at him. "Don't worry! If Walker can't see past your horrible acting skills, that's his own fault. I'm not a snitch." Taylor relaxed a little bit at the reassurance, and Penelope felt comfortable enough to continue. "But I am nosy, so do you want to tell me why you're trying to fall off the bed instead of sleeping in it?"

His expression crumpled with anxiety. So much so that Penelope cursed whatever asshole deity decided to return her emotions.

"I just. . . I didn't want to wake Danny up," Taylor mumbled, eyes looking everywhere but her face. "'cause I didn't want him to get scared again. 'sides, my arm and leg are cold. And he just got thawed out, so I figured that getting cold again would probably be bad for him, right?"

Okay, since when had the obnoxious, buck-toothed brat that doused her in gravy last year gotten so fucking sweet? Penelope sighed and tugged the blanket back down from where it had crept up his chin. Her thumb wiped away some dirt that had smeared over his chin. Taylor was looking at her like he desperately wanted reassurance but didn't quite want to ask for it.

"That's very sweet of you, honey," Penelope soothed. "But Danny's pretty much unconscious right now. I doubt you'd wake him up."

"Oh. . . I guess you're right."

He sounded so damn unsure of himself it bordered on stupid. Penelope wanted to smack him and ask where the demon-spawn she'd known for so long had disappeared to because this was ridiculous. Instead, she floated up and plopped her happy ass in the middle of the bed. Danny immediately rolled into her side, a heavy warmth tucked under one arm and breathing on her ribcage. Taylor just stared like she'd done something unbelievable.

"Well, get over here," she ordered in a whisper. "I'm not going to bite. Well, bite hard, anyway. But if you kick me in your sleep, I swear to Christ, you'll regret it."

Slowly, cautiously, Taylor uncurled and scooted a bit closer. Just a bit, though, not enough to convince her one good roll wouldn't send him tumbling. Exasperated, Penelope reached over and took a handful of his pajama pants, dragging him over until there was a small but respectable amount of space between them.

"There – now I won't get my ass chewed for letting you fall out of bed." She rolled over to curl back around Danny again. "Get some more sleep, kid. It's been a rough couple of days."

Penelope relaxed into the mattress and shut her eyes, listening for anything that might signal Taylor was about to flee. Or cry again. Neither one was a good option. Instead, her brain was a traitor, and she could feel herself drifting off. It was warm. The bed was fucking comfortable. And Danny was going to be fine. This might've been the last chance she could ever get to have an almost full night of sleep.

Then she felt another tiny body start to huddle tight against her back, cold nose pressed between her shoulder blades and an arm buzzing with electricity touching her ribs. She smiled as Taylor whispered, "Thanks, Penny. For real."

Groggily, she reached back and cupped the back of his head. "You're welcome, Taylor."

Danny heaved a sigh against her throat as Taylor sagged into her back and, for once, Penelope fell asleep without issue.

~*O*~

Bertrand watches.

It is a known fact of the Ghost Zone that shadows are more than they appear. They can be extensions of the consciousness. They can be entities in of themselves. They can be nothing and they can be everything and Bertrand, whose true name has been long-forgotten by most everyone around him, knows how to use this to his advantage.

So he slips through the shadows, uses them as gateways between realms that other ghosts dare not tread. He watches all the pretty broken things, with their shattered-glass eyes and their fire hearts, and waits for his moments to feed. It is a pattern. Observe, act, feed, disengage. An endless cycle that repeats ad infinitum until nothing but chaos and bloody smears lie in his wake. Until the pretty broken things grow wary of him. Until they know how to spot him, smell him through the many shapes this body possess.

Until they learn to fear him.

And Bertrand finds himself breaking the cycle in that he must bring an Other in to aid him. Someone who is beautiful and broken just like the rest. Someone they will flock to. Someone they will keep running towards again and again and again simply because broken, unwanted things must stick together.

That is how he finds his zvezda.

The Russians have a beautiful language. It is not as lyrical as his mother-tongue, nor as rapid-fire as the English that so dominates the modern world. But it is rough and strong and powerful in a way that many languages, he finds, so lack. Zvezda is his favorite pet-name for his girl. It means star. Because that's what his Penelope is.

She's a star. Beautiful, bright, burning, and already dead by the time she is observed. He finds her on a late night, deep in the midst of the Zone. And nothing is the same because this creature is perfect. So broken and so unsure and so angry with the world around her. So utterly enthralled with her own beauty and crippled by it in equal measure. She's a fascinating enigma, his Penelope, and she's been ever-such a sport about being broken and reshaped. About letting him make her stronger.

