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jackdraw-spwrite · 8 months

Text

Fine, Chapter 4

Words: 3065

Characters: Danny, Clockwork

Warnings: Body horror of a sort (character has been given machine insides they do not want)

"Best, I think, to begin with myself," said Clockwork, and brought his exposed forearm close enough for Danny to look.

Danny blinked. He’d expected–

But this was easier. More comfortable.

Wrapped in Clockwork’s cloak, tucked against his side and now with his other arm in front of him, Danny felt surrounded. Protected. Safe.

One step off from a hug.

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And one step from a hug was a good place to confront what he didn’t want to see. He took a breath. tk-kt. Tried to take one.

And he looked down to the fate he was trying to avoid. Looked down to the mangled and tortured analogy of flesh and like a trainwreck Danny found himself transfixed by the sight.

Only…

Only it wasn’t.

Countless tiny gear wheels turned smoothly in their places, trailing up Clockwork's exposed arm and out of sight. A battery of rods were aligned in perfect parallel, the quick flick of delicate floral engravings the clearest sign that they were moving at all. Yet those flicks were with a synchronicity that made the entire assembly almost dance in place.

And beneath, there were more gears, more teeth.

There were ratchet arms and springs and countless other things Danny couldn't put a name to and beneath that there was a metal plate cut through with swooping holes and through them–

Through them there was movement.

The shadows danced. Intentional. Graceful. And above all: impossible.

"What," said Danny.

“What?” asked Clockwork, and Danny didn’t need to look away to hear the smugness of his tone.

“There’s too much stuff. It shouldn’t fit.”

"Clearly, it does."

A flash of irritation bolted through Danny at that. "Fine. It shouldn't fit."

“Shouldn’t it?”

Danny’s throat made a frustrated grinding noise that he’d only ever heard Clockwork make, before. He looked up, and the frustration must have been clear in his eyes because Clockwork relented.

"You have noticed that lairs do not obey euclidean geometry.”

"Yeah," said Danny, who only recognized the word because of Sam’s brief HP Lovecraft phase. He had noticed that lairs were weird, space-wise.

"Why should we be any different?"

He glanced back down to think. "Because. Um," Danny trailed off.

One of the gears near the surface moved oddly. Only some of its edge had teeth, and as it rotated it drove the smaller gear nestled beside it in spurts of movement. The uneven rotation made Danny's eyes do something funny.

Clockwork said something.

"What?"

"Would you like to touch it?"

"Isn't that dangerous?" The gears were moving quickly. And they seemed delicate, like if pressed too hard they might break.

He didn't want to break Clockwork.

"If it were going full speed, yes."

Before Danny's eyes, it slowed to a crawl.

He reached up, then hesitated. Even slowed, it seemed so fragile…

The reassuring pressure of Clockwork's hand left his head. Shortly afterwards, Clockwork's hand reappeared from the corners of Danny's vision.

"Here," said Clockwork. "Like this."

And he brought a single finger down to touch the gear. It rotated against Clockwork's finger, unbothered. In the gaps between Clockwork's fingers, Danny could see the odd teeth continue in their path, and a slice of the other gear it was driving.

"That doesn't hurt?" Danny asked.

"Not if I'm gentle."

Clockwork pulled his hand away, and then pressed lightly on Danny's skin.

"I am only using this much force," he said.

"Oh."

Danny brought his hand over the hole in Clockwork's skin and then gingerly down.

Down.

Metal, and Danny nearly withdrew.

"No," said Clockwork. "You’re not pressing too hard. Do you feel that?"

Danny did.

Beneath his finger, the metal was smooth. It was a little warm to the touch, just like most metal had been since he’d come into his ice powers. And Danny could feel it move against his skin. He could feel tiny, regular vibrations as it did: the voice of some other part of Clockwork extending through the structure of his machine.

It reminded Danny of a pulse.

And yet that was not the thing that most grabbed his attention. That was the curious, contradictory welcome of it. That was in the feeling of it feeling him reaching, and of it reaching back. Like fingers, intertwined.

Like comfort.

Like ho–

Some thoughts were too dangerous to finish.

Some time later found Danny tucked more deeply into Clockwork’s side in a pronounced lean. He was still preoccupied by Clockwork’s gears.

"It tickles," said Danny, wondering.

After he'd become comfortable with the first gear, Clockwork had removed a second panel to expose delicate chains, a maze of tensioned wires, and several more gears that danced just below the surface.

There was a set of gears interlaced in a chain, one end moving so fast it seemed robed in a honeyed gleam, and these were the latest thing to capture his attention. Danny brushed his fingers just above them, feeling the faint breeze they made with the speed of their movement but being careful not to touch. Unlike the other gears, Clockwork had said these might hurt if Danny disturbed it. So he did not touch.

But he could get close enough to feel the air getting pulled along. Close enough, apparently, to feel a tickle.

Clockwork's hum pulsed a little louder.

Clockwork replaced the panels he’d removed with methodical clicks. As he did, he explained what he was doing.

"And here," he said, "I'm hooking this spot around this wire here, do you see that? And then I pull at the same time I push" –snap– "here."

Danny made a noise of comprehension.

He'd been too distracted to pay much attention to how Clockwork was reattaching Danny's panel, before. From the outside, without the almost hypnotic pressure, it was easier to pay attention.

Like this, it was interesting. And soothing, in a different way that Danny had a hard time putting into words. And complex; the movement of Clockwork’s hand was hard to follow at points. He bent his fingers with inhuman flexibility and the dexterity of a craftsman, and they worked together in a dance.

He was doing it all one handed, too, and that made it more impressive. Danny wondered how he’d learned, and why.

Oh.

Clockwork had to do it one handed, didn’t he? It wasn’t like there was someone else who could help. At least, not now.

…Had he ever had anyone to help him, like he was helping Danny?

And the last connection locked into place with a snap.

This was it. Danny braced himself, mind picking up speed at what might lie beneath his own panels, at what it would mean–

"One last thing," Clockwork said.

He opened the door of his chest, reached in, and pulled out a tiny, intricately engraved key. This he inserted into the lock at the right of his door and turned. There was a snik layered on itself a hundred times over from every part of Clockwork: his arms and head and chest, even his tail.

Serenely, Clockwork replaced the key.

Danny’s mind slammed to a halt, then lurched in another direction entirely. Was that a lock? What did it lock? The panels? Why? How, when Clockwork’s panels were smooth as porcelain?

What escaped his mouth was, "I thought that lock was for your door."

"It's for the rest of me," said Clockwork. "It is best that access to my internal geometries remains difficult."

"Oh," said Danny. His thoughts were picking up now, and curling outward in question marks. Who would be trying to access Clockwork’s internal geometries?

"Do not worry," said Clockwork, interrupting Danny’s rapidly accelerating train of thought. He brought his hand up to caress a shape nestled in the hollow just above Danny's sternum. "You have one as well. I will lock you before you leave."

He turned and busied himself neatening the workspace back up, leaving Danny’s train of thought to careen off track and tumble to a stop.

He had a lock.

Danny touched the hollow above his sternum, just as Clockwork had. Tentatively, as though he were touching Clockwork’s gear wheels again and not something solid, not something built to withstand force.

But it was solid.

It was cool to the touch, not warm like Clockwork's gears were. Yet the solidity of it, the weight and thickness were surely metal.

It was a little circle; Danny could feel the curve of it under his finger, the jagged line of the keyhole at its center. Above and below it were tiny shapes with straight edges that came to soft points. Triangles. There was texture on them, something rough and that made his finger want to slide one way and not another, and Danny wondered what it was. What it meant. If there were words there, or etched patterns like Clockwork's curlicue botanicals.

For that matter, what did he look like, right now?

Maybe he could look in a mirror before this was over. Before he left.

And then there was the cloth. Again, there was Danny's arm beneath.

He fiddled the hem in his fingers. He hadn't really gotten a good look at what lay inside before he'd panicked and Clockwork had covered it. But he could remember the shine of something machined, something complicated twitching just out of time with the tower.

Danny lingered a moment more. He wanted to spend more time not thinking about this. But he was curious. He was curious, and his hand still ached.

And the only way was through.

Danny pulled it back.

With a rustle of fabric, the covering fell away.

Danny's first thought was that it looked like Clockwork's.

His second thought was that it didn't.

The edges of his skin, his panels, they were the same. They had the same porcelain edges, which his skin met with the same strange line. Even the inside of his arm was similar, the mechanisms within a labyrinth of rods and gears and wires where their shadows weren’t too deep to see.

"They're big," Danny said with a frown. Much larger than Clockwork's were.

"You are young," said Clockwork. "Children grow."

"Smaller?"

"It will not be your gears that grow.” Clockwork hummed. ”Besides, I think they suit you."

They suited him.

Danny stared into his arm. Even ignoring how large they were, his gears weren't like Clockwork's. They weren't unlike his either; they were brass. It was just that where Clockwork's were intricately engraved, Danny's were feathered with frost. The filaments deeper within were rimed in white, and in a few scattered places he looked less like metal at all and more, much more, like ice.

Tentatively, he reached in, only to be stopped by Clockwork.

"Not at full speed," he said.

"Oh," said Danny. "How did you…?"

"It is a skill."

Danny wouldn't be able to do it, then. Not now.

"You would need to partially disengage your arm.” Clockwork explained, paused. Added, “I will need to fully disengage it to repair it,” and placed one hand on Danny's shoulder.

The shoulder Clockwork had said he would need to access.

It felt–it was–hollow.

Danny was hollow.

His tongue felt sticky. Clumsy. Pulling it from the roof of his mouth was harder than it should have been, and when Danny spoke, that felt clumsy too.

"Okay," he said.

Clockwork squeezed in an affirming gesture, and pulled away again to work. There were tugs and snaps as he pulled something loose. And then there was more pressure, deep and radiating down his arm like a sunburst and a clunk.

His eyes were still locked on the exposed machinery of his arm. It went still.

Danny stilled, too. The sight of his gears so still plucked sour notes in his stomach. There was something huge and awkward bubbling in his chest, and for a moment he imagined a stray gear blundering through delicate machinery before he forced the thought from his head.

He didn’t look at his shoulder.

He didn’t want to look.

Danny had come here hoping to have Clockwork fix his arm. He'd been filled with dread at the prospect and still had forced himself to come. He hadn't even wanted to think about being made of clockwork and he'd still pushed open the doors, still set foot inside. Still stayed.

And now that he was sitting here with a panel off and staring at his own insides, the second part no longer seemed quite so bad.

But the first part seemed real in a way it hadn't, before.

Clockwork would fix his arm.

Fix it, because Danny needed repairs.

The idea echoed in his head like it was hollow and it occurred to Danny that it probably was, that all of him was hollow and full of echoes bouncing round and round and–

There was pressure as Clockwork cradled Danny's head, brushed a thumb through his hair slowly. It was a motion measured with the tick of seconds and it was utterly regular, utterly precise. Danny could feel the weight of the beat, now that he was paying attention. It felt like pressure. It felt like anticipation.

It felt just slightly off from Danny's own time. He felt a frown flicker at his face at that, and–

"It still frightens you," said Clockwork, voice tinged with sadness.

"Yeah," Danny said, his quiet.

There wasn't any real point in denying it. There was no one here to win over with false bravado. No one to impress who would find it impressive.

"But you want it done."

"Yeah.”

"Then," said Clockwork. "Like this, there are ways to keep you calm."

"I can manage," said Danny.

"I know that you can manage. You have managed far worse. But you will need to be still, and your arm will be unresponsive."

"I can manage.”

Clockwork paused. Bowed his head so that it rested on Danny's.

"Is it so terrible to save yourself the panic? It will not change what must be done, only make it more awful for you. And more dangerous. Surgeons use anesthesia for a reason."

"I don't–I want to see what you're doing." Even if he also really, really didn’t.

"You will be able to."

"I will?"

"I will not blind you, Daniel. Only calm you, so that you can see what I'm doing with clear eyes."

Danny leaned his head against Clockwork's shoulder, thinking. Clockwork's head was a reassuring pressure at his temple, and the cloak still hung around his shoulders in a comforting embrace.

Just like Clockwork's arm, returned to wrap around him in a hug.

Danny's life was full of day to day anxieties. Whether he'd done his homework, whether he'd forgotten it. What Vlad was up to, how much sleep he'd get. What Valerie was up to, and Danielle. What his parents were up to…

The list went on.

The point was, Danny was used to playing calm in stressful situations. And he was pretty sure he'd be able to grit his teeth through this just like he'd grit his teeth through the last several weeks. Like Vlad’s schemes and the latest broken bones and disappointed lectures from his parents. Like the deep and lingering ache of every electric shock he got keeping Amity safe.

He could handle it.

But was it so terrible, to save himself the trouble? What would Jazz think?

Jazz would agree with Clockwork, probably.

Danny closed his eyes. "It won't make me more, um. Changed, right?"

Clockwork was silent. The hand holding Danny close flexed, though not painfully. Clockwork was always careful.

"Clockwork?"

"There are many futures, and many choices leading to them."

"Um."

"It should not."

"...Okay."

Maybe 'should' shouldn't have been good enough for Danny. Maybe he should have asked more questions, especially when he was usually so full of them.

But the way Clockwork's grip shifted, the way he clutched Danny close, the slight wobble to the pitter-patter ticks in his chest: these things made it hard to doubt too much that Clockwork was genuine.

"Thank you," said Clockwork.

Danny hummed reassuringly in answer. It was a mechanical sound, and he wondered what part of him was making it, and how. If it was like the part that made Clockwork's hums.

And then there was a tug at the top of his spine, or just to the left of it, and the feeling of a panel coming off.

Danny's hum rose into a questioning register.

"Shhh," Clockwork hushed him. "I am only bringing you back into time."

There were more clicks, each one resounding across his back and into his bones. It felt like if he opened his mouth they might spill from it like notes from an old record player.

There was a tug, and Clockwork pulled Danny from the bench. Danny struggled to his feet under the guiding gesture. His legs felt wrong, too light and too heavy at once. But he didn't have time to find his balance before he was guided to a slot in the wall.

It was shadowed. The curve of fine gear wheels within were barely visible from the light filtering into it, but Danny could see more than one. They sat side by side in the hidden space, each one moving faster than the last so that while the first moved at a stately place, the wheel at the far end was nothing but a blur.

"Um, Clockwork?" he asked.

"Yes?" responded Clockwork, and trailed a finger down the back of Danny's neck in a way that should have made the hairs there stand on end. Something clicked in a way that drove his back ramrod straight.

His mouth had been open to ask about the slot, and so he heard the noise of the alignment magnified from his mouth.

It shouldn't have been so, so–

He tried to speak, and discovered his jaw was locked into place. He reached out for Clockwork's hand and caught it.

Clockwork gave it a squeeze, and turned him around so his back was facing the slot. Like this, he could see Clockwork's face, and beneath the persistent scowl he could see the shadow of affection. Of the same care that had drawn him back to Long Now again and again.

Clockwork let Danny's hand go and cupped his cheek.

"All things in Long Now become synchronized in time. You know that. You've experienced it. This is only a faster way. It doesn't hurt."

And he pressed Danny into the slot.

#danny phantom #danny phantom dp #clockwork dp #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite #ectoberhaunt23 #23 day 9 #robots

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jackdraw-spwrite · 11 months

Text

Fine, Chapter 3

Skin has two sides.

Words: 3188

Characters: Danny, Clockwork

"Your seams fit well together," Clockwork commented. "You won't have many problems with dust."

Danny wasn’t listening. He was staring at the hole in his forearm. At the gleaming metal within.

It hadn't even hurt.

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More than that, he hadn't even felt different before Clockwork had pulled part of his arm off with a series of faint clicks and a tug.

Realization and horror were ricocheting around his skull, bouncing off one another and back and forth. If he didn't feel different now, then how would he know when he was like this for real? Would Skulker or someone else just tear his arm open one day and there wouldn’t be any blood, any ectoplasm? Just metal?

What if Clockwork was lying and Danny already looked like this on the inside and that was why he didn't feel any different?

No, Danny told himself. Frostbite had shown him the scans. They hadn't looked– they hadn't looked like this.

Clockwork was kneading his shoulder.

Belatedly, Danny realized a high pitched whine was emanating from somewhere near his collarbone. His free hand left Clockwork's cloak to feel at his chest and found a faint but distinct vibration beneath.

He couldn't muster even the dregs of horror at it, just a kind of detached and clinical note-taking.

I whine like this, came the thought, dilute. Before long it evaporated to leave the rest of him behind.

The rest of him, transfixed by the hole in his arm.

The edges of it were smooth, because of course they were, they were machined. Beneath, beneath–

Danny heaved a ragged gasp. Or tried to. Something in his throat ground unpleasantly but there was no intake, no air–

Clockwork covered his arm with a cloth.

Danny felt an incredulous laugh bubble up and collide with the grinding in his throat, merging into a twisting sensation that felt two degrees to the left of nausea. Did Clockwork think that a cloth would help? Danny wasn't a bird, he wouldn't forget what was under there just because he couldn't see it.

He wasn't sure he'd stopped seeing it, anyway. Wasn’t sure he ever would. The image felt seared into his brain, and–

Clockwork hummed.

It was not an articulate noise, but Danny could hear what was meant regardless. The gentle, deep vibrations reached around and through his panic and told something deep in Danny's psyche that he was safe. Safe, and protected. Safe, and that no worry need touch him there.

Safe.

There was an ebb and flow to the sound. Danny found himself following it, letting his mind fill with the gentle rise and fall.

Slowly, he let other things fill it, too.

The texture of his suit was familiar, the cloth of Clockwork's cloak soft where it pressed against bare skin and the line where Clockwork had cut his suit rough and chafing. Danny’s hand was still on the apron and as the vibration of his panic faded Danny found that the leather itself was unfamiliar. He so rarely removed his gloves as a ghost that he often forgot: touch was different like this, too.

His shoulders fell from around his ears.

Danny turned his attention outwards. The room was full of warm browns and golds and the verdigris hues common to the rest of the lair. It was full of colors that spoke of dust falling through sunbeams but there was no dust here in Clockwork’s workshop, no sunlight.

But there was a rhythm.

Clockwork was cradling his head, stroking fingers through his hair in time with everything else.

There was a song.

The thready whine in Danny's chest vanished completely, as did the urgent buzz of it at his fingers. In its place were fainter vibrations, sure and steady.

Tick, tick, tick.

But there was something wrong about them, a sour note.

Still wrapped in Clockwork's cloak and tucked to his chest, Danny frowned. Clockwork's own ticking was loud with Danny's ear pressed against his chest, and Danny's fell just a hair earlier than his.

Danny pulled his hand away, unsettled. He didn't like ticking.

"Would it help," asked Clockwork, "if I showed you my own arm as well?"

Danny thought for a moment.

"Maybe," he allowed.

It was no wonder Clockwork had pulled Danny's arm open so easily, Danny thought. Clockwork's arm came apart the same way.

Clockwork placed his own panel on a cloth beside Danny's, and then there was nothing left to distract him, nothing left to look at but Clockwork’s arm.

Clockwork’s arm, and the, the–

It was easier, looking at it on Clockwork. If there was a time before the old ghost had a clock embedded in his chest, he'd never mentioned it. As far as Danny knew, Clockwork's natural state was mechanical. It would certainly explain why he had such trouble with the idea that Danny might find it distressing.

But Clockwork's arm.

Clockwork’s arm, and the hole in it.

Danny shied from what lay inside, let his eyes find purchase at the edge.

…It was smooth.

Clockwork's skin had flexed as easily, as smoothly as Danny's always had. Just like his face, the skin of Clockwork's hand and arm had seemed only a blue version of something human.

But that similarity was only skin deep. Not even that. Humans couldn't pull sections of their skin off like they were disassembling a machine. Clockwork could.

(Danny could.)

Clockwork tugged at Danny to pull him closer, but his shoulders had gone rigid again.

"Would you like to touch?" he asked.

"Not really."

Clockwork waited.

The only way is through, Danny thought again. He couldn't, shouldn't ignore this either.

Danny swallowed, tried to swallow. He heard a quiet tk-kt in his neck.

His reaction to that took another moment to fight down, but finally, finally he reached out his right hand (his whole hand, his good and unaltered hand except that wasn't really true was it, all of him had changed…) and–

He felt at the edge of Clockwork's skin.

It was cool to the touch. It was smooth, like porcelain. Without the barrier of skin–whatever it was–skin, Danny's ghostly hearing could pick out a chorus of tiny clicks. Whatever lay in Clockwork's arm glimmered, turning, churning away in the corner of Danny's vision though he still refused to look.

He pressed, and the edge beneath Danny's fingers flexed like no porcelain Danny had ever seen. Even when his parents had accidentally brought Grandma Fenton's china set to life, it had stayed rigid.

Unlike Clockwork.

(Unlike Danny.)

Next, Danny poked the surface of Clockwork’s skin farther from the edge. It gave as it always had. It felt cool, as it always had. Beyond that, Danny was less certain. Clockwork was rarely without his gloves and shirt, and Danny had never cared to examine his skin closely before now besides.

He’d never noticed before that Clockwork’s arm was hairless.

Danny withdrew his hand, wondering if his skin would be the same one day. If the seam in his own arm was the same now.

"You may also hold this," Clockwork said, and picked up the panel he'd removed from his own arm. The hold he used was clearly delicate.

"Is it fragile?" asked Danny, curious despite himself. "Can you feel it?" He reached out and brushed his fingers over the panel, and found it gave just like the rest of Clockwork's skin.

Questions exploded in his head.

"How does that work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, it feels just like your," Danny groped for a word, "attached skin. But it's not supported by anything?"

That earned him a pleased hum and a ruffle of his hair. Danny mumbled in mock dislike but leaned into the contact anyway.

It had been so long.

The thought returned a twinge to his chest.

"There is also an underside," said Clockwork instead of explaining, and tilted the panel of skin so the other side was revealed. It had a mother of pearl sheen and in its depths glimmered hints of etched symbols.

Danny tilted his head, and the symbols moved with it. Or stayed still. It was hard to tell. He reached out to touch, and paused inches away. Should he touch the underside of Clockwork's…skin? Panel?

"Go ahead," said Clockwork.

Danny’s nails met it with a faint click.

He hadn't expected it to be hard. He had expected the coolness, though. And the way it was smooth to the touch.

Clockwork placed it on his upturned hand.

"It's light," Danny said, surprised. It wasn't just light, it was feather-light. He could barely feel the weight of it.

"Yes," agreed Clockwork.

Danny stared at the panel resting on his open hand. At the weird, isolated bit of skin stuff.

…At the piece of Clockwork.

Danny worried at his lip.

Clockwork was really trusting him here, wasn't he? Maybe not trusting, since Clockwork could see the future. But this was a piece of Clockwork in Danny's hand. Balanced there. Danny had a vision of himself taking it and whacking it against the table and the mother of pearl shattering and Clockwork making a sound like squealing gears and–

And it was so light it barely felt like anything at all, and with the underside on his hand the sensation was so like the ill-fated china that Danny could almost see a bowl, light and fine and translucent.

…It felt so delicate in his hand.

"Clockwork?" Danny found himself asking.

"Yes?"

"What happens if I drop this?"

"It is best not to," said Clockwork after a moment. "Though it will not break, it may dent. And then we will have two repair jobs on our hands."

