Dead men don't dream, except when their brain waves are spiked with certain endorphins. Even if they did, they couldn't tell anybody; now could they? Danny Fenton didn't dream much. He was sure there was some deep scientific meaning to why he couldn't achieve REM sleep— more than likely having to do with the fact he had had about ninety million volts of electricity go through his body at once. Yeah, maybe it was passing enough electricity to light up a casino that did it. Who's to say?

He took it for granted. Like everything else, Danny took it for granted. When he was younger, he had insufferable night terrors due to a crippling fear of the dark. Now four years out from adulthood, the ghost boy was still terrified. He kept the door slightly ajar, and his family tolerated the hallway light on all the time. Daniel had forgotten the utter nonsense that most dreams could be. Colors and sensations that left a pleasantly numb feeling upon waking up. That blur of leftover short-term memories that the brain needed to detox in order to start the next day. He just didn't have that feeling. That beautiful driftless feeling. When you dream, you often don't realize it because it's sudden and absolute. It's one of the mysteries of human existence that science just didn't have answers for.

When he slept, he was still exhausted. It was less like a recharge but a futile attempt to stave off the mental decay caused by not sleeping. Things like irritability and general 'moodiness' still persisted.

Danny hated it when people described it that way. 'Moodiness.'

It was this blanket phrase that dulled the real prickliness of being a person with very little control over their trajectory in life.

His dreams were tinted with longing. Laying on his favorite grassy knoll in the park. The scent of the lake flowering with lilies permeated the air. Dusk at the park was serene in the early spring. Danny was on his back, tracing his fingers along the constellations. Reciting stories that brought him comfort.

"Orion was a hunter…"

Danny kept muttering in his sleep—

"Orion was a hunter…"

The words had no meaning to him. Yet his hand still was there, reaching for the sky as though the stars themselves were attainable. He kept reaching for his starry night as it swirled around him in colors and clouds. Branches breathe.

"He is pursued by Scorpius…"

He wanted to be up there so bad. So bad he could taste it. The sky was vast and laid bare before him. The ghost boy wanted to be in orbit and far, far removed from everyone before he could hurt them.

"Sagittarius poisoned by Heracles… felled by his own arrow—"

The problem with dreams is that you never know when they started. But falling from any height, even in your sleep, caused this jolt in your pulse— at any height, it was the sudden stop that killed you.

Thrashing his blankets. Danny pulled himself from his half-awake stupor, panting—

Dash was in his bed. He was on top of him. In his daze, the younger Fenton had nearly headbutted the jock.

"Wh—What are you…?" Composing himself, Danny demanded, "GET OFF OF ME!"

Dash barred his arms around his head for what he expected to be a flurry of kicks and fists. But he was only met with a glare set to kill.

He was laying across Danny like he had belly-flopped onto the mattress from some unseen springboard. He had that wide, feral, skittish look plastered across his face. Dash looked like he should be top billed on a poster for the next slasher movie that would bomb at the box office due to the killer wielding a signature weapon too ridiculous to be threatening. Flush and heaving, the basketball player tried to position himself a bit more casually. Going as far as to rest his chin on top of his fist like he had meant to look this foolish.

"Uh, hey!" He shifted. His segue was awkward, "Nice nap?"

"An A-lister in my bed, and it's a dude—" Danny groaned in disgust, "Ugh."

"Hey, so— I don't want to freak you out, but your sister, um—"

Narrowing his gaze, Danny hissed, "What'd you do?"

"Are you ser—? I didn't do anything to Jazz!" Shaking his head, Baxter snorted at the accusation, "God, why do I even—?" The jock growled and gargled, "Ughhhhh, That's not important. J-just— you need to come downstairs!" His hand grazed Danny's wrist before flinching back, "Right now."

The ghost boy did not like being told what to do. Least of all, by some, cardboard cutout.

"It's because most things are your fault'd." Danny tried to get his legs out from the starting forward to no avail. If he was at full strength—it would be bye bye Baxter. Prying his legs out from under him shouldn't be this difficult— unless. Wait, wait, wait— oh, shit—

Quickly, Daniel peeked under his blanket.

This garnered a quizzical glance from the starting forward.