Until he interfered.

And Bertrand has found his world tilted on its axis because he can't feed, you see, without his little one. The little broken things whisper to each other. They give him a wide-berth. He cannot get close enough to dig and tear until they weep with the misery his body needs to exist. Chaos is everything, yes, but misery is the afterlife. He needs her, and she's his, and who was this Walker to take her from him?! Who was this brat to take her affection?!

Bertrand snarls and feels his body stretch with the sound. It grows and twists until there are hard edges and scales, teeth like daggers and ice coating his tongue. He claws through the shadows and tears open a rift between realms. Little monsters part like waves before a ship, crash against him like sea-foam on a wooden hull. The world is nothing and he wants to break it to pieces but first he needs his little star back.

She's not strong yet.

What sort of mentor would he be if he just left her the way she is?

Broken and shining and desperately weak. She's beautiful this way, yes, but they can go further. Until she is a queen sitting on a throne of bones and she looks at him like he is her king and they rule together, step on the backs of all those pretty broken things like so many stones. He will twist her and break her and then she will be perfect, and he will look upon her smile with its blood-stained teeth and he will know true greatness and. . .

"Gotcha!"

There is agony lancing up his spine and Bertrand roars as the electrical current arcs along his limbs. They stiffen, rigor mortis for the dead. The scales retract into ectoplasm. Fangs like swords are now like needles. He is weakening. He is shrinking. He is. . .

The chaos of the shadows washes over and through him and there are whispers echoing in his head and screams tear from his throat until the weaklings that have surrounded him are covering their ears in pain, and this is power, this sort of agonized weakness, and Bertrand is not his name here.

Here is Calder, and with him is the power of a dead star. The power that is cold and empty and whispers terrible things to those around it. It is the kind of power that feeds off fear, and though he has forgotten his family and his people and his home, Calder has never forgotten what it is like to look upon a man and press cold steel to his breast and watch the fear stoke in his eyes. In these moments when he is broken, in pain, the walls around his mind begin to crack. They frost over. They crumble.

And the dragon of a dead-star escapes.

"Shit, shit, shit, what the fuck is this asshole?!"

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh fucking shit! Benson, let go! Get out of there! Get the ever-loving fuck out of there!"

"Cane, we need back-up! Suspect resisting violently, it's too much for us to take! We need back-up, I repeat, we need back-up – "

One hand lashes out, claws and gathers the screaming whelp unto himself and pulls until it screams no more. There are more. Others coming and bashing at him with their electrical toys and ectoplasmic blasts. Bertrand would retreat into the shadows. Bertrand would slink away and find a hole to stow away in until the heat had died and attention rested upon someone other than himself.

But Calder is not Bertrand. They are the same and not.

And instead, Calder burns. He rages. He destroys.

Men fall and men scream and Calder feels the energy leaving his body. He is shrinking again. Becoming so much less than he once was. And the power that gives his limbs the ability to tear away the whelps grows faint, just the barest flicker of a candle-flame. He is so close. He can taste it. The fear that floods their bodies and the panic that lies behind their eyes and on the horizon he sees a lair, one where his svezda lies curled in a bed with tiny intruders that do not belong, the ones that bring smiles to her lips and a light in her eyes that he simply can't and it makes the rage boil in his veins.

Calder stops.

Calder watches.

There are hands on his shoulders and they are man-sized once more. And there is electricity coursing through his muscles and they are seized. Scraping at nerves made raw. He sees. He sees it all. His little star and the venom in his tongue and the blazing rage in his eyes. There is a warden here, you see, in this Zone built on dead souls. He makes laws that chaos does not understand and enforces them with men who do not see the beauty in the cruelty, and he wishes to crush them.

But he has let his rage burn too cold and the dragon has retreated below the depths. There is nothing here. It is void. It is empty. And there, deep in the darkness, where no one and nothing can live. . .

There is a star.

And she is Penelope.

And she is his.

Calder falls back into the cold, dead furnace of his heart and hides behind the walls. And from them Bertrand emerges, laughing into the faces of battered men that bleed green and hold pieces of fallen comrades to their cores. They look upon him with the same eyes as those men who had stared up from the end of his sword so very long ago. He does not remember his family. He does not remember his friends, his comrades, his home.

He remembers the eyes of the men he has killed.

He remembers his little star and the way her lip split under the back of his hand.