"Oh," said Danny. "Wait, it could dent? Just from dropping it? But…" Danny trailed off, frowning. Clockwork had always seemed much stronger than that.

"Ordinarily no. But we are vulnerable like this, far more so than when we are fully assembled."

We.

Danny was like this, too. Would be. Could be. Was now.

It didn't feel as precipitous a change as it had, at the doors to the tower.

Danny swallowed, tk-kt, and asked "What am I like?"

In lieu of answering, Clockwork plucked his own panel from Danny's hand. Then he picked up the skin-panel-skin of Danny's arm with the same grip he'd used for his own and oh.

Before, Clockwork had been too fast and Danny too surprised to feel it but now Clockwork was being slow.

Now, Danny could understand why the delicacy.

It was odd, a sensation halfway there and upside down, like a light pinch across his forearm but inverted. Clockwork set it on Danny's upturned hand, skin up, and Danny felt a light prickling on the missing part of his forearm. It didn't really feel like a part of himself, like this. It felt disconnected. Despite the feedback it was easy to think of it as just another oddity Clockwork had shown him, and the prickle at his forearm just the texture of cloth on sensitive skin.

He couldn't use his other (mechanical, frozen, jammed) hand. Not to move, not to feel. He didn't want to face that yet, anyway.

Danny tipped his hand enough to set the skin-panel-ski–

"What do you call these?" he asked Clockwork as he set it on the work table.

"Panels.”

The smooth wood had a different character to it than the cloth or his hand. It still prickled at his–at his panel, but the sensation was growing to remind Danny of a sleeping limb, like the interior of it was starting to wake.

Danny poked it.

“Oh, weeeiird,” Danny said. He did it again.

It felt like he was poking his own forearm. Probably because he was.

“Weird?" asked Clockwork.

"Very," said Danny, and prodded some more.

Eventually, Danny tired of poking the exterior of his panel and flipped it over.

He froze.

He had expected something like Clockwork's mother of pearl, not–

"Stars," Danny breathed, and stars there were.

Unlike Clockwork's, the inside of Danny's skin was dark, bordering on black. Inlaid in it were so many splinters of silver and gold and glittering gems that they resembled the sweeping arm of a spiral galaxy.

Or part of one.

When he brushed it with a careful finger, the prickling was almost gone. The curious inversion of sensation remained, and between that and the lightness of his touch it felt almost like a shiver leaving ant-tracks over his skin.

It was smooth. That was the second thing he noticed. Though he could see a slight depth to it where gems were set, and where tiny wires had been driven into it, it was as though its surface had been coated in several layers of lacquer and polished to a shine.

Danny tilted it, and dark ribbons of something like wood grain caught the light.

Beside him, Clockwork remained silent as Danny continued his examination. Something watchful crept in as the minutes ticked by, but he spoke only when Danny finally returned the panel of his arm to the table with a click.

"There is another panel I think you would enjoy seeing," said Clockwork. He tapped a spot just below Danny's collarbone. "I could remove it, too."

Danny turned the idea around in his head. But really, now he was curious. Even if he asked Clockwork to tell him, the specifics would eat at him until he forgot this entire thing. If he ever did. Even with his life, he didn’t think he’d forget getting turned into a machine by his mentor anytime soon. Especially if it didn’t happen again. He hoped it wouldn’t.

"Okay," said Danny.

This time, Clockwork handed the panel to Danny with the inside facing up.

The collarbone piece was a slender triangle, and it held the same rippling dark as the other. It held the same style of stars too, though the gemstones were far more scattered, the wires even finer.

But what captured Danny's eyes was the tiny image of the ISS, inlaid in gold and silver and mother of pearl and other, stranger materials that caught the light, that made it seem almost alive.

"The solar panels," Danny began, and ran out of words.

"Gold," said Clockwork. "Just like the real one."

Danny ran a finger over it. Just like the forearm piece, this one was mirror-smooth to the touch but he could imagine, couldn't he? Imagine being there…

"Do you like it?"

The question took a moment to reach Danny's ears, and then another to follow them to the rest of his head. It did not take another moment to reach his mouth, because the answer was already on his tongue.

"I love it," Danny said, and meant it.

"I am glad," said Clockwork.

It seemed only a short time later that the ISS vanished off the edge of the panel Clockwork had removed. Apparently, the material of its solar panels was not where the similarities ended; the ISS under Danny's skin had an orbital period of 90 minutes, too.

One last time, Danny traced the edge where the last corner of a solar panel had slipped away.

"Okay," he said, and handed the panel back to Clockwork.

Clockwork traced over the piece with his own fingers, a pensive gesture. He pulled a polishing cloth from the table and covered the interior with gentle circles before tugging Danny to face him with equal gentleness. Danny complied easily, thoughts on the feel of the cloth.

On the soft pressure of it, on what it felt like to be polished.

He'd never imagined that it might feel pleasant, like care. That it might feel like love.

The missing part of him felt a bit like it did when Clockwork cradled a cheek in his hand. Not warm, but soft and calm. Safe.

Clockwork held Danny's shoulder with one hand as he fit the panel back into place. There was a feeling and a sound like sliding glass, and then the panel settled into a groove with a release of tension.

Danny relaxed.

"Not yet," Clockwork said. "I still need to secure the clasps."

He pressed on the panel firmly, then took the other end of the tool he'd used before and did something. There was a click.

Automatically, Danny raised his hand to feel at the spot. It was flush, but as he trailed along the line of his collarbone his fingers found an edge that rose away until it was nearly as thick as his panel.

"Eleven more," said Clockwork. His voice had gone quieter again, and like this it blended with the chorus of Long Now.

Another click, and another. The pressure was regular, the clicks in time with the rest of Long Now. One two three click, one two three click. Danny let the repetitive pressure rock him a little. His eyelids felt heavy, his chest calm. As more clasps joined the first Danny found himself wishing he weren't fractionally ahead of the tempo. It would be wonderful to sink into the song again. To sway in time with everything else.

The pressure ended.

A whine of protest crawled halfway out of Danny's throat. Clockwork hummed back. He'd settled beside Danny again, and the sound transmitted from the barrel of his chest, reverberating deep in Danny's bones.

"There will be more when I replace the panels of your arm," said Clockwork.

Mind too fuzzy for a coherent question, Danny made a questioning sound.

"I'll need to remove more than just one panel of your forearm to repair it. The first panel was to introduce the concept." Clockwork paused. His next words were stilted. "I am aware this has been a difficult topic for you."

Clockwork paused again to return to stroking his hand through Danny's hair and Danny hummed, pleased at the contact. It felt nice.

"I am glad you like your panels," said Clockwork as Danny pressed against his hand.

There was a span of minutes where Danny simply enjoyed the moment. From the accompanying hum in Clockwork's chest, he was doing the same. But like all things, it came to an end.

"You have yet to examine the mechanisms your panels protect," said Clockwork.

Oh. Right.

Danny opened his eyes and sat back up, attention back on the table. The cloth draping the hole in his arm was still there. If he looked closely, he could see the spot on his arm where the cloth curved in instead of out.

The joy–and weirdness of the panels of skin and their cool decorations had made the whole thing seem a little less scary, a little more interesting.

Interesting, at least, when he could pretend that was all they were.

But the delight from discovering the starscape hidden on his panels was curdling back into dread the longer he looked at the cloth covering his arm. The shine of the metal within still blazed across his mind's eye, too bright by half. Burning. Danny wanted to see the inside of his own arm again about as much as he wanted to see the inside of Jazz's: not at all.

But the only way was through.

Danny steeled himself.

“Okay.”

#danny phantom #danny phantom dp #clockwork dp #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite #fine dp fic

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jackdraw-spwrite · 8 months

Text

By Storm, By Claw, By Sanguine Moon

Chapter 2

For Ectoberhaunt day 19 - Claw (originally for Phantasy Phest)

Words: 6729 Characters: Maddie Fenton, Jack Fenton Warnings: Body horror (of the skin breaking, bone cracking variety)

Once again, this fic is a collaboration between multiple authors! The others are: @akela-nakamura, @datawyrms, @seaglass-skies, and @five-rivers.

Read it on AO3 or below the readmore:

The rain didn’t let up.

All through the night it poured, and Maddie wondered if she should revise her estimate of the weather controller’s power or intelligence downward. Or both.

On the other hand, maybe this was a concerted effort to wear them out before the eclipse even happened.

The power at Fentonworks was still out, despite their best efforts and their nearest neighbors (who were admittedly further away than average - some people just couldn’t stand the slight inconveniences that came with advancing science) being just fine. The sunrise had also found Maddie with a rash at her joints. Some damp must have gotten past the waterproofing. Or maybe the sweat-wicking layer wasn’t up to snuff anymore. Once the power was back on, she’d have to wash the whole thing and check. As for Jack, he’d been complaining of a sore back off and on all morning.

“Try it now!” called Jack from where he’d wedged the upper half of his body into the electrical maintenance box that the city had installed between them and the power grid when– Well, it had hardly been their fault, but the city didn’t see it that way.

Maddie flipped the main power switch in the circuit box back and forth. “Nothing!” she called.

“Hey, Mom?” called Danny from near the door. “We’re going to Tucker’s, since they have power, okay?”

“Okay,” said Maddie, distracted, waving over her shoulder even though she knew he wouldn’t see her. “Have fun!”

“Okay, this time, I’ve got it!” said Jack. “Go ahead!”

Jack had not got it, and now Maddie could hear him grumbling. “Maybe we ought to switch,” she suggested.

“I’m going to the library!” yelled Jazz, not waiting for an answer before slamming the front door behind her.

Really. What were she and Jack supposed to do about that? Well. They’d have to talk eventually. During dinner, maybe?

“One more time, Maddie, one more time!”

Maddie flipped the switch again. This time, the power turned on, and she smiled with relief. At least something was going right this time.

“Great job, Jack! Now we can check the Fenton Devilry Detector readouts!”

They went down into the lab, where the machinery was still gradually humming to life. Monsters frequently had many natural defenses against observation, going far beyond mere camouflage, so Jack and Maddie had to be as clever about finding them as they were about catching them. Some monsters could only be detected by the oldest technology, others by the newest. Some required brand new inventions.

Jack and Maddie could hardly spend all their time monitoring all that equipment all around town, though, so they’d automated their detectors, and made machines to monitor their machines, and programs to collate the data. It was all very complicated, and sent their electricity bill through the roof. It was worth it, though, to know that even creatures that could only be photographed on archaic silver plate couldn’t evade notice because of it. Especially because the monsters like that had to be full of hubris that they’d never be caught. But they would, one day.

Because the Fentons were prepared.

However, it turned out that such a system didn’t hold up well against ordinary human vandalism, storms, or even time. For example, a machine that operated a polaroid on a timer, then took a picture of the resultant polaroid to send back to the Fentonwork’s servers had many points of failure. As such, Maddie wasn’t surprised to see that the main screen was covered in red OFFLINE notifications.

But visual monitoring wasn’t the only kind. They had others, as well. Things akin to seismometers but for certain kinds of magic. They had microphones and EMF readers but these were not what Maddie was looking for. Maddie was looking for something specific.

Through hard-fought trial and error, she and Jack had discovered something critical: Magic didn’t behave like light. It didn’t, precisely, behave as a gas either. But that analogy was closer.

Magic left traces. Magic built up, and magic lingered. They might not be able to watch everything across the city, but when they needed to look for evidence of foul play, they could compare readings in the local ambient magic.

It was this system, that Jack had named the Fenton Devilry Detector, in honor of his ancestor, whose writings had given them the foundation for its construction, that Maddie and Jack rebooted now.

There were no overnight readings logged, an unfortunate consequence of their lab being offline. But the system had been functional right up until the power outage, and what the graphs showed was unmistakable.

“It’s centered right on the house,” said Maddie, tracing the massive spike in detected magic with one finger. Although, calling it a spike might have been inaccurate. Magic levels around Fentonworks in particular, and even Amity Park in general, had always been high, and had been building gradually for months - no doubt due to the monsters that used it finally recognizing Jack and Maddie as a threat. This, though… This was far in excess of even that. This was a sudden, severe change that, if Maddie was reading this right, had pulsed in time with the storm overhead.

It could only be an attack.

An attack, not only on Jack and Maddie, but their family.

Maddie picked at her lower lip, already trying to determine the best way to safeguard her children. Keeping them both home until they figured everything out would be… Well, it would be ideal, but the government wouldn’t see it that way, and from historical evidence, neither would Jazz and Danny. (Especially, Jazz, right now. After last night’s fight, Maddie had no idea where she stood with her daughter.) And whoever had attacked had clearly known about Fentonworks, and had known how to get around at least some of their protections. Talismans might work, if they could get the kids to wear them… Capturing the monsters would be better, but despite Jack’s confidence, they couldn’t count on that yet.

She itched at her elbow.

At least the kids would be safe during the day.

Jack groaned loudly, and started vigorously scratching his stomach. “I don’t know about you, Maddie, but I think some water got into my suit. It’s definitely not sensitive skin safe anymore, oh boy!”

“I have noticed some itching this morning,” Maddie frowned. “I was hoping it was only my suit that had failed. If yours has too, it might be a materials issue. Why don’t we set these aside for testing?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice!” Jack said, cheerful despite still itching at his stomach. Maddie pulled out two new jumpsuits for them, checking to see when they’d last been inspected and had their various protections redone.

Jack pulled out several pieces of testing equipment. He had to pause a couple times to rub his back against the corner of the wall like a bear scratching on a tree. Maddie frowned and hurried to get Jack a new suit. She could feel the itch spreading as well, and had to stop herself from starting to scratch at her neck.

She passed Jack his new jumpsuit, and went to go change in the small decontamination chamber’s locker room. She took a bag in with her, and placed her defective suit inside. Whatever was wrong with it, they didn’t want it to get even more contaminated before they had a chance to analyze it, and they didn’t want whatever had caused it to break down to spread.

Also, they’d been up all night, and they needed to sleep. Leaving the damaged jumpsuits and trusting they’d just remember which ones they were was just tempting trouble.

Maddie inspected her skin. There was a slight rash, but nothing terribly alarming. Still, better to be safe than sorry. She picked up the Fenton Decontamination and Exfoliation Wash, a body wash she and Jack had developed that was designed to purge negative magical influences. It itself contained ‘magical’ substances, but, well, decontamination procedures were never perfect.

For more severe cases of contamination, for example, being struck directly by an effect, or ensnarement by one of the more infectious monsters they knew to exist, there were other measures. Some simple, if tedious, like smudging or ritual purification, others… more dangerous, if not less necessary.

It was important to plan for such things, in as dangerous a line of work as they had chosen.

She lathered it over the first the rash, and then the rest of her body. Something had gotten through the protections of the suit enough to irritate her skin at the joints. It was likely trace amounts had found their way elsewhere, and she just hadn’t reacted yet.

It was best to be thorough, with these things.

The wash stung as she rubbed it into the irritated skin, like aloe vera on sunburn.

She stepped out of the shower, patting her hair dry. Jack was still in, and she decided to wait for him. As tired as she was, she didn’t want to touch any of their more involved projects. This wasn’t the first time she’d pulled an all-nighter, but she and Jack hadn’t slept much lately. Preparations for the eclipse were taking longer than they’d expected. Tools disappeared or were misplaced. Plans were miscommunicated or derailed by distractions. Rather, that’s what seemed to be happening on the surface.

Not for the first time, she wondered if someone was interfering deliberately. Or rather, how many were, and who.

Some of the monsters they’d gotten ahold of had told them things in an effort to weasel out of what was coming. Nothing that could be trusted implicitly, of course. Every monster was a practiced liar, even the ones that couldn’t. Especially the ones that couldn’t.

(There were ways to lie, she knew, while technically telling the truth.)

But enough to wonder, especially about certain more active members of the infestation creeping in this town.

Like Phantom.

Her eyes wandered up to a poster she and Jack had pinned to the wall a few weeks ago. It had been part of a presentation they’d made hoping they could convince the children that monsters, especially fairies, especially that one that loitered around the school, no doubt hoping to find easy kidnapping victims, weren’t to be trusted.

The poster featured a mock up of what their research suggested fairies of that type really looked like under the glamours. The small monsters appeared pretty and harmless, but that appearance was much like the lure of an anglerfish, designed only to draw in victims.

Fairies were small, ugly, insectoid things. Their bodies were segmented, covered in hair-like filaments and exoskeletal plates. Their mouths were grotesqueries that fused canine-like teeth with oversized mandibles. Their wings, instead of being brightly patterned, were likely drab, tattered things, possibly even covered with oily, beetle-like wing cases. Instead of hands, they had long, scythe-like claws that lacked an opposable digit entirely. Even their large eyes, so good at conveying innocence, were in truth more like the bulging, compound eyes of a fly.

Without magic and humans to deceive with it, fairies would be no better than cockroaches. Small, useless things, scuttling in the dark.

But they did have magic, and they did use it to trick humans. Especially human children, which even so-called fairy tales agreed were their favorite prey.

The fairy in the poster was a fairy like that, drawn in detail by Jack and labeled lovingly by Maddie. Jazz and Danny had barely looked at it before dismissing it.

(Her kids had been so dismissive of their work, lately. Everything she and Jack did was met with disbelief. They were nearly scornful of it.)

Maddie sighed and turned away– Then froze. She’d thought– But, no, it had just been a warped reflection in the glass of one of the older computer monitors. They really needed to find a better place for that.

Before she could start to compile a list of better places, Jack came out of the shower, towel wrapped around his head. She smiled. She remembered when Vlad taught them how to do that, back in college.

“Man,” said Jack. “I’m beat. Makes you wish monsters knew what bedtime was, huh?”

“Now, now, Jack,” said Maddie playfully, “if they knew what bedtime was, they wouldn’t stay out where we could catch them half as often.” She patted his shoulder and hid a wince as her suit dragged painfully against the rash at her shoulder. “Let’s get to bed. We’ll be ready to take on all the monsters in the world when we get up.”

Maddie was not ready to take on all the monsters in the world when she woke up. She must have strained herself much more than she’d thought before bed. She hadn’t even run for all that long. But clearly, her muscles disagreed. They protested as she reached for her alarm clock, and she contemplated simply returning to sleep.

But that had never helped with muscle soreness in her experience, and she wanted to catch at least some of the remaining afternoon light, sodden as it was. The work was worth it, of course. But Maddie had never taken well to nocturnal hours on the occasions they’d been required. She’d always been more of an early bird than Jack, and daylight had always made her feel more balanced. She left both her earplugs and her sleeping husband in the bedroom and padded downstairs.

The bottom floor was deserted. The house was quiet with the door to their bedroom shut, and light filtered through the windows in the living room. The couch with its soft cushions was inviting, but Maddie went up the stairs to the roof. There, she settled on the damp edge of the cornice and took a sip, waiting for it to return life to her body.

The kids were probably still out. Maddie could see that Jazz’s car was gone, and Danny loved spending time with his friends.

Despite the stresses of the last day, Maddie smiled. That boy and his friends. They really were as thick as thieves, always out doing something or other. Or in. She couldn’t quite understand the appeal of shooting demons in a video game when you could be going out and doing it in the real world, but she more than approved of the sentiment.

She itched at the crook of her elbow, then pulled a face. Rubbing already irritated skin would only make it worse, even with the soft lining of her jumpsuit.

She finished her coffee, then did some stretches to help with the soreness before returning downstairs. She was hungry, and Jack would be too when he woke. Maybe she could order out Chinese?

She certainly didn't feel like cooking—she could admit, to herself, that she wasn't great at it. She idly opened the drawer with all the local menus, and started digging for the Chinese menu. Her fingers, she noted, ached slightly with the movement.

In fact, she was still pretty sore all over, the stretching having only helped for a short while.

Ah, well. It would fade. It always did. She shook some stiffness out of her joints and dialed the place.

A few minutes later, she went back upstairs to nudge Jack awake. It always took him a little bit to drag himself out of bed, and if he started now he might be downstairs by the time the food arrived.

Maddie didn’t bother saying his name as she pushed open the door; she’d never seen Jack wake to a sound for as long as they’d been married. Instead, she opened the blinds, pulled the blankets down, peeled his sleeping mask off, and–

…frowned.

There was a rash around his eyes. More, it didn’t look like any rash she’d ever seen.

She shook him.

“Bwuh,” Jack said, face screwed up as he grappled with wakefulness.

“Jack,” she said. “There’s something on your face.”

“Sleeping mask,” he said, and tried rolling over.

She didn’t let him. “Jack,” she repeated. “I think the rash is getting worse.”

"Feels worse," he said. "Think'm dying."

"Jack Fenton, you are not dying."

"How do you know," said Jack. "I hurt all over."

"So do I. We're sick, Jack. Not dying." She hoped.

"Brave woman. Steel will. S'no wonder I married you. Be a fool not to."

Maddie sighed in exasperation and fondness. That was Jack for you, still complimenting her while claiming to be on his deathbed.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she said.

"It got me you."

"Jaaack," Maddie said. "Fine, you flatterer. What do you want?"

"Five more minutes?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm setting a timer." Maddie got up to leave, and paused in the doorway. "If you're not up by the time dinner gets here, I'm eating your orange chicken."

A few minutes later, Maddie heard the stairs creak under Jack's feet. A few moments later he appeared in the kitchen doorway, slumped dramatically against the frame.

"Maddie," he said. "I think we've been cursed."

Maddie put another glass away. "Why?" she asked.

"No illness could lay Jack Fenton low like this," he said, too strained to say it with his usual excitement.

"Except for the flu eight years ago," Maddie gently reminded him.

"That was pixies."

"Mmmm," said Maddie, unwilling to start that argument again while nursing a full body ache. She’d checked. Multiple times. It had been the flu, and not anything supernatural.

"And this feels too sudden. And so soon after the attack on our generator..."

"Mmmm," Maddie said again, but with a much different tone.

Jack had a point. On the other hand, running around in the rain at all hours was a much more mundane explanation. They weren’t as young as they used to be. And while their suits should have protected them from the cold and damp, they already knew the material had failed to protect them in at least one way.

"Maybe," she said at last. "Why don't we run those tests once the food gets here? The kids aren't home, so we could eat in the lab."

Jack laughed, but there was a pained edge to it. “Yeah, no Jazz to scold us, huh? Ah. Hah.”

Maddie pressed her lips into a thin line. “Hopefully, they’ll be back soon,” she said, rather than addressing what Jack was clearly thinking. With how upset Jazz was, it was more likely that she’d give them the cold shoulder than scold them.

Or maybe not. It was becoming apparent that she didn’t know her daughter as well as she’d thought. Either of her children, really, she reflected, thinking back on some of Danny’s… odder behavior, recently. She didn’t understand it at all.

They really needed to have that talk.

“Right!” said Jack, finally managing an exclamation point. “To the lab to figure out what felonious fairy is behind our feeble feelings!”

Oh, Jack. He always knew how to cheer Maddie up.

Down to the lab they went.

Usually, the lab felt welcoming. It was as familiar and lived-in to Maddie as the living room upstairs. Usually, the clean lighting, clutter, occult diagrams, and metal tables were just as much a comfort as the dozens of experiments plugging, percolating, or maturing away on the tables. It always felt like protection. It always felt like progress. Progress of knowledge, of their bulwark against the things that stalked the night.

But tonight Maddie felt all of the weight of dirt, concrete, and metal overhead, pressing down, as if to bury them alive.

Ominous and suffocating.

Like a coffin.

Maddie took a deep breath. She hated being sick.

