Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Edward Lancer turned to face the coffee shop's front door. 

He waited at his regular spot: a round oaken table at the back of the café, pressed right against the wall. The seat was pretty close to the counter — but far enough that the movement wouldn't get in the way of his morning privacy — and the nearby windows showed him a lovely view of Amity's public park, its trees slowly fading to orange with the start of a new season. 

His eyes traced a small analog clock that hung above the front door. He had a few hours before work — the early morning fog still laid a thick blanket over the streets, so there weren't that many people strolling down the park's dirt path. The neighborhood was slowly waking up, with a few cars and young joggers passing by once in a while. There was a quiet tick every second as the clock's metal pointers jaggedly moved from one number to another. 

One hand at 5, one hand at 8. 05:40 A.M.

The café itself was always empty at dawn. Edward knew it was a popular spot for teenagers to "hang out" and could get more crowded later in the afternoon. At that time of day, however, there were only about 3 or 4 strangers waiting for their morning coffee. People would come and go, busy with their own personal worries and responsibilities.

Eventually, he started recognizing some of them. He didn't know them all personally, but he did see their faces on a daily basis. He took note of their appearance every morning — whether they were happy, nervous, disheveled, et cetera — and always bid them a "good luck."

He never actually said it out loud, of course. Still, if they were getting coffee that early in the morning, then they probably needed a silent blessing to wake their weary spirits. Edward could tell. After all, he was there too.

There was a lady by the counter. She twirled her soft blonde curls as she read some fashion magazines. She always looked bedazzled, at least compared to the other usual café guests. She dressed in vibrant yet mildly inappropriate outfits and had a face full of makeup — such is the life of a journalist. A grande crème caramel iced americano, she always ordered.

Serena Lennard. Edward remembers her from years ago, back when he first started teaching at Casper. Her son, Kevin, went up to study accounting in Elmerton. He was a dedicated kid and was always so passionate about spreadsheets — the major really fit him.

One hand at 5, one hand at 9. 05:45 A.M.

One of the regulars rushed into the coffee shop. He was an office drone, given his elegant suit and constant exhaustion. He glanced at his phone every few seconds, always late, always dealing with some sudden urgency. Edward showed no judgment when he ordered the strongest drink on the menu. The man would leave just as quickly as he would arrive.

The sun was starting to properly rise now as a warm yellow glow bounced off the café's walls. The morning was getting slightly warmer, though the daybreak haze seemed to linger in his mind, still groggy from a late night of signing paperwork. Maybe he just needed his flat white.

Truthfully, Edward didn't start off as a coffee enjoyer. As a young adult, he was known to always have a cup of tea, not coffee, in his hand. Herbal infusions, Jasmine Leaf, Chamomile, Hibiscus. Black tea has a significant concentration of caffeine, and it tastes a lot better than the sharp bitterness of a cold brew. For years, tea was a major part of his morning routine, and he could not function without it. Nothing beats flicking through the pages of a gothic novel while sipping on some traditional Earl Grey.

Nonetheless, life gets in the way of such pleasantries. To heat the water, set out the tea leaves, pour milk or honey into his little breakfast concoction... It was faster and much more efficient to simply press a button on a machine. He just got used to it.

And then he had to teach the seventh graders for a semester… He shivers just thinking about it. Not even the darkest of coffees could save him.

Which reminds him...

Edward stood up from his spot and headed towards the counter. He quickly listed the three usual orders: a flat white, a cappuccino, and a croissant. He paid in cash and returned to his seat: It would apparently take roughly 10 minutes for all the items to be ready.

One hand at 5, one hand at 10. 05:50 A.M. Perfect timing.

Haywoods' Café. He really understood why so many people loved this place — it was always so neat and tidy. The plants scattered around the coffee shop were well taken care of, the wooden floorboards never creaked, and the curtains were just clear enough to let the sunshine peek through. Prices were fairly cheap, too. It was easy to tell that this was somewhat of a passion project for the owners.

It was a family establishment, founded by the current owners' grandparents in 1966. It hadn't changed much since then — rather, it looked exactly the same as it did when it first opened. Beyond that, it felt the same, like you were suddenly sent to the past. It gave you a nostalgic feeling with every sip of your drink.

He wouldn't doubt that this was due to Amity Park's liminal nature.

In older buildings like this one, Edward could feel the passion and love that stuck to their walls, like a smell that oozed in the air. The painted bricks, the curtains, the leather seat covers — they never changed or peeled off or got moldy or stained. He imagined the café being stuck as a movie set, where realism was just a suggestion. Still, in Amity, such imagination was not far from the truth.

He was used to this town's strangeness by now. It had barely been three years, but it felt much longer, yet much, much shorter. Still, he couldn't exactly be without it, or the apathy would get to him. Beyond Amity's city limits, everything felt so beige. 

Not that he didn't like beige! But it was much more bland.

In place of the chaos, all that remained was dissatisfaction, boredom, discomfort. He had gotten too used to the town — how things looked uncanny, how the passage of time felt more real, how in touch he felt with everything else. Being too far from Amity Park was almost physically draining.

Edward fancied himself a poet, but even he had trouble expressing the unsettling comfort he felt in this hectic town.

He never really stopped to reflect on all this. Yes, these oddities had been present in Amity Park for several years now, but he always avoided thinking about it. Finding out how the afterlife works and confronting the insignificance of human existence on a daily basis is not exactly a happy shower thought.

But something had changed in the past year. He couldn't exactly tell when or why it happened. Maybe it was gradual, or maybe a switch was suddenly flipped, but something had changed for the better.

In the past, his thoughts on Amity Park were usually accompanied by existential crises. The meaninglessness of life and death weighed on his shoulders, and Edward admits he made a myriad of mistakes. Adjusting to all the changes had been stressful for everyone. He regrets a lot of things.

He used to be so stressed, irritated, scared, exhausted… Admittedly, he still is all those things, but for once he really felt like he could handle the chaos. He felt safer. He felt like he could truly relax for the first time in a long time.

Edward read a lot of philosophy in his free time. Back then, it was mainly Camus — the absurdities of life, and how the unknowns of life and death should be just accepted rather than feared. Nowadays, he would find himself more fond of the works of Michel de Montaigne. Both authors were not so dissimilar, in one aspect or another; their main natural philosophies of "the end of life" tended to overlap. However, Montaigne was more in touch with death as a tangible concept. Edward didn't want to just accept the unknown: he wanted to know, to understand, to "deprive death of its strangeness."

He wanted to learn.

Edward was… honestly, he was doing great. He was feeling great! He was more enthusiastic, patient, curious... He even started developing hobbies again. After all the chaos, he, for once, actually thinks he deserved that peace of mind.

And above all, Edward was making friends!

One hand at 5, one hand at 11. 05:55 A.M.