Bertrand sits back on his heels and lets the agony wash over him. Lets the hands wrangle him into submission and place cuffs around his wrists that sap what little strength remains in his body. He allows them to bash his face against a nearby chunk of stone and cackles as ectoplasm floods his mouth, sweet and cloying like rot. There are monsters afoot, dragons slumbering, and patience is a virtue.

He can wait.

Sometimes, it is easier to let the broken things, those with their shattered-glass hearts and stiff upper-lips, believe they've won.

There is one who calls himself Bullet, and he grasps a handful of the hair Bertrand has formed and pulls until the muscles in his neck are shrieking. Bertrand does not fight. He laughs and let's his eyes bleed red while his teeth shine green.

"You're way more fuckin' trouble than you're worth, asshole," the lieutenant spits. "I hope to fuck Walker lets me beat the shit outta you when he's done."

There is a grin on his lips, Bertrand is sure, mocking, and the star on his horizon shifts to hold an intruder closer. "I'm beginning to think you're not very fond of me, lieutenant. Such a shame – you've such a pretty little wife at home. And your children! So precious. Tell me, would it be a bother if I would stop by for a drink one evening? I'm terribly fond of the little ones, you know."

It is a marvelous game, pulling on the strings and seeing which ones garner reactions. Which ones make the core-dragons dance and which loops allow their flames to burn bright with hate. The one called Bullet goes pale, one eye wide, and a snarl forms just before a fist careens into his nose. His vision goes white and Bertrand pictures his little one, wide-eyed and bruised and beautiful.

"Fuck you!" And the lieutenant is definitely one of his lackeys, not at all eloquent. "Don't you ever talk about my family!"

Ectoplasm runs hot over his chin, coats his busted lips, and Bertrand does not feel it. It is cold and it is hot and it is void and it is chaos and everything is exactly as it should be. There are pieces to be maneuvered here. A war to be won.

He will have his star yet.

"Lieutenant! Sir, Walker said we need him in one piece! Walker wants him conscious!" There is a scuffle, a young patrolman yanking on the Bullet-boy's shoulder. "He's doing this on purpose. You've gotta get ahold of yourself!"

There is fury on the lieutenant's face. Bertrand can taste it, hot and spicy like mulled wine, and the hunger roils in his belly. He laughs. Watches the reactions. The dragon coils in its cave but does not breathe ice onto the walls. He must be patient.

Everything is as it should be.

"Get him the fuck out of my sight! He killed three good men today – I don't wanna look at his mug another second."

And there is a bag tossed over his head and he is being hoisted and beaten and shoved into a vehicle of some sort. It is dark and the fabric reeks of stale vomit, but there are worse things in this world, to be sure, and Bertrand is not concerned. He does not need to be.

He closes his eyes and watches through the shadows as his girl sleeps. The bruises have faded. The marks have disappeared. Her eyes are closed and she cannot see him, rather she clings to the dreams of what might have been and a boy who sees only with the ectoplasm given to him. A boy who has nothing and a man who does not see chaos and she surrounds herself with those who do not understand her.

Not like Bertrand does, anyway.

He hums, sways in the back of the moving vehicle, breathes deep of the vomit-smell, and picks the ectoplasm crusted beneath his nails.

All is according to plan.

On his horizon, a dead star is dim, but soon it will burn once more.

All he needs is time.

~*O*~

This was an unexpected development.

Vlad had grown accustomed to being able to discern the next step in almost any situation. Life, he found, was much like a game of chess. In order to win, one had to be thinking up to twelve steps in advance. Anticipating the other players moves was essential. Calculating alternative strategies should the initial plan fail could not be overlooked.

But this had been. . . extraordinarily difficult to process.

Jasmine, he found, was an exceptionally bright little girl. She was precocious and diligent and analytical like his Maddie. That had not been unexpected. What had been unexpected was how undeniably fragile she was. Their initial conversation in the car had been intelligent and bright, different than what he'd been expecting, but refreshing, all things considered. Attempting to show her the mansion – one of his smaller homes, with only ten thousand square feet of living space, but adequate to be sure – had been an altogether different experience.

Despite having lifted her into the car before leaving, Vlad still hadn't been ready for how tiny his goddaughter was. She felt like a breathing doll, all ribs and porcelain arms that weighed nothing in the crook of his arm. A large portion of him was scared of the possibility that he might break her. Twisting too quickly or squeezing too hard or even breathing in her general direction. And, physically, her weight was a disturbing fact to note in of itself.

It had nothing on what came afterwards.