“Ooh,” said Jack. “This is a bad curse. We’ve got to figure it out right away!”

"What makes you say that?" Maddie asked.

"Queasy," said Jack. "And I think my claustrophobia is kicking in. I forgot I had that, after that one time we had that abandoned mine dropped on us."

"I'm feeling that, too." Maddie frowned. But what would trigger those memories? Why would a curse give them a rash and a mild case of claustrophobia? Maybe the creature that cursed them just hadn’t been very strong. Or maybe the curse had been stronger, but their protections had deflected most of it.

Or it wasn't a curse. They hadn't confirmed it yet, after all. And there was more than one way for monsters to hurt humans.

They pulled the suits out of storage. Preparations were interrupted by the arrival of food, but shortly they had takeout boxes at one table, and their compromised suits on another.

(As Jack said, if those monsters thought they’d be stopped by this, they had another thing coming.)

Jack, eagerly following his theory, was assembling their collection of more occult and mystical devices. Most of them would have limited utility in examining the suits, but… Maddie sighed, fondly. Jack would get everything sorted out. From outside, his process might seem chaotic, but he always got fascinating results.

Maddie, for her part, had on her set of magnifying goggles and was going over the inside of her suit inch by inch, starting with the edges and seams. With gloves, of course. While she was assuming the cause of the rash was irritation due to water getting inside the suit lining, assumptions didn’t rule out other causes, like unexpected chemical reactions, or even the curse Jack was so sure of.

So far she hadn’t found any tears. If there weren’t any, she’d take samples of the inner lining to test for common skin irritants. That would be truly tedious work. There were enough chemical irritants in the world that it was quite possible that she’d never figure it out, and have to leave it as a mystery… Unless it also happened to another suit. That would be an unacceptable mystery, and a real danger to herself and Jack.

“Maddie!”

“Hm?” said Maddie, looking up. She experienced a moment of vertigo, and raised her hand to remove her magnifying goggles. “What is it?”

“Look!” He pointed, and Maddie traced his finger to the Fenton branded All-Things-Thaumaturgy Amplified Quantifier.

Maddie inhaled sharply. “Is that…?”

“That’s the reading for the suit,” said Jack, gesturing with the modified microphone attached to the Quantifier. He pointed it at himself, and the line on its graph leapt into the stratosphere. “And that’s me.”

Maddie cursed softly under her breath. “Let me take a look at my readings,” she said, rolling her chair over.

They were the same.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” asked Jack. “This isn’t an instant curse. This is something that’s stuck, and stuck hard.”

Maddie leaned back in her chair, musing over the readings. There was an urgency building in her, but she had to think. Curses were dangerous, wild things, governed by the will and wording of the one who cast it. Curses that didn’t show up immediately, that stuck and built, were especially dangerous—and unpredictable. They weren’t easy to get rid of, nor were they easy to understand.

They had to be methodical about this. They had to find out the nature of the curse, and who cast it. She steeled herself, and looked back at her husband.

”Alright,” said Maddie, “we can narrow down the kind of curse… or at least diagnose the symptoms. From there, we can cross-reference cures, loopholes, and probable perpetrators with our library.”

“Well, feeling awful is one,” said Jack. “Plus the claustrophobia.”

“Maybe a cave or tunnel based creature, then? Like with the mine?” Maddie shook her head. “That doesn’t line up with the storm. And I don’t know why something like that would give us rashes of all things.” She set her elbow on the work bench and leaned forward. “Speaking of which, I really don’t like the look of the rash around your eyes. If we can’t figure out the cause, soon, we might have to focus on stopping the spread.”

“Rash around my eyes?” repeated Jack. He walked over to one of the sinks, and peered into the mirror. “What rash around my eyes?”

He jolted a bit, when he looked into the mirror. The rash had spread, past the rounds of his goggles. It drifted down his cheekbones, climbed his forehead, and was thicker around his eyes themselves. Concern shot down Maddie’s spine—she hadn’t realized how bad it’d gotten. It still didn’t look like any rash she’d seen before. It wasn’t red or inflamed, but it was undeniably a rash. The fact that it had gotten worse, despite showers and new suits, was alarming.

“Oh,” Jack said, blinking in the mirror. He snapped on a new glove, and gently touched the rash. “This is not a good look! Is this a reaction from the curse’s magic with our suits?”

Maddie hummed, even as she grabbed a sterile swab, and a new set of gloves for herself. She stepped over to Jack, running the swab over the rash before putting it into the sterile test tube.

“Maybe,” she said finally. “Take a sample from your goggles, and let’s see if there’s an environmental factor—this rain has been relentless.”

Jack did so, with much less of his usual gusto. Maddie couldn’t blame him—she felt tired and weighed down. Despite having slept for so long, and barely doing anything in the lab, she felt she could easily take another nap.

She couldn’t. They couldn’t. With the eclipse coming, and a curse to solve, they didn’t have time for more sleep. If they couldn’t fix the curse by the time the eclipse arrived, everything they’d worked for would be lost. This was literally a once in a lifetime opportunity!

They had to keep moving, to figure this out.

“Some dastardly monster thinks they can stop us,” Jack muttered, not able to get his usual volume. “A curse has never stopped a Fenton, and it won’t now.”

Maddie smiled to herself, even as she ran tests on the sample she’d taken from Jack’s rash. They wouldn’t be stopped.

Whatever evil being had cursed them, they’d soon regret it!

The curse was harder to pin down than expected. Usually it was a place that was afflicted with these sorts of monsters- cursing actual people took much more power and nefarious intent.

Even so, curses generally exerted their power through something. Effigies. Inscriptions. Sound. Blood. Sometimes more than one. If they could find that part of the curse, destroy that part of the curse, then the curse would start to unravel.

But they hadn’t found anything. Not yet.

At least they had been able to rule out the whole family being a target. Much as Jazz and Danny did their best to duck lifesaving checks, they got enough readings to feel a weight lift from their hearts. It was bad enough that some foul beast was after them without it threatening their children.

Danny’s readings were still uncomfortably high, but not in a new way. Jazz almost seemed like she might also be a target, but her contamination levels plummeted while theirs crept higher. Neither child was struggling with itches or food going foul in their mouths, a huge relief. They could put their whole attention on solving the curse much faster when not at risk of endangering the kids further.

A few days later, Maddie sighed as she took the final step down into the lab, and immediately headed into the corner to peel her wet jumpsuit off.

The rain was heavy today, coming down in fat, icy droplets that sank into the jumpsuit's cloth and stayed there, chilling the skin. By the time she'd finished setting up the battery of traps in the park woodlands, she'd felt icy herself and had been hard pressed to keep her hands steady against the cold.

The curse had made them allergic to the Fenton patented anti-moisture, sweat-wicking formula for sensitive skin, which wouldn't be a huge problem–except it was how they'd waterproofed all their jumpsuits. They'd had to switch to unfinished jumpsuits without the coating–and therefore, without the wet weather protection.

Needless to say, Maddie was looking forward to warming up.

A hot decontamination shower and a toweling later, she reached for a fresh jumpsuit–and froze.

The skin of her arm hadn't changed much from that morning. It was still the same scaly, angry red that covered most of her extremities. But there was something off about the movement of her forearm.

Slowly this time, Maddie repeated the action, making sure to watch her forearm as she did.

There.

It was smooth.

Not the skin. The skin was still rough from the rash. But beneath it–beneath it. Her forearm was smooth.

Maddie was a woman of science, but she was also a woman of action. She trained regularly, she kept herself fit enough to keep up with the human wrecking ball that was Jack. She fought using any number of weapons but liked staves especially, which gave her exceptional muscle development in her forearms.

She fluttered her fingers, and the back of her forearm remained motionless.

Maddie was a woman of action, and her forearm should have had enough muscle definition to see the individual muscles controlling the extension of each finger.

Should have. Usually, did have.

It did not.

Eyes could be fooled, especially while cursed. Instead of making assumptions, she let science find the truth.

The scanner showed dense plates of tissue forming beneath their skin.

They made a grocery run before the curse worsened. They didn't know how bad it would get, after all, and this way they wouldn't need to worry about food for a little while.

Jack was silent in the checkout line. Maddie felt stares prickle at her skin and pretended not to notice the way the cashier's eyes darted to the rash crawling up Maddie's cheek.

When they left, the rain was still coming down in a quiet rush. The sensation of droplets trailing down her face flared into burning when they made contact with the rash. With Jack unable to be as boisterous as he normally was, it felt like they’d lost the sun twice over. The burning pain was an unwelcome substitute in the gloom.

There was something watching them from reflections. It skittered in the corners of their vision, always careful, never quite slow enough to properly see. Or to shoot at.

Maddie saw the nebulous shadow of it in her peripheral vision as she soldered some final details on another set of traps, and pretended she had not.

Belatedly, she felt the hairs of her neck prickle.

She set the piece she was working on to the side, and reached for another, concentrating on the corners of her vision hard enough to make her eyes ache. After a moment, she eased her thumb off the on switch. She didn't need to stab herself with a fully heated soldering iron while trying to finally get a good look at the thing cursing them.

Quietly, she mimed continuing with her work, setting aside a few more pieces as she waited. It shouldn't have been convincing, but the shadow lingered. Apparently, it could be fooled. Good to know. She could make out more details, now. Too many appendages, too long. Huge, larger than she was.

A smear of red where the eyes would be. Similar, then, to Phantom's true form.

Maddie thought of her gun, holstered at her side.

Maddie thought of empathetic magic, and their research on how it might work. On how they thought that something projecting an image elsewhere might still be vulnerable to harm done to the reflection.

Finally, Maddie thought about the curse.

In one smooth blur she dropped the soldering iron, grabbed the gun, took aim, and fired at the thing cursing them–

And was left lightheaded from the sudden rush of adrenaline, arm out and gun pointed at–

At the charred divot in the sheet metal armoring the walls of the lab, directly in the center of her own head's reflection.

Nothing.

It was nothing.

But–if Phantom or something like it was channeling this magic through reflections, through their reflections, maybe that was something.

Maybe it could be disrupted.

They covered mirrors, painted the stainless steel of the laboratory walls, even hid glass.

It didn't work.

The first time it happened, they thought it was a fluke. A result of improper weapons safety due to their single minded focus on the curse. Jack had placed one of their newer weapons on the table, a thing of gleaming metal, automatic aim, salt and iron ammunition, and an alert function. It was as yet unnamed, but compact and efficient. It was a favorite of Maddie’s.

But Jack had placed it down, and Maddie had found herself catching a glimpse of a red laser, hearing the humming whine of the auto aim—and she ducked, just in time for the weapon to lose its target. Just in time for it not to fire.

Jack had been horrified. He’d checked the weapon over a dozen times, and nothing had seemed amiss.

They concluded it was either an accidental slip that had primed the weapon, and something possibly needing adjustment in its targeting code.

They moved on with their research on the curse.

The hair on Maddie’s head came off in chunks.

At least, the hair that didn't thicken and stiffen until she had a twin set of antennae emerging from her forehead.

They kept the blinds closed. When a package delivery came, Maddie signed for it with her hood up.

The second time it happened, it was something simple. She’d needed a break from their research, from the headache she genuinely couldn’t tell if it was from the curse or from the stress of it. She couldn’t think straight, and as much as it rankled, she knew she’d be useless in doing more research.

She’d pulled out some simple protections and a couple of small net projects. They needed nets of various sizes for the upcoming eclipse, and while Jack liked to show off with the large ones, Maddie did enjoy weaving together the smaller ones.

The net itself was itchy against her skin, but it was made of a new weave of fibers, embedded with near gossamer iron and silver. There was also a new mix of herbs she’d had some luck with, but she needed to mix up more to soak the net in.

With the net on her lap, and the various herbs around her, she’d begun to mix.

And had managed to spill some of the garlic, sage, St. John’s Wort, and yarrow mixture on her hands and down her arms.

It had taken her several moments of frustrated clean up for her to realize what was happening—and for the pain to kick in.

The mixture was burning her, and where she’d touched the net felt raw and prickly.

Her stomach sank as she moved robotically over to the sink.

Just how deep did this curse run?

Breaking mirrors was bad luck. Fortunately, it was unnecessary when you had a sandblaster. It even worked on steel.

The third time, Maddie clutched the toilet, thinking, thinking, trying to think of what she might have eaten, what she might have done to feel like this. They’d barely been out of the house. It had to be the curse again. Was this it? Had it been taking her through this horrible transformation only to kill her like a stomach bug? She hadn’t eaten anything she didn’t eat all the time.

The ingredients. Pasta, tomatoes, onions, garlic–

Garlic.

Like in the mixture that had burned her so badly only a few days ago.

Jack's hair was wiry, and too stiff. Too thick.

They had only two leads. What was happening to their reflections and what was happening to themselves. They didn’t want to let the curse run its course, didn’t want to see the form it ultimately took, so, when covering or defacing the mirrors didn’t work, they studied them.

When viewed straight on, their reflections seemed… not normal, not with what was happening to them, but not otherwise supernaturally altered. But from the corners of their eyes, they were more. More changed. More alien. More monstrous.

Maddie and Jack designed new machines, new tools for measurement, new methods. They compared the readings of mirrors that were reflecting them to mirrors that were not. They set cameras to record their reflections. They argued and built and tested and…

And all they knew for sure was that mirrors were involved somehow.

Entering the kitchen was like walking headfirst into a wall of acidic fumes. They had to throw out some of the herbs with tongs, and their eyes and noses burned for hours after.

Among all their tests, all their increasingly frantic research, the house became a minefield. Weapons began to track them with increasing frequency, alarms went off when they entered the house or the grounds. It felt like every fifteen minutes they got a new alert on their phones, on their equipment about monsters in their house.

No matter how many times they searched, or how well, they never found a thing.

No one but themselves.

Jazz was out of the house for hours at a time. Danny had become a shadow, fluttering in and out at odd times.

Maddie tried, several times, to talk to her daughter but it seemed something got in the way every time. A new alarm would go off, or a weapon would malfunction and start to aim, or Maddie would forget and reach for something and feel the burn of herbs or certain metals.

As the days went on and the curse worsened, so too did things around the house. Every protection they had built into the very walls of their home was now a weapon against them.

Maddie feared they were running out of time.

Maddie scratched absently at the rash covering most of their bodies, and felt skin slide.

Her hair didn't.

Her hair didn't, and through it she could feel the texture of the flesh sloughing off, suddenly too loud, too wet, too much too much too much.

When she emerged from the shower, her arms and hands were segmented. Behind her, the shower looked like a crime scene.

(After that, they had to shut down the internal alarms—they were nothing but a never ending shriek, and neither she nor Jack could figure out how to make it stop targeting them but still protect their home.)

They did research. Not the scientific kind of research that they liked best, but delving through old and unreliable secondary and tertiary sources, trying to pick out strands of truth from among the razor-wires of misunderstandings and outright fabrication. Some books, Maddie hadn’t picked up since Danny was born.

One had ‘good’ fairies. That other had humans inadvertently casting curses on their family members. The one she’d just discarded had talked about monsters that had once been human, when Maddie knew that was impossible. None of their data supported such a transformation.

But it didn’t matter what their data supported when this was happening to them. When their appearances were so warped that they’d resorted to communicating to their children solely through notes and text messages. When so many of the protective wards they’d built up around their more sensitive or more dangerous equipment made them shy away.

They were desperate. It showed.

They tried dozens of cutesy neopagan countercharms. They worked through purification rituals with limited or even singular attestation. They pulled out screwdrivers and hammers and systematically removed and broke every mirror in the house and the MAV, despite the years of bad luck common wisdom claimed they should get with each one.

It didn’t work. None of it worked.

When Jack's eyes began to bulge from his sockets, growing until they were the size of tennis balls, it was no longer a surprise but a horrible confirmation: Phantom had cursed them to become like him.

It was a foul, monstrous trick befitting a wolf in child’s clothing like Phantom. They knew they weren’t monsters, not ‘fae’, but whatever magic it had woven was enough to convince their own eyes and tools. In a home primed and ready to fight off all foul creatures of the shadows, that was no small danger. There were safeguards they could no longer safely disable.

At this rate, they’d be unable to even stay in their own home.

#danny phantom #maddie fenton dp #jack fenton dp #ectoberhaunt23 #day 19 #claws #cw body horror #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite

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jackdraw-spwrite · 1 year

Text

The Horologist's Paradox

Sometimes, most times, things are good. Daniel is happy living in Long Now, and Clockwork is happy to have him.

Others…

Time alone can't heal all wounds. Even if Clockwork wishes otherwise.

Characters: Clockwork, Danny Fenton

Other Information: There's some implied but ambiguous Bad Things in the past but nothing explicit, Bring Your Own Tragic Past style. This is basically a comfort/fluff fic with some angst and an inhuman Clockwork with some soft, but very unsettling thoughts.

Words: 4394

You can read it on AO3 or below the readmore:

Long Now's workshop was a quiet place. With the door shut, the outside world faded away. The only sounds remaining were those of a few clocks lining a wall, and those Clockwork himself made. It needed to be isolated. If it were not, the movement of the gargantuan mechanisms of Long Now would disturb the delicate work Clockwork did within.

At the moment, that delicate work was mounting bearings in the back plate of a new clock movement. Clockwork floated at a work table in his smallest form. He had the cleverest fingers and steadiest hands like this, and so it was the form he preferred for finely detailed work.

To his right lay a sprawling array of gear wheels, ratchet arms, springs, hammers, racks, and other shining pieces. To his left was the blank front plate. The back plate sat before him dotted with a constellation of holes, drilled and pressed to fit the design of his latest clock movement.

And just to its side was a small collection of rubies, carefully cut to size and purpose. Clockwork held another with a child-sized pair of tweezers. In the steady light of the workshop, it shone like a miniscule grape.

Delicately, Clockwork manipulated the bearing so it rested face up in an empty hole. With a tiny tap, it settled the rest of the way into the hole. With a trip to the jewel press, it was stuck firmly and precisely in place, and with another eight bearings the back plate was complete.

It was a job well done. He leaned back to enjoy the way the ruby bearings flared a brilliant red in the light of his work lamp.

It soothed a certain restless dissatisfaction in him to work on projects like this, with such clear and unambiguous solutions despite their intricacy.

The workshop was a place Clockwork retreated to when his fingers and core itched to fix, but his responsibilities demanded he leave things broken. What was best for the integrity of the timestream was not always best for those who lived within it, and there were times that the difference rankled.

Thus, the workshop.

It was full of countless helpful things for creating and fixing clockwork of all sizes; jewelry saws and polishing grit and oil. It had metal of many kinds, and gems for bearings. There was a forge. There were tweezers, and engravers, and more exotic metalworking tools more familiar to inhabitants of the ghost zone than humans. It was a large collection.

It was a large workshop. He could spend days in it at a time. On a few occasions, he had.

But for now, it was a good stopping place for the evening. The timestream was not his only responsibility, and another would soon need his attention.

He was just fixing his cloak in place when Daniel knocked at the door. His hair was stuck in awkward tufts. He'd spent too long thinking with his fingers woven through it again.

"Hungry?" Clockwork asked, and Daniel nodded.

The short trip down to the kitchen was just long enough to ask Daniel about his day.

"My math homework is impossible, I swear. There's this variable that I'm supposed to solve for and there's literally no solution. I'd just put that down but she clearly said there was a solution but I might not find it."

Clockwork hummed as they entered the kitchen, well aware that Daniel's next lesson would be on complex numbers. "It seems she may be right, then."

"I don't want her to be right, I want to be right." Daniel slouched against one of the pantry doors and let his head thump against it. "Why can't I be right?"

"You know," Clockwork said, setting the soup to warm on the stove, "Sometimes I find it illuminating to look ahead."

"Yeah, well I don't have time powers."

"Why would you need them?"

Behind him, Daniel's aura wrinkled in confusion.

Clockwork grinned. Daniel really did miss charmingly obvious solutions sometimes.

It took a few more moments for Daniel to puzzle out what Clockwork meant, during which Clockwork pulled the frying pan from its hook and set that to heat as well.

And enjoyed Daniel's thinking frown. His eyebrows made it a very good one.

Alas, it came to an end. With a muttered "oh," Daniel perked up.

"After dinner," Clockwork said before Daniel could leave to read the next section of his textbook.

Daniel made a second little "oh" noise at the reminder of why they were in the kitchen, and trotted to Clockwork's elbow to peer around him at the stovetop. Clockwork stole the opportunity to ruffle his hair despite the dismayed groan he received in return.

He gave the soup a stir and returned his attention to the frying pan. They wouldn't be having anything extravagant tonight, just something warm and familiar. Clockwork had sneaked in a little extra ectoplasm to the soup, hidden under the tomatoes' more familiar acidity. Just right for a young ghost.

"Do you mind getting out some bread and cheese?" Clockwork asked before explaining, "For the grilled cheese."

Danny stepped away briefly, and there was the sound of a cupboard being opened and many loaves of bread being shifted around.

Clockwork flicked butter into the frying pan and watched it melt.

One of the benefits of Clockwork's baking hobby was that they had many varieties of bread to choose from. One of the benefits of his time powers was that he could suspend time in most of his cupboards until they were opened.

The loaf Daniel set on the counter was a pillowy brioche, still warm to the touch from the oven it had left both a week and minutes earlier. The cheese followed, and then a cutting board and bread knife.

"Thank you," Clockwork said.

Daniel nodded, already busy slicing the loaf into pieces before grabbing the butter and claiming the heels as a food preparation tax. He stuffed one of them into his mouth, chewing blissfully.

Clockwork huffed a laugh at the sight even as his core thrummed with pleasure. Even after years, It was still so good to see Daniel take such clear enjoyment from something he'd made.

The bread sizzled in the frying pan. Clockwork nudged it to keep it from crisping–Daniel preferred the cheese melted but the bread soft, so it would stay in the pan just long enough to warm through and to melt the cheese.

Behind him, Daniel set the table.

"Thank you," said Clockwork again.

Daniel was silenced by a mouthful of the second heel but his aura brightened, flooding briefly with something that danced between starlight and specks of sunlight reflected from snow.

Minutes later, soup steamed in bowls on the little kitchen table. A small collection of sandwiches sat at its center.

Clockwork watched Daniel tear into the meal with all the fervor of the growing boy he hadn't been since the portal. He spooned his own soup at a more sedate pace, watching. The meal was mostly for Daniel’s benefit; Clockwork needed little food. But he liked to keep Daniel company, and to watch.

And to think.

Another sandwich vanished, first off the stack and then into Daniel.

Clockwork watched it go.

There was a curious stubbornness to the way Daniel chewed. It wasn't as though he were mannerless. But Daniel was solid in a way that tended to set teeth on edge and raise hackles, and that solidity included his teeth. When he chewed, it was with a rigid jaw and human teeth, and the result was something which was both and neither crushing his food as humans did and absorbing the energy of it as a ghost.

It was an odd conflict.

It came with the territory of being half-human, Clockwork knew.

Daniel was present in a way other ghosts were not; his bones were many and solid, and they rarely bent or vanished. The solid shapes beneath his skin and sinew, the way his limbs flexed only at joints: these were strange to see in the ghost zone. Most ghosts would bend bones for emphasis, or even go without entirely and enjoy a fluid existence. For ghosts, rigidity was a thing of the previous world, and more particularly one thing every member of the Dead instinctively knew: the hardening shell of rigor mortis.

