It begins with a man and his dream.
No. No, that's not quite correct.
It begins, more accurately, with the ghost of a man and his dream.
And this ghost of a man has a mission lurking within that dream. It is intriguing.
Dreams can be very abstract, and self-appointed missions tend to border on the imbecilic, grandiose and arrogant. However, this dream is different. Nocturne can always tell. These dreams are those tinged in red and gold, the ones that pave the way for nightmares, for deals made and promises broken. These dreams are the ones that contain power. Not because they are of grand endeavors or future gain.
These dreams contain power because there is passion behind them. Emotion, raw and untamed.
Nocturne knows that these dreams will fuel him for decades.
So this man, with his dreams tinged in scarlet and laced in gold, is permitted to enter his lair. Nocturne waits patiently. He has known of this for some time. Dreams are not just of times past or present or abstract. Dreams, as the centuries have whispered, hold keys to the future. And so their master waits upon his throne, watches idly through a looking glass. Outside his lair is chaos, stones and black holes, monsters and heroes and gnashing teeth. The man does not notice them. Though, perhaps that is not correct either.
Rather, he chooses not to take the bait.
Interesting, what the right motivations will provoke in some.
Nocturne waits.
The walker comes, his servants whisper. The walker waits by the gate.
The gate is closed. Nocturne has not opened it. But it is not locked, not by standard means, and ghosts are free to enter should they so choose. He wonders if this man will take the bait. If his desperation runs deep. Many do not pass, for they don't understand the need for willpower. They do not understand true fear. That bone-deep, core-wrenching ice that sinks into every inch of one's being until there is nothing left to do but fight or break.
Nocturne watches through his looking glass.
The man stills. Narrows his eyes. They assess, probe, and he runs gloved fingers along the wrought-iron frame. He mutters to himself. Watches for unseen danger. A jaw clenches. Shoulders tighten. There is tension and something he cannot quite describe sculpted into every line of his frame. A hand hovers, hesitant, unsure. Afraid. And then that hand closes upon the handle, ignores the burn of plasma and the warning whispers, those which speak of horrible fates. It turns.
The man enters.
Nocturne leans forward upon his throne and smiles.
The walker comes. The walker has gone through the gate, the servants chatter. He dreams to deal, Master.
Blind though they are, his children see everything with a clarity others in this miserable limbo find envious.
"Allow him audience," Nocturne soothes. "We have nothing to fear."
Nocturne lounges and waits. Patience, dear children, is the highest of virtues. It takes moments that stretch into lifetimes, but the man enters his chamber, ignoring servants as they hiss and chatter around him. His eyes are hard. They are desperate. There is ectoplasm dripping between his fingers and panic seeping through his dreams.
Ahh – so that is why they are threaded in ebony!
This ghost of a man stops at the base of his throne. Pauses. Sweeps away the hat hiding black hair and bows his head. Nocturne quirks his lips. Tilts his own head. Amusement pulses in time with the whispers around them. Manners are such a peculiarity in this place. But who is he to judge one so bold? So brash. So afraid.
It begins with the ghost of a man, his dreams, and his desperation.
"Forgive me for not being prepared," Nocturne apologizes, "but it has been ever so long since we've had a visitor. Tell me, warden, what brings you to my humble lair?"
False humility does not suit many, and Nocturne is no exception. His lair is grand, elegant marble and vaulted ceilings dripping with stars. The windows are draped in velvet. The furniture is of highest quality. He wonders if the warden can see through it all. If he can see the true nature of the beast he deals with. It rather seems he can, for this man with his hard eyes and crimson dreams does not look away. Not once. He does not look into the darkened corners, where bodies pile in heaps, trapped in dreams from which they will never awake. He does not stray to the gilded fountains or the hollow-eyed servants. He does not glance towards the mute wights lurking just behind pillars, looking for any sign of weakness to feed upon.
Instead, the warden squares his shoulders and stares into the abyss.
The abyss stares back.
"I came to make a deal, Nocturne." Such confidence.
Not arrogance. Nocturne has seen plenty of those in his time, swaggering men and simpering women without the faintest idea that they had walked into the lair of someone truly to be feared. For dreams are where truths lie, and truth is a powerful thing.