If you asked him a year ago, Edward would never go out for a friendly outing like this. Really, this early in the morning? No thanks.

It was his newfound company that encouraged him to go out more often. One of his new "besties," his students would say, just seemed to click with him like two pieces of an unfinished puzzle.

Edward met him at a small bookstore, near the cinema. It was always fairly empty — most would seek a good narrative on a big screen, rather than on a page. He was one of the only adults who consistently went to the store: most other customers were middle schoolers in the "Y.A. Romance" aisle or university students searching for textbooks.

One weekend, he made his way through the store and found himself in the "Historical Fiction" section. He perused the covers spread on the table, seeing if anything would spike his interest. He was much more into science fiction than anything too historical, really: he saw enough of history in his own lectures. Still, he wanted something new — and he most certainly got it. 

The stranger approached the other end of the table in silence. He held a copy of The Invention of Fire by Bruce Holsinger, a book Edward had been curious about for quite some time.

He doesn't remember exactly what was said, at least not word-for-word. Edward had asked if the book was an enjoyable read, and whether it was historically accurate. The man snorted, commenting on how true accuracy didn't matter — he only cared about the unexpectedness of the tale, about what changed. The word he used was "captivating," and Edward couldn't help but agree.

He was an unfamiliar face. He was definitely new to Amity Park and, by the looks of it, had not yet faced the terrors of the town. He carried himself with a calm gracefulness, even joy, as he listened to Edward's long ramblings about the last novel he read. 

There's always a honeymoon period when moving somewhere new: the problems only start appearing much later. In this town, however, the "problems" were life-threatening world-ending disasters. That man, who so sagely shared his thoughts on Mary Shelley's Frankenstein ("Victor was not even a doctor yet!") was still unaware of all these issues.

Pride and Prejudice, he mentioned that he moved here to seek a "peaceful small-town living." Edward could only pray that his friend would adjust to the chaos. 

With how his new friend seemed to glance off into nothingness, Edward knew he wouldn't be an Outsider. He may not be aware of his own situation, but he was already somewhat liminal. Edward started to notice the heavy eyes beyond his friend's calm grin. He was already changing. He would definitely adapt, then — but that also meant he would most likely never leave.

Part of Edward felt surprisingly relieved by that thought. Another book nerd stuck in this godforsaken town? Score!

The other part of him could only feel pity. 

After all, every citizen of Amity became a bit odd, in their own ways, and people rarely managed to push themselves to leave. They all chose to stay — perhaps due to contamination, or extreme psychological trauma. Usually the latter.

Nevertheless, that short interaction was enough for them to form an immediate bond. Edward barely felt the hours go by as he walked back home, taking that copy of The Invention of Fire with him. The two agreed to meet at Haywoods' the next morning to chat about their current readings, as they continued to do for several weeks.

Edward quickly learned that his friend was a man of routine. He was organized, wise, solemn… Sure, there were many times he revealed his trickster side, but he was always elegant. He was a private tutor, actually! And after all, as educators, they'd both had their fair share of monstrous parent-teacher conferences… That alone would give anyone enough mental strength to deal with supernatural horrors.

Edward was pulled out of his thoughts by the delicate tinkling of wind chimes over the front door. The clock ticked forward.

One hand at 6, one hand at 12. 06:00 A.M. 

There stood a man of great character, with warm brown skin and amber eyes that shined like rubies in the sunrise. His dark hair was pulled up into a half-bun, some strands falling on his face. He was smaller than Edward, with a short stature and thin waist, but his broad shoulders still gave him an imposing silhouette. He was slightly older, too — streaks of gray branched out from his roots as age caught up to him, and there were faint scars on his face.

Most were faint and barely noticeable, just small light lines scraped onto his chin or forehead. The main one, though, was long and thin, stretching from his left temple down to his cheek in a twisted motion. It looked sharp, a canyon clawing through his eye.

He walked towards the table, carrying under his arm a hard-cover copy of Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett.

"Clark!"

"Morning, Ed," his friend greeted him. Clark took a seat across from Edward, taking a moment to set down his bag and adjust his shirt collar. He wore a navy blue sweater over his button-up, with a pen resting in his small chest pocket. He was charming, a true gentleman.

"A long day ahead, is it not?"

"Please, don't remind me," Clark mumbled with a sigh. "As much as I care for the children I teach, they can be so stubborn with geography. Sometimes I barely have the patience to manage."

"I'm sure you'll handle it." Edward gave his friend two pats on his shoulder as a form of solidarity. "It can't be worse than what I'm dealing with."

"Oh? Do tell."

"I'm a substitute for trigonometry today. I have so much to review…"

Clark let out a small laugh. "My condolences. I know how more scientific fields can easily escape you."

"I don't understand why Akemi keeps sending me as a substitute," he groaned. "Don't get me wrong, Ishiyama is a wonderful principal, but she knows I have enough on my plate as is. I'm correcting over 50 essays this week, and this group of seniors is always a nightmare to teach."

"I believed them to be your favorites…?"

"Well," Edward hesitated, a bit embarrassed at how easily his friend could read him. "They are, yes, but mainly because of how chaotic classes can be with them. On one hand, they make my weekdays much more fun. On the other hand, it nearly triples my paperwork."

"Maybe your workload would be smaller if you didn't try so hard–"

Rebecca just loved to infiltrate his conversations, didn't she? She wiped her hands on her apron as she curved around the counter, carrying a tray with drinks. Her light brown hair fell over her shoulders in a long braid, tied together with a white "scrunchie" elastic band, though a few loose strands fell over her freckled face as she walked over.

"You should only work as much as your salary is worth, you know."

"Unfortunately for me," Edward played along. "There'd be no one left to pick up the slack."

Rebecca moved to Amity a few years ago, but Edward only met her recently. She quickly became another great friend of his, ever since he started coming to the coffee shop with Clark. The three of them spent many mornings together, chatting about all the wonders of life. Out the window, they watched the streets of Amity wake up with the rising sun, united in a momentary state of bliss. It was in these moments that Edward's life felt relatively normal, and he truly hoped it would stay this way for long.

Obviously, it wouldn't. But still…

"A flat white and a croissant for Mr. Lancer, and a cappuccino for Mr. Wright." Rebecca placed their orders on the table, "and an iced latte for me."

Clark gave her a short nod, prompting her to sit down. She sometimes took an early break to join them, though the café was so empty this time of the morning that she didn't even have to bother making it official. 

Clark reached into his bag, pulling out a small black wallet. "Let me pay you back for my drink, Edward. I would rather not owe you in the long run."

"Nonsense!" Edward bit into a piece of the croissant, swallowing it before continuing. "You paid for it last week. Let me pay for it this time. In full."

"You're just as stubborn as the kids you teach."

"It's just a coffee, Clark. It won't affect my taxes."