To them, half humans evoked a corpse, puppeteered.

Few appreciated such a visceral reminder of desecrated graves. Fewer still found it anything but off-putting.

But Clockwork had always been good at seeing as others did not. Daniel's bones were solid, yes. Their presence was as sure and steady as the stones of Long Now. They were as solid as its gears, and there lay the heart of Clockwork's wonder. His bones were light and sculpted with slight curves, and yet offered him strength. His joints were simple machines.

It was a beautiful thing.

Clockwork never tired of seeing the flex of tendons over bone, nor of seeing Daniel's bones and muscle dance just under the surface of his skin.

And yet.

When he reached over the table, Daniel's sleeve rode up just enough for the white of a scar to show, long and straight and stubborn.

There were others.

They were more hidden. They were not more healed, despite Clockwork's efforts.

Humans required rest and care and time to mend injuries of any significance. Ghosts would not scar from anything they did not consider important. But they needed more than time and rest to mend physical scars of great significance.

And Daniel was neither and both at once. He needed time. He did not. Scars would fade, but only if their significance did, too.

And these scars…

Hours from now, Daniel would come downstairs, eyes heavy from unmet sleep and burning from tears he refused to shed. Clockwork would turn from his screens, and draw him close, and hold him until Daniel's fingers stopped digging like claws into his sides. Until the gasps for air Daniel didn't quite need but never stopped ceased to hiss between his teeth. Until memories too old to be so sharp lost their jagged edges and Daniel's aura soothed.

But that was hours away.

For now, Daniel was enjoying the meal. He was animated, gesturing to emphasize his point as he told Clockwork about his homework and it was true that Clockwork would never tire of the motion of tension and muscles over Daniel's bones.

But there was something sharp and rasping in that motion. Something raw. Something grating that spoke of pain and neglect and deterioration.

Oil, suggested the part of Clockwork that knew days at a time in his workshop, examining tiny cogs and filing imperfections.

He flicked the thought away. It was not oil that Daniel needed.

Not was it solely time.

Daniel's old worries about inadequacy still bit at him sometimes. That was all. The best thing Clockwork could do for that was provide warmth and attention, and make sure Daniel had plenty of opportunities to prove himself in his own eyes. And, perhaps, to change the subject.

"Do you have anything else you need to work on before tomorrow?"

"Just some reading." Daniel dug one end of a sandwich into his soup, intent on soaking as much tomato flavor as possible into the bread. It was a familiar motion by now, and an endearing habit. Sometimes Clockwork joked that Daniel ate most of his soups via sandwich.

"What's it about?"

He nibbled on his own much crunchier sandwich as Daniel replied, and enjoyed the warmth of a meal shared.

---

The library of Long Now was a single, towering room with walls of books that spiraled almost all the way to the top. There were no ladders, no gantries. There was no need: Clockwork's lair shaped itself to suit him, and Clockwork could fly. Even the shelves tucked just beneath the mechanisms crowding the ceiling were in easy reach for him.

After the dishes had been put away and Daniel had vanished back upstairs to wage another battle on the math problem, Clockwork floated through the floor entrance. He selected a book from a pile on the coffee table and settled onto the couch to read.

The novel was from France, but from a timeline where the Umayyad conquest of Hispania had reached farther north. The resulting loan words and synthesized folklore lent the setting a certain subtle novelty. Clockwork wasn't well-acquainted with the resulting cultures; the timelines he tended had diverged from one another only a century or so before. In them, the conquest had reached its limit at the Pyrenees Mountains.

There were nevertheless recognizable threads to the story; The hero's journey was far older than the conquest, after all. Comparing tropes in it to those of his own timelines was a pleasant way to unwind, and Clockwork gladly did so.

The mentions of unfamiliar dishes were tantalizing, too; unusual ways of spicing meats so far north, a far older proliferation of coffee. Clockwork made a mental note to request a cookbook or two from the alternate version of himself who had lent him the book.

Some time later, there was a thump from the staircase outside the door. Daniel bounced in, two parts triumphant and one part vexed.

"What kind of a number is i," he complained.

"An imaginary one," said Clockwork, and turned a page.

Danny huffed, then threw himself down on the couch hard enough that the cushions beneath him huffed too. "A dumb one," he said to himself, quietly enough that Clockwork wasn't meant to hear.

Clockwork glanced at the page number he was on before setting the book aside.

"You did solve it," he pointed out.

Daniel pulled a face. "Yeah, after way too long. Who even assigns homework on a topic they haven't taught yet?!?" With another aggravated noise he flung his head back and scowled at the ceiling.

Clockwork felt a response bubble up from his throat, unfolded the future to find a better one, and–

"Your teacher does," said Clockwork, smoothly. Sometimes the best responses were the natural ones, even if they were mouthy. Daniel knew him well enough to pick up on it when he was cheating his way through a conversation.

Daniel shot him a glare then sighed, scrubbing his face. "Sorry, I'm just. Ugh. That was almost an hour. I have other things to do."

Daniel did; his schedule was far freer here than it had been in the human world but he still had responsibilities.

And priorities. He was a ghost, even if half-human. Among them…

"I will be down here for some time," offered Clockwork, "reading."

A few minutes later, Daniel reappeared with his own book. He settled in next to Clockwork, leaning a little against his shoulder. Clockwork hummed and let his tail coil loosely around Daniel's ankle.

The story progressed. The heroes met strangers on the road and befriended them, got lost in towns, made cunning use of hospitality rules and grew closer and closer to the false Lord who had wronged them all.

He'd just reached the point where one of the heroes betrayed the rest when Daniel closed his book and set it to the side.

Clockwork looked up.

Daniel's lean had become more pronounced, and now his elbow was digging into Clockwork's side. Clockwork shifted so it slipped from between them, earning a sleepy mutter from Daniel.

"Here," said Clockwork after setting his own book to the side. "Lean against me."

"Already was," mumbled Daniel, but slumped until his head rested in the folds of Clockwork's cloak. The weight of it pressed firmly into Clockwork's shoulder, and Clockwork hummed, enjoying the sensation. Like this he could better appreciate Daniel's skull. It was unyielding, full of tiny bumps few ever cared to form when a smooth surface worked just as well.

Clockwork let his hum drift on as a low and soothing lullaby, layering over the sound of Daniel's heartbeat and the rhythm of the clocks in his tower.

In a way, Daniel was one of them.

Humans had a group of cells in their hearts which kept their time, just as a balance spring did for a mechanical watch. It was far less precise for timekeeping but that could be forgiven; its primary use was to other ends.

Daniel's heart beat strangely when he was in this form, fluttering like an insect's wing around his core. It was thin, diaphanous almost and yet, yet, it never quite vanished. And just as he was unaware of the individual bones and muscles animating his greater movements, he was unaware of the churn of his heart, of the undulations of his esophagus and gut.

But they were there, was the incredible thing. They were there without any conscious effort on Daniel's part. Even now that he was half asleep they persisted in their solidity and in their motions, however haphazard their timing.

A ghost with a working heart, marveled Clockwork. A living child who would never grow.

Absently, Clockwork brought his hand up to stroke over the curve of Daniel's skull. Softly, rhythmically, he traced out the ridge cradling Daniel's ear and trailing back to feel the ridge of his inion.

Had Clockwork not been himself, the lumps may have seemed haphazard. But he knew what they were: a wonderfully precise reconstruction of human anatomy that he couldn't help but appreciate the artistry of it.

With a sigh, Daniel's slump became more of a sprawl. The arm Clockwork had slipped from between them flopped onto his lap, elbow opened to a less intrusive angle.

Clockwork turned his attention to it.

The sleeve of Daniel's shirt was bunched, baring his forearm and his hand and wrist, and there was the scar Clockwork had seen earlier. There, too, was why Clockwork had shifted.

The machinery of the human forelimb was delicate, beautiful. It was one of the most intricate structures Daniel maintained.

It was astonishing.

Softly so as not to disturb Daniel, Clockwork took it in his hand and watched as the hand flopped slightly in response to the motion. It was strangely stiff. Many ghosts achieved the flexibility of a wrist by foregoing any rigid structure at all. Leaving out detail was just easier when you didn't require it for strength. Clockwork himself only maintained a solid wrist for stabilization. The precise control required to manipulate the gear wheels of a wristwatch was great, and bearings were more challenging than that.

But Daniel. Daniel.

Clockwork squeezed Daniel's forearm gently and watched the fingers curl.

Pulleys. Daniel had pulleys.

Daniel, and the odd stiffness of his wrist. Daniel, and the lovely hints of structure in his hands.

Daniel's wrist was made of bones. Eight bones, all precisely aligned and shaped to slide against one another for incredible flexibility, considering their presence. And that wasn't all. His hands each held another nineteen, and there was the pulley system animating Daniel's fingers from a collection of muscles in his forearm, and ties keeping it in place. There was a crisscrossing of muscle between each and every metacarpal that would lend a human strength.

Clockwork stroked the lines of Daniel's radius and ulna. They way their forms curved, the way they turned around each other to provide another degree of flexibiliy–

"Cl'wk?" Daniel slurred.

"Yes, Daniel?"

"W'ry'doin?"

What are you doing?

Clockwork leaned to look Daniel in the eye. He'd slid down almost completely into Clockwork's lap by now and seemed about as far in his journey to the land of sleep. One eye was just barely open, and the other was squished shut by his own weight.

Clockwork hummed. "I thought it might feel nice. You feel tense."

Daniel made a vague noise that could have been agreement or could have been calling Clockwork weird, but he never seemed particularly upset if Clockwork continued.

In fact…

Well. Clockwork did want Daniel to rest, and rest well.

He allowed a touch of his own contented energy to seep from his fingertips as he continued to massage Daniel's forearm. It was little surprise when Daniel heaved one last sigh before drifting off completely, aura falling as lax as the rest of him.

It was not the only unwinding. The nightmare which had stood so starkly in the hours ahead began to crumble.

Long after Daniel's breaths smoothed and drew themselves long like ribbons, long after Clockwork's gentle massage fell still, Clockwork stayed where he was, fingers straying to linger over the curve of Daniel's jaw and the hinge joint where it met his skull.

Daniel.

He was so wonderfully mechanical.

Sometimes, Clockwork thought of it like this: he would pick Daniel up as he had so many times before and carry him upstairs. But he would not stop at the door to Daniel's room.

The light of his workshop would already be on, and its tables cleared. Spotless. Ready. It was a large workshop with space for many projects.

But it held only enough space for one masterwork.

Sometimes, Clockwork thought of it like this: he would take Daniel and rest him on a table, with cloth to guard his skin and a pillow to guard his head. And then he would find the screws and clasps that held Daniel closed and ease him open with delicate care.

Gently, carefully.

He would set the pieces of Daniel's case aside somewhere safe and soft, and then he would disassemble the movement of his heart.

Daniel's gears–they wouldn't be plain brass as Clockwork's were. They would be feathered with the ice of his core. And the alloy they were made of would need to be adapted for the colder environment–

Clockwork caught himself.

Daniel was a ghost with a heart.

It clearly hurt him sometimes.

It was in the twist of his mouth, the tension in his fingers and strung across his shoulders. It was as though a gear in his heart would slip from its alignment, and the awful tension would warp the surrounding pieces and make them grind against one another in a way that could only hurt.

In his lap, Daniel breathed softly. Clockwork folded his arm over his chest, where it wouldn't flop haphazardly.

Sometimes, Clockwork thought of it like this:

He would take the movement of Daniel's heart (and oh, what a beautiful work it would be) and he would find the bearing that wasn't quite right. Or he would find the spacing that was wrong, or any of a thousand other reasons for Daniel's hurt.

And he would fix it.

He would carve Daniel a new bearing from a gemstone as blue as his ice, take a hammer and straighten all the gear wheels which had been hurt by the misalignment. He would file off the burrs that caught on Daniel's core and scraped him raw and grieving all over again, and polish each and every tooth until they would glide effortlessly against one another.

And then he would reassemble it. Daniel's mechanisms would run as smoothly as any of Clockwork's own. He would make sure of it. And then, he would do the same for every other part of Daniel. He would examine each and every gear wheel for the cracks which surely hid somewhere, rendering critical parts treacherously weak. He would take the hurt gears and recast them so they were like new. He would run each and every wire through his fingers to check them for fraying and rethread them through Daniel's incredible machinery and work and work until all the gears were polished and straight and shining and all his springs were tensioned. Until each and every bearing shone and Clockwork was sure that no wires would rub or snap, that no burrs would catch and no gears would jump or bump and jam.

And then, then.

He tucked Daniel to his chest, careful not to disturb him as he rose from the couch.

Daniel's identity was still tied so closely to his appearance. But some of his scars pained him. Clockwork would take a needle and thread and patch them. Not so they had never existed, no. Daniel valued his own history nearly as much as Clockwork did. But the scars could be, would be reinforced so they were stronger, less painful. They could be embroidered so they weren't just reminders of an ugly past but also reminders that Daniel was loved, and cared for, and–

Clockwork looked down at Daniel. His pale lashes blended with his skin, barely visible under the mess of hair. He frowned a little in his sleep as Clockwork left the library.

Sometimes, Clockwork thought of it like this: there was a child who had been through too much, and who trusted him. There was a bedroom, and a kitchen, and attention and love.

And in the end, there were no frost-feathered gears in Daniel's chest. Only a core. Only a heart and lungs and other human things, or near enough.

Clockwork adjusted his grip so Daniel's head fell more comfortably against his chest. He'd centered his existence around puzzles that took time and dedication to solve. He had both in spades. He could give both to Daniel.

He had.

He would.

Clockwork yearned for an easy solution to Daniel's hurts so much it hurt, sometimes. A solution like clock repair, like maintaining the vast network of machines which threaded their way through his lair. He would not undo Daniel’s past. But surely, surely he could find the problem and fix it and when Daniel was back together he wouldn’t hurt quite so much anymore.

But, he thought as he drifted up the staircase to Daniel's room, of course Daniel would be as wonderfully mechanical as a timepiece but as flowing as a timeline.

His little paradox.

He pushed through Daniel's bedroom door with telekinesis, and tucked him into bed. If he were still awake Daniel would likely protest about being too old for such things, but he was asleep. Clockwork was allowed to be as doting as he pleased.

He pulled away, then cocked his head. Daniel's nightmare still wavered in the hours ahead, reduced but not vanished from possibility. He nudged the blanket down into a less restricting position, and the nightmare dissolved.

With one last touch to tuck a stray hair away, Clockwork murmured, "Sleep well, Daniel."

And the bedroom door closed with a click.

#danny phantom #danny fenton dp #clockwork dp #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite

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jackdraw-spwrite · 7 months

Text

Funerary Rites, Chapter 4

Words: 3367

Characters: Danny, Clockwork

Warnings: None

For Ectoberhaunt 2023, Day 11 - Dread

It was almost sunrise when Danny gave up on sleep.

The brightening sky swelled the racket of birdsong already outside his window, and Danny dragged his hands over his eyes with a groan. He wanted his bed. He wanted his room and whatever normalcy could be said to live in the Fenton household.

He wanted sleep.

Read the rest on AO3, or below the readmore:

He did not want this. He did not want these strange blankets, these strange rafters under a strange sky, and he wanted to confront the day less than that. In the hollow hours between dusk and dawn, dread had taken root in his belly and now it tangled itself there and slithered up to gnaw at his sternum.

But it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

Resentfully, he rolled himself out of bed, feet landing on the cold floor. Danny grimaced, and fought the urge to pull them back into bed, to curl up and delay the day.

And Caretaker.

Danny grimaced. Maybe that one could wait.

He padded to the window, and found the trees were still monumental shadows in the pre-dawn light. He turned–and his stomach constricted.

There was something dark at the door.

There was something dark on the inside of the door. Inside the threshold.

He'd thought himself safe.

He'd thought, he'd hoped that no one could get inside as long as he was treating it like a bedroom. He'd assumed that with how poorly he'd slept, he would at least get a warning, hear something, even if he didn’t see.

He hadn't.

Caretaker could have opened his door at any time.

He had.

The roots of dread in Danny's gut grew thicker.

If it even was Caretaker. There was the other fae, after all. The one he'd seen with the white cloak in the garden.

He thought he'd been awake. But he hadn't noticed the door opening. If it even had been the door. What if the dark shape was alive? What if it had crawled in through the window?

One step, two. The thing didn’t move. Three, four, shut the door.

The door was already shut.

Fix, six, pick up–

And Danny’s hand touched cloth.

It was cloth.

It was clothes.

Danny found himself back on the bed again, one leg pulled close. He rested his chin on his knee, eyes still locked on the patch of dark on the floor.

It was just new clothes.

Danny waited until his heart calmed and the room brightened enough to make out details before he evaluated the clothes that had appeared in the night. In the long minutes he waited, his mind whirled between the revelation that his room wasn’t secure, wasn’t safe, and wondering how he hadn’t heard or seen the door open when he’d barely slept.

But eventually, the room brightened enough to see.

The floor this time was no less cold, but at least it matched the cold in his gut and and his fingers. Danny pulled the pile apart into shapes, and the cloth slid easily across itself, smooth like water in his hands.

It was…similar, to the previous day’s.

When he finally fumbled the tie on the sash into a knot minutes later, it was after considerable difficulty. The fabric had slipped through his fingers a number of times, and even with the building dawn, the clothes themselves were still dark and hard to see.

Now that they were on, the sensation like water hadn’t faded. They were smooth as silk against his skin. One of his pant legs slithered down a little, and Danny hiked it back up and tightened the knot on the sash. He could figure out what he’d done wrong when he could see better.

And then–

Then, there was only the door.

Caretaker was older, in the morning light.

It was in his stoop, in his cheeks drawn thin. And it was in the wrinkles that had smeared across his face in the night. In places, they folded into deep creases like a crumpled cloth as he looked down at Danny.

But still, none were as dark as his scar.

However deep his wrinkles were, his scar was deeper. However dark, it was darker. It still tore down his face in a jagged line, and his sagging skin only made it longer, though longer still was the stare he gave Danny.

Caught in the doorway, Danny shifted on his feet.

It was barely dawn. The sky was still brightening, and the night's blacks lingered in pockets. They coiled in the overgrown mess of plants and swam in the shadows of Caretaker's hood.

In Danny’s head, they writhed, spelling out the shape of the previous night’s refrain: What did Caretaker want?

Danny wanted to ask.

Danny needed to ask.

But it was as though his tongue were frozen in place, like the dread rooted in his stomach had grown up through his neck and fastened his tongue to the floor of his mouth with tendrils of ice.

What did Caretaker want?

“Greetings,” Caretaker said. His voice hadn’t changed with his age. But then, It never had.

“Morning,” returned Danny.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Caretaker.

“No.”

“No?” The creases in Caretaker's forehead deepened. "Did you find your accommodations uncomfortable?"

Uncomfortable.

Danny stared at him. Incredulity sparked through his mind.

“You snuck into my room.”

“Snuck–the clothes?”

“Yes, the clothes!” Danny pulled at his shirt.

“I just placed them inside the door so you would find them,” said Caretaker. “I would be a poor host if I didn’t provide you with clean clothing.”

“I–” Danny cut himself off, throat working.

The thing was–it made a certain degree of sense. Fae were concerned with manners, and with being good hosts. Even his parents would admit that. And if Caretaker had just placed them inside…

“You just placed them inside?” Danny asked. “You didn’t go in? Didn’t do anything else?”

Caretaker tilted his head. “I opened the door, and I closed it. I saw inside the room, and made sure that you were safe.”

The ice that had been banished from Danny’s mouth crept along his arms instead.

“You made sure I was safe?” he asked.

"I agreed that no grave harm would come to you for the duration of our agreement. I expect you remember that," Caretaker said, frowning.

“How did you make sure I was safe?”

“Would you like a list?”

“Yes.”

“I made sure to keep others from realizing your presence here, on our journey. This hut is well within the lands that I control, and well-protected. You saw the hedge, and the gate.”

“I don’t mean those,” said Danny. “I mean when you opened the door.”

“I checked that you were present and unharmed,” Caretaker said. His face was even, grave.

“But you didn’t go inside,” Danny said.

Caretaker paused a moment before answering, and Danny began wondering if this was it, if that had happened, if he’d woken up at just the wrong time if he’d have seen Caretaker looming over him in the night–

“I did not set foot inside when I was placing your clothes there last night,” said Caretaker.

Danny swallowed. “While I was asleep, you mean.”

“You seemed relaxed. I did not verify that you were asleep.”

“Relaxed,” Danny laughed a little hysterically under his breath.

He found that hard to believe. He didn’t feel relaxed at all now. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be relaxed again, at this rate.

“You feel unsafe?”

“Of course I feel unsafe!”

Danny stopped himself. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. Manners. Fae cared about manners. “Sorry.”

Caretaker inclined his head.

The moment passed, and it was then that Caretaker spoke.

“That you feel unsafe–do you doubt my ability to protect you here?”

"I–" Danny hesitated. He thought of the bells in the study, the silvered gate, and the ease with which Caretaker had ignored his parents’ best efforts at resistance in their own home.

He thought of the fae in the night.

He thought of the shelter of Caretaker’s cloak.

Neither yes nor no felt right in his mouth. Danny swallowed. "I don't know."

A sigh escaped Caretaker. "That you do not feel safe is–" he stopped himself. "It is a matter to address later. You must be hungry."

"I'm not," said Danny. The hunger pangs had faded in the night.

"Even if your worries have eaten your appetite, you should eat something for your health." Caretaker said, and stepped from the cover of the entryway onto the path.

"I don't want to," said Danny.

"The journey yesterday was long, child. And you have not eaten since before it."

"Because of you.”

"Because of me?” Caretaker asked. “You refused dinner yesterday. That was not my choice."

He turned and began walking. His boots tapped against the paving stones.

Danny trailed after him. "I only needed dinner in the first place because you stole the food I brought," he said.

"You needed it?" Caretaker's voice was sly. "You were hungry?"

Danny’s stomach lurched.

"No,” Danny said, quickly. "I meant that I didn't have what I needed in order to have dinner. If I needed it. Which I didn't. Because you stole it."

Caretaker stopped, turned. "I will not let you poison yourself while you are in my care. And you know how I feel–"

"Poison?"

"They are coated in the plastics that are poisoning the human realm."

Danny filed away the stilted phrasing for later–seriously? 'The plastics?'--and homed in on "Are? You still have them? Give them back."

"No."

"You don't even eat 'the plastics,'" Danny said, imitating Caretaker's weird way of saying it.

"I certainly do not."

"You know what I mean!"

"And what is wrong with fresh food? You haven't even seen it."

"You said it came with consequences."

"So does the ‘Hill’n’Dale P.B. n’Choco D-Lite. With added iron’."

"Why did you say it like that."

"It is its name."

"You don't say mine," said Danny.

Caretaker gave him a sharp look.

Right. Caretaker didn't even like exaggerations.

"You don't say it often," corrected Danny with a roll of his eyes.

"That," said Caretaker, pausing at the top of a small stair, "is because your name is important. I would not give it freely. Not everyone listening cares to make themselves known, even in the human world."

Danny took the stairs after him. "So you don't hate my–"

There was unexpected cloth beneath his foot, an unexpected tug at his waist, and then a very unwanted trip in the direction of the paving stones.

Caretaker caught him before his hands could.

"Get off me!" Danny snarled.

Caretaker did, retreating until he was barely in arms' reach.