Jasmine had gone silent during their tour of his home, all huge violet eyes and twisting fingers as she traced the walls and their collection of football memorabilia, staring intensely at the heavy door that lead down towards his laboratory. It felt as though she weren't even listening, too overwhelmed to process his explanations and directions. But Vlad felt as though he couldn't stop, couldn't bear listening to silence overtake the empty space between them. So he kept talking, loafers muffled by thick Persian rugs, voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings overhead.

And then they arrived at her room.

He'd brought in one of his secretaries to help him, a charming mother of three little girls. She'd been more than happy to aid in the selection of furniture and color for the walls, graciously offering up suggestions for books to go on the shelves and laughing at the number of toys he procured for the child. Part of Vlad had taken offense. Of course Jasmine would have the best toys his money could buy; she was his Maddie's child, after all.

Another, smaller part, was flattered that anyone would ever laugh and call his actions "sweet", selfish as they were.

He opened the door and watched her reaction. Watched as those big violet eyes got even wider. Waited with baited breath as she drank in every inch of the new space and nearly panicked when it looked like she might cry. He did panic when Jasmine turned in his arms and hugged him tight about the neck, little face buried where he couldn't see it. Every bit of her shook, from overwhelmed nerves or gratitude or shock, he couldn't decipher.

"Thank you," she had whispered, over and over again. "Thank you, Uncle Vlad."

And it had made his chest ache, hearing just how desperately grateful she was. This was nothing compared to the worlds he could provide this child. The opportunities and the wealth and the power that he could bestow upon her head. It was paltry in comparison to what new adventures he could provide if she only knew about his powers, the unique characters she could be connected with on the other side of the veil.

But here she was, so grateful that she physically trembled over something so simple as a bedroom.

Jasmine was six. It made no sense for such a young child to be so overwhelmed by bedroom furniture and books, especially one who had been raised in a well-financed household. What concerned him most, however, was the fact that, despite being clearly distraught, Jasmine did not shed a single tear. Not one. He was a thirty-year-old man and could vividly recall several episodes of sobbing during his stay in the hospital.

It made no sense.

So here he sat, stewing over the thoughts and machinations of a child long after she had gone to bed. He sipped on a glass of rose – crisp and bright to juxtapose his thoughts – and stared into the fire in his study. It wasn't far from Jasmine's bedroom, and every now and again he caught himself straining to listen to the sound of little feet. Not even a guardian for twenty-four hours and he was already overprotective.

It figured that this would be the one portion of his plan that didn't go as expected.

The case-files copied from Mr. Turner's ever-so-locked filing cabinet told a grim story, strewn haphazardly across his desk. Vlad hadn't wanted to believe them. Could not imagine a world where his Madeleine would ever consider starving her daughter, the one she loved so dearly. Could not comprehend a scenario where Maddie would even think about slapping a child in the face or leaving bruises along her ribcage. Would not dare dream of a universe in which his Madeleine had turned into an alcoholic, abusive carbon-copy of her own mother.

And yet. . .

The evidence was damning and it set his perceptions of the universe into a tail-spin. Was this his Maddie? The woman who had been apprehended by police screaming that ghosts had abducted her son? The woman whom his private detective said fought with Jack constantly and punched holes in walls when she was not sequestered away in her lab? The woman whom he loved with every inch of his half-dead heart and yearned to make his, the one who nearly killed her eldest and lost her youngest?

It made no sense. The pieces didn't fit. Yes, his Madeleine had a wicked temper and a sharp tongue, but she was also quick to apologize. And, yes, sometimes Madeleine could allow her thirst for answers to cloud her objectivity in experimental protocol but she was brilliant and kind and had such a zest for knowledge that it made his own endeavors appear dull by comparison. She was stunning and spectacular and. . .

"Madeleine Fenton stated upon arrest, 'It should have been her (Jasmine Fenton), not Danny. Danny was a good boy. My baby didn't deserve to be taken by ghosts. Why couldn't it have been her?' with Officers Sanchez and Williams as witness."

It was a quote, directly from page three of Mr. Turner's reports on Jasmine. The sentences mocked him, glaring up at him with cruel eyes and grins made of lies. It couldn't be true. And yet logically, it wasn't a lie.

Vlad didn't know what to do.

Frustrated, growling, he tossed back the last of his wine and placed the glass in a nearby sink for Smith to remove in the morning. He paced a bit, muttering different theories as to why there was such a sudden, drastic change in his Maddie. And then he caught just the faintest sound of little feet on carpet, breaths hitching in a small chest. His feet moved though he couldn't recall giving them the order.