He couldn't get his legs out from under Dash because his legs were gone. Danny's lower half had been replaced with his ghostly tail. It writhed absentmindedly under the covers. Just when I thought I had this under control! As subtle as Danny could manage, he bundled further into his quilt.

Sucking his teeth, Fenton concluded with a matter-of-factness, "Actually, I can't'd go downstairs."

With a surly nod, Dash closed his eyes, "I'm—I'm g-gonna have to insist that you come downstairs with me, Fenton."

"Baxter—I seriously cannot'd."

Impatiently, the jock cocked his head and uttered a single word, " Why ?"

"I'm just… I'm so dizzy." Danny excused, hoping it wasn't obvious that he was totally changing the subject.

Skeptically, the living teen repeated, "Dizzy?"

I'm gonna have to sell this. Hammering in the dramatics, Danny coughed— half because he had to and half because he was channeling a waif British orphan. Pitifully he croaked, "I'm so dizzy! I can't—there's no way I can stand up." He added, slumping against his headboard, "I'm so weak and frail and— "

The springs squeaked, and Dash eased off the mattress.

The ghost was sure he saw his tormentor's eyes roll so hard they nearly left the boundary of the sockets. He couldn't tell if Dash was exasperated with antics or could smell the bullshit.

Hands on his trim waist, the jock offered, albeit forcefully, "Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder?"

The younger Fenton gulped— "H-huh?"

"One way or another, you're going down those stairs, and as I've repeatedly proven, I can handle you, Fentoad."

Handle. That's a word for it. Danny rubbed his leaking nose. It was probably best if he bit his tongue, but Dash was lining these shots up near expertly.

"Geez, you're persistent!" The ghost boy chuckled through another series of wet coughs, "Ha-Ha-Hate to be your pr-prom date."

"If you should be so lucky." The jock reached towards the blankets, ready to pry them off.

Yelping, Danny swatted the jock, "Wh-what're you doing?!"

That wasn't probably the most masculine way to respond. Seeing as Danny went from sickly British orphan to entering the arena of a pearl-clutching scream queen of the black and white era.

"Carrying you?" Dash answered; his growing confusion and irritation were transparent. He shook out his hands as if the hit did some damage.

"Uhm… I-I need my blankets." Danny balled further in on himself. Keeping his focus on where Dash's hands went. He really didn't need anyone touching his tail.

The jock didn't know why he even bothered to point out the logistics in this situation he found himself in— Baxter remarked caustically, "Okay, so, we'll both break our necks when I slip and fall. Great, cool , and here I thought you were being completely selfish."

Dash attempted once again to get Danny out of his nest—

"I'M NOT WEARING PANTS, OKAY?!"

Immediately the blond froze in place.

…

…

"I-I'm sorry?" Surely, Dash misheard.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Baxter."

"Just… put on pants? Wh—why is that so complicated—?" Unsure of what to do with his hands now, Dash crossed his arms and rolled his shoulders.

GODDAMN, MY BIG MOUTH — Flustering, Danny bluffed his way out of bigger jams than this, "It's my house! I shouldn't have to put on pants."

The starting forward was in shambling bewilderment by that statement. His eyes darted to the blanket and then to literally anywhere else. What Danny could ultimately describe as a 'panic' caused the living teen to land in thirty other spots around the room until he focused on the door he entered through.

"Look, I wouldn't ask if this wasn't, like, vitally important—" Dash pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, "Seriously, it may be life or death—"

Danny reached toward him, "Then be a man and carry me."

"Jesus; FINE." Begrudgingly, the starting forward made his approach again. He wrapped and tucked the blankets around Danny's shape. Essentially swaddling the ghost boy because he's the world's biggest baby . Exerting no great effort on his part, Dash had the guy in a bridal hold.

"... I feel like I should be offended that you didn't struggle more."

Dash raised a brow at this.

"That's not a compliment'd." Danny scolded.

"I didn't say anything, Fenton."

"I don't like your tone." With a twisted pout, the younger tried not to thrash too much.

Maneuvering over the piles of clothes festering on the floor, Dash asked sarcastically, "The tone on my…face?"

"Meh-meh, meh, meh—" The ghost boy blew a raspberry, " PFFFLLLLBBBTTTT ."

He poked the starting forward angrily, "That's you. That's what you sound like."

Arguably, it was not the most lucid or eloquent reply.

This earned Danny another eye roll from the jock as they exited the room.