Danny ignored the expression on his face in favor of looking down with a scowl. "It's these stupid pants," he said. "They won't! Stay! Up!"

He tugged at them with each word for emphasis, fabric audibly snapping taut with the last.

"They are not meant to trip you."

Danny whipped his head up to glare at Caretaker. "Well they're pretty good at it! You know what's not? My pants."

"You know why you do not have them."

"I don't, actually. I just know what you told me."

"I do not lie, child."

"You keep saying that."

"Regardless," said Caretaker. "Your belief or disbelief in questions of my nature does not resolve the problem."

"The problem of you stealing my clothes? And food?"

"The problem," said Caretaker, "of your clothes impeding your movement. Worn properly, they would not."

"I'm sorry I'm not wearing your stupid clothes up to your standards," snarled Danny. "It's just that I've never worn them before and they didn't come with an instruction manual, you see."

Caretaker tilted his head. "Would it be so odious for me to show you?"

"What," said Danny, who was running on far less sleep than he wanted and was nowhere close to taking the SATs.

"Your clothes," said Caretaker. "I could show you how to wear them, so that they do not impede you. It was not my intent for you to trip."

“Well they did. Trip me, I mean.”

“And if I showed you how to wear them, they would not,” said Caretaker.

Danny barely heard him.

Behind Caretaker, the sun was lining the ridgeline of a roof in honey.

It was atop one of the square buildings through the trees from yesterday, and, abruptly, Danny realized the path they were on led there.

Now that they were closer, it looked like a house.

Caretaker's house?

For a moment Danny was arrested by the thought of what might wait for him there. If he might get chucked into a big pot of stew because of some loophole he hadn't spotted. If Caretaker would turn him into bread, or whatever the nursery rhyme was.

"May I fix them?" asked Caretaker, and Danny remembered they were having a conversation.

"What's wrong with the way I put them on?" asked Danny in lieu of answering.

"A number of things," said Caretaker. "May I?" He knelt.

Danny didn't move, except to bite his lip. "Why can't I just fix this myself?"

"Because the knots require a certain skill to tie."

"I can't just use regular ones?"

"And," added Caretaker, "the folds you must make also require some measure of skill."

"You gave me clothes that are hard to wear?"

"Not by our standards. But for a human–yes."

"Why?"

Caretaker's face contorted again, too quickly there and gone to see properly, much less interpret. "A good question," he said. "You could say I had forgotten that you would not know."

"Why would I know? I'm not a fae."

"Do you recall me claiming otherwise? But there is a certain expectation which I did not account for. I apologize."

"You apologize? Does this mean I can get my clothes back?"

"It means what I have already offered–that I would be happy to show you how to wear them."

"That's a no, then." Danny sighed, and sat on one of the steps, out of the range of Caretaker’s hands. One of the legs of his pants had fallen enough that it covered a foot, and Danny frowned at it. That explained tripping, at least.

There was a rustle, and Caretaker arranged himself beside him in a flutter of cloth. Several minute arrangements of the folds later, he stilled.

Danny pointedly scooted a few more inches away from him.

"Becoming familiar with them today will aid you tomorrow," Caretaker offered, seemingly ignoring the slight.

"And what am I doing tomorrow?" asked Danny. "You never said last night. Actually, what am I doing today?"

"There is a forest path," said Caretaker. "We will be following it elsewhere."

"Where elsewhere?"

"As for today, I thought we might start with preparing food."

"Preparing–what?"

Caretaker didn't respond immediately, instead looking out at the trees. Dawn had reached their trunks, and when he followed Caretaker's gaze Danny could see scattered patches of golden light in the forest floor they guarded.

"What food?" Danny tried again.

Caretaker hummed. But it was only after the gold had crawled some distance further down the trunks that he spoke.

"Your mistrust confuses me," Caretaker said. "But I will attempt to accommodate it even so. Even food you make here will have consequences that food from the human world will not. But you will be able to take part in its making, and humans have a talent for thresholds."

He finally looked away from the forest edge and back to Danny. There was a slight frown creasing his face, but the deep lines that had etched it earlier were starting to fade in the morning light.

Danny waited for him to elaborate.

"I don't know what that means," he said after it became apparent that Caretaker would not.

"You don't?" Caretaker's frown deepened again. "Your parents are hunters. Did they not teach you this?"

"The only thing they told me about your food was not to eat it."

"But they did teach you of thresholds."

"Yeah," said Danny. Belatedly, he realized actually admitting that might not be the best idea. "Maybe," he amended.

If Caretaker thought anything of the correction, he did not voice it. His eyes returned to the light on the trees, and for a time the only thing between them was birdsong and the soft breeze of a summer morning.

Danny took the time to think.

Regardless of whether Caretaker's claims about being unable to lie were true, Danny's parents had been careful to teach him that there was more than one way to lie. Even if a fae couldn't lie with words, actions could deceive in other ways.

But…that meant he could do it, too, couldn't he? He could lie with his actions, and whatever weird thing Caretaker had with lying…

Maybe he wouldn't care. Maybe…maybe he wouldn't even know.

It couldn't be obvious.

But maybe it didn't have to be subtle, either. Whatever was going on with Caretaker, it was at least clear that he was dedicated to the appearance of caring about Danny. If Danny played into that, instead of fighting it…

Maybe he could pretend.

"If," Danny wet his lips. "I helped make food, what would it be?"

Just because he helped make it didn't mean he would have to eat it. He could throw it away. He could mess up and burn the food and pretend it was an accident.

All he had to do was play along.

Caretaker looked at him with an expression that was uncomfortably like relief. When he spoke his voice was soft and full of longing.

"Bread," he said. "I would have us make bread together. Syrups, from the flowers and fruits which will not bind you. There are petals that I have candied that would only give you a certain lightness in your step, and could be made to leave you with the moon's last light.

"We could make a pie, if you wished. The milk and the eggs of faerie are laden with enough memories and sense of home that you would be tied here, if we used them. But we could make do with other things. There are nuts, and grains, and the plants do not remember as the hares do. The trees can be convinced to give freely of their fruits, and there are a great many things in the garden. We could fold its meats into dumplings and steam them so that they would burst with sweet flavor on your tongue."

Caretaker's hand lifted in a fluttering, half-aborted motion.

"It is not much. I wish to give you more. So much more. There are heartier things, toothsome ones which could give you strength and cheer and surety. You would love them, I am sure. The cream–But it is light fare that meets your demands. And the work could be light together, and glad. And you could be reassured."

"Oh," said Danny, off balance again.

Caretaker wasn’t done.

"Or we could make rolls. I know how to make them as soft on the inside as cotton down, and we could have them with tea. Some of the blossoms in the garden are sweet. You've not had drink since yesterday, I know."

That was true.

"I've never had flower tea before," Danny said.

Caretaker tilted his head. "You could try it."

He didn't really want to.

"Can I have water?" Danny asked.

Caretaker brightened. "Yes." He stood in a single, fluid motion, and held his hand out for Danny to take.

He didn't want to. But if he were going to play at being cooperative, he probably should.

Danny reached up, and took it.

Caretaker's hands were still ungloved, still uncanny, more like too-large harvestmen than anything human. But his skin was dry and cool to Danny's touch, and his brass nails pressed lightly into the back of Danny's hand as he stood, and then Danny was up.

The trees across the meadow were almost fully lit, now, and the light had shifted from the molten orange of daybreak to a cooler yellow.

"There will be water in the kitchens," said Caretaker. "It is only a short distance more."

Danny nodded, lifted the cloth of his pant leg off the ground, and followed Caretaker in.

#danny phantom #ectoberhaunt23 #dread #danny phantom dp #clockwork dp #funerary rites fae au #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite

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jackdraw-spwrite · 8 months

Text

Fine, Chapter 5

Words: 3033 Characters: Clockwork, Danny Warnings: Graphic description of a bad gear :(, body horror

No preview snippet today because we're starting with some body horror.

Read on AO3, or below the readmore:

The metal of the wall was smooth at Danny's back, and warm where his suit was cut away. The sides of the slot cupped his spine perfectly, and it matched its length as well. He could feel the top of it at the base of his neck, and the bottom at his tailbone.

There was a snick, and his spine was pinned neatly into place.

It was painless. It was curiously secure. When Danny tried to turn his head, he discovered his neck was immobile. But his eyes could move, and these he used to look at Clockwork. Questioning, devoid of panic.

"Synchronization is a delicate process when it's done so quickly,” explained Clockwork. “Immobility will keep you safe."

Oh. That made a certain degree of sense.

Danny tested his other movements, and discovered he could also move the fingers of his right hand. He wiggled them at Clockwork. Obligingly, Clockwork took it and gave it a squeeze.

Danny would have smiled at him if his mouth hadn't been locked into position. He tried to smile with his eyes instead. He wasn't that experienced at it, and briefly worried that he didn't do a very good job. But Clockwork seemed to understand regardless. He hummed again in response, soft and familiar before rubbing tiny circles on Danny's hand with his thumb.

Danny tried humming back, but it was like he was missing traction, spinning, lost. Like that part of him had been rendered silent, too–

And then something made contact.

It would be reasonable to assume the process of synchronizing with Long Now would be a jarring one, when it was driven by metal on metal contact. It would be reasonable to assume there would be scraping, especially if one were unfamiliar with the mechanics of gear works.

Neither was the case.

There was a click as a gear made contact with his spine (except it wasn't his spine, was it? There was something else with a sensation that he couldn't quite name) but the pressure it exerted was gentle at first. There was no violent catch like a bike shifting gears too quickly. It pressed, smooth and sure. It pressed harder, and Danny felt the pressure flow through him, through all of him from his head to his toes, before it began to ease.

Something settled. He couldn't say if it was inside him or out, and then the pressure faded.

Another click, a ratchet behind him and contact. Pressure like a cresting wave radiating from his back.

Settling.

Click.

Clockwork was watching him intently, still holding Danny's hand. He had woven his fingers together with Danny's and now he was fluttering them so they rose and settled back on Danny's skin in a quick staccato, tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap.

Danny squeezed in silent thanks.

Settling. Click.

Another ratchet.

Pressure.

It felt like resting in a snowbank during a winter storm. Cozy and soothing and safe. Quiet, except the faint patter of falling snow.

Except here, there was a different sort of song, and that song wasn't discordant anymore.

Danny's eyelids fluttered.

Settling. Click.

If he listened carefully, he could hear the sound of the gears synchronizing him as their teeth beat the air. And yet the pressure was still gentle, still soft.

Settling. Click.

Pressure. The thrum of belonging. The song of time crashing into him over and over like it was rocking him to sleep. The rise and fall of anticipation in the air in time with him. Or him, in time with it.

The pressure steadied, dropped, became a slight and reassuring tug.

And then, with a feather-light brush farewell, it vanished. The pins holding him in place released, and Danny slid to the floor.

He wanted to protest. He felt like he'd just been dumped out of the world's most comfortable bed, but his mouth was still stuck open. He twisted his face into a deep frown, too sleepy to be embarrassed about it.

"I know," said Clockwork. "It is pleasant to be so synchronized, but we do have repairs to make."

He touched the back of Danny's neck again and his spine released, falling back into its usual curve. His jaw clicked as it returned to flexibility, and Danny eased it closed the rest of the way. He rubbed at it near his ear, but it didn't ache.

The sudden absence of peace did, though. It had washed over and through him with each additional step of synchronization, until it felt like part of him, like purpose and belonging and like he was a part of it and the lack felt, felt–

Danny looked back, eyes lingering on the slot that had so gently held him.

But Clockwork was right. They did have repairs to make, and enough of the pleasant hum of synchronization was still with him to drench the world in honey.

Or oil. Was it oil, now?

He took Clockwork's offered hand and clambered back to his feet, and Clockwork helped him back to the bench. Danny's legs felt as solid and stable as chains beneath him, and he clutched at Clockwork for support. When they reached the bench, Danny let himself fall to it with a thump.

He closed his eyes, rested his head against Clockwork’s shoulder, and spent a while just listening.

To himself. To Clockwork's mechanisms. And to the song of Long Now, which cascaded from the open door like a lullaby. It wrapped around him like another blanket and cloaked him in security.

"Daniel?" asked Clockwork.

Danny hummed. It earned him a chuckle and stroke of Clockwork's hand through his hair, which he pressed back against. He hadn't felt this at peace in months. It was like a joint that had been just out of place had popped back in, except the joint was his nerves. Instead of feeling worn and ragged, they felt soothed. Calm.

The relief was dragging him towards sleep.

"I'm going to remove the rest of your panels now," said Clockwork.

"Mmmm," Danny agreed. Where had Clockwork's cloak gone?

"You will need to stop leaning on me."

"Mmmm?"

"You will catch your teeth on my shirt, without the panels keeping them safe."

Clockwork worked quickly, gently, and with ease born of long practice. Soon, there was a jigsaw puzzle of panels set to the side and Danny's arm and hand lay open on the table.

Like this, the wires and gears and rods within seemed almost to spill from his arm. The strange depth within him was gone and without it, everything it had contained had little elsewhere to go than out.

Danny’s fingers and hand were a dizzying collection of rods and wires and other things. They bent weirdly, curving outwards even as they ran to his elbow in ruler-straight lines if he tilted his head just so. The articulation of each joint was incredibly intricate, and Danny couldn't help but imagine what it was like moving, even if looking at it–at any of it–made his eyes feel a little funny.

Clockwork moved to the panels around Danny's elbow, and then up his arm. With deft movements and soft tugs, the pile of panels grew. So, too, did the distance between the parts of his hand and arm. Or, maybe not?

Danny squinted, turned his head to the other side.

Gears that had started touching had stayed touching, even as the space between them had. Unfolded? Relaxed? Shifted, halfway between a holographic poster and an optical illusion. But no matter how he looked at it, one thing remained the same: Danny's arm was splayed out on the table, a huge mess of brass rods and wires and gears.

It looked like a maze. It looked…Danny’s lips quirked.

“It looks like we have quite the task at hand,” he said. “And arm, and elbow.”

A puff of air from Clockwork made Danny's hair flutter.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," he said.

And Danny was.

He hadn't really expected that. But sitting here next to Clockwork, with the song of Long Now thrumming in his ears in time with his gears and light streaming in from the garden, it was hard not to feel better.

He was safe here, even if he couldn’t, shouldn't, wouldn't want to stay. Here, he knew, Long Now would take care of him.

Clockwork would take care of him. Was taking care of him. The gentle tug and click of Danny’s panels was reminder enough of that.

The ever-present song of Long Now surged comfortingly around him, and Danny felt his eyes flutter.

His head was growing heavy.

Clockwork’s shoulder was right there…

Danny almost let his head fall back against it before remembering why it was a bad idea. With effort, he straightened his head and tried to focus.

Clockwork set a final panel of skin on the rest of the pile with a faint click that Danny felt as a tingle of sensation at his shoulder. Then, he turned to examining the bared machinery of Danny's arm.

With an index finger, Clockwork traced the lines of the wires. He hovered just above them, following them up and down, up and down as Danny watched.

Clockwork fell silent, deep in concentration.

Quietly, Danny pulled a face. He desperately wanted to disperse the nervous energy he felt at such close attention, but he also didn't want to disturb Clockwork’s concentration. The conflict was making him feel a little antsy.

Finally, Clockwork seemed to come to a decision. He reached for a pair of tweezers and grabbed one of the wires in a motion like a bird hunting for worms and then the comparison was driven from his mind because–

"That–pinches."

It took a moment for Clockwork to remember Danny was there. He paused before he pulled his head up from focusing on Danny's arm and even then it was more a tilt of the head than looking at Danny.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"I just, um. Didn't expect that. Can you? Could you, when I was touching your gears?"

"Yes," said Clockwork, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

"What did it feel like?" Danny asked.

In answer, Clockwork touched one of Danny's gears with a careful finger.

"Oh," said Danny.

It felt a bit like pressure on a fingernail. Distributed, with little sense of specifics. But it was also indisputably there.

Danny reached out with his own hand, but Clockwork stopped him.

"Not all of them will be pleasant," he warned. "Remember that your arm is broken."

Danny stilled. Clockwork returned his focus to the intricate workings of his arm, tracing wires over and under one another, following chains of gears until–

"Here," said Clockwork. "Do you see it?"

Danny ducked his head so he could see what Clockwork was showing him.

It was a tiny thing, about the width of Danny's pinky, but it was about where his wrist had been. Perhaps a little farther up his arm, towards his elbow. It was nestled deep in among a chain of other gears and hard to see because of it, but the problem wasn't, once Danny could spot the gear at all.

He stifled a hiss.

The gear was warped horribly, the disc of it bent almost at a right angle. There were impressions in it that looked almost like bite marks, and its teeth were mangled. One was almost sheared off.

"What are you going to do?" Danny asked, feeling a little queasy.

"Fix it," said Clockwork. He tapped one end of the chain. "Does this hurt?"

Danny winced. "Yes."

"Then the damage isn't isolated to just that region. I'm going to try the rest of the way down your arm, to see where it ends. Tell me when it begins hurting."

They continued like that for a while, with Clockwork lightly testing what did and didn't hurt when he pressed on it. It sucked, but Clockwork never put a lot of pressure on anything, never made the contact anything but brief. And in the end they were left looking at a piece of Danny's arm surrounding the bent cog about as long as Danny's hand.

Danny’s stomach was tying itself in knots.

There were dozens of gears that had hurt when pressed. A few gears linked to wires in his fingers had teeth that were visibly smeared.

"How bad is it?" asked Danny, futilely. It was bad. It had to be bad.

"Worse than it would have been if it had been repaired quickly. There is a great deal of secondary damage to fix, now."

Danny's shoulders hunched, his dead arm flopping a little with the motion.

"However, I have repaired far worse damage, even to my own person. I will need to recast some of these, but most can simply be heated and hammered back out, or have their teeth welded."

Clockwork looked at Danny then, and even the accustomed creases of his frown were soft to match his eyes and tone.

"Everything here can be repaired, Daniel. There is no permanent damage."

It was clearly meant to be comforting. Danny wasn't sure it was, but he nodded anyway. The motion was jerky. Robotic.

Clockwork lingered on Danny's face for a moment longer before returning to his arm. He traced a circle in the air around the damaged part.

"Once I remove this we will be able to return some of your panels temporarily. You'll be able to lean on things without worrying as much about your gears, that way."

Things, Danny thought, meaning Clockwork. He couldn't pretend he didn't want to.

He kind of just wanted to curl up in general. The image of his mutilated gear kept floating to the top of his mind’s eye, and the idea of everything around it running into it, bending around it and going crunch…

Danny grimaced, and tried to pay attention to what Clockwork was doing.

Clockwork extracted the set of gears from the rest of Danny's arm in deft and delicate motions. He used tiny screwdrivers and similarly-sized tweezers to pick apart screws and extract shafts, and arranged them all on a soft cloth in neat columns.

Danny watched.

He could feel what Clockwork was doing, in pinches and flutters and tiny little twists, and while it didn’t feel bad it still felt–strange.

It felt strange.

He’d thought that once they were detached from him, he’d stop feeling anything from the gears. Instead it was like a thousand ghost-touches along surfaces he didn’t even know he had, like wind whispering along his arms, or ants marching in lines over his skin.

“This may hurt,” said Clockwork, and snaked his fingers beneath an entire section of gear wheels before lifting them in one big chunk.

It did hurt. But it was a deep and lingering kind of ache, and when Clockwork rested it upside down on the table, the ache ebbed. Clockwork set to untangling the mass of gears on the underside with the same movements he'd used earlier, and Danny left him to it. His arm had hooked his eyes once more.

The cavernous hole beneath the gears was exposed, now. And there–

It was only more machinery. More joints and wires and rods and other things Danny couldn't name, even if he could recognize some of them.

But it was more machinery.

Machinery all the way down.

Machinery, all the way through.

He'd known. But with the way the center of his arm had been so tightly woven of cords and other things, he'd been able to imagine bone somewhere underneath it all. Bone and flesh and muscle and brass growing around it like a shell, like hair or leaves or, or.

He hadn't been completely wrong. He could see a slip of something long and smooth and solid in the window left by the gears Clockwork had removed.

Clockwork moved back, and it shone gold in the light of the workshop, solid and smooth and–and cold.

It was brass.

He was brass, and ice, and crystal, all the way down. All the way through. Cold things. Machine things.

Dead.

…

Danny shook himself.

Clockwork had already finished dissembling all of the group while Danny had been distracted. There were columns of shining parts now, set so each piece rested in its own space. Like this, they seemed more like the random collections of parts Danny would find on a lab table back at Fentonworks than part of Danny.

"We will want to protect the other components of your arm while we work," said Clockwork. He tweaked the position of one of the gears.

Danny felt something flitter just on the edge of sensation and resisted the urge to rub at a wrist that wasn't there at the moment. "We?" he asked.

"You will want to know how to maintain yourself."

"If this ends up permanent," said Danny.

Clockwork looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. "You are curious."

With that, he began bundling the remaining parts of Danny's arm together again. He coiled loose wires into loops and secured them with ties. He folded things in so they lay closely together, if not neatly. In places, he wove cloth between parts of Danny's arm.

"As padding, and to keep them separate while the gears are absent," he explained. Then, "Do not worry. I would never use anything prone to dust."

And finally, after another lullaby-intoxicating fastening of Danny's panels, he was left with the odd sensation in his left arm of being at once stuffed, and compressed, and entirely too exposed.

Clockwork let Danny slump against him as he pulled himself back together.

And then there was nothing left before them but the set of little gears from Danny's arm.

"This one first," said Clockwork, and selected a gear wheel of moderate size. The shaft running through it was long and thin. "The pin is bent, see?"

Through lidded eyes, Danny watched the gear wheel spin unevenly between Clockwork's fingers. There was a tug at his senses as it did, a hint of friction overshadowed by a deep and uneasy movement that made his stomach twist from side to side with the pin.

"How do we fix it?" Danny asked.

"The forge, and a press."

#danny phantom #danny phantom dp #clockwork dp #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite #ectoberhaunt23 #23 day 11 #calm #body horror #cw body horror

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jackdraw-spwrite · 7 months

Text

Funerary Rites, Chapter 6

Words: 3334 Characters: Clockwork, Danny Warnings: None

For Ectoberhaunt 2023, Day 23 - Magic

Nothing happened.

Nothing Danny had feared, anyway.

The chill of the water was sweet on his tongue, soothing on its way down his throat. It felt like respite, like clarity, like lemonade on a hot summer day after too long outside.

Danny drank until the cup was empty, and then he refilled it and drank some more. He drank until the crystalline sweet of the water washed away the film on his tongue and in his thoughts.

Read the rest on AO3 or below the readmore:

Or some of it, at least.

Finally, he set the cup back on the countertop with a clack. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been.

"Thank you," said Caretaker.

"I didn't do it as a favor to you," Danny said.

"Of course not," soothed Caretaker.

"I would never do you a favor," Danny said, bristling. "I would have to like you for that."

"I see."

"I don't. I hate you."

Caretaker said nothing.

The words should have had an impact. Danny expected them to. Caretaker had been terrifying as he swung seemingly at random between anger and sorrow, the only constant the way he reacted to Danny's fear.

And now, even that had vanished.

"I'm afraid of you," tried Danny again.

There was a minute flinch, but nothing more.

"Have you had enough water?" Caretaker asked.