"Is that what the H stands for?" Before Clark could continue insisting on the fair payment, Becca pulled out a small I.D. card from his open wallet. It was slipping off the bottom, so of course she just had to take the opportunity to see it.

Clark looked surprisingly good in the picture. Even if it did look slightly squished and distorted — it's nearly impossible to get a decent photograph on identification cards, anyway — he still managed to look quite fine. Did he ever not wear fancy shirts? Edward was the same, so he couldn't judge. He practically only had button-ups in his closet.

Edward glanced at the name written on the card, and could not help but chuckle.

"Your middle name is Horatio?"

Clark quickly grabbed the card off the table, stuffing it back inside his wallet. His face burned with a faint red glow — he was evidently a bit embarrassed. "I did not choose the name myself. Truly, blame Shakespeare before you blame me."

"Well, since you're an edgy prince's right-hand man, I suppose you have some wise words for us to hear?" Rebecca quipped.

"If I were to give you any advice, Becca, it would be to watch out for your own hypocrisy. You aren't exactly better off yourself."

She crossed her arms, slightly slouching on the chair. He clearly struck a nerve there, but Edward only raised an eyebrow at her in curiosity. After a pause, she delivered: 

"It's Arwen. Rebecca Arwen Ballard."

Edward took a second to process that new information.

"From Lord of the Rings?"

"My parents were really into the books, alright? I'm not to blame for their bad naming choices — and I'm not gonna change things now, anyway. Can't exactly go back in time." She took a sip of her latte, presumably to try and end the conversation there.

The other two laughed at her comment, always in synchrony. "Well said," Clark commented, drinking from his own cup with a mischievous look in his eyes. 

Edward took another bite off his croissant, for once truly content. He was so glad his middle name was William.

Chapter Text

"And what does this line indicate to readers, Mr. Fenton?"

Mr. Lancer kept a thin smile on his face, trying to fight his exhaustion. Classes at the end of the day were always the most tiring, since his social battery had already run out from repeating the same content over and over.

Still, he pushed through. The metal water bottle standing at the edge of his desk was a life saver — nobody needed to know that he had filled it with coffee — and, hey, he finally had the opportunity to talk about something he actually cared about.

He loved Shakespeare. Between the double meanings of the jokes, the consistent rhyming, and the impeccable stage plays, it was one of his favorite subjects to teach.

Not only for its historical impact, but also with how many layers of analysis some of his texts could lead to — but also also for finally being allowed to discuss much more adult topics in literature class. Shakespeare was known for his innuendos, after all. Keeping a straight face was usually the hardest part. 

He was used to doing these group reading sessions — Popcorn Reading, they used to call it — to allow all students to catch up on content at the same time. Reading independently was usually better, allowing people to follow at their own speeds… but considering they were teenagers, Lancer doubted they would even open the books at all without the right incentives. 

"Mr. Fenton?"

That was why he was now staring at Daniel James Fenton, one of his most troublesome students.

Danny always sat at the front of class, though not for the need of teacher approval or a nerdy passion in the content. He always left his backpack on the desk closest to the door so he could jump out at any moment and be the first to leave. Most teachers found this behavior upsetting, but considering how many days Danny arrived late to class, sitting next to the door was honestly a good idea.

Unfortunately, today was one of those days. Lancer had sat on his desk at the front of the room, eyeing that empty desk right up until the second bell rang. He began his classes as usual, but he couldn't help but let his gaze linger on the scratched desk by the door.

His mind wondered with hypotheses, as it tended to. He couldn't have been busy talking to other teachers, as the schedule for this class of seniors had a free period between lunch and Lancer's class. He could be out with his friends, as they all had different schedules that semester, but he doubted Ms. Manson or Mr. Foley would skip class unless they had a good reason. At least they were doing fine academically.

Danny wasn't exactly problematic — he never voluntarily got into trouble with other students — but it seemed like trouble chased him around anyway. His grades had been fine in Middle School, way above average, but something changed when he entered High School.

Danny used to be bullied, but that was settled with Mr. Baxter halfway through Sophomore Year. The staff was a lot more stern now when it came to physical bullying, although some name-calling did occasionally slip their radar. Ghosts or no ghosts, no school should be so unconcerned about violence. They wouldn't make those mistakes again.

Plus, Mr. Baxter was sitting right in front of him, sticking chewed gum under his desk. Ew.

For a long time, Lancer suspected that the bullying got in the way of his academic effort. Danny didn't even seem to be trying most of the time, barely passing most of his courses. When the bullying settled down, things seemed to genuinely be improving. Slowly, very slowly, one step at a time — but he was making new friends, his grades were back up, and on most days, he stayed in class all the way through.

But then Senior Year began. 

Danny tried to sneak into class about 10 minutes late, and Mr. Lancer immediately pointed out his delay, with the "please be on time tomorrow" speech. It was phrased like a demand, but there was always a worried strain in his voice. 

Danny's shoulder slumped, with sweat dripping down his forehead — had he run to class? Where did he go? — and deep eye bags under his eyes. He headed to his usual seat and promptly laid his head on the desk, and there he stayed for the rest of the period. 

The teachers knew Danny, and they knew that he would never be on time. It didn't matter if he had any particular interest in coming to class early or not — he would still manage to somehow be late. Something would always come up. Still, they were trying to "not uphold a defeatist attitude in a classroom environment," or whatever excuse Lancer came up with during professional development meetings. 

He didn't want to just stop pointing out Danny's delays, as most other teachers had — he didn't want Danny to think that he had given up on him. He had taught enough students to know how that feeling weighed you down.

Lancer had seen Danny at his best. He had seen him ace exams and do incredible presentations on the history of science. He had seen him perform as M*cbeth in the school play. He had seen him take time to study the Renaissance and give insightful analyses in class discussions. He knew he could do incredible things in school, but something was getting in the way of his efforts. Between the absences and delays, his grades never reflected his true potential. 

Lancer didn't understand why things were bad again.

This brings him to where he was now. He held a copy of Much Ado About Nothing on his stretched palm, using his thumb and pinky to keep the pages open, and stood at the front of the class, waiting for Danny to move so he could join the Popcorn Reading time.

"Mr. Fenton, are you awake?"

Danny kept still, and it barely looked like he was breathing. He was curled up over the desk, arms wrapped around his head and face nudged against his elbow. His movements were sluggish, almost as if it were a game to see how long he could delay their conversation as he very slowly lifted his eyes. They seemed to dart around as they opened, taking in the room from behind his dark bangs.

"By Grimm's Tales, could you please look up, Danny?"

Lancer took a step forward, blocking Danny's view of the board and casting a faint shadow over the desk. When he did look up, the exhaustion weighed heavy on his face, a frustrated scowl plastered on his lips. Lancer apparently did wake him up.