Situations. That's what Dash didn't like about being a yes-man all the time— it put him in situations .

The basketball player had to basically swaddle his… uh… for lack of a less appropriate title… the basketball player had to swaddle his half-naked nemesis and carry him down the stairs. That's a situation. A situation covered in so many warnings and hazmat labels that the mere mention of it should send anyone into cardiac arrest.

Once again, for a complete lack of better vocabulary, Baxter would have a lot of fantasies like this.

Please withhold your questions, comments, and laughter over his mental state until the very end.

There would be a fire or some other hitherto unforeseen disaster. The jock would come in and kick the door down like a complete badass and hold Danny Fenton aloft in his arms. Spiriting him away to the ambulance only to have the younger Fenton unable to part from his savior for a solitary second. Somewhere along this fictional reality, there would be that movie moment where Dash would ruffle Danny's hair— say, 'Don't worry, you're safe now.'

Of course, the life-threatening disaster would be the moment of adhesion . The moment where the protagonists of a romance novel would become stuck together. Or would it be a meet-cute —? No, technically, they've met hundreds of times. They've just… never had a reason to go beyond that. They never had a reason to keep talking before. That had to change.

Dash wanted to pick his brain on the cosmos and everything in it. Danny could just read the phone book and have effortlessly captured Dash's attention.

One thing was decidedly clear: Danny Fenton was not affected by this… otherness that Dash suffered from. And Danny would never feel the same way. There was no amount of staging or lighting to fix that.

Dash was… just Dash. There was really no cure for it. Except pretending he wasn't sick, to begin with. Was he broken? Was that it? It all seemed like one big joke the universe was playing on him.

The pair lingered at the top of the stairs as Dash had to plot the pace of the journey down.

Wiggling in the jock's grasp, the ghost boy tutted, "Don't get any funny ideas, alright?"

Blinking, Dash's glance fell to Danny's blanketed half— "Uh… funny like how?"

"Don't drop me, stupid!" Fenton blurted, in partial disbelief, "What'd you think I meant?!"

Clearing his throat, Dash gave a nod, "S'nothin'— never mind."

Crossing the threshold of the stairs was easy enough. Dash went one step at a time, balancing Danny in his arms and going slow enough to make sure they didn't go tumbling forward. He supported the younger Fenton's shoulders with his bicep.

They didn't say much of anything. Dash wanted to say something, but all that came to mind was nonsense about the weather and how it happened sometimes. Even if he did commit to the small talk routine, it was pretty obvious Danny didn't want to engage with it. Danny would probably laugh at a jock's attempt at vague social etiquette.

The Fentons didn't really do the small talk thing. They didn't believe in idle chat. They debated morality and scientific ethics— The Fentons lectured— they ranted. It was always 'Hey, we're going to barrel a semi-truck into the gymnasium during the parent-teacher conferences' or 'We're gonna dress in incredibly garish jumpsuits twenty-four-seven.'

The Fentons were big talkers. Loud talkers.

The weather couldn't really compete, huh?

Please, don't let him hear how loud my heart is beating.

"So, are you gonna talk, or did you forget how—?"

Jumping at the sudden sharpness of the voice and chill hitting his ear— Dash was ripped from his thoughts and his task of moving one step at a time. Wobbling, Baxter tried to find their center of gravity again, he jostled the ghost boy and the surplus of blankets in his arms, and his grip tightened. He squared off his shoulders and made sure his knees were under them. For a split second at most, it looked like Dash's right side bracing against the wall would knock a few family pictures down as collateral. Though those frames only rattled in protest.

Flushing, the jock wasn't sure if he was more annoyed or helplessly mortified that he felt Danny's breath dancing against his neck—

"Sorry, I was focusin' so hard on not droppin' ya," Dash growled through clenched teeth. He seethed, and his glance flitted to the younger Fenton.

Danny parried with a lopsided smirk, "Oooo, scary, deep voice, Dash." He poked the starting forward on the school emblem stitched into his letterman, "I think puberty caught up with your vocal cords."

He doesn't make liking him easy, that's for sure.

It was a near alien emotion taking residence in his head, but was it supposed to feel this— awful? Is it supposed to make him feel like an idiot? Maybe?