Was Caretaker ignoring what Danny had said? Danny bristled, took a breath to snarl another insult–

and let it out in a sigh instead. Without responses, hurling insults at Caretaker just made him feel like a little kid.

"For now," he allowed.

Caretaker nodded. "There is still the matter of food."

"No," said Danny.

"No?"

"I mean–" Danny made a wordless sound of aggravation. "I mean, the bread."

"No bread?" Caretaker asked, brow furling.

"No, I. You said there were consequences."

"There always are."

"You just don't know them, sometimes," Danny said, tone acidic.

"Precisely. It is why–"

Danny interrupted him. "And let me guess, you also don't know the consequences for the bread. Conveniently."

"Baking is an art, child. Of course–"

"Of course you won't tell me? Of course you're just going to feed me platitudes until I don't know which way is–"

"Daniel," said Caretaker.

Danny stopped.

Caretaker sighed. "If you would let me finish?"

Tightly, Danny nodded.

"Baking does not produce precise results each time, even for humans. The yeast used, the humidity and temperature of the day and oven, the age of the flour: all of these and more shape the bread humans bake, and not all of them are easily accounted for."

Caretaker placed his hands flat on the table, staring down at the patch of wood still wet from the tea. "It is why skilled human bakers work by feel, as well as by weight. It is why we work by feel as well as by weight."

Caretaker thumbed a surviving scrap of dough, dyed darker by the tea. "But through technique, we can reach something consistent enough. Even in Faerie. Even with the additional complexities our food provides."

Danny fought back the “consistent enough for what?” that wanted to launch itself from his throat. With Caretaker's patience evidently thin, he didn't want to trample on it.

For now.

"So you can tell me what bread will do?" he asked.

"I can tell you what this bread should do, if we make it correctly."

"Not all bread?"

"Not all bread has the same ingredients, even in your world."

Danny had probably known that. He wished he'd gotten more sleep. His brain felt threadbare.

"Okay," he said.

"You wish for me to tell you what the bread might do?"

"Yes," said Danny.

"I will tell you, if you do not purposely disturb the kneading this time."

"Fine." There were other ways to ruin bread, after all. And he wouldn't have to eat it. He hadn’t promised that.

Caretaker's mood lifted considerably with the agreement, and before long he was back to hovering over Danny's shoulder as Danny worked the dough, offering tips.

"If you keep your touch light and quick, it will stick less to your hands," he said.

“Really?” Danny tried it.

It did not.

“Like this,” Caretaker said, and demonstrated.

“You’re cheating,” accused Danny.

“Skill is often mistaken for such.”

Danny huffed, but began kneading the dough again when Caretaker pushed it back towards him.

When, eventually, the dough stopped sticking quite so much to Danny’s hands. He suspected it was less skill and more the kneading being done. When he pulled his hand back it would eventually, reluctantly, peel away.

Danny pushed it a few more times, and then dropped the entire glob into a bowl Caretaker held out for him, which Caretaker then covered and placed near the fire.

Not too near, though. Caretaker fussed with the placement in a way that put Danny in mind of a little old grandma.

"Okay," Danny said after Caretaker had found a satisfactory spot. "You said you'd explain."

"So I did."

Danny waited.

"I did not say when," said Caretaker. He held up a hand before more than a snarl could form on Danny's face. "However, you could offer something in exchange for me telling you within the next five minutes."

"I don't want to give you anything more. I already filled my side of the bargain." Danny frowned. "Twice."

"Twice?"

"This was already in the contract, wasn't it?"

"Food served to me between my departure from and return to the human world must have any and all consequences of consumption explained, if I request it, to the best of your ability?" Caretaker quoted.

"How do you remember that?" Danny asked.

"It is a skill. But no, it is not in the agreement. Right now, it is only food in potential. I would not be forced to explain it to you until I served it, and then only if you asked."

"Okay, fine. Once, then."

"You didn't specify when," said Caretaker.

"I didn't think I needed to," Danny said, frustration building again.

"And with someone other than myself, such assumptions could seriously hurt or kill you."

Oh. Right.

Danny swallowed. There was…that was a lot to think about. Especially right now.

He shoved the idea to the side to deal with when he was home. Or never. Possibly never. Preferably, even.

"Okay, okay,” Danny said. “If I give you something, you have to tell me, starting when I give it to you."

"Acceptable."

Danny gave Caretaker his water cup.

Caretaker's countenance cracked into a grin. "The bread," he said, and stopped.

"What?" Danny asked, outraged.

"Has,"

"Wait," Danny said, eyes narrowed.

"Several," said Caretaker. His smile grew.

"You said 'within five minutes' when you were suggesting what I could give you to get the explanation now."

"Ingredients," said Caretaker, encouragingly.

"But I only said 'starting now,' didn't I?” Danny asked. ”I didn't put a time limit on the end."

"Which results in?"

"You're saying it super slow to mess with me."

"Several consequences."

Danny huffed, blowing some hair out of his face. "You want me to make another deal, right?"

"Wheat," agreed Caretaker.

Danny looked around the kitchen to the sound of Caretaker saying "brings," "an," "element," and "of." The fireplace was still lit, flames low and steady. The tables and counters were still mostly clean, the only mess from the previous ill-fated attempts at bread.

"The hearth," said Caretaker.

Danny went over to it, and knelt. So close, the warmth of the flame melted under his skin, chasing away the morning cool of the kitchen.

"Hospitality," said Caretaker.

The kettle was set to the side. It was heavy with water when Danny picked it up, weighing it in his hands and in his head.

"You would need to explain the tea, if you offered it and I asked," Danny said. "And, you want to give me the tea."

And tea was mostly water. Whatever consequences were in it, they'd probably be less than what was in the bread. Assuming the whole food…thing made sense.

Which it probably didn't.

"And companionship."

Danny ignored that. "I'm not going to promise to drink the tea. That would be dumb. But you're probably not going to let me just say you can make it."

Danny thought so, at least.

"Salt," and "intensifies" passed before he came to a conclusion. Caretaker could be trying to lead him down a path Danny didn't want. He probably was.

“Flame.”

Danny bit his lip. Trying to think of anything else was like trying to catch wind with his hands, though. Now that the idea of the tea was in his head, it was hard to think about other options.

“Purifies, refines, transmutes. Extracts.”

"What if I said I'd listen?" Danny asked.

Caretaker cocked his head, eyes glimmering with interest.

"And, um. If I had a problem with it, I'd tell you why?"

Caretaker tipped his head.

That was probably a yes.

"If you explain the consequences of eating the bread, and you do it at…" Danny frowned A normal pace? That could probably be misinterpreted.. "If you space your words like me, in this conversation…wait."

Caretaker waited.

"If you explain the likely consequences for me if I eat the specific loaf of bread that we're making, and you do it by timing your words like I'm doing now, and you start the explanation within a minute after I ask, then I'll listen to your explanation about the tea and explain to you what my problems are with it. If any exist."

Caretaker was silent. Expectant.

There was something Danny was missing.

"I won't refuse to drink it until after I've heard the explanation?"

"Finally," Caretaker said, shaking his head. Darn.

"I won't refuse to drink it before I've heard the explanation," said Danny.

"Yeast," Caretaker nodded, and held out a hand.

Danny shook it.

"Good job," Caretaker said. "There are still a few holes in that agreement, but it's much more tightly phrased."

Danny ignored the praise. "The explanation?" he asked.

The corners of Caretaker's eyes wrinkled in approval. "And good attention to detail. Very well, let me set the water on to boil, and I will explain."

The kettle was refilled, then hooked to hang over the fire. Caretaker gestured Danny over to a pair of chairs a little ways away, and when Danny sat he steepled his fingers.

"Bread," Caretaker said, "this bread, will reinforce the roles of host and guest between us, and the rules of hospitality."

"Didn't you say those were really complicated?"

Caretaker smiled. "They can be," he said. "It would be difficult indeed for you to fill the role of a guest correctly, without the required knowledge. But there are reasons for our traditions. It will help you to fulfill the correct actions for your role."

"Help?" asked Danny, trying to fill the word with the skepticism he felt.

"Yes, help."

"Define help."

"Very well done," Caretaker said, corners of his eyes wrinkling in pleasure again. "English is such a treacherous language. I could have hidden quite the trap within that word."

"But you didn't?" asked Danny.

"I did not. The help would be a nudge. You could ignore it, were it even strong enough to notice."

Danny frowned.

"There is another option," said Caretaker. "If we shared it, if we broke bread together, instead of me serving it to you, then it would build camaraderie between us."

"Which would…?"

"It would simply make our conversations less strained. I believe you have noticed the conflict."

Noticed? Danny had been fostering most of it.

Not that Caretaker didn't deserve it.

Danny was silent as he thought. He didn't really like either option. But if that was all they did, then they were what he'd asked for. Neither would bind him to Faerie.

"How long does it last?" asked Danny.

"It depends," said Caretaker, then at a sharp look from Danny, added, "but guest rights and responsibilities end when the guest departs. The bond of broken bread will linger longer, but even those who do so together for years will find its influence faded after only a decade or two."

Faded after a decade, but not gone. A decade or two.

Danny didn't want to feel companionship for Caretaker. He especially didn't want it to last.

"The host thing, then."

Caretaker raised a brow. "Are you sure?"

Danny paused. "Maybe?" he said.

The kettle chose then to begin whistling, and Caretaker stood. "Do not feel rushed to decide," he said. "You will be free to choose the one you prefer when we eat."

And with that, he attended to the tea.

"I was thinking we would garden while the bread rose," said Caretaker, still chipper. "The gardens are in disrepair, after all." With a fluid motion, he poured the tea into first one cup, and then the other.

"Sorry," said Danny. He even was, a little. He’d forgotten how Caretaker used to play with him when he was little and lost and scared.

Caretaker didn't respond. Instead, he set the teapot back down and turned away to fiddle with some herbs.

Danny wondered if Caretaker was pretending he hadn't heard. Was it a mistake to apologize to fae? He couldn't remember.

"Here," said Caretaker, and placed a sprig of…something on one of the saucers before pushing it in Danny's direction. The other two, he placed on his own saucer.

Danny pulled the tea closer and looked skeptically into his cup. The liquid inside tinted the inside with a warm brown, still transparent enough to see clear through to the bottom, and Danny was put in mind of the green tea they served at the Chinese place his parents would take them to as a celebration sometimes.

Gosh, he wanted egg rolls. Rice. Some orange chicken, or sweet and sour soup, or…

Danny swallowed. He really didn't need to think about food right now.

The tea was something he could focus on. So close to it, the vapor rising off the surface curled warm and thick under his nose. It was filled with a hodgepodge of aromas that combined into something herbal and sweet and tangy.

Danny opened his eyes again, and discovered that Caretaker was using the sprigs to stir his tea. The motion would have been fascinating to watch if it didn't evoke the image of the world's largest and most undesired spider doing the same.

"Why are you doing that?" Danny asked.

Caretaker looked up, the ghost of a smile still on his face. "Stirring my tea?" he asked.

"With the sticks, yeah."

"I didn't want to serve you the tea with them already infused," said Caretaker, as though that explained anything.

Danny felt irritation start to fizz under his skin again. "Fine," he said. "What does the tea do?"

"Oh," said Caretaker, and the smile melted away. "I had forgotten."

"You forgot what the tea does?"

"No! No, something else..." He trailed off. "I am able to tell you about the tea."

Danny wanted to ask what Caretaker had forgotten. How could it possibly be hard to remember Danny was out of his depth?

He didn't.

Instead, he turned the cup in its saucer as Caretaker explained.

"It should give you hope, and a little vitality–an infusion like this is weaker than the herb itself, but it also can extract some things better than others. The balance changes."

"Hope and vitality?" Danny asked.

"You are afraid. And you are tired. But, not much hope."

"Because it's an…infusion?"

"Among other reasons. Hope can be a heady thing indeed. I find I prefer a more moderate amount in my blends."

Danny leaned forward to take a deeper whiff, or perhaps a sip.

Caretaker's hand folded itself around his wrist, and Danny stopped.

"That is not everything."

"What else, then?" Danny asked. Confusion warred with revulsion in his head. He pulled his arm out of Caretaker's hand.

"The hope is given by snowdrops, the vitality by amaranth."

"And? Are they poisonous or something?" Danny didn't even know what those were.

"Not when properly prepared."

Danny did not want to be playing a game of 'poison or not.’ Unfortunately, the universe didn’t seem to care.

"Are they properly prepared?"

"Yes," said Caretaker. He managed to look almost offended at the suggestion. "I would not violate guest right so lightly."

"Okaay."

"There is also coltsfoot."

"Um."

“It should not be poisonous in the quantity present.”

“Um.”

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't be poisonous?"

"Most medicines are poisons, too," said Caretaker. "In sufficient dosages. This one I thought you'd like."

"But I'm not sick," protested Danny.

"And yet you seek a remedy for your parents' predicament."

"That's different," said Danny.

"Is it?" Caretaker took a sip of tea, and closed his eyes. "Ah. Coltsfoot brings justice."

Danny frowned. "You said it was poisonous, though."

"In sufficient quantities."

"Why would that be poisonous?"

"Justice? Poisonous? I suspect you have little wish to discuss such philosophical questions when you are so poorly rested."

Danny didn't even want to discuss philosophy things when he was well rested. “I don’t see what that has to do with poison, though.”

“If you drink only a cup, it will not poison you.”

“What about two?”

Caretaker smiled. “Even the whole pot should not poison you. I drink this daily. It is one of my preferred teas.”

“And…it wouldn’t be more poisonous to me than you?”

“You’re smaller,” pointed out Caretaker. “That, among other things, would affect it. But I can see no reason it might harm you. If I could, I would not be serving it to you.”

Danny nodded. That…made sense. There was the contract.

Then he frowned, recounting. "So it’s…vitality, and hope, and justice?"

"And morning."

"Morning," said Danny. That was odd, but…it was morning, right then. It was probably some kind of fae breakfast tea thing. He was pretty sure Jazz had kept some kind of breakfast tea in the kitchen at one point.

"Yes," said Caretaker. He'd closed his eyes again as he took another sip. "Mostly morning, in fact."

"Okay," said Danny. "And what does that do to me?"

"It helps you morn. Encourages it. Waters it, like a vine."

"Which iiiissss…. It's not anything weird, is it?"

"Humans morn. Most humans morn."

"....Huh."

"And I have morned for a long time."

Danny made a polite little noise of comprehension, not sure how to tell Caretaker that he didn't think he was the best measure of normal.

"And that's all?" he asked.

"It should ease thirst, and perhaps wet your lips. And clothes, should you make a mess. And it will warm you where it touches you."

"It will?"

"It is warm." Caretaker indicated the steam still rising from Danny’s cup.

"Oh."

Danny contemplated the tea for a moment more. But it really didn't seem like there was anything terrible in it. And Caretaker was drinking it, so it couldn't be too poisonous. And of the things he'd listed, only the morning seemed odd.

Danny probably could just eat bread for his whole stay here, and drink water. But if he was going to eat bread, something like this was a lot less…substantial, probably. There was a lot less plant in it, at least. It might be a good way to figure out what eating the bread would be like, when he eventually did.

So.

Danny brought the cup to his lips, and it was bright and floral.

He took a sip, and another.

He set the cup back down, and thought, trying to feel at the hope, or the justice, or the–

There was a void in his chest. There was a void in the world, great and desolate and terrible. Danny brought a hand to his chest, only peripherally aware of the ragged gasps he was taking as he looked up at Caretaker through suddenly wet and stinging eyes.

Caretaker looked back, a faint and rueful smile on his face. His eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"As I said, it is mostly mourning," Caretaker said. "It is a stronger blend than most prefer. But one, I think, well suited to a funeral."

#danny phantom #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite #danny phantom dp #clockwork dp #ectoberhaunt23 #funerary rites fae au

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jackdraw-spwrite · 1 year

Text

Fine, Chapter 2

Danny talks to Clockwork.

Words: 3442

Characters: Danny, Clockwork

For: @five-rivers

It was strange to return to Long Now after so long. Too long, said a part of him. The chorus of clocks greeted him, filling the hallways with a sound somewhere between song and tide but It was almost…disjoint.

Distant.

Was Danny already wearing through whatever Clockwork had done to him?

Read the rest on AO3, or below the readmore:

Had he even needed to come here?

The knot in Danny's stomach churned. He looked back towards the entrance, but it was already hidden from view by the curve of the hallway, the only sign of it the light on the myriad clocks blanketing the walls. The clocks, which wrapped him in the scent of machine oil and wood and metal, in the sound of security.

Danny was safe here. He felt some of the tension fall from his shoulders.

Where was Clockwork?

He padded along the familiar curves of Long Now, looking through open doors and up stairways, passing familiar arrangements of clock faces as he went. One particularly strange specimen made him smile. He loved how gnarled its body was. He reached out to feel at the whorls of it and froze, hand halfway there.

His frozen hand. His machine hand. Jammed. Broken.

Changed.

He wasn't safe.

Why had he thought he was safe?

"Daniel," said Clockwork, behind him.

Danny turned.

His first thought was relief.

His second was indignation. It wasn't fair that Clockwork got to look the same when so much changed.

But there he was, face in the perpetual scowl Danny knew wasn't really how he felt. Wisps of his hair peeked out around it, hidden beneath the cloak he'd tucked Danny under countless times to comfort him.

It still looked soft and inviting.

As Danny stared, Clockwork's features melted into his elder form, and that was just as grandfatherly as Danny remembered too.

Danny ignored the sting in his eyes. He was less successful ignoring the sting in his chest.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Clockwork raised a brow, gesturing at the walls of his lair.

Right.

"Sorry," said Danny. He looked down.

There was a clock hanging near the floor. It was small, with intricate arms and a creamy face plate. Danny's stomach turned at the reminder.

"Clockwork?"

"Yes?"

"Why?"

Silence.

"Why what?" Clockwork asked.

Danny opened his mouth to respond but as he did a horde of whys spilled up from his chest. They vied for space and piled on one another and jammed fast in his throat.

Danny floundered.

Why didn't you tell me? warred with Why does my arm hurt and how do I fix it? Both of them were stuck behind Why did you pretend to care about me and Why do I still miss you?

Ever patient, Clockwork waited. Time sang around them, and slowly, achingly, the tension in Danny's throat eased. His eyes still stung, but he'd already decided to ignore that.

"Why," Danny began, voice cracking a little, "did you pretend to care about me?"

"I didn't." said Clockwork. "Pretend. I do like you, Daniel."

Danny felt a soft touch on his shoulder and looked up. Clockwork was close, now. Close enough to see the wrinkles smooth from his face as his age unwound again.

"I care about you," said Clockwork, and Danny couldn't help but hope it was true.

Danny looked down again, to where his hand had clenched around his forearm again. He hadn't even realized he was doing it.

Focus.

He had to focus. On what he had to–

"My arm," he said.

"It hurts?"

"It's, I dunno. Broken, but not. It's like a–machine."

"Do you want me to take a look at it?"

Danny nodded, speechless from the relief flooding through him. He'd been afraid that Clockwork would demand something in return. Ask that he stay, that he listen, that he help with some endless task until his time ran out and–

Clockwork's gloved hand reached down to brush Danny's arm, accompanied by a wave of scent that Danny knew mostly as Clockwork, and secondarily as safety and comfort.

The stinging of his eyes redoubled.

"We will need my workshop," said Clockwork.

Danny nodded.

He followed behind Clockwork as they made their way through the halls. The chorus of ticking still felt off, like an end to a staircase one step too early. But it was still achingly familiar. Tantalizing.

Tantalizing too were the glimpses of the rooms they passed: the orrery, the time viewing chamber, the kitchen.

They passed the doors to the garden, flung wide open. Through it, Danny could see the flowing lines of plants, the bend of trees, and the curve of the path into it. A sweet and earthy scent brushed past his nose and Danny thought of honeyed afternoons spent dozing there.

"Are you–" Danny asked. Began to ask.

Clockwork's hood bent to indicate he was listening, but Danny didn't finish.

They left the garden behind them, question still lingering on his tongue.