He turned toward Danny with a frown, but not one of disappointment.

"I would rather you find another spot to sleep at. If you're in my classroom, Mr. Fenton," Lancer remarked. "I expect you to be at least somewhat focused."

Danny only nodded, adjusting himself in the chair so he wouldn't be completely slumped over the desk. 

Around him, he could hear snickering and giggling around the class. He hoped that the popular kids, the so-called "A-Listers," wouldn't use this little scene against him. The cliché High School cliques had already mostly faded away by Senior Year, since students were more focused on improving their grades for graduation than on senseless popularity fights. Rankings and hierarchies were long gone at this point. But gossiping was still a dangerous hobby, spreading rumors around like disease.

"Would you mind…" Lancer coughed, sparing some stern glances around the room. When the hushed conversations quieted down, he turned back to face Danny, who still avoided eye contact. "Would you mind explaining the meaning of this line for us, please?" 

Danny's eyes turned back to the book. Its pages, covered in lime-green Post-it notes and penciled-in annotations, now had one or two droplets of drool. Hopefully, the school library wouldn't mind. He scanned the rhymes on the page for a few moments, before a puzzled look fell on his face.

"Uhm, what line?"

The other students shared quiet laughs, and Lancer could almost feel the eye rolls and glares received from the nerdier students. Some others whisper-shouted "But if all aim!" in his direction, probably trying to point him to the right passage. Danny glanced back at the page, searching for the line, just as Lancer began reading it.

"But if all aim but this be leveled false," Lancer recited.

"The supposition of the Lady's death will quench the wonder of her infamy," Danny joined in, underlining the words with his index finger.

"I think…" he grimaced, evidently not sure of his words. "It's about how they lied about Hero's death? If people thought she was fully dead, everyone would sort of just feel bad and forget about why they hated her."

"In a way, that is correct. But why is this seen as a problem in the story?"

Danny tilted his head, rubbing his tired eyes. "It's... not?"

"They're lying to the people," Star jumped in from across the room. She sat in another one of the front row seats — the one closest to the window. Lifting her book from the desk and resting it on her lap, she turned her body to face the rest of the class. "The rumor of her affair ruined more than just her reputation, and being dead doesn't magically fix the damage it caused. Everyone would be offended when the truth came out."

"But she didn't actually do anything bad, right?" Ashely added in, brushing her dark curls away from her face. "So what does it matter? It's just best for everyone if she hides away and doesn't deal with the bad rep directly."

"Well, maybe…" Kwan started packing up his notebook in his backpack, only stopping to look at Lancer with a confused pout. "But isn't lying to cover a lie just as bad?"

"Not necessarily," Lancer commented, turning towards Kwan. He picked up the blue bookmark inside his book and moved it to mark the current page. "One of the main themes of this play is the use of deception for the greater good. Some lies and secrets are important to reach an ideal ending," He closed the book with a snap, and glanced at the clock, "even if the betrayal may cause harm. It all rests on whether or not the end justifies the means."

The clock ticked forward and, on cue, the end-of-school bell rang. The loud noise resounded all across the high school campus, and the room exploded with excitement for the weekend. Students immediately cheered with relief as they got out of their seats, picked up materials, and rushed out the door in waves. The chatter grew loud as small groups raced together out the classroom door, already deep in conversation — any brain space saved up for academics was quickly replaced with their fun after-school plans.

"Make sure to finish Act 4 by next class!" Lancer shouted over the crowds, though nobody paid attention over the loud babbling. 

He walked up to his own desk, placing the book back inside his bag. He flipped through some remaining essays to grade and some small paperwork — a request for office supplies after a certain ghost stole his box of stationary — and packed up to leave. Edward was more than ready for the weekend, as he finally had a little bit of free time. 

He started making a small check-list in his mind. He needed to finish that request form, catch up on some reading, and send an email to Akemi about the new football field ghost shield. Oh, and he needed to buy some more cat food. They were running out, so Coraline was getting grumpy and sitting on top of his work again, which was very rude. Most people claim that black cats were a bad omen, but it turns out that they're just a little bit petty.

When he turned back around, Danny was still standing there, trying to shove his book inside his purple backpack. It rested flat outside the zipper, the thick cover sticking out. Even after he stood up from the chair, he still had difficulty cramming the novel between whatever was filling up his bag. 

He stuck his tongue out in concentration, either not noticing Lancer watching or not really caring. With how tired Danny seemed earlier, he would place his bets on the former.

"Do you need help, Mr. Fenton?"

Danny glanced up at him. "It's–" he struggled to push the book past his pencil case. "It's fine, I got it."

Lancer hesitated for a moment, then took a step forward with hand stretched. "Is everything alright? You seem more tired than usual."

Danny looked between him and the backpack for a few seconds, before sighing and giving him the book. "Yeah," he ran a hand through his hair. "Just had a long day today."

"That's not what I meant," he sighed. His voice, though gentle, carried the notes of concern. "You've been sleeping in class again, and your attendance has been less than satisfactory this semester."

Danny stayed silent, putting down his pencil case back on the table. Lancer took the initiative to start unpacking the bag, making up space for everything to fit. "Your other teachers have voiced their concerns regarding your recent grades, too."

"I know, I know." Danny waved off the concern with a dismissive gesture. "I've just been busy."

"Busy with what?"

"... With stuff? Important stuff."

At the corner of his eye, Lancer could see Danny picking up his notebook from the table, flipping it over in his hand. His eyes lingered on the lined paper, seemingly lost in thought.

Lancer continued to help Danny pack, shuffling some things inside his backpack. He picked up that thermos of his, the sides slightly bent from use, when he noticed something at the bottom of the bag. 

His gaze sharpened at a small white box, with two locks clipping it closed. It wasn't open, but he could imagine what was inside just based on the large red cross stamped on the lid.

A shiver ran up Lancer's spine. Just the prospect of his student carrying a first aid kit at all times made his blood run cold. It took up most of the space of his backpack, besides the thermos and some larger textbooks, and must have been the heaviest thing inside. Nowadays, with all the ghost attacks in Amity, there were first aid kits offered in almost every room at Casper High. Nobody should need to be carrying around a personal one.

The worst part is that it seemed used. It wasn't dented like the thermos was, this was stained. There were scratches over the lid, and parts around the handle and the opening locks were smudged in a faint maroon something. Lancer didn't want to begin to think of what those splotches could be.

He frowned to himself as he removed one of Danny's notebooks from the bag, opening up enough free space to put the thermos back in. 

"Whatever this stuff is…" Lancer faltered, fighting off the worst-case-scenarios, "I don't want you to fall behind again." 

"I know," Danny looked away. 

"You know, Casper does offer some extra assistance if needed. The offer still stands, even after all these years." Realization flashed across Lancer's face, like a lightbulb turning on above his head. "I know a great tutor that could help."