Is this even attraction— or did Dash really need everyone to like him? It just so happened that Danny Fenton overlapped into the 'everyone' category. The desperation was still there.

Regardless of Danny's approval, it didn't negate how the ghost boy looked like a young Anthony Perkins . He was classically handsome, especially when he pulled his hair back to show off his sculpted cheekbones. He had intense brooding eyes, highlighted by his thick dark brows. long and inspiring jealousy his lower lashes followed suit. There was that cleft to his chin that punctuated that devilish smile. He had a pouty lower lip that had cut in the center— Danny looked like he was plucked out of a magazine and collaged into existence. He looked like how people described Snow White. He was just as biting as driven snow. Even now, compounded on all sides with possibly the dampest form of the flu— Dash could feel Danny sweating through all the layers— There was this unfettered elegance to him. Dash felt this urge to protect him and chastise him for being so careless in the first place. Of course, that urge would quickly become squashed as soon as Danny opened his mouth.

He was so pretty it wasn't fair.

His pale skin had the faintest bit of life in it, in the rosy patches across his joints, down to his knuckles and chest. It was evidence. Dash was gathering these little observations for something— that's what he told himself. Dash was cataloging these nuances because he had to.

Then the pressure of the body in his arms. It… was really nice. It was nice in the way it shouldn't be. Like Dash wasn't supposed to enjoy it. But at the same time, Baxter could carry him for their entire lives. It wouldn't be hard. If Danny would just shut up and listen for once, he might realize that the jock was worthy of his friendship.

Then again, something felt different this time.

Did… did Danny lose even more weight? How?

Finally, after navigating the steep entryway stairwell in near complete silence, Dash mustered enough courage to venture, "Are… Are y-you eating enough?"

In a move they should have seen coming, the reply was a counterattack of dry wit, "Trust me, Baxter, there's never enough for me to eat."

That's true; the hereditary Fenton appetite was probably the healthiest thing about him.

"You just…" Narrowing his eyes in thought, Dash was as concerned as he was dumbfounded, "...fe-feel really light, I'm—"

"I get it!" He threw up his hands, more in a theatrical gesture of what offense looked like. Danny's voice betrayed him with a vague, anxious chuckle, sounding caught between his head and chest, "You take steroids; we're all impressed, big guy."

"That's not what I'm saying!" Barking, Dash broke a vow he made only to himself that he wasn't going to raise his voice. Of course, Danny inspired him to fail in new and spectacular ways, "Seriously! You should consider taking liquid protein or-or something— It's like I'm holding half a melted cooler."

Shaking his head in exasperation, the jock elected to drop the topic since he couldn't drop the jerk he was carrying, "Forget it. Whatever."

Amused by the frustration teeming out of his chariot— a slight smile animated Danny's otherwise painfully neutral face.

I guess I should be happy that he's entertained. Baxter begrudged this as they paraded into the kitchen.

"Okay, so Jazz and I were talking and—" Dash began to recount what happened, hoping the intoxicated sibling could enlighten him.

Out of nowhere, the younger Fenton began to point to the circular center table lined with grocery bags, "Oh my god, did she get me salt and vinegar chips—?!"

"Wh—" Dash kept his grip on the sickly young man rock solid despite the excited thrashing.

Who eats those?! —The jock wanted to exclaim but remembered why he brought Danny down here in the first place. Trying to get back on topic, Dash snapped, "Focus! Your sister might be missing, and all you're concerned about is—"

Extending his entire wingspan, the ghost boy reached for the bright cyan cellophane bag on the table, whining in a way Dash could only guess he was supposed to find funny.

Flatly, Baxter concluded, "Chips. You want chips."

Okay. Fine.

I should be used to saying that now. Facing all of Amity Park's horrors with a begrudging— 'Okay. Fine.'

Using his ankles, the jock hooked out one of the chairs at the table so he could easily transition Danny from his hold and onto solid ground again.

Without missing a single beat, Danny the bag apart with a pop, and the sour, savory scent wafted upward. He plucked a few sand dollar-sized chips from the top of the bag and broke them into his mouth. Eating chips was ninety percent sound. It was cathartic. Probably not as cathartic as actually hunting a wild animal with his bare hands, but it tingled the same parts of his hardwiring. The sound of the adhesive peeling from the top of the bag could be as satisfying as tearing a creature's throat out with his teeth. The ghost boy knew it was ridiculous, but god, he loved potato chips. Was he moaning? Salt and Vinegar just hit all the right dopamine producers in his brain—

Dash wrinkled his nose, "I don't think I've ever seen you this happy."