Are you taking me past everywhere I loved being, just to make me regret leaving?

~~~

Danny had been many places in Long Now before he'd learned what it was doing to him, and one of those places was Clockwork's workshop.

It had always struck him as one of Clockwork's refuges within the refuge of Long Now, so he hadn't gone very far in, never spent much time there. But he'd found Clockwork there on a number of occasions, and so Danny could tell when they were getting near. It wouldn't be recognizable by the entrance alone–Clockwork had made the door to his workshop resemble many of the others in his lair. They followed a final bend in the hall, and there it was.

The workshop door was simple and unassuming. It was also gone.

Despite himself, Danny frowned. He hadn’t seen a single closed door since he entered Long Now.

"Clockwork?" Danny asked as he followed him inside.

"Yes?"

"What happened to the doors?"

Clockwork did turn around then, and met Danny's eyes. "It doesn't matter."

Well. Danny didn’t want to come here again after this. Or he was hoping never to. Part of him was.

It didn't matter for Danny right now, at least. Even if the deflection rankled at his curiosity.

The rest of the workshop had captured his interest, anyway. Danny looked around at the well-kept but well-used tables, the walls lined with too much to take in at once and the rafters just as busy. Light flooded in from long, high windows lining one wall. Through them, Danny could see the garden.

Clockwork floated over to a nearby table. It had a lamp and a number of magnifying lenses fanning out from a stand, and behind it loomed a huge cabinet checkered with tiny drawers. Danny had seen him at it many times.

"I will need to access your arm," said Clockwork as he began selecting tools. "The other apron is yours, if you want it."

"It'll fit me?" Danny asked. It seemed several times too big.

"It will change to suit you."

There were faint clinks from Clockwork’s direction as Danny pulled the apron over his head. By the time he looked down, it was already his size.

"Huh."

He looked over at Clockwork, who gestured at a bench which had replaced the usual chair.

Danny's stomach clenched at the reminder–that Clockwork had known this would happen. That all of this would.

The enormity of the risk he was taking struck him again. He was chancing his future, his identity and home, all on Clockwork's willingness to let him go at the end of this.

To let him go at all.

Clockwork planned so many steps ahead of everyone else, especially Danny. What if the moment Danny stepped inside Long Now again the timelines had converged on Danny staying?

What if the only way he could save himself was by leaving right now?

…

He didn't have a choice, if he wanted his arm fixed. Legs feeling stiff and heavy, Danny walked to the bench and sat.

There was a rustle and a rush of air as Clockwork sat beside him, too close and too far all at once.

"Here," said Clockwork. "Rest your arm on the table."

Danny did.

Clockwork's hand appeared beside his own, bare of the heavy gloves Clockwork preferred while working with time. Beneath the gloves, Clockwork's hands were smooth, his fingers long, delicate, and tipped with manicured brass claws. Danny had seen Clockwork's hands before, though rarely up close. Mostly when he found Clockwork here, in his workshop, and Clockwork was working on a clock.

A clock like Danny.

Upset rose in the back of his throat. Danny wrestled with it even as Clockwork's fingers found the edge of Danny's glove and peeled it away, as they paused.

"I will need to get to your shoulder as well," said Clockwork, voice soft and soothing.

Danny nodded, still fighting the upset. He reached up and unzipped the collar of his jumpsuit just enough to wrestle his arm out.

Or he thought he did.

The stiffness in his hand and at his wrist made it difficult. As he flopped his arm around to pull it from the sleeve, his fingers spasmed, locking into a different position. Danny gasped. It was far from the worst pain he'd ever experienced but he hadn't been expecting it at all.

Before he could try again, Clockwork caught his arm. “May I help?" he asked.

"Is that comfortable?" asked Clockwork once he'd cut Danny's sleeve away.

It was not. His suit zipper was still digging into his skin, and the cut edges of his suit were abrasive, almost sharp against his skin.

"Why?" Danny asked instead of answering. Being too comfortable with Long Now was how he'd ended up with steampunk insides. He didn't even like steampunk.

Clockwork hummed, or something in him did. "This may take some time. I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable as I work."

Some time. Some time by Clockwork's standards.

"How much time?"

"That depends on the severity of the problem."

"Can't you just look ahead?" Danny asked.

Clockwork looked at him.

Before he could get another lecture on respecting causality, Danny pressed. "Please, Clockwork. It's once, and it won't affect the outcome, will it? I have to stay until my arm's fixed anyway."

"Then why would it matter to you whether you know?" asked Clockwork.

"Because then I'll know," said Danny.

"Know what?"

Clockwork knew what. He couldn't not know. But if he was goading Danny into venting his anger at him then Danny was happy to oblige. There was too much spinning in his head not to.

"Whether I'll have time left to be myself!" Danny snapped.

Clockwork took the outburst with measured calm and a tilt of his head. "Of course you will be yourself, Daniel."

"That's not what I meant! You know that's not what I meant!" Danny pulled his arm from the table and turned to face Clockwork fully. He wished he could make a fist with it.

"I don't."

"How can you not know–"

Danny cut himself off. He scooted off the bench, stumbled away from Clockwork until he bumped into something that jingled.

His stomach was filling with ice.

And Clockwork still had a puzzled expression on his face.

"Daniel–"

"Don't Daniel me! Just answer me!"

"You're afraid."

Incredulity fireworked through Danny's head. "Of course I'm afraid! How could I not be afraid of turning into your puppet!?"

There wasn't a silence. Long Now was never silent. But the space after Danny spoke rang, anyway.

He panted into it.

Clockwork did not move.

It was only long moments –a long now, quipped a slightly hysterical voice in his head– later that Clockwork spoke again. When he did, his words were quiet. Careful.

"You would not be a puppet, not any more than I."

"I don't mean a literal puppet," Danny said. Frustration was creeping back into his tone.

"Nor do I."

Danny frowned.

"You meant unable to make your own decisions, did you not?" asked Clockwork.

He wasn't really asking.

"Yeah."

"Do you think I'm unable to make my own decisions?"

"But that's different," said Danny. "You're the one in control of the lair."

"The relationship is more nuanced than that. But very well. Do you believe Frostbite's friends are unable to make their own decisions?"

"You mean followers," said Danny, and meant something worse.

He frowned.

Danny hadn't lingered much on the revelation that Frostbite's fellow yetis weren't originally yetis, nor that they were in no more control of themselves than Danny would be. He'd been occupied with thinking about his own insides.

Or not thinking about them.

While Danny had mostly interacted with Frostbite during his visits to the Far Frozen, he'd also interacted with a few other yetis, and they hadn't struck him as automatons. Nor had they been all that similar to Frostbite. At least, once Danny looked past the size, and the fur, and the horns.

And the demeanor.

Maybe they were similar.

But Iceclaw may have had Frostbite’s cheer, but he was also calmer. More reserved. Hoarfrost was reserved, too. But in a way that Danny read as shy more than anything. Sam had said she'd shown her to a secluded herb garden once, and offered Sam a cutting of the winter snowflakes that grew there.

She'd always seemed to favor Sam with a little smile after that.

A half dozen other names belonging to other yetis floated across Danny's mind. Each of them had their own interests, their own quirks. Their own lives, though they were ghosts. They weren't puppets. Danny might not know them well but they'd never been anything like the mindless things that had haunted his imagination as a kid.

But.

"Frostbite said they couldn't leave."

"He said they don't want to leave."

It didn't feel like an important distinction. Not when it was barreling towards Danny like a freight train.

"Would I want to leave?" Danny asked.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

It didn't even feel like a lie.

There was another almost silence. Danny studied the tools on the table to avoid meeting Clockwork's eyes. Only some of them had wooden handles. Was it wood from the Ghost Zone or from the human world? Somewhere else? The metals were different, too…

"You return to Amity."

The words were so unexpected that it took Danny a moment to understand them.

He snapped his head up, but Clockwork's face was unreadable.

His gut churned. His heart ached.

Danny wet his lips. "Do you promise?"

There was a moment.

There was an eternity. And Clockwork tipped his head.

Danny slumped in relief, the tears he'd been fighting nearly escaping. "Clockwork, don't scare me like that," he said. "I thought–"

He didn't know what he'd thought.

"Thank you," he said instead. Clockwork never divulged the future like that. "Thank you," he repeated, just a little hoarsely.

Silently, Clockwork opened his arms. Danny fell into the offered hug gladly, tucking his head against Clockwork's neck and closing his eyes.

"Thank you," he said again.

Clockwork rubbed circles on his back. Slowly, gently.

"It is understandable to be afraid of change," said Clockwork. "Especially change to who you think you are. But Daniel. If Long Now would need to change your personality to suit mine, I wouldn't have liked you enough to let you return."

"I wouldn't be a puppet?"

"Those who lose themselves refuse to leave when they're unwanted. Do you think you're unwanted?"

"No," said Danny.

"And would you refuse to leave?"

"No."

"Then you may change, but you will be yourself."

"...It wouldn't be like dying?"

"Oh, Daniel," said Clockwork. "No. To join a lair is not a painful thing."

Danny shifted, uncomfortable that Clockwork had misunderstood the same way Frostbite had.

But Clockwork had said he would leave, not just that he could.

It could wait.

And Danny's arm shouldn't.

But maybe Danny could have just a little more time in the hug, first. He really needed it.

He'd missed Clockwork a lot.

Clockwork brushed the tips of Danny's fingers before swirling up to trace his own finger along the curves of Danny's palm. "You're jammed."

"I thought you knew that," Danny said. "I knew that."

"I did. But knowing something and seeing it in person are different things."

They'd settled back on the bench. Danny was still nestled against Clockwork, but tucked against his side so Clockwork had the freedom of movement to examine Danny's arm. Clockwork's other arm was wrapped around Danny, pulling him close, and he'd arranged his cloak so it fell over Danny's shoulder, too.

The closeness, the scent of machines and safety. The slightly muffled sound of the clocks of Long Now from outside the door; it all cascaded together in his head into a balm to his ragged spirit. Danny wanted to lean his head against Clockwork's chest.

The balm was another worry. Nebulously, Danny worried about it.

…He would leave. Clockwork had promised.

Danny had stayed away before. He could do it again. And in the meantime, it wouldn't hurt anything to savor his time with Clockwork before they said goodbye again.

He tipped his head against Clockwork, and was rewarded with a faint whirr.

Clockwork traced a finger up Danny's arm again, the blunted brass of his claw scraping lightly against Danny's skin. It was a strange and geometric line, a strange sensation.

Clockwork hummed.

"What is it?" asked Danny.

"You don't have your seams yet," said Clockwork. "Still just skin."

"Is that bad?" It seemed good.

"It's neither good nor bad," said Clockwork, echoing Frostbite's words weeks before. He rested his head atop Danny's for a moment. "But it does mean it will be difficult to fix your arm as it is."

Danny stirred. and Clockwork shushed him.

"Shhhhh, stay. There are ways to adjust."

"How?"

"We are close to the heart of my power, here. And you are close to me." Clockwork gave Danny a little tug. "It would be not unlike pulling at a string, or a rubber band."

"What?"

"Perhaps a metaphor you would find more comfortable would be borrowing. I can borrow your physical changes from the future to bring them forward now, for a short time. There is a drawback, however."

"It might stick?" guessed Danny, who did not want it to stick.

"No," said Clockwork with a sigh. "It is borrowing in more than one respect. If I do this, it will slow the physical markings of your integration with Long Now."

"Okay," said Danny.

"Are you sure? I would not want you to feel isolated or mismatched."

"Yes."

"Very well," said Clockwork, and got up.

Danny's side felt suddenly bereft, open. He hunched and resisted the embarrassing urge to whine.

Clockwork chuckled, and then his cloak was around Danny's shoulders, huge and soft. It weighed at his shoulders and was featherlight, and Danny found himself drenched in the smell of safety.

He tucked himself deeper in the hood, looking around as Clockwork sorted through drawers on the far side of the workshop. There was a pile of long, thick pins lying on one of the work tables. A row of spools held chains, some fine and others not. Machines lined one wall and spilled into the center of the room, where some were illuminated by the light falling through the garden windows.

Clockwork shut a final drawer and returned, sitting beside Danny again before opening his hand to reveal a pocket watch.

It was round and flat, chain fine with one end fed into a clip. The case was brass, deeply engraved with a pattern that was a strange cross between fractal and botanical. It was, almost, the sort of thing Danny could see turning up in a movie about the turn of the century.

Clockwork placed the pocket watch on the upturned palm of Danny's frozen hand and clicked something on the side. He cocked his head as if to listen. Then he hauled on the chain.

Hard.

Contrary to Danny's expectations, the pocket watch did not go flying. It remained perfectly still on his open palm, the only difference the dramatically longer chain.

"Clockwork?" Danny asked.

Clockwork removed the pocket watch from Danny's hand and set it to the side.

"Clockwork?" Danny repeated.

"Yes?" Clockwork said as he pulled Danny close again. The folds of the cloak cushioned the sensation, but it was still steadying. Reassuring.

"What did that do?"

"Do you feel different?" Clockwork asked.

"I don't think so?"

"Good," said Clockwork, and traced Danny's arm with a fingertip again. He hummed, pleased.

Then he reached for a delicate little tool and pried Danny's arm open with it.

#danny phantom #danny phantom dp #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite #phic phight #phic phight 2023 #fine dp fic

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jackdraw-spwrite · 7 months

Text

Funerary Rites, Chapter 5

Words: 3435

Characters: Danny, Clockwork

Warnings: None

For Ectoberhaunt 2023, Day 18 - Unravel

The kitchens were on the ground floor of the house, or the basement depending on how one looked at it; one side emerged from the hillside into a small garden, while the other was buried deep in the earth. The house itself was pale in the early morning light but accented with dark shutters. It sprawled along the hillside, larger by far than the kitchens below.

Read the rest on AO3 or below the readmore:

They entered the little garden together, and then the cool shadows of the kitchen.

Caretaker gestured to a bench near one of the doorways. "Take a seat there."

Danny did.

Like most things in the kitchen, it was made of stone, and cool enough to bring a chill to Danny's arms. Somewhere, Danny could hear water running.

He watched as Caretaker ventured deeper into the shadows and re-emerged with a glass he offered to Danny.

Danny took it. The weight of it played in his hands as though full.

"It's water?" he asked.

"Yes," said Caretaker.

Danny frowned into the glass. Sniffed. The fluid inside was clear.

It smelled cool and sweet, though perhaps that was the kitchen. The room smelled chill and earthy, but sweet air wafted in from outside the open door in a perfect complement that brought to mind fresh streams and warm days.

Unlike his tongue. His tongue felt sticky and stagnant in his mouth, and he remembered that he hadn't brushed his teeth last night. Or this morning.

Ick.

Danny stuck out his tongue a little, and swirled the water in the glass again.

It almost sparkled, clear and sweet and tempting. Suddenly, it was difficult to think of anything but the sweet chill of fresh water on his tongue.

Danny didn't like sudden urges to indulge in things. He pulled the glass away and looked up.

Caretaker was fiddling with the doors.

"What are you doing?" Danny asked.

"I am opening the kitchen up," said Caretaker.

With a thunk and a rolling noise, an entire part of the wall moved sideways, exposing the archway that was on the outside of the house. Light swept in, though with the early hour the kitchen's furthest corners were scarcely more lit than before.

"Isn't there magic to do that?" Danny asked.

"There is a certain satisfaction," Caretaker said, pausing to repeat the action on another arch, "in working with one's hands. It is why I enjoy baking, and the creation of food."

"Oh," said Danny, looking back down at the glass in his hands. Even in much brighter light, the liquid inside was still clear and colorless.

"And gardening," added Caretaker, more softly.

Danny looked back up, and Caretaker was staring at him.

"Um." said Danny.

"Yes?"

Danny mentally fumbled for a question. Why are you staring at me was too hostile to use if he was going to keep pretending that he wanted to do this. As was is this really water? Did you poison this? and how much poison would need to be in here for you to say it wasn't water?

"Why is everything a mess if you like gardening?"

Caretaker looked as though he'd been slapped.

Internally, Danny winced.

"That–I," Caretaker said.

It was the first time Danny had ever heard him stumble for words. He almost stumbled physically, too; his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight as Caretaker slumped, steadying himself against a table.

His head bowed.

"I suppose," Caretaker said. "That question is only to be expected. Especially from you."

Caretaker’s eyes were hidden beneath his hood. Even so, Danny felt their weight.

For a breathless moment, he froze.

Whatever Caretaker meant about the question being expected, Danny hadn't expected this reaction when he'd asked it.

He hadn't expected anything, too busy flailing for a question that wasn't as loaded as are you poisoning me that he’d blundered directly into a worse one.

Quietly, carefully, Danny set the glass to the side. At the faint click of it against the stone, Caretaker's head snapped up enough to meet Danny’s eyes.

They didn’t move away.

With the doors open, it was bright enough to see their garnet red. Bright enough to see them burn.

The chill of the stone crept up Danny's spine.

"It has been difficult," said Caretaker, slow, "to manage, alone."

He didn't blink.

Danny broke first. He looked away, to the brightening landscape outside. In the little garden just outside the kitchen, the plants had resolved into distinct shapes and leaves; there was a large mound he thought might be sage, and another that seemed a bit like lavender. There were smaller plants, but his family had always emphasized defensive herbs over the culinary.

"How is your water?" asked Caretaker, drawing Danny's attention back to the kitchen. He’d drawn himself back up, as though the moment had never happened.

"I haven't had any," Danny said, and picked it back up.

"Why not?"

Danny paused. He still didn't know how to ask if it was poisoned. And that was assuming Caretaker really couldn't lie. The glass was cool and inviting in his hand. The light gathered in its depths rippled with the water.

"I got distracted, I guess," he said.

Caretaker had promised not to allow harm to come to Danny while he was here. He couldn't have poisoned it. Equally, he couldn't have given Danny something he hadn't poisoned but knew was dangerous.

The water should be fine.

Danny tilted the glass.

It still made him nervous. Like there was something…

"You said we could make a pie?" he asked.

"I did."

"Not some kind of witch of the woods baking me into a pie, right?"

"No. Child, your water…"

Danny set it to the side again, a new plan forming in his head. "I changed my mind," he said. "I don't want water."

"What do you want?"

To go home, offered the part of him that lacked self preservation instincts. He ignored it.

"Um," said Danny.

"What about tea?"

"Okay," said Danny.

Caretaker nodded.

Shortly afterwards the kitchen was lit by a fire, crackling away beneath a kettle. Caretaker busied himself opening cabinets and pulling things out, wiping off surfaces so industriously that Danny began feeling awkward just sitting there.

Danny pulled at his pant leg. He wanted to get it out of the way, but he also didn't want to take Caretaker's help. After some fiddling, he knotted it into his sash so it at least wouldn't trip him. But with that taken care of, silence descended once more.

…

He was trying to act cooperative.

"Caretaker," Danny asked. "Is there something I can do?"

"Just mix until it's roughly combined," said Caretaker. "No more dry flour left, and no more water.”

Danny had his hands buried in a mass of flour, water, and weird-smelling goo in a large bowl. Bits of it had stuck fast to his hands, and he stuck out his tongue at the sensation.

And the looks. He squished his hands closed and watched things squelch in the bowl. He did it again, and the goo oozed through the gaps in his fingers in neat little streams.

"Ewww," Danny breathed, delighted. He hadn't realized making bread was like this.

He mushed it again.

Soon, the mass was rough, and Caretaker looked over his shoulder before pronouncing that Danny should dump it out onto the counter and knead it properly.

And then demonstrated, when Danny said he didn't know how.

Once Danny got the hang of it he found it was soothing, in a weird way. He could press the dough with his hands and pull at it and roll it together and squish it, over and over again. When, slowly, it started resisting more and sticking to his hands less, it was satisfying. Even if it was still sticky.

There were a bunch of clinks and clatters and other noises from the rest of the kitchen, but it didn't seem too dangerous or important, so Danny let himself be drawn into the rhythm of kneading the dough. With each squish and pull, some of the tension woven through him faded.

He was still trapped. He was still stuck with a dangerous fae he knew far less than he thought he had, and for most of a week, all to save his parents’ lives. He hadn’t forgotten that. It was impossible to forget that.

But…if all he was expected to do was stuff like this…

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Clink.

Danny looked up. There was a small ceramic cup on the counter. Above it, Caretaker looked at him from where he'd set it down.

"Um," said Danny, and looked down at the dough.

"For when you're done with that. You're getting close."

That didn’t help the knot of dread that had reappeared in his stomach. Thoughts of his earlier plan resurfaced. How did you mess up dough? He didn't know. He knew you could burn bread. His parents were many things but 'distractible' was one of them and 'good at baking' was not.

…throwing it on the ground would probably work.

Splat.

"Oh no," said Danny, failing utterly to sound concerned.

On the floor, the dough lingered flatly for a defeated moment before slowly pulling back in on itself, like an alien creature.

Caretaker was silent.

Danny looked up at him.

His eyes were wide, still pointed at the space where the dough had been. Then he visibly shook himself.

"That should be cleaned up, and another loaf started."

Danny looked after his back in disbelief as Caretaker bustled off in the direction of the flour. That was it? That was all?

It couldn't be.

Danny hadn't even managed to sound convincingly sorry to himself. His Mom or Dad would have sent him to his room. Caretaker had been surprised, sure, but.

But he’d also been calm.

Danny stared down at the dough. It had flattened on impact, but now it was peeling its edges from the floor, drawing itself inwards and back to a rounded shape.

Danny's throat felt drier than before.

"Come," said Caretaker from behind him.

Danny startled.

Caretaker didn't comment. There was a clunk as he set the bowl back on the work table before speaking again. "The dough will stick to the floor if we leave it there, and it is difficult to clean."

Danny didn’t move.

"I will show you where to dispose of it, if you pick it up."

Still confused, Danny did, and followed Caretaker outside to the compost bins. The sun was well up now, though the little herb garden still lay in shadow. Danny lingered, tracing his eyes over the paths he could see through the untended fields that lay below the house.

Caretaker had said it was hard to do it alone.

Danny could see why. He didn't know much about gardening but that was probably a lot of space to use. But it was confusing, too.

Wasn't Caretaker a lord of some sort? Even if the title was stupid and pretentious and Danny hated it on principle, it was still a title. Why would a lord be gardening alone instead of getting other people to help? Why do it at all, if he had trouble with it?

Was it shameful to get gardening help, or something?

…Was Caretaker even telling the truth about being a lord? Danny hadn't seen any servants around, except maybe the weird fae in the night. Lords were supposed to have plenty, right?

And the weird one had been in the garden, too. Did Caretaker's servants only come out at night? Did he only allow them to?

Something clinked in the kitchens, and Danny headed back in. He didn't want Caretaker coming to check on him.

"You didn't have your tea," said Caretaker.

"Oops," said Danny, and reached for it, knocking it over and spilling the tea over the floured table.

"Oops," said Danny again, unconvincingly.

In the ensuing silence, the cup rolled towards the table’s edge. Caretaker stopped it with a touch. He was frowning.

"Child," he asked, "Is something the matter?"

Is something the matter?

Danny’s facade shattered like the cup hadn’t.

"Is something the matter?" Danny repeated, slightly hysterical. "I didn't sleep last night, and the only food or drink I can get is probably drugged. And you're asking me if something is the matter?!? There was a fae in the garden last night and you're asking me if something is the matter?!?"

Danny stared at Caretaker, chest heaving.

Caretaker looked back, eyes widened before narrowing dangerously. "What was in the garden last night?" he asked, voice soft.

"A, um. A fae," Danny said, abruptly concerned for the maybe-servant. What if they were just trying to get some flowers? Danny would look at people, too, if he realized they were watching. Especially if he wasn't supposed to be there. "Don't you have servants? I, um. Maybe it was one of them?"

"I have no servants, child."

Danny's veins turned to ice.

"What was the appearance?" asked Caretaker.

Danny swallowed. "They had a white cloak.” He no longer felt as bad for the servant that wasn't.

"A white–how long?"

"What?"

"How long was it?"

"Really long," said Danny. "Um. They were in the bushes so I couldn't see, like, their feet. But it went out of sight."

Caretaker relaxed. Danny couldn't see why.

And then he pulled down his hood, and Danny could.

"Oh," said Danny.

"Yes, 'oh.'" agreed Caretaker. Without the shadows of the hood, Danny could see the way his eyes were wrinkled in amusement. Danny could also see his long, white hair. "I think, perhaps, I should hang this up," he said, tapping the little gear clip that kept his cloak closed.

He pulled it from his shoulders and moved to the entryway to hang it on a hook.

With his back to him, Danny could see that Caretaker's hair reached to his calves. Unlike the night before, it was tied back instead of loose, held at the nape of Caretaker's neck with a scrunchie. Probably not a scrunchie, Danny amended mentally. He was pretty sure those had plastic, and Caretaker had made his opinion on that abundantly clear.

Danny looked down to the spilled cup of tea. The puddle had spread all the way to the dough, where he could see the pale amber staining it on the bottom. Some of the puddle had gone the other direction, too, and was now dripping onto the floor in a parade of tiny splashes.

Danny felt a twinge of guilt.

"Why do you refuse to drink?" asked Caretaker.