No, the warden is cautions. Respectful. Wary, even. But confidence is also a virtue to be admired, and Nocturne cannot help the slow grin that slides across his lips. One finger traces the rim of his looking glass. It ripples, thousands of dreams drifting along its surface. A girl finding her long-lost brother, a man in love with his best friend, a scientist praised for her work. A boy with no eyes, who dreams of a world where his mama and papa love him, where his sister gives him hugs, where no one will ever hurt him again.
"Oh?" Nocturne cannot help but tease. "I was under the impression that Warden Walker did not make deals. Perhaps my sleepwalkers were mistaken in giving me that information."
The ghost of a man grimaces and it is something to behold, the way his gaze flickers towards the eyeless servants surrounding him. Nocturne hasn't been this entertained in some time. The confident ones are always more fun to break down. To crack apart like an egg and see what delicious yolk pours out. Alas! The story has just begun!
"I normally don't make deals." It is bitten off, begrudging, and Nocturne revels in the thrill of it all. "But this is too important."
The walker is strong, they hiss. The walker does not break. The walker will make a deal and we will not see the wreckage.
Nocturne is not concerned with them. Pesky little things, always panicking when he decides to play with his new toys. Instead, he lifts a brow, allows his smile to widen a bit and relishes the discomfort in the ghost-of-a-man's subconscious. Dreams do not always occur when asleep, and sometimes he can observe them while a person is completely awake. These are just flickers. Emotions, raw and unfiltered, painted in short bursts across a psyche.
Claws. Ectoplasm. Teeth. A jagged smile caked in blood. Cold laughter. Whispers from the dark. Heartbroken, terrified eyes. Such a shade of green!
Nocturne removes his hand from the looking glass. Leans forward towards the warden. "What is so important that you wish to make a deal with me? Surely you are strong enough to defeat any manner of criminal, law-keeper."
And here is where the beginning reaches the story, Nocturne knows.
The warden grinds his jaw. Furrows his brow. Glances towards the servants with no eyes and the slaves with no tongues. Tries and fails not to listen to whispers that echo from the stars overhead. But he is confident and brave and gathers himself in mere moments. It is almost impressive.
Almost.
"My family has been threatened by someone I can't contain forever," the warden explains, voice choked with self-directed anger. "I need wards. Strong ones. Somethin' that'll keep 'em safe if he gets out."
Nocturne's smile will never fall. This is delicious. "May I ask what sort of creature has you so very desperate? If you wish to deal, the contract must be very specific. Wards are complex, tailored to each individual, and require a good bit of energy to create. I will need to know what they will face."
The warden meets his eyes and there's such anger there, such passion. It's almost enough to make a man crumble. But this is just the ghost of a man and Nocturne is not like those around him. He meets the fury with amusement, the passion with serenity, and waits patiently. All things come in time. And Nocturne is a master of dreams.
He has all the time he needs, thanks to dear Clockwork.
"You ever heard of Bertrand?" It is a simple question, but the words drip hatred, venom, scorn.
Nocturne finds himself shocked for the first time in centuries. His servants knew this walker would come. They knew he was going to make a deal. However, they did not know the details, and they could not tell him why. And so he sits, staring at a man's ghost as surprise wars with disgust in the belly of his core.
"My, my," he whispers, "you do have a problem, law keeper."
The warden shifts, and the tension in his shoulders bleeds red. "I take it ya have? Heard of him?"
Nocturne stands. Looms over the smaller ghost as he sweeps down the steps from his dais. The servants scatter. The wights linger in the background. And his eyes, those that have seen ten-thousand dreams, stare into Walker's own. They are met boldly. Stubbornly. Determination dripping from them and his dreams, the ones with a terrified boy and the woman he calls "mama", are shrouded in fear. For once, Nocturne does not blame a soul.
"I have known of that monster for nearly ten centuries, little warden," Nocturne drawls, learning forward with narrowed eyes. "His powers are. . . unsettling, for one such as I. It is one thing to feed from the emotions of dreams. Those are latent, and I cannot change them. It is quite another to take another's emotions and twist them to something dark. He has destroyed many of my dreamers over the years."
The walker looks skeptical, as though he cannot believe a truth when he hears it. "You're tellin' me that Bertrand's that old? I thought only you an' Clockwork had ever been here longer'n five hundred years."
Though his face and words are skeptical, the tone is respectful, and Nocturne hums in acknowledgement. "Many are under this impression. But a ghost can exist as long as his mind allows. And Calder's mind has twisted like his body. He will remain here until it finally snaps from the strain. Even Pariah could see that."