"Trust me, chief, this is all I need." The ghost boy said between bites. He gave a skeptical glance in the starting forward's direction, "I know you don't really do the whole junk food thing. But it's truly the most American pastime you could participate in besides taxes."

Fenton added, "And probably the most fun you'll ever have with your clothes on."

Scoffing at this, Dash at the sudden addendum, "You need a minute alone?"

"Any second away from you is a blessing, Baxter."

"Suppose I walked into that one—" Dash rubbed his temple. Like, natural disasters the living teen had taken to naming his headaches. He grumbled, " Fenton . Focus. Your sister."

"Yeah, when is she coming back?"

Dash was in utter disbelief—

"She's already back!" Dash exploded— he balled his fist, "She's been back for nearly half an hour! Then she—" He snapped his fingers, the sound echoed against the tile, "Went. Like that. She vanished— that's what I've been tryin' to tell you!"

Cocking his head, Danny finally stopped and listened.

"We were talking." Dash trailed off, "And she was sitting right there—"

The jock pointed to the empty chair across from the younger Fenton, "We were talking… and she…she stood up, and she—"

"—Hoo!"

The brief tender moment of teenage vulnerability was interrupted by Jasmine Fenton's miraculous return.

The redhead had knocked over the chair she had been sitting in originally. It struck the tiled floor and caused the boys to jump.

She sniffled and blinked—Jazz swiveled her head around her kitchen like she wasn't expecting it to be there, "... Uh."

"Oh my god—!"

"Hey…" Completely winded—Jazz waved, now hunched over the table. Her skin had become pallid like her brother's. You could see blue veins under the layers of porcelain. It was but a moment before she was overcome with the same dry cough too. Jazz collapsed at the table, her elbows hitting the surface, hard .

Dash quickly got to her side and got something under her, so she didn't fall to the floor next, "Take it easy—"

The jock wrestled with an overwhelming impulse to hug her because she scared him so bad.

She swatted him away, "So-sorry— we were in the middle of talking—" Jazz swallowed gulps of air, "Did you wanna stay for dinner, Dash?"

Bewildered, the jock opened his mouth to answer, only to be cut off.

" Ewwww… " Danny recoiled at the idea, "Can't you take your boyfriend literally anywhere else?"

"I'm not her—" "He's not my—"

"Guys, I-I'm gonna be completely honest I don't care; you both make me tired," The younger admitted. He squinted at Dash, "What was it you were freakin' out 'bout, Baxter?"

"I— Jazz literally disappeared and then reappeared behind you," Dash was at a loss, "and you're not gonna even react to that?!"

The elder Fenton scowled at this, "Dash, I didn't disappear."

"Excu—Wh—" He scoffed, " Uh…"

" Yes, you did." The jock testified, pupils blown wide with confusion.

"No, I didn't." She said with that same flutter in her voice that her brother had when caught in a lie. However, Jazz was infinitely more cunning about it. She practiced this art. She gave the starting forward a polite smile like he had said a joke she didn't understand. Treating him like he was some little kid spinning bald-faced tall tales. Jasmine went as far as to add the touch of a gently disappointed head shake to really sell it.

"Yes, you did!" Dash attested. His eyes went just-off-camera-left where surely whatever TV host would gleefully declare that he had been punked in front of a national audience. It would arguably be a better trade than being patronized like this.

" No. I. Didn't. Dash. " Jazz had repeated and clearly enunciated as if he was the one with the problem like this was a simple matter of miscommunication she was attempting to correct.

Strained laughter bubbled up from the jock's diaphragm, "Oh— Okay, Okay, so— we're all just gonna pretend that none of that just happened ?"

"What're you talkin' about, Baxter?" Danny yawned, "You're the one that insisted I come down here…"

With an angry groan that escaped from the deepest chasm of his being, Dash threw his hands up. He stepped back from the table. Fingers tangling with his fool's golden hair before tracing down the sides of his head and finally lacing around the back of his neck— he paced the kitchen floor. Matching the treads of his white sneakers to the black tiles.