The guilt vanished. "I'm not refusing to drink," said Danny.

"Child," Caretaker warned.

Danny plunged onwards. "If you gave me water, normal water, I'd drink it."

"I did, and you did not."

"You gave me drugged water," said Danny.

"I did no such thing," said Caretaker, and circled the table so he was across from Danny, frowning down at him.

"Fine," said Danny, even though it was nowhere close to fine. "If I had drunk that stuff, what would it have done to me?"

"It would not have bound you to this place."

"That's not answering the question."

Caretaker stiffened. For a moment that felt far longer than it probably was, he stared Danny down with his head back, anger scrabbling for purchase on his face.

Danny drew back, and the anger evaporated from Caretaker's face, replaced again with sorrow.

"You are afraid," he murmured. "I keep forgetting that."

Gently, he worked the dough loose from the countertop, and it was only then that Danny noticed how deeply Caretaker's too-long fingers had sunk into it.

When he returned from disposing of the dough, Caretaker picked up a little rectangle of wood and began scraping at the paste left behind. As he did, he spoke.

"The rules of food and drink are complex and many-layered, here. I cannot tell you the precise mechanics of water here, just as you could not tell me the precise mechanics of electricity in your world."

Danny frowned at the reminder of his parents.

"It is a scholar's topic, child. And a topic of debate, at that."

Here, Caretaker paused to look at Danny, considering.

"But I can tell you this much: the waters of this world will not bind you."

But…there was more than just binding, wasn't there? Danny wracked his brain, trying to put a name to his unease. But catching the thought was like grabbing smoke; every time he tried it slipped away, dispersed all the more by the effort.

"I don't know," Danny said, finally.

"What don't you know?"

Danny blinked. He'd forgotten the thread of conversation.

"I don't…" Danny bit his lip. Why hadn't he slept?

But he knew why.

"What were you doing in the garden last night?" he asked.

"Gathering flowers," said Caretaker.

“You weren’t spying on me?”

"No."

"Then why did you look up?"

Caretaker stared at him. "I imagine it is a common reaction to being stared at, even among humans. Would you do differently?"

Danny looked back down at the empty cup, feeling embarrassment flush his face. That was a more than reasonable explanation. He’d even thought of it, earlier.

Caretaker sighed. There was the scuffing of feet on stone, and then Danny heard him kneel beside him.

He looked up.

"Daniel," Caretaker said. "I know that you are fearful. I know that this has been…hard, for you. But please, do not make me force you to drink."

"You would," said Danny, dread pooling in his bones.

"My hand would be forced," said Caretaker. "By the terms of our agreement. Dehydration, severe dehydration, is unambiguously harm."

"You could break it," said Danny.

"Break–" Caretaker hissed. "I would do no such thing."

"But you could," said Danny.

"You don't know what you're suggesting."

"I think I do."

"Then do tell.” Caretaker said. He stood. ”What happens when a fae breaks their word?"

"I–" Danny broke off. His parents had mentioned it once or twice, surely. At some point over the years they must have. They talked about the fae so much.

But Danny had always tuned them out.

"You are lucky that you suggested that to me," said Caretaker. "Almost anyone else would find a way to bestow upon you an equivalent harm to the one you so casually suggested."

"What–"

"Think," and Caretaker’s voice was dark like thunder, "if I could break the bindings of my word so easily, why should you trust our agreement to keep you safe from me? Am I a cruel monster, kept at bay by chains of ink?" Caretaker's snarl crawled up his face. "Or am I going to save you despite them? No matter what it costs me? Do you want me to save you by endangering you, even as you act as though I will keep you safe from myself in doing it? Which am I? Decide."

Danny shook his head angrily. "No, you decide. You're the one who keeps switching between awful and, and–" Danny frowned, reaching for a word that danced beyond his grasp.

“Understanding?”

“No.”

“Kind?”

“No! Stop forcing words on me!”

“Safe?” Caretaker asked, and his voice was deadly soft.

“N–” Danny choked. “No,” he said, quiet, and drew his arms around himself.

Caretaker’s answering silence was louder than words alone could be.

Some time later, Danny looked up at the click of ceramic on stone as Caretaker set a cup on the table before him.

He looked back down.

“It is only water,” said Caretaker, voice still soft.

“I don’t want it.”

“By now, that matters little. You need it.”

“I don’t want it,” said Danny again, glaring up.

“Are you a child?”

“You seem to think so.”

Caretaker made a noise of aggravation. “It’s difficult to treat you otherwise when you act like this.”

“You mean, not doing whatever you want?”

“I’m trying to avoid forcing you to drink.”

“It seems pretty forceful to me!”

“Are you so certain that you have a good grasp of the situation? You’re dehydrated and exhausted.”

“It’s good enough to grasp this,” said Danny, and upended the cup on the floor.

“You–” Caretaker visibly calmed himself down. “Daniel–”

The use of his name was like dumping water on him–if he were a grease fire.

"You want me to drink?" Danny exploded. He was furious. "You want me to drink?"

"Yes!"

"Okay!" Danny snarled, and seized the cup. He marched over to the spring of water that trickled down into a basin and shoved his cup beneath the stream just long enough to fill it.

Then, fury still bubbling beneath his skin, he tossed it back into his mouth, and swallowed.

#danny phantom #jackdraw-spwrite #jackdaw-spwrite #danny phantom dp #clockwork dp #ectoberhaunt23 #funerary rites fae au

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jackdaw-sprite · 2 years

Text

Funerary Rites Chapter 1

For Ectoberhaunt 2022, Day 3, chaos!

This is a fae au I've been tossing around in discord since August, and I'm pretty excited to start on it!

Read on AO3

There is something wrong with the door to the basement.

There is something wrong with the door to the basement, and the basement itself is destroyed. In the rubble, Danny discovers what his parents have done -- and the familiar fae who has come to exact the price for such a trespass.

To save his parents' lives, Danny makes a deal. But why is the price to save their lives so light?

Or is it light at all?

Characters: Danny, Clockwork

Words: 4126

Warnings: Uhh implied violence? Slug metaphors? I expect this story to get somewhat uncomfortable but nothing viscerally upsettng, and nothing too bad by phandom standards is in this bit.

There was something wrong with the door to the basement.

Danny hovered his hand over the knob. Even inches away he could feel the heat off it like a pan from the oven. In the corners of his vision, his hair fluttered, and behind the door he could hear a cacophony of bells. They layered on one another like a swarm of insects, building to a crescendo that hurt his ears even with the door closed.

His parents used bells in their work sometimes. It sounded nothing like this.

The door shuddered in its frame. At the edges, it began to warp as cracks spread up its length. One bell emerged above the rest, clear and low and threatening. Like a funeral dirge.

His parents had always said to run if something like this happened.

Danny got the oven mitts.

From the stairway, the study was hidden in a haze of smoke. It stung at his nose as he descended, but the sensation paled next to the bells. Without the door to muffle them, they rang loud enough to feel in his chest.

The stairs were curling.

Danny had to look down to avoid stumbling, and it was hard to see in the half-light. There was a flickering glow coming from somewhere and as he descended, the study floor emerged. It was a wreck, full of splintered debris and dust. An old book rested spine-up against the bottom stair.

Danny poked it with a toe and looked up.

"Mom?" He sneezed. "Dad?"

A looming shape in the haze turned, and Danny realized it was a person the same moment he saw its eyes.

Red. Red and glowing like coals in its silhouette.

The world fell silent.

Danny swallowed. The feeling of wrong redoubled, squirmed like slugs in his skin. He kept his eyes fixed on the fae as he called again, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

"Mom? Dad?"

The fae didn’t move.

Behind it, a pile of dust shifted. A fragment of bookcase fell to the side as it grew taller, taller until the towering shape of Jack Fenton stood in its place. He shook himself off, and clouds of dust sloughed away, swirling the haze thicker around him.

The fae remained still. If he hadn't seen it move, Danny might have taken it for a statue.

Behind it, Danny could see the moment his Dad noticed him. His usually dynamic posture dropped like a stone as he went stock still.

Danny's mouth was dry. His stomach was in knots.

He still hadn’t seen his Mom.

Where was his Mom?

A blur of movement answered his question as Maddie Fenton launched herself out of the shadows at the fae with a shout of "DANNY RUN," that jerked him into motion. He stumbled on the floorboards and nearly fell flat on his face several times but he must have gotten back up the stairs somehow because suddenly he found himself in the living room.

His legs felt like jelly.

Through the windows, he could see an average summer day. A single cloud peeked into the gap between buildings across the street, disrupting an otherwise perfect rectangle of blue.

Downstairs, there was a thump and a scream.

Danny didn’t think it was the fae.

His heart was in his throat, Danny realized. He'd always wondered what that meant, and now he knew. It rested high and frantic, stuck there like a great lump and again Danny thought of slugs and gagged–

There was a short grunt and then a thwap. Something collapsed.

Danny should have been running. Danny should have been out the door, on the way to a pay phone to call Jazz but his hand lay frozen on the door handle.

Downstairs had fallen silent.

He became very, very aware of the yawning darkness behind him.

He'd forgotten to shut the study door.

He looked down.

An umbrella stand stood beside the front door, containing one shabby umbrella and a significantly less shabby bat.

Fae weren’t forces of nature. Not most of them. He knew that.

Danny pulled the bat from the umbrella stand and took a single, shuddering breath. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. This was very, very stupid. Endlessly stupid. So stupid. He paused at the top of the stairs and gulped down some more air. The smoke stung at his throat.

He didn’t want to become an orphan. If they survived this his parents could ground him later.

He went back down the stairs.

Danny didn’t know what to expect as the study came back into view. He crept down step by step in an attempt to keep quiet. He didn’t know how well it was working.

The dust on the floor had swirls in it now, like someone took a huge brush and painted it in something dark. Shadows swallowed half the room, and the flickering glow made them dance across the rest. The dust blanketed everything, except. Except his parents, slumped near each other in the middle of the room. Except the fae, looming over them. Danny’s knuckles ached, he was holding the bat so tightly. He tried to hold it tighter.

Danny didn’t really get in fights. He had no idea what he was doing. But he had to try something.

Just pretend it's a t-ball.

Danny took one more step onto the study floor, and the board under his foot squealed.

He stopped.

The fae straightened, and Danny's blood turned to ice.

It was going to kill him, too. But that had been likely from the start, hadn’t it?

"Are you planning to hit me with that, child?"

If the fae noticing him had turned his skin to ice, the sound of its voice did the same to his skin.

His voice.

Danny knew it.

And then the fae took a step and his face was illuminated in the depths of his hood, and Danny knew that, too.

The blue skin, the craggy features. And the scar. It cut down the side of his face like a crack in a china cup.

It was a trick. A glamor. It had to be. He–and Danny had no name but a series of memories secret and treasured–he would never do this. He protected.

He wouldn't.

This wasn't him. It couldn’t be. Relief flooded through Danny, followed shortly by anger. How dare this fae pretend to be him?

"Who are you," Danny demanded, and brought the baseball bat up between them.

The fae stopped his progress forwards, staff–and how had he stolen that?–clacking against the floorboards. He tilted his head, and the gesture was achingly familiar.

“You want a name?” and the tone was familiar, too.

“I want to know why you’re–” Danny cut himself off. Why you’ve killed my parents. Why you’re impersonating another fae. Why you’re…"doing this."

“Fine,” said the fae. “Your parents,” and here the fae nudged his Mom’s arm with his staff, “have taken it upon themselves to upend the laws of nature. To rend the veil which exists between Faerie and your world.”

No.

“I am tasked with its preservation and protection.”

Please, no.

“As such, I am tasked to punish its violators and to tend its wounds. That is why I am doing this.”

Danny’s chest felt numb. His voice, small. “You killed my parents.”

The fae froze.

For long moments, neither of them moved. The only motion was the swirling of dust with Danny’s huffs of breath.

At last, the fae spoke. “I have done no such thing.”

“What?” Danny asked. He hardly dared breathe.

And the fae, Danny’s fae, stepped to the side with a swirl of cloth and a tip of the staff. “See for yourself.”

By the time Danny’s bat met the floor with a clatter, he was already past it and kneeling by his parents’ forms. He pushed at his Mom's arm like he'd seen the fae do, then his Dad's.

Neither stirred.

Danny looked up.

"An enchanted sleep,” said the fae. “They still breathe."

Hands shaking, Danny put one hand before his Dad's mouth and felt warmth. His mom, too. They did. They did. They weren't dead.

He let out a shuddering breath. They weren’t dead. Now that he wasn't caught up in horror, Danny could see the rise of their chests.

His parents were alive. But they were asleep, and that was a question of its own.

He looked up again, and found his fae watching him.

"Why?" he asked.

It wasn’t really what he wanted to ask. Betrayal was bitter on his tongue even though he knew this wasn’t. That this couldn’t be, with no promises between them.

But Danny had trusted him.

"They attacked me instead of listening,” said the fae. “I have little patience for the uncooperative. They can pay the price of their trespass regardless."

A price. Of course there was a price. Danny’s skin was pricking like something electric had its teeth in him and he wanted this to stop, he wanted to get away but.

"What price?"

The fae’s spider-like fingers were loose around his staff but his eyes were focused on Danny. Only on Danny. "Only what is needed to repair it thrice over."

That didn't seem too bad.

Of course. Of course his parents were wrong. Hadn't this fae proven that many times over already? He'd saved Danny so many times when he was young and afraid and lost...

But still.

"What would that be?" Danny asked.

Danny's fae hesitated. Danny’s stomach sank.

"The traditional price would be their lives," the fae said. "And all memory of them, considering the size of the wound."

Danny felt the blood drain from his face. His heart stopped.

"What?"

The fae's lips twisted as he looked down at Danny, and there was a tightness to the corners of his eyes. "I will take no pleasure in the anguish this will cause you."

"You can't!"

"I must." and with that, the fae raised his staff, running one hand up the spine of it. The air shimmered and gained weight and–

"Wait!"

The fae paused. Cocked his head in a gesture Danny knew meant he was curious and listening.

"Can't I do something?"

"Like what?" asked the fae.

"I don't know! I don't–" Danny felt as though he were falling. He didn't want–he didn't want any of this. Something like nausea was twisting his stomach. The slugs rose to mind again. "I don't want to lose them."

"They tore the veil open," said the fae, voice soft. "You can feel it, can't you? The way it's making the world sick."

Danny shifted under the weight of his stare.

The fae lifted a hand, almost – but not quite reaching out. "It must be mended. And they are the ones who trespassed."

"But they're my parents."

"That does not matter, with these things. Everyone is someone's child. That you are theirs is unfortunate."

"But it has to matter. Please. They can't have known."

"The matter of their ignorance is of little concern to me." His voice hardened, and the staff he'd begun to lower raised again.

"What if I pay part of it?"

The fae paused mid-gesture. "In return for what?"

"I mean, if I pay some of it, it'll be easier for them, right? They won't have to die?"

"That would depend on how much of the price you paid yourself,” the fae said, but his voice was considering. “And whether I agreed. But yes. With the right price paid, your parents could live."

Danny bit his lip. But it wasn’t really any choice at all, was it?

“I’ve given you stuff before. In return for taking me home when I get lost. Or given you little favors.”

The fae waited patiently.

"But taking me home is a lot smaller than this, isn't it?"

He nodded. "It is."

Danny looked back down at his parents. His mom's hair was in disarray, like it got when his parents were close to a breakthrough.

"There is another difference, as well."

The fae’s voice was still soft.

Danny looked up.

"There are three groups involved. You and I could make a deal, yes. But it is your parents who have incurred the debt.” The fae traced a path along his staff with one long finger, eyes still on Danny. ”I can collect it without their agreement, such are the consequences of their trespass. But to lessen it without their agreement. Without an exchange from them–that would be a gift."

Something about the word was final.

“And you don’t do gifts.” Danny didn’t bother making it a question. The resignation was probably clear in his voice. He didn’t care. His chest felt like it was tearing, his throat like there were nails in it.

“I am not so cruel as that.”

“But,” Danny said, hope sprouting. “wouldn’t I be the one giving it? If I were the one paying?”

“It would depend on what you provide me as part of our deal. But yes,” the fae said, shifting his grip on the staff. “Ultimately, you would be the one giving.”

"Then why would it matter, if I gave them something?"

"Why indeed," murmured the fae. "But if you wish to shift the weight of their debt, I will not stop you."

"Then. What I can give you that will let them live?"

The fae only eyed him evenly.

"Can I give you my name? What would that be worth?" Danny bit his lip. "My hair? My – something else?"

The fae hummed. "Your hair is a tempting offer. But I will refuse, I think. As for your name… you seem to have forgotten I already have it, Daniel James Fenton."

Danny winced at the reminder.

"But as it would happen," said the fae, and his voice was full of intent now. "There is something you can give me in exchange."

"My life?"

"Don't be morbid. Your time."

Danny frowned, searching for a horrific interpretation of that. It wasn't hard to find one. "You want to take years off my life?"

"No. A week."

"A week? How is that equivalent to my parents' lives? Wait, they weren't going to die next week were they?" he couldn't handle it if he saved them now only to lose them so soon. The very thought of it made panic rise high in his throat again.

"No."

"Then how is me dying a week earlier equivalent?"

"It isn't. You won't be dying a week earlier."

"I thought–"

"You would spend a week with me. In Faerie. There is something you could help me with."

"But I thought you needed to mend the tear." it was impossible to forget about it. It felt like there were slugs crawling in his stomach. "How would you do that with me just spending time with you?"

The fae straightened. Something like approval colored his tone as he said, "You are correct. This is a three way deal. I pay some of the cost of mending the veil myself in exchange for your time in faerie, which you provide on behalf of your parents. As a gift to them."

The betrayal which had quieted during the conversation returned, sharp and biting. Danny stepped back, stung. "You can pay? Why don't you, then?"

"It would be a gift, without an exchange from another."

"You were going to kill my parents!"

"I am letting you arrange otherwise," the fae said, icy.

"I don't care–" Danny interrupted himself before he could finish the sentence. This fae, his fae, did not appreciate lying. Not even conversational niceties or protests. "I do care." The next words were difficult to force out, but important. "Thank you."

His fae inclined his head. Like Danny was expected to be grateful. Danny swallowed down the bitterness, but it lingered on his tongue.

"A week?" he asked, trying to keep himself from dwelling.

"A week," confirmed the fae.

"And I'm not going to come back and a hundred years have passed, right?"

"We can negotiate constraints and rules to the agreement, if you wish."

Danny swallowed. "I don't even know where to begin with that, though." He looked down at his parents. "I've only ever made little deals with you. Mom and Dad…"

He trailed off. His Mom and Dad would know what to ask for, what tricks there were to these things.

"Do you want me to wake them?" the fae asked.

Danny considered that. They could tell him if he was making a mistake with his wording, if there were holes in it for the fae to exploit. They could suggest limitations, rules to follow that could cover harms Danny might never think of. And he considered what it would mean if they woke, when they'd attacked the fae once already. What they'd do if they thought Danny was still in danger.

What it would mean for them to learn that Danny knew a fae, had traded with one and given him his name.

"No," Danny said, still looking at them. "It's just a week, right? And then I'll be back?"

"That can be part of the agreement."

"And they'll live?"

"Not forever," said the fae. "But I will not use their potential to mend the tear they have created in the veil. I will still punish them. I must, it is within my duties."

Danny hesitated. "What are you going to do?"

The fae tilted his head.

"To punish them, I mean."

That got him a hum. "Something to keep them from repeating their mistakes."

"That light?"

The fae smiled humorlessly. "I am fair, child. As faerie is fair. Your parents will not agree when they wake, but it is not their standards to which I hold myself."

"But they'll live," Danny said, and his voice was a little ragged.

The fae hesitated, and then he knelt down so they were eye to eye. "Yes. You will see your parents after this, and speak to them while their hearts still beat."

Danny did his best not to sag with relief. "Then," he said, he swallowed. "I can still specify conditions?"

"Yes."

Danny looked down at his parents again. For them. "I don't want to be gone more than a week. And I don't want you to do anything weird to me."

"Child, I'll be taking you to Faerie for a week. You'll have to be more specific."

"Don't change me?"

"Experiences themselves change you. I cannot both have your cooperation and freeze you in time. And unless you wish to forget what you do…"

That would be bad. "No, um. Scratch that. Maybe… don't change me to the point I'm a different person?" He caught himself looking at the fae for his reaction, and jerked his eyes away to the shredded bookcases.

"That holds the same problem," said the fae, patiently. "The idea of difference is an ambiguous one, here. To live is to change. You are changing now. I cannot promise you will not be different any more than I cannot promise you will be unchanged by the experience."

"But you know what I mean," said Danny, hearing frustration edge into his tone.

"Do I?" asked the fae. "Are you certain?"

No. He wasn't certain. Danny wasn't certain of a lot of things right now.

“No. I guess not.” One of his hands was fisting the cloth of his pants. Danny pulled it away. “But what am I supposed to say, then? I don’t want–”

I don’t want to come back to my parents wrong. I don’t want it to be like the stories.

I thought you were different.

The fae cleared his throat, and Danny looked into his eyes. They flicked over Danny’s face in a quiet dance.

Danny shifted, uncomfortable.

“There is nothing that you are supposed to say, child.” The fae sighed. “But perhaps it would be better to ask yourself what you wish to stay the same.”

Danny turned that over in his head.

The fae let him, and for a time the only motion in the room was the flicker of the light Danny still hadn’t seen, the swirl of the slowly settling dust.

“I want my body to–no, wait. That changes continuously too, right? I want to still be human after this. And I don’t want to lose any memories I have right now. And I want, um. I don’t want my personality to change?”

The last sentence raised an eyebrow, and Danny worried his lip.

“That’s vague, isn’t it? Or, no it’s not. It’s impossible to technically comply with because my personality is like my body, so maybe…” he trailed off.

"I want to still love my family after this, and I want to still be. I want to still be me." and maybe his voice was a little plaintive at the end there. "I don't know how else to word it. I want to be the Danny Mom and Dad and Jazz and Tucker know. I want to be the Danny I know. I just don't," he scuffed a foot against the floor. "I guess I don't really know how to name that."

The fae was still examining him, but with no sign of disapproval. Danny hunched his shoulders and forged on.

"Okay. And, um." The food! How had he almost forgotten the food. "You can't give me food."

That got a reaction.

"Child, you will be gone a week. If I don't feed you, you will be harmed by your own metabolism."

Oh. Right.

"Then, um. You have to give me enough food to not be harmed? And it can't do weird stuff."

The fae pursed his lips at the word. "What do you mean by, 'weird stuff?'"

"Like, turning me into a frog or a bug, or making me tiny or, um. Tying me to Faerie forever. Especially that one."

"Ah," said the fae. "I see." He made a little hum. “Our food is made of consequences. I cannot promise that the food I supply you will do nothing–not even human food does nothing at all. But I can promise that I will explain the food, and what it will do. And I will let you refuse to eat it.”

“Let me?”

“The rules of hospitality in Faerie can be complex.”

“Oh.”

Danny hesitated. This was dumb. This was a bad idea, the worst idea. Even if he knew this fae, had made deals with him before and never been hurt, even if this fae had saved him from dark woodlands and strange situations and returned him home…he was still a fae.

And Danny’s parents were still lying on the ground, fast asleep.

Because of this fae.

But Danny’s parents had done something so foul that the very air down here was clogged with it, and the fae wanted to fix it, and nothing came for free in Faerie. Danny knew that much. And Danny could make sure they didn’t pay too much. And it would be a week, and he’d be at least recognizable to himself.

For a moment, he wondered what Jazz would think when she got home from the library.

He wished she were here.

No he didn’t.

Jazz wasn’t here, and he should be grateful for that even if it felt like being left behind, like drowning, like getting lost again. Jazz wasn’t here, but Danny was and their parents were. And their parents had messed up, and maybe he could keep it from getting worse.

The fae was still kneeling in front of him. The shadows of his hood were deep in the half-light, but Danny could still make out details – a slice of ear, strands of pale hair. The scar was dark and clear across his brow and cheek, and Danny found his eyes lingering on it for a moment too long.

The fae raised an eyebrow, and Danny coughed, embarrassed.

“So how do we make a deal?” he asked.

“You’ve done it before,” said the fae.

“Yeah, but nothing this big, right? Just…little things. Ways home, that stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t this different?”

The fae tilted his head again, and Danny found himself reminded of a bird. “No. We only have to agree, and it will be our word which binds us.”

The idea of that formed a pit in Danny’s stomach, and he found himself looking back down at his parents, clutching one arm to his side.

There was a hand at his shoulder.

“But that is true of myself as well, child. My promises I will keep.”

"So…"

"You say your demands, and I say mine."

Danny nodded, head jerking like a marionette's. It felt like he was falling. And then he said the word around which the rest of his life would pivot.

"Okay."

#danny phantom #ectoberhaunt22 #danny fenton dp #clockwork dp #funerary rites fae au #jackdaw-spwrite #jackdraw-spwrite

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