When he opened the study door, there stood Jasmine, staring up at him with fear in those big eyes and something in Vlad's chest cracked down the middle. He knelt closer to her level and tried not to snarl when she flinched away. Tried to breathe through his nose and maintain his concerned expression.

"Jazz? What are you doing awake?" he questioned. "It's very late. Aren't you tired?"

Her lower lip trembled, and the worn bear that she had clutched to her chest was straining to maintain it's stitches. "I. . .I'm sorry. I had a bad dream."

Vlad blinked.

She. . . she'd had a bad dream? And had come to him?

Frankly, he was used to being someone's bad dream, either from a corporate standpoint or ghostly one. He was used to being regarded with a mixture of fear and awe. Never being seen as a source of comfort, a shoulder to cry on.

This was fresh territory and, frankly, it was fucking terrifying.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Vlad offered.

Jasmine shook her head frantically. "No! I'm not allowed ta talk about it. Mommy said so."

A small, traitorous part of Vlad's mind whispered that those rules shouldn't apply here, but the majority crushed it beneath his mental heel. Instead, he nodded in assent and offered an alternative. "Alright, then would you like to sit in here with me? We can read until you fall asleep again."

That was what his mother had always done when he was small. She couldn't read in English, and so when he'd had a nightmare, Vlad would sit on her lap before the fire and read to her, translating the English phrases into Russian until his eyes wouldn't stay open a second longer. Jasmine had said she enjoyed reading. Perhaps it would work for her as well?

Sniffling a bit, Jasmine nodded, and her strangle-hold on the bear relaxed. She looked so utterly frail in her white nightgown, hair falling in auburn waves down her back and head too big for the rest of her. There were still shadows in her eyes. But, as he stood, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to a set of bookshelves along the far wall. There was a particular storybook he wished to read from, a collection of fairy tales from the Ancients of the Ghost Zone that he found fascinating. The leather tomb was thick and heavy in his fingers, and Jasmine watched him pull it from the shelf in wary curiosity.

"Come along, then," he coaxed. "This is a special storybook. I think you'll like it."

Jasmine climbed into his lap a second or two after he sat down, nestled in the crook of his right arm. Her hair smelled like the children's No-Tears shampoo that he'd purchased the day before. "What kind of stories are these?"

Vlad grinned to himself and opened the book. Ghost text – mostly Esperanto, intermixed with a passage or two of Latin or even French – swirled across the parchment in a dance all its own. Jasmine gasped as images spiraled up from the first page, face glowing a soft green as two figures began dancing together before them.

"These are stories written by a very strange race of people, kiska – that means 'kitten' in Russian, by the way," he explained. "I had to look for a long time to find this book."

Jasmine never took her eyes from the dancing couple, suspended in time until he spoke to engage them. "What is it?"

His grin grew softer, more contemplative, and Vlad came to a full realization as to what exactly he'd gotten himself into. "It's magic, malyshka. Watch them closely."

Vlad cleared his throat and began the story, and for once his deep baritone was not threatening. "Once upon a time, before the world became old and the Zone of my people was young, there lived and died a man. . ."

Outside, the wind whistled and the skies were dark and the world lived in fear of Vlad Masters, the billionaire, the corporate mogul with his too-sharp eyes and wolfish grin. Outside, there was a Ghost Zone filled with chaos and a woman, one he loved so dearly it cut him to the marrow, who tore herself apart day by day.

But inside, there was simply Vlad Masters and Jasmine Fenton. A lonely man with a bruised heart and a damaged girl with a fragile soul. Inside, there lived a man who did not know how to be a father that read stories to a child who feared speaking her truths.

Inside, there was a story, and a book, and a beginning.

(The clock strikes midnight.)

(And the Clock-keeper smiles.)

It's so nice to not have to worry about school for another - looks at watch - twelve whole seconds! I can get so much writing accomplished!

Now, this is the point in the story that I think has changed the most from my original draft, and I'm not sure if I'm completely satisfied with the way Penelope's POV turned out, but it was solid enough that I fucking just stuck with it. This chapter has been on the drafting board for actual months because my brain is stupid. Please don't hate me.

And Bertrand is becoming such a fun character to write! In the original show, he was so one-sided and stale, even though he had the potential to be this amazingly terrifying eldritch thing because of his shapeshifting abilities. I understand that it's a kid's show. But I'm here for the body-horror, dammit, not to mention the psychological breakdown that could manifest from having a form that's so fluid.

Also, have more soft Vlad-dad. He is confused. And kind of scared. But soft either way. Protect him. Know him. Love him. Watch him gRoW!

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter, and I'll see you all in the next one!