Nocturne doesn't pause to watch the expression of horror flit across the warden's face. Instead, he sweeps deeper into the shadows of his lair, listening to his servants whisper along the way. "Come, warden! There is work to be done and not a moment to spare."
He does not turn. He does not linger. Instead, Nocturne listens for the sound of the warden's flight-pattern following behind. There are dreams flitting back in again. The image of a woman, with those bright emerald eyes, smiling. The same woman, with bruised cheeks and a bloody nose. She is smiling. She is crying. She does not ask for help and the warden wishes to scream. It is a deep ache, and even a master of dreams knows when to look away.
His inner sanctum is shadowed, the stars overhead twisted into abstract. There is jasmine in the air, bergamot and sandalwood. Whispers, shimmers, and magicks. Dreams are how mortals connect with magick. As their master, Nocturne has access to all these, particularly those based in emotions. The ones that strive to protect, to defend, or attack and destroy. The warden enters and Nocturne pulls a tome from a nearby shelf, tracing ancient words with one finger as he decides which ward-magicks he wishes to provide. He finds the glyphs with relative ease, whispers the old tongue and feels the air crackle, and chooses.
"Warden, come," he orders. "I have found the rituals."
The walker, with his bold-wary eyes, floats into the circle at the room's center as Nocturne gestures. The servants whisper. Excitement pulses. The walker does as foretold. We shall see the wreckage! Master shall have the dreams.
Yes – he shall have these dreams as any master should.
However, the wreckage may not come as his servants so desire. Nocturne stares down the walker with magicks clutched in a palm. He is large and still and deadly as a serpent. But the man does not cower. He does look away. He squares his jaw and waits for whatever instructions he is to be provided. Some would call this foolishness. Some would call this reckless pride. At one point, Nocturne would have called this misplaced loyalty, mindless and all-encompassing.
Instead, he considers this bravery, unconditional love, self-sacrifice.
The beginning has come to its end. And the story has arrived at last.
"Before I enact the magicks, we must discuss payment," Nocturne drawls. "These are strong wards. Their abilities will be keyed to your very core, to your connection with your lair and your family. They do not come without cost. Think carefully, warden, and decide what you will sacrifice."
But the man, this ghost of a man, does not hesitate. Not even for a moment. Instead, he looks Nocturne in the eyes and says, "I'll give you anything. Everything. Just keep 'em safe, an' I'll pay the price."
The possibilities are endless with such a declaration. Nocturne's mind swirls. Devastation and bloodshed and tears and heartbreak, the absolute destruction of one man, all for the safety of five. To someone so ancient, it seems foolish. But then he thinks to the glimpses he receives from this man's dreams. Of the fear in a child's non-eyes. Of the way he clings to the woman's smile, rare as a precious stone. Of the laughter, the brightness, the struggle of keeping everything together for those shining moments when everything was perfect.
It is a foolish declaration made by a desperate man.
For once, Nocturne will not use it frivolously.
"A bold statement," he hedges. "You are aware I could ask for anything? Anything at all that is within your power to give, I could take."
The walker pauses. Swallows. Clenches his fists to hide how they shake and that bold gaze drops for the first time.
"I know," and it is a quiet concession, desperately afraid. "But it's the only chance I got."
Nocturne knows this as well. But the admission takes courage. So he nods, considers, and decides. "Of course, warden. For these wards, I require one thing. Your dreams. All of them, for the rest of your time in the Ghost Zone, shall be mine to collect. Do you accept this payment?"
The glyphs grow hot in his hand, and Nocturne whispers the incantations to merge them with the walker in the back of his mind. Another thick swallow and the man's eyes harden with resolve. "I do."
Nocturne smiles. Extends his hand to shake. "The bargain is struck."
Dreams tinged in red and gold. The image of a boy with white hair and no eyes. A woman's smile, beautiful and sad. Teenagers arguing through grins. Another boy, green hair, and a wild energy that could bring the Zone to its knees. A family around a table.
"I accept."
And the black-gloved hand is clasped in his own. Nocturne's smile grows savage, a feral thing in his face, and the stars above shine brighter. Servants whisper without tongues. See without eyes. Heat curls from the glyphs, burning hotter and hotter until smoke begins to pour from their joined hands. The walker falls to his knees. Chokes back a scream. The heat is visible as it crawls along his arm, abstract patterns and ancient tongues designed to protect. Designed to take. Designed to defend.