"Oh, yeah?"

He nodded. "I could send your parents his contact information. He focuses on some of the subjects you struggle in, and he's a wonderful person. I'm certain you'd learn much from him."

It might be a good idea. He knew Clark was smart, so he trusted his ability as a tutor. He seemed the type that would know exactly what to say to help Danny come to his own conclusions, and the two of them could check in with each other about his progress. He'd have to talk to him about the idea and see what could be arranged.

The school had already offered Danny help in Freshman Year, though both him and his parents agreed he could "handle it on his own." The memory alone made Lancer groan.

He didn't miss the way Danny closed himself off at the mention of his parents, though.

He knew the Fentons and how chaotic they could be, but he also knew how much they loved their children. They were very vocal about it, especially when something bad happened to them. He knew it wasn't that. But it was still concerning.

Did his parents know about the first aid kit? Did they know how much it was being used? Whatever was happening, he doubted the Fentons were aware — or else they'd be making it everyone's problem.

"Uhhhh, thanks, but no thanks. I'll be fine." He finally put back all of his materials inside the bag, and everything fit. Danny zipped it closed. "I actually already have some tutors."

"You do?"

"Yeah, but they're a little… eccentric." He rolled his eyes in frustration, though a faint smile tugged at Danny's lips. "They teach me what I need to know."

Danny kept fiddling with something in his hand, eyes closed while searching for the right thing to say. He spat the rest of his words out, a monologue he memorized from years of the same routine. "I didn't mean to fall asleep in class today. I know I should be paying attention. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Lancer let out a hum at that scripted apology — he would've preferred something more genuine — before crossing his arms. "Any reason why you're so tired today, in particular?"

"Nothing special. I just missed my morning coffee."

He held back a laugh at that. He definitely knew the feeling, though he ached at how aged Danny sounded. If only he could–

Except he could, couldn't he?

"I was serious earlier, Mr. Fenton. When you come to my class, I want you to be paying attention..." He let his last word trail off.

"I know–"

"...but I do have a couch in my office."

Danny almost froze in place. "What?"

"There are some pillows…" He glanced up, searching for the memory. "Blankets as well. It's a good place for naps when staying up late. And," he turned back to Danny, "there's a candy jar in the cabinet."

"But… but you just said…"

"I said," he reiterated, "I would rather you find another spot to sleep at. I won't excuse you from all assignments but, if necessary, if you need somewhere safe to study, take a nap in, or even just to talk, my door's always open."

Danny forcibly pressed his lips together. He stared at Lancer with wide eyes, an unnerving, piercing glare that shifted in a roller coaster of emotions. Lancer couldn't really offer much, but the fact that such a small accommodation left Danny so shocked had quickly disillusioned him.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"You don't make excuses for anyone else," Danny picked up his backpack and flung it over his shoulder. "And I already have enough absences as is. So why?"

"You… seem to have a lot on your plate," Lancer offered, with a melancholy smile. "You need a chance to catch up, and I know you can, on your own terms. And you won't get more absences, since you'd be working on assignments under my supervision either way. Just–" He sighed. "If you need space to do your own thing, you know where to go."

Danny stayed quiet for a moment, letting his head fall with hair drooping over his eyes. Even stuck in his thoughts, he mustered a small chuckle. "Thanks, Mr. Lancer. I'll, uh," he looked up, and gave him a curt nod. "l'll keep it in mind." 

When Danny made his way out of the room, he didn't see the way that Lancer's frown deepened, etching lines of worry on his forehead as he noticed Danny's small but unmistakable limp.

Chapter Text

If not for the blinking glow of the neon "open" sign, hanging tilted over the front door, Edward would assume the store had been abandoned. There was no movement; barely any indication that any passerby even took note of the cozy place. 

"Ms. Burke's Antiques" must have been there for decades, but Edward had never noticed it before. 

The smell of oaken wood shavings permeated the air, hitting Edward's nose the moment he opened the front door. Inside, corridors of glass displays stretched on all sides, filled with withered books and bizarrely-detailed porcelain dolls and intricate wooden chairs carved by artisans of old. The store was cramped enough that he had to mind his step to avoid crushing any of the faded decorated boxes heaped together on the floors. Faded sandy textures settled like a blanket over the shelves, specks of dust sparkling in the air where the sun hit.

As Edward reached the back of the store, he stopped at the sound of a small hum. There was a figure hunched in the corner, singing to herself as she slowly wiped the dust off a miniature yellow car.

"Ms. Burke, I assume?"

The old lady turned around about as slowly as Edward expected. Her short, curly white hair framed her wrinkled face as she looked at him, her kind smile never quite reaching her eyes. 

"Oh, welcome, welcome!" She put her small feather duster back in the pocket of her dress. She shuffled on her tiptoes as she ushered him to the counter. "Are you looking for anything in particular, dearie?"

"Not really, no. Just," he said out of respect, "Just looking around."

"Well, feel free to check whatever you'd like. Imma sure something will catch your eye."

Edward shuddered at the taxidermied rabbit, or maybe some sort of squirrel, that stared at him from one of the shelves with those glossy, empty eyes. Eugh. "Y-Yes, I'm sure." Edward coughed. 

They both faded back into silence as he turned to noncommittally parade the store's shelves, while Ms. Burke silently watched him with that toothy old lady smile. 

Apparently, it wasn't very hard for Clark to find a vacant apartment: a small, second-story flat right off the interstate. With the mass of people that left town at the beginning of their ghost crisis, there was no doubt that real estate agents had piles upon piles of apartments for sale, with absolutely no buyers. The flat must have been a bargain, especially with the bad reputation antiques stores like this were used to getting.

These types of shops with rusting vinyl records had their appeal with "hippies" and teenagers of aesthetics alike, but they were never popular enough to be successful businesses. It wasn't exactly a mainstream trade, with so few stores that Edward imagined all antique dealers knowing each other by name. 

As much as one would assume Amity Parkers would prefer to preserve the old, keeping antiques well taken care of for whatever contemplative spooky reason, people weren't actually stupid. Anyone can take care of an old creaking music box passed down through generations, but the second a rumor swept down the grapevine about an antique being "haunted" or "cursed," it was straight to the trash cans. Nobody wanted to deal with that.

People were trying to live their lives. They were trying to keep up their normal, mundane, domestic lives as best they could. They could pay no mind to deities or eldritch forces or witchcraft, or else they'd just collapse. The supernatural had already become omnipresent, and paying too much attention to it only led you to fall on the wrong side of its fury.

There were, admittedly, some that didn't agree with this. There was one cult or another on the outskirts, but the town wasn't large enough to stay anonymous. Those folks, too religiously extreme on one side or the other — either praying to a dozen different gods for salvation or begging demons for power — were avoided like the plague. It was concerning, but genuinely a bit pitiful. Edward had spent too much time with the Fentons to know not to get involved in that paranormal mess, but cultists clearly didn't seem to get the message.