The younger paid his sister a skeptical glance—

"It's what he does when he's upset," Jazz elaborated with a rasp, "It'll be out of his system."

"I swear, Fenton—" Dash muttered, "Now is not the time to microdose me."

"Diagnose—" "I think you meant diagnose." Both siblings replied simultaneously.

"You guys are jerks, y'know that?!" Dash snapped his head back toward them, "Making me worry! Do you have any idea what that'll do to my forehead—"

Danny couldn't help but snicker at the blond's dramatics.

"I'm not making it up! Why would anyone make something up like that?!" Baxter hit the butt of his palm on his forehead. He pointed at the younger and snapped, "You were floating in the air. At least ten feet in the air!"

Snorting at this, Daniel remarked, " I think I'd remember something like that. "

Though seemingly out of caution he fussed at the blankets around his waist.

Dash took a step and turned to Jasmine, "And she disappeared!"

Then a realization hit the jock, " Oh, Jazz, not you too… "

"What'd?" The would-be-psych crooked a brow at his softened voice, "Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

"You're sick, aren't you?!" Dash couldn't believe it didn't occur to him immediately. With relief, he exhaled, "You're just too stubborn to admit it!"

Sniffling, the elder Fenton fought the urge to touch her leaking nose, "Psh— I'm—I'm not sick."

She crossed her arms confidently, "I-I don't get sick."

Lightly, Danny suggested, "Let the thermometer be the judge."

He gestured to the sink with a slight movement of his head.

The jock stalked over to the parallel side of the kitchen, a somewhat knowing grin gracing his face. All the while, Jasmine whispered threats to her younger brother, each one more violent than the last.

"This is a meat thermometer…?" Dash stated his observation aloud, spinning the device idly between his fingers.

"People are meat," The ghost boy countered aloofly with a shrug.

Leaning back in her chair, it creaked as Jazz offered her defense, "You both are being ridiculous. I can't be sick."

"Okay, if you're so confident, let me take your temperature, Fenton." Slow in his approach, Dash didn't want to spook her.

Jazz narrowed her glare at the jock. She turned up her nose, "For the last time— I'm not siiiiiiiii—"

She reared her head back and, "ACH—!"

And just like before; Jasmine completely disappeared.

"You saw it that time, right?!" Whipping his head around to Danny, Dash gestured to the empty space where Jazz should've been.

The chair legs squeaked. Danny pushed himself back from the table, stunned, "What the…"

"HOO!"

Within seconds Jazz was back again. In a vain attempt to assure the anxious faces now glued to her, "It's—It's just allergies, guys." She clamped her mouth with her hand, "It's nothing!"

"ACH—!"

Gone.

The ghost boy and the jock gave each other a look. Finally, communicating on a similar wavelength. What were they supposed to do?

This one was longer now. Like an earthquake, they just had to hold their breath and ride it out. Right? Then she'd come back, right?

"Um… So, you have some kind of explanation or like…a pill for this, right?" Dash crossed his arms stiffly, staring at the vacant chair. As if he could make Jazz reappear through sheer force of will.

Worryingly, the younger Fenton said nothing.

Faintly, the living teen begged, " Danny , tell me you can fix this?"

He shook his head.

Collectively, the air of the room read as dire. Seconds turned to minutes.

Dash pinched his tear ducts before announcing his plan, "We need to call your parents—"

"W-wait… I…" The remaining Fenton stammered out. Twisting his fists into the quilt covering his lap, "Just… give her a second, okay?"

"We don't even know where she goes—! I don't know if she has a second to spare, Fenton." Dash balked at the ghost boy. He didn't want to shout, but the situation wasn't allowing him the room to breathe.

He lowered himself, placing his large palm flat against the circular table, "Look, whatever is going on between you and your folks. Jazz is more important than that—"

"Don't talk like you even have an idea what we're going through, Baxter." Danny didn't move, somewhat allowing the jock into his space. His voice was grim as the younger Fenton didn't even blink. Granting the slightest permission to the blond despite the verbal condemnation. Suppose you couldn't have everything.

Dash gave disapproving grunt at this, "We don't have time. Okay?"

He was adamant in his need to do— something— anything, "We need to act. Now. "

Craning his neck to look up at the basketball player that was virtually on top of him, Daniel opened his mouth to reply—

"Time. Out."