They reach his chest, burrow into his core, and the walker screams.
Dream a pretty dream, or conjure up a nightmare, but the dreams you dream from this point on are ours forevermore. . .
A pretty little tune, crooned in a hundred voices. Nocturne chuckles, then laughs from the belly. The walker's jacket has charred away. He can see the wards burrowed black into his skin. Glyphs from the old days and passages from Roman text swirling elegantly along white flesh. There is power in these. More power than he realized, and it is not often the master of dreams finds himself surprised by the magick trapped in another's emotions. Dreams are fickle. They can hurt or they can heal.
These dreams should prove invigorating at the very least.
Whispering, chanting, Nocturne completes the glyph-pattern by declaring, "And the contract is sealed."
He releases his grasp easily. The walker slumps to the ground, choking back another scream as his charred flesh meets marble floors. Nocturne leans forward to observe his handiwork. The glyphs are solid. There are no spaces, no uneven lines to suggest fault in the magicks. This Zone is so strange and spirits are as fickle as their dreams. Sometimes, skepticism interferes with the transfer. But that is not the case here, and so the transfer is as it should be.
Perfect.
The walker rises on trembling arms and legs. His hands shake, hair askew atop his head. The ward-glyphs are a solid contrast to such pale skin. Nocturne begins to glide from his sanctum once more.
"Come along, warden," he calls pleasantly. "No sense in dithering about. Those wards will fully activate once you reach your lair. The sooner you can make it there, the sooner you will be free of pain."
It is slow, but eventually he hears the walker's flight resume, and Nocturne smiles once more. They reach the main chamber without fuss, servants and wights fluttering about without interference. Though this ghost of a man is now injured, they will not attack. Not when he is so clearly marked.
"What even was that?" the law-keeper wheezes. "It was. . . ."
Nocturne settles back into his throne with a chuckle at his own joke. "Oh, dear, I suppose I forgot to warn you. Ward-magicks are quite painful. Especially ones with the strength to hold off a monster such as Calder. Be proud of yourself, dear boy. You took the pain much better than many of those who came before you."
It takes a moment. But then there is recognition in the pain-glazed eyes, confusion in the furrowed brow. "Calder? You mean Bertrand ain't his name?"
Nocturne tuts. "Names are transient things. They do not hold the same sway here as in life. One must change when they grow as old as Calder. But I am older still. I remember the days before Bertrand, when Calder was a warrior rather than a monster. I remember. But this world, and perhaps Calder himself, have forgotten. 'tis a pity, really."
The walker is in pain. Tremendous pain. Nocturne can see it bleeding into the recesses of his dreams, black like spilled ink and tar. However, his mind is still sharp, and he is trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Such a curious thing, this man and his dreams.
"Now, as I said before, your wards will activate once you reach your lair," Nocturne explains, languid upon his throne. "There is no spell, no incantation. Merely touch the ground and they will work. They will protect anyone you wish them. I discourage you from choosing too many to protect, however. This magick feeds upon your emotions. It will drain you if you are not careful."
Slowly, the walker nods. "I understand."
Nocturne smiles once more, indulgent and sharp in equal measure. "Excellent! My servants shall see you to the door. And remember, should you ever need to ask something of me, you shall know where to find me."
As the servants drag him away, eyeless and forever-whispering, the walker looks back in confusion. Nocturne allows the air to darken. Allows his eyes to shine vermillion from the belly of shadows. Relishes the expression of realization washing over this ghost of a man, the full force of what he has bargained. Dreams are powerful, fickle things. They bind and divide, terrify and bring happiness.
"I shall see you in your dreams, dear warden."
The door closes.
Nocturne waits, chuckles, and glances back to his mirror. Wights with no tongues begin to chatter in his ears once more. There are others, in this Zone. Ghosts who have seen the other side and know the monsters that live there. The monsters that seek to invade, to destroy. The monsters that seek to escape. Their dreams have begun to pour in. Desperation salts the earth and poisons the ectoplasm.