Because of all this, the store's emptiness really wasn't that much of a surprise. What was really a surprise was the fact that it was still open. 

A part of him felt bad for Ms. Burke, trying to take such good care of the store even without any clients. A part of Edward expected that Clark's rent was the only reason the place was still running.

Their small moments of silence were interrupted by a loud echoing chime.

Edward flinched at the sudden dissonance, instinctively covering his ears. On Edward's left, a great wall of grandfather clocks rang at once, in all different tones and melodies. Rows and rows of carved spruce with swirling patterns of birds and tree vines sprung open, their hand-painted wooden marching bands and canaries popping out from the little doors. A tiny owl jumped only a few feet from his face and he couldn't help but flinch backwards. All hung next to each other, the many clocks ticked forward. 

Edward turned back to check on Ms. Burke, but she didn't seem startled. She just smiled at him again, apparently used to it, then went back to dust off one of the store shelves.

He rubbed his eyes as he recomposed himself. Every hand on that wall had just told him, very abruptly, that he was already late. He couldn't linger for longer, or else he'd have to deal with Clark's passive-aggressive eyerolls again. 

"Actually," he walked back to the front desk. "Do you happen to know how to go upstairs? I'm here for–"

"Wait… Are you Edward, sweetie?" Ms. Burke clutched her hands against her heart. "Oh, you must be! I've heard much about you."

Edward blinked away the surprise. Color rose to his cheeks, but he couldn't tell if he was flustered, embarrassed, or just uncomfortable. "Well, Ms. Burke–"

"Please, dearie, call me Sadie! We're friends," she smiled as she gently patted his arm.

"Uh, Ms. Burke, I appreciate it, but where have you–"

"–Heard of you? It's all good things, all good things, I assure. You have gained quite a reputation, my dear."

"I have?"

"Not a lot of teachers manage to stay that long at Casper without quitting or being," she grimaced, "forced to leave."

He shuddered. "You're not wrong about that."

Ms. Burke turned around, curving her back down to scavenge through the drawers of the front desk. Bending down quickly like that was probably not ideal for an old lady, but Edward hadn't heard any bones cracking, so it was probably fine. Probably. 

She threw her voice over her shoulder, slightly raising her volume above the clacking sounds of thingamabobs scattering inside the drawers.

"Oh, Clark has not stopped telling me about you, so it is wonderful to put a face to a name–"

"Wait, he has?"

"Oh, where to begin?" She slid the drawers back in place and walked around the desk, clutching a small ring of silver keys. Her eyes locked right above his cheeks, voice lingering in an uncomfortable hum. "Hmm… Although, he is right. You do need quite some rest, Edward."

"Thank you?" He could only huff a laugh at that, awkwardly shifting from side to side.

Edward sighed as Ms. Burke made her way to the back door. She seemed kind enough — a caring old lady, no doubt — but there was something about her that raised the hairs on his arms. Maybe it was her too-wide smiles, or how much her bright eyes lingered on him. Maybe it was just the nervousness about Clark talking about him to others. The idea that a stranger already knew a lot about him was a bit too uncomfortable. He wasn't exactly the most interesting person to gossip over.

Still, she was very lonely, he could recognize, in the way she hovered around him. It felt so rude to admit how uneasy she made him. His students might say that she had "bad vibes," though he would not go that far… perhaps only "slightly-below-average vibes."

He'd just prefer it if she stopped staring at him — what was it, excitement? anticipation? curiosity? — while unlocking the door. She swung it upon without breaking eye contact, revealing a narrow passageway with a carpeted staircase.

Oh, what did he expect? She ran an antiques shop in Amity Park. Of course she was going to be weird.

Edward nodded to her and walked in, grabbing the handrail to steady his balance. He managed to climb halfway up without stumbling before hearing one of the doors upstairs creak.

The entryway at the top of the stairs was very narrow, with only two rustic doors parallel to each other — presumably for Clark's and Ms. Burke's apartments. The one on the right was left halfway ajar, and a familiar face leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

"Right on time?" Edward joked as he made his way up the final steps.

"Hmm…" Clark squinted, a thin smile spreading across his face. "I'll excuse it. We're in no rush, after all."

Clark stepped to the side, leaving the door wide open so that Edward could catch a glimpse of the inside. Beyond the entrance, a narrow hallway led to three other doors, one still open. The grainy off-white walls seemed to be almost fully covered with hand-painting landscapes and generic photographs of withered flowers. There was a black bookshelf shoved against the wall of the hallway, full to the top with books of all sorts.

Edward had technically never been here before. A few weeks ago, he had come by Ms. Burke's store to pick up Clark for an outing. It was trivia night at the local bar, only a few streets down if he remembered correctly, and it was generally really fun. Although, the whole gathering was canceled after a group of blob ghosts — hoard? flock? What even was the collective term for blob ghosts? — ate the wiring to the karaoke machine.

He remembers Clark's soft laugh at the small ghosts' shenanigans, back when everyone was being ushered out of the bar. He must've been the only one who wasn't tipsy, helping to hold Rebecca up as they walked outside. Edward himself may have been a little out of it, but he was still sure of how calm Clark went about the whole situation, making sure to keep everyone relaxed and letting the ghosts traverse at a distance. Sure, these were just blob ghosts — generally accepted as to be harmless, and sometimes cute, small nuisances — but still, Clark's quick thinking never failed to leave Edward in awe.

Regardless, this was Edward's first time inside the apartment. He wasn't going to lie about his nervousness, and he honestly wasn't great at hiding it, either. He kept running his nails up and down the strap of his bag, keeping his arms as close to himself as possible. Even though the place was rented, the way people decorated their new homes said a lot about their personalities, who they were on their own, and it felt like he was given the opportunity of getting to know an entirely new side of Clark. Perhaps he was reading too much into things, but he was still curious as to how his friend lived day by day.

"Come in," he smiled. "Make yourself at home."

Edward followed him through the entrance, quickly stopping by the foyer entry table to the right. There was a collection of different shoes under it, all notably brand new. One of the pairs, a set of black loafers, still shined as if they had just been bought the other day.

"Uh," Edward hesitated. "Should I…?"

"If you want to. I don't really mind." Clark, already with his shoes off, made his way back to the still-open door at the end of the hallway.

It led to a rectangular area with both the kitchen and the living room. Honestly, it had a much darker palette than Edward expected. It seemed almost steampunk, or at least the closest one could get to a cool-toned industrial style in a rented flat without making too many changes. Light fixtures hung low in long beams, and some metal pipes were purposefully exposed. There were two open windows on the opposite wall, both covered with indigo curtains.