He sees another man in his looking glass. More precisely half a man, half a ghost. His dreams are of power. Of glory. Of a woman wrapped in blue, with violet eyes and a smile that cuts like a sharpened dagger. A little girl, with red hair and a shy smile, who looks upon him with adoration and whispers "Papa" like a prayer. Intriguing, this half-a-ghost, but not the same. These dreams are tinged in silver, in bronze, in violet. A conqueror's dreams.
It has begun with the ghost of a man and his dreams tinged in gold. Nocturne has done his part. Has set the stage.
How, dear Clockwork, shall it end?
~*O*~
danny thinks that having big brothers is gonna be lots of fun.
his tummy is full from breakfast and he's still tired, still sore, but tay and johnny are helping him make a blanket fort in the living room so they can watch movies. sometimes, back before he was a bad boy, jazzy used to make these with him. but danny doesn't want to think about jazzy right now because it makes him sad he misses his sissy so much sometimes so instead he giggles when johnny falls over trying to tuck the blankie into the couch, and he helps tay scoot the coffee table so they can lay on the floor. there's lots of pillows 'cause kitty brought them down and mama is sitting in papa's chair because she doesn't wanna be on the floor.
that's okay.
danny still has tay and johnny.
"Alright, it's all set!" johnny cheers, and danny snuggles down into his own blankie under the fort. "Tay, you got the movie in?"
"Yep!" and taylor flops down next to him, but very gentle, like he doesn't wanna hurt danny on accident. "Hit play, Penny!"
it's kinda weird, danny thinks, being with so many people after so long. he used to be very scared of them because cut burn break hurt "where's my danny, ghost?" and other people could hurt him if they weren't mama or papa. danny is tired of hurt and tired of scared and tired of cold. but he thinks that tay and johnny and kitty are different? 'cause johnny is still kinda loud and he smells funny, like uncle robert before he stopped living with aunt alicia, smoke and ash, but he's also got a happy smile and he talks to danny like he's a grown up. and tay keeps forgetting that danny doesn't like to move fast, doesn't like loud, but he always apologizes, and he even let danny pick out which movie they're going to watch. and he doesn't know kitty very well yet, but she's got a pretty smile and she made him breakfast so she can't be bad, right?
it's so weird.
but it's also kind of cool.
mama rolls her eyes and blows air out of her nose like what she sometimes does with papa, but she's also kind of smiling, so she turns on the movie without saying anything. danny watches and his tummy flutters with butterflies because it's been so long since he's gotten to watch a movie. Toy Story is his favorite 'cause buzz lightyear is a space explorer, and even though he's a toy, danny wants to be just like him when he gets big. he wants to explore the stars and help people. jazzy always liked woody best but danny doesn't understand that 'cause he's kinda mean to buzz.
tay nudges against his side with his robot hand and danny giggles again. there's static in the arm and it tickles. johnny flops down on the other side, laying upside down, and flops one arm over danny's back until it smacks tay.
"How are you nerds still awake?" he groans. "I'm beat."
he's very dramatic about it, the other arm flinging over his eyes. danny pokes him in the cheek, and there's fuzzies on his finger, which is very strange 'cause papa never has fuzzies in the morning, only at night. you okay? he whispers, 'cause it would be sad if johnny couldn't have fun with them just because he was tired.
tay snorts and danny tries not to flinch away, even though he knows that he (probably) isn't gonna get hurt. "He's fine, Danny. Johnny's just a big whiny baby."
johnny lifts his arm up and wraps around them both like an octopus, and danny can't stop giggling even though taylor is complaining 'cause there's a fuzzy cheek tickling him and getting hugged like this is great. it's like a papa hug but not? it's hard to explain, even in his head, but danny thinks that johnny's a good big brother 'cause his hugs are tight and warm but they don't hurt, not even on an accident.
"Aww, Tay, that's so mean!" johnny whines. "Why're you so mean to me? Don't you love me? Aren't I the best big brother you could ask for?"
"Geroff you big fat-head!" tay grumbles, even though he's not fighting 'cause danny's in the way. "You smell gross!"
danny keeps giggling. mama is smiling but she's trying to hide it behind her hand. he can always tell 'cause her eyes turn bright, like stars. kitty laughs out loud and it kind of startles him. danny is crying and someone is laughing, laughing, laughing and he can't see mommy so scared but then tay kind of giggles, too, and johnny ruffles his hair before he rolls over to let them watch. woody is holding his meeting. rex is upset 'cause he doesn't think he's scary.
danny doesn't understand why someone would ever want to be scary, but rex is very nice, so he just laughs and watches. he kicks his legs up and down, even though they kind of shake and still don't always do what he wants and rests his head on his hands. taylor does the same next to him. the lights on his robot hand are blinking green, and danny can hear gears when the fingers move. it's warm in the blanket fort, warm where johnny and taylor are pressed against his sides.
maybe. . .
maybe things could always be like this?
he glances at mama, and she smiles at him, winks 'cause she's smart and always knows when he's nervous about something. his body relaxes a little. they're quiet for a little bit. danny snuggles a bit closer to johnny 'cause he's got the big pillow, the one papa sometimes uses for nap time. the toy soldiers are going downstairs with their walkie-talkie. no man is left behind did he leave jazzy behind? and danny thinks that's a very brave thing to do. papa would be that brave. and mama, even though she says she's grumpy with other people.
danny wonders if he will ever be that brave.
there's another sound, like a door opening, and danny freezes. his shoulders are tight. his chest hurts. and he hasn't been cold since he fell asleep yesterday morning, when it sank into him so deep it made his bones hurt, but now he can feel it starting to creep back in. cool, the cooler, then cold. very cold in his chest. it hurts his lungs, his heart, his head. footsteps, heavy like boots, on the floor. and then danny sees the other girl – ember? – from before, with pretty blue fire hair. the cold goes away. his fingers stop shaking.
'cause taylor is holding his hand and mama is right there, and johnny's arm is wrapped around his back again. they are safe. this is safe. he's safe no you're not.
"'sup, bitch?" johnny calls, and danny tries not to giggle 'cause papa would be real angry if he heard johnny using naughty words.
"Get fucked, nerd, where's the food?"
mama starts laughing. she's laughing really hard actually, even though she's got her hand over her mouth again, but danny can see her shoulders shaking. he thinks it's silly that grown-ups try to hide when they've got the giggles. mama's got a pretty laugh. but johnny kind of tenses next to him, and danny looks over and sees that he's kind of frowning.
"Hey, watch it! There's a baby here!" he grumps.
"Cool. Let the baby say 'fuck'. Maybe Papa will finally have that stroke we've been waiting on." ember walks away, and her big boots with skulls on them clunk into the kitchen.
now danny frowns and he mumbles, 'm not a baby even though he doesn't think that johnny hears him.
tay pats him on the back and whispers, "This is what it's like being the baby brother, Danny. Kinda sucks, but you'll get used to it."
still frowning, danny says, but I already am the baby. that's what jazzy says 'cause she's older.
he can hear johnny and ember talking to each other, and he thinks that ember might be eating 'cause he can smell food again. but there's something weird about the way taylor looks at him, a frown in the middle of his forehead, and he leans more into johnny's side to get away. has he said something wrong? is he being bad again? doesn't know but doesn't wanna be.
"Who's Jazzy?"
and then danny's shoulders relax again. that's an easy question. he smiles, plays with a thread on his blankie. on the screen, the toys are talking to buzz. he doesn't know he's an action figure, yet, but sometimes danny thinks it's okay to not know things. jazzy says if you don't know something, you just get to learn it later, and that makes the things more fun.
so he answers jazzy's my big sissy. she's six, so she goes to school. i miss her sometimes.
not sometimes. all the time. danny misses jazzy when he wakes up and he misses her at breakfast and he even misses her when mama's tickling his tummy and telling him how brave he is, how much she loves him, because he thinks that mama would really love jazzy, too. tay would probably like being jazzy's big brother 'cause she may not play loud or fast like him but she thinks of the coolest stories. but he knows that jazzy's a good girl, not like him. so mommy and daddy still love her like from before.
it makes his tummy feel all sad.
danny sniffles and drops his head. there's a hand squeezing his. the fingers are cool, metal. he thinks that johnny and ember are still talking to each other. woody and buzz are arguing on the tv, wrestling 'cause woody's jealous, 'cause buzz still believes he's a space ranger. and then buzz falls out of the window. he's all alone.
sometimes, danny feels a little like that.