The open kitchen was on the left side, with walls covered in a grey brick tile pattern. Upper cabinets were painted the same dark color as the marble countertop, right next to the fridge and a very clean oven. There was a small oil painting, too, detailing a forget-me-not flower under the moonlight. A small island divided the kitchen from the living room, with round dark blue stools on the living rooms' side.

The living room consisted of a couch and an armchair — both in a faded greyish-blue color, with black pillows to match — and a small wooden coffee table in the center. They rested over a dark green carpet, and it was probably an antique based on how its light swirling pattern faded around the edges. There were a few plants, too: a glass vase on the kitchen island, some flowers next to the living room window, and a hanging plant near the armchair. They all seemed very well taken care of, almost a bit too freshly green and shiny. They were real, not plastic, but there wasn't any trace of the expected wet soil smell. 

Instead, the room had a thick scent of old paper. There were books neatly kept in almost every corner, and there were two other black bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. On the far right wall, past the couch and the coffee table, there was a quaint desk with a few other books and maps piled on top of it. A miniature globe rested next to a stack of textbooks and some rolled up ornate papers: Edward assumed they were some sort of old posters, but he couldn't be sure.

The first thing that caught his eye in that corner, presumably where Clark spent most of his time, was the intricate clock that hung over the desk. It had no numbers, only thin long hands to point at what the time would be. Its inside metallic mechanisms were fully exposed, and some of the larger gears even jumped out the sides of the clock's black outer rim. The pattern reminded him of an engine, and was honestly a lot more elegant than any of the clocks Ms. Burke kept downstairs. Edward only hoped this one wouldn't chime as loudly as the others did.

The second thing that caught his eye was himself. Well, his reflection, staring back at him in a round floor-length mirror that stood on white support beams. The mirror had a few smudges of hand prints and other stains, but it was otherwise well-kept. It showed him Clark moving his way to the kitchen behind him, with a sly grin plastered on his face.

"This is a lovely place," Edward offered. "I love the decorations."

"Thank you. Most of it is just Ms. Burke's." Clark glanced over his shoulder while opening one of the cupboards. "I hope she didn't bother you too much."

"Not much," he lied. "She seems very... kind."

"No need to be cordial." Clark chuckled to himself, grabbing two mugs down from the shelf. One of them had an illustration of the Great Wall of China, presumably from a tourist shop, and the other had a black and white pattern with the stages of the moon. 

"She's a good landlord. Really welcoming, if not annoyingly overbearing — she has gained the habit of inviting me over for tea and biscuits, though that seems to be motivated by a sad sort of desperation for any type of company given her lack of still-living family members."

Edward winced. This is always the sort of subject you talk around, never so upfront.

"Poor woman."

Clark paused, blinking to himself as he seemed to realize the weight of his words. "I suppose. At least she's a good listener." He mumbled something under his breath, and after a moment, picked up the patterned mug. "Coffee or tea?" 

"Tea, actually." Edward sighed in relief at the subject change. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to sleep if I have coffee at this time of day."

"I'll put the kettle in."

Chapter Text

Edward made his way to the armchair, hovering around it as he decided whether to sit down or not. He took off his bag, moving the strap over his head and dropping it on the floor beside him. The old green carpet felt surprisingly soft under his socks.

As he looked around for something to keep himself busy, he turned to the bookshelf to his right. Books were scattered, not arranged by color or height or alphabetically — which seemed surprisingly out of character for Clark. He must have some sort of system, but Edward couldn't exactly figure it out just by looking at the spines. Never judge a book by its cover, and all that.

The recognizable titles spanned from the medical practices of ancient Mesopotamia, to the history of theater in the Roman Empire, to auto-biographies of celebrities. There didn't seem to be much relation between these, beyond being non-fiction texts, but they weren't organized in chronological order either. 

Still, a vast majority of the books were incomprehensible to him. Either they had generic titles — such as The Resolution of a Nowhere Place, whatever that's supposed to be about — or they were written in languages he didn't know how to read. Some were written in cyrillic or mandarin, but some were just unrecognizable.

Skimming the shelves, his eyes landed on a thick red novel, its spine marked with a dark dotted design.

"Where did you get all these books? I haven't seen some of these before." He walked up to it, his finger tracing the side of the book. A Journal of the Plague Year was written in black ink on the spine, leaving small indentations on the leather cover. He picked it up, scanning the small blurb in the back: it apparently detailed some different first-person accounts about the last epidemic of the Black Death in London, back in the 1600s.

"Oh, that one." Clark leaned over the kitchen island. "I believe it's an old draft of Defoe's book, so it's not publicly available. It was given away in a small yard sale in Scotland."

"Really?" He opened it on a random page. 

"I really wouldn't touch it much if I were you… Antiques, and all that. Be careful with papercuts."

He flicked through the pages, a bit more careful than before. He wasn't paying much attention to the text itself, but rather to the penciled-in annotations on the sides of every paragraph, saying 'how to describe this?' or 'replace word' or 'too gruesome'.

"How did you even find this? Any of these, actually. They all seem very unique."

"Well," Clark smiled, gaze softening. "These are all unique, all one of a kind. Many of these are diaries or local guide books from my travels."

"So these are the only copies?"

"Of these versions, yes. A friend of mine owns a sizable library, actually, and sometimes we share what rare copies we find."

"Fascinating," Edward put the book back where it fit on the shelf, sliding it between two larger novels. "Your travels must keep you busy."

When he turned around, Clark was squinting away with knitted eyebrows, his smile fallen into a distant pout. He did that thing again, glancing off into a far off spot in the wall, that sent a bit of a chill down Edward's back — Ah, yes. A true liminal Amity Parker experience at its finest. 

"It's less about the books themselves. It's more about the stories within them."

"Oh?"

"There is so much that is forgotten to time. Some stories deserve to be told, even when their narrators and their whole worlds are long gone. I truly shouldn't be keeping these, but it's nice to try and remember. To learn from them. It can be nice to reminisce, as selfish as it is."

"That's what studying history is all about, isn't it?" Edward tilted his head. "Seeing the past from a different point of view."

"It's... complicated. These aren't my stories to keep. When I travel, I only really watch things go by in passing. I'm often very overworked, as it's my nature to be, so there's a lot that flies over my head."

"Well, we can't remember everything."

"No," Clark looked up at him. "But time stops for no one, so it can be hard to know what really matters until it's gone." 

Edward glanced back at the bookshelf, eyes scanning the endless shelves with books of all kinds. All of these were different people, different stories, different lives of worlds long gone. Perhaps, someday, Amity Park's story would be on someone's shelf. It deserves to be known.

Hmm… he wouldn't lie that a small part of him would have loved to be remembered for his writing.