"You've got a big sister? Is. . . is she like us?" taylor sounds curious but there's something else too that danny can't quite figure out.
but he smiles and shakes his head anyways because no, jazzy still lives with mommy and daddy. she's a good girl. they still love her.
yeah, jazzy's always been good. danny pulls at another thread on his blankie and tries to watch the movie instead of the way taylor's face changes. woody is lying to his friends. that's bad. you should never ever lie 'cause that's stop lying stop lying tell us where danny is stop lying cut hurt break burn needle can't see very cold stop lying bad and it can get you in lots of trouble. taylor stops asking questions. and danny is glad. he doesn't want to talk about jazzy right now. it makes his tummy hurt.
ember comes back in. she's got food on a plate, piled high, but her shoes are by the door and she squeezes in beside tay anyways. her makeup is different today. there aren't any black tears, just big swoops running up towards her hair. she smiles, and danny can see the ring that's in her lip. it's bright silver.
"Toy Story, huh? Pretty good pick, baby pop." her smile is nice, even if her eyes are a little mean. "How'd ya get these dweebs to watch it with you?"
"Hey!" taylor swats around when ember ruffles his hair too hard. "Cut it out! We all picked this one, you dumb hoe!"
kitty swats at their feet and danny shrinks down, tries not to cry, hides his head in the pillow and counts like mama taught him. one, two, three, four. but there's no screaming. no hitting. no cutting. no dark. just kitty telling taylor to watch his mouth and ember laughing. by the time he gets to ten, the world isn't so scary anymore. it's safe to come out again, he thinks.
he looks up from the pillows and ember is watching the movie with them, munching on some bacon and biscuits. taylor whispers a "sorry" and starts watching, too. it's quiet. johnny ruffles his hair really gentle, like papa does sometimes, and danny smiles again. this is nice. because he loves mama and papa more than anything but it's not the same as having someone to build pillow forts and watch movies with, even though sometimes other people are scary.
danny huddles closer to johnny and rests his head on the pillow, likes the way johnny's arm is cool under his cheek. taylor and ember are arguing kind of like woody and buzz except danny thinks they like each other more. ember is sharing her biscuits, and you don't share food with people you don't like at least a little bit. sometimes jazzy wouldn't share her snacks with him and she loved him a whole lot.
"Oh, these little guys are so stinkin' cute!" it's kitty, and her voice is really high-pitched but not loud. "This is my favorite part of the whole movie!"
there's a giggle lodged in danny's throat. he wants to laugh, honest, but there's something about the big claw that makes his chest hurt. the little green aliens look squishy and cute, and danny thinks it's sad that they have to live in a big machine for so long. but he can't look at the claw, not with it's shiny metal and grabby hands, and listening to sid laugh makes him nervous.
ember makes a snorty sound. "It would be, ya friggin' princess."
it's quiet for a second, but then johnny and ember both start laughing. tay rolls his eyes, kicks his legs up in the air again. danny doesn't understand what happened. grown-ups are weird. even if they're big brothers or sisters.
"Okay, if one of you teaches him how to flip people off, and I get blamed, someone will Fade." mama sounds annoyed, but not angry, so that's good.
"Pen, you called me an asshole in front of him two weeks ago," johnny complains, and danny giggles a little bit. "And you just let Em say the f-word in front of him two minutes ago."
mama gives johnny a look. danny knows that means he's in trouble, 'cause mama always gives that look to papa when she thinks he's being dumb. "Danny knows better than to use swear words, right baby?"
danny nods his head and crawls out of the fort, answers uh-huh! even though it makes his throat hurt a little.
climbing into mama's lap is harder than it should be, but danny smiles when she helps him up, and snuggles in against her chest. she kisses his head, rubs his back. he thinks that mama might be grinning at johnny. he peeks out and taylor is frowning a little bit, arms crossed under his chin, and ember keeps laughing behind one hand. that's okay.
mama kisses his head again. his belly is full and it's warm and he's safe. it makes his eyes heavy. but he doesn't wanna sleep, he's slept so much. how come he's gotta sleep so much? mama told him that it's 'cause his body is still trying to get better, trying to be healthy after being hurt for so long. but that doesn't mean he's gotta like it.
"Oh, Christ's sake, Taylor – don't sit there and pout. If you want to sit up here, too, all you have to do is ask."
mama sounds a little annoyed. but only a little. danny laughs again. he snuggles in tight again, let's mama run her fingers through his hair and watches woody and buzz even though his eyes don't wanna stay open. taylor is blushing. but he crawls out from under the fort anyway and runs up to them. mama lets him sit on her other side, smooths his hair out and kisses his forehead.
"Dawww!" ember and johnny make the same noise together, and danny ignores them even though taylor's cheeks turn even darker green.
"Both of you shut it," mama growls, and that's her scary voice. "If he wants to sit with Danny, he can sit with Danny."
woody is telling buzz that he can fly, that he might be a toy but that just means he's special. and danny can't hardly keep his eyes open anymore. mama kisses his forehead one more time.
"Geez, since when are you such a mom, Penny?" ember sounds grumpy. "I thought you were cooler than that."
that's a little mean.
"Oh you should've seen it at breakfast earlier," johnny laughs. "He sat on her lap and ate breakfast. It was the cutest shit, I swear to – oww! What the hell, kitten?!"
danny drags his eyes open. johnny's holding his head and kitty looks mad at him, arms crossed. ember is smiling and munching on her last piece of bacon, even though there's a confused look in her eyes. he thinks that taylor might be laughing next to him, but he's so sleepy. he just doesn't have it in him to look.
"You're both acting like a couple of shitheads! Leave them alone and watch the friggin' movie!"
johnny grumbles, but he doesn't stop kitty when she gets down into the fort they made and snuggles under his arm. "Alright, alright. I gotcha, yeesh!"
"Well, I know who's pussy-whipped in this house," ember sing-songs, and danny doesn't know what that means but mama whispers that he shouldn't repeat it, so he keeps it on his list of naughty-words to never say around papa.
this time, ember says "ow!" 'cause kitty kicks her in the knee and grumbles, "Shut it, bitch."
mama sighs and mumbles, "Jesus, no wonder your dad's a neurotic mess."
danny doesn't know what neu-ro-tic means, but it makes taylor giggle, and then everything is quiet again. Toy Story is still playing. danny thinks that buzz is flying, 'cause the music has gotten loud, but he's just too sleepy to watch anymore. even though it would be really nice to fly again. maybe he could get papa to carry him like buzz carries woody. probably not – papa always holds him tight, right up against his chest, so he won't fall.
but it would still be nice.
"Thanks for letting me sit here, Pen," taylor whispers.
mama kisses him on the head. danny knows 'cause he can hear the sound of it. "Thanks for being a good big brother. Even though you don't have a very good example."
"Hey! I heard that!" johnny grumbles.
"You were meant to," is all mama says, and danny can hear the smile in her voice.
he's warm and full and safe, and even though his misses jazzy lots, danny thinks that maybe having big brothers –
"Jesus, and I thought I could roast you."
"Fucking shut it, Em."
. . . and two more big sisters is going to be a lot of fun, too.
"We're not aiming for the truck. . ." and buzz drops them into the box and they all live happily ever after, danny remembers.
he falls asleep smiling.
A/N: I have a test tomorrow. I have two tests Wednesday. So what do I do? Finish this chapter - even though it's a bit shorter than those that came before it - and post it like lightning because the procrastination monkey demands it.
I'm a pathetic waste of human flesh.
Anyway! I have returned with fresh words and lots of bullshittery for you to consume! Now, Nocturne is not a perspective that we will be returning to in the near future. However! He is just oodles and gobs of fun to write because, holy shit, the possibilities are endless, let me tell you! I think Nocturne and Danny's ice-powers were like the only good thing to come out of season 3 in canon, and I wanted to expand on what his character could have been in this universe. Now, because magick and science are both Things in this universe, I needed him to be this enigmatic, mysterious kind of ethereal being. He's kind of like Clockwork in the sense that he's just amazingly fucking old. But at the same time he's not because while Clockwork is all about maintaining the balance and stability of the dimensions, Nocturne is all about preserving their dreams and himself.
I also expanded Nocturne's abilities into a kind of pseudo-telepathy. Anything that's even remotely close to a dream - a day-dream, a flashback, anything like that - is fair game. But he's also not completely amoral. The guy does sort of know when lines have been fucking crossed. However, that doesn't mean you can ask for freebies. You want the magick, you pay the price. Think Rumplestiltskin from OUAT. You know, before it got really shitty in Season 4. . .
So, after all that, I have to think you guys once again for being such amazing readers and support. Seriously, I don't know if I could continue without all your lovely comments. That being said, leave me one in the box below! Questions, criticisms, anything at all is welcome, and I'll be more than happy to respond to whatever you have to ask.
Hope to see you all in the next one!