He tried a few times in the past. He dabbled in so many different areas in his youth, especially right after high school. Still, between college and part time jobs and other hobbies, he never had the opportunity to actually sit down and put his many thoughts on paper. Then he settled as a teacher, and his life was busy enough with other types of writing already. When Amity began being riddled with ghosts, he hoped it would be the right inspiration for creation — he was a fan of sci fi, after all, and the Fenton's gadgets look like they just came out of a 90's comic book — but he had too much work on his hands with the mass teacher shortage. He just never found the right time.

He wondered if these people wrote for themselves or for the world. Did they ever imagine someone else would read their stories? Honestly, he gets why Clark would be fond of collecting these.

"So… you read strangers' diaries."

A dark blush ran up Clark's cheeks, "Don't act like I'm a stalker. I'm an academic. "

"Sure, sure," Edward laughed. "Tell that to," he picked up a random book on a higher shelf, "Gabrielle Amoretti from Venice, 1732"

"You'd be jealous of her untapped mastery in dressmaking." He crossed his arms, a faint smile trying to sneak its way back onto his lips.

"I'm sure I would." 

A soft wheezing echoed through the flat, a whistle like the faint burst of wind through the crack on the window, as the kettle rattled on the stove. Clark waved the mist off the air as he picked it up, pouring hot water into both their mugs. 

Feeling more comfortable, Edward finally sat down on the armchair. He reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of The Goshawk by T. H. White, the stretched wings of a great hawk pictured on its laminated cover. Little post-it notes slipped out the sides of the book, slightly bent from the transport. It was the book they decided to read together that month, per Clark's recommendation, but it wasn't really Edward's favorite.

"I think I now understand why you were so fond of this book." 

"You do?"

Clark picked up a small pack of cookies off the counter, before making his way back to the couch and handing Edward one of the mugs; the one with the touristic illustration. He held it in his hands for a few seconds, just feeling the heat of the tea seep into his palms.

"It's a personal story, biographical… Fits right into your shelves."

"The author's famous for other works," Clark sat down beside him. "So it's an interesting glimpse into his mind."

"That's true… I did like how it unintentionally presents metaphors and themes in the author's life." Edward slipped into his teacher voice, literary analyses rolling off his tongue with a lifetime of practice. "With how superficial White's knowledge of falconry was, he sees the animal as purely irrational. It's fun how that compares to his own lack of self-control, as if his indulgences were entirely instinctive too."

"I wouldn't say they were entirely instinctive, though something could be argued about the social treatment of the darker sides of the self. He was cruel to that bird."

"He was! Trying to tame the wilderness both in nature and in himself could evidence his prideful judgement of–"

The afternoon went on and on with thoughtful discussions and quick banter, until the room was covered in the bright orange lights of the sunset, and until it faded into the misty blue of the evening. Endlessly chatting with Clark, sharing all his ideas and interpretations of the novel, brought so much warmth inside his chest, his emotions bubbling up in his heart.

The longer the day went on, however, the louder the whispers became. Snippets of their earlier conversations rained on him, nudged him closer to a line of thinking that twisted his gut. Something was bothering him, a thought that lingered in the back of his mind. 

Walls of stranger's tales surrounded him, hundreds of pages and thousands of words worth of people's experiences that he would never know about, that nobody would ever think about again. 

Time stops for no one, Clark had said. The clock ticked forward.

This was nothing in the large scale of things; their stories were nothing, their time periods that seemed eternal faded to dust, their empires crumbled to choking ash. Their entire existence, summarized to ink on shredded pieces of wood. 

He knew, regardless of how much he taught history, nobody would ever fully get people's lived experiences. Historians weren't there when it happened, so they couldn't really be sure of anything. And one day, the same would happen to him; his story would go unknown, unless that story was told, and unless he chose to tell it.

He sat there, with Clark, and despite their months of friendship, he didn't really get him. Sure, he cherished the time spent with his friend, and he wanted to understand him as best as he could, but he was missing so much. This was the first time in his flat, after all. He had just found out about his collection. He didn't know about all his travels, all the things he'd seen, all his struggles through life; and Edward knew Clark had struggled just by looking at him. Just by looking at the scars on his face.

He wasn't going to bring it up. That'd be rude. In his mind, he would only refer to them as "marks of experience," out of respect, but his nudging curiosity couldn't stop wondering about where they came from. It would require a degree of intimacy with Clark he didn't know if he actually had yet, and he didn't want to weigh down their friendship so soon. He hoped he had reached that point already, but the uncertainty of it left a sharp discomfort rasping the back of his throat.

It's so hard to know when someone is ready to tell their story.

Time stops for no one.

And he was running out of it.

No, he hopefully wasn't going to die soon, despite the constant dangers of living in Amity Park. But the year was coming to a close, and the next school semester would be the last he saw so many of his students. So many children came and went through his classes under his care. He spent so long reaching out to forgetful parents, reading books on "teenage jargon," bringing troubled students under his supervision. Things had gotten so much worse, so much more hectic since the ghosts first appeared in Amity Park, he was too exhausted to pay attention.

Now that he actually stopped to read between the lines, it weighed on him how much he had been missing. How many stories he knew nothing about. He couldn't stop thinking about it, about not being close to anyone, about never reading the books of their life.

"The symbolism of the hawk flying away at the end was… Edward? Is everything alright?"

"Sorry?" He blinked back to himself.

"You seem out of it. What's on your mind?"

"Oh, nothing, I'm– I'm just pensive, is all."

"Mr. Lancer…" Clark only glared at him for a few seconds, his eyes so sharp that Edward almost imagined them shining a fiery red, like those vampires in animated cartoons. He wasn't going to let this go, was he?

"Fine," he groaned. The room's atmosphere pressed down against him as he folded into himself and Clark moved to the edge of his seat. "Do you remember that one student of mine? I told you about him before."

Clark's shoulders seemed to almost perk up at that. "The troubled blond or the ghost hunter's son?"

He sighed. "The latter."

"Ah, yes. Danny, right?" A thin smile creeped up Clark's lips. "I see what this is about."

"What?"

"That glint in your eye. I watched you reading Cards on the Table, I can tell when you're curious about something."

He choked at that, stumbling over his words. "Uh, well, that's not–"

"Update me, then." Clark picked up the small spoon off the table, spinning it around the edges of his mug. "Last thing I heard, you let him rest in your office. You were grunting all day, worried about–"

"The first aid kit, yes." He glanced away. "Nobody should be carrying one of those around. There's always something leaving him injured, something getting in his way, leaving him tired."

"Bullying?"

"Not anymore," Edward grimaced. "We took way too long to deal with that."

"Parents?"

"Please, they're the Fentons."

Clark blinked twice. "Good point."

"They may not mean harm, but just living with them must put him in the risk zone. Still, his sister, Jasmine, was never really caught in the line of fire, not like this. And they are very loud when they find out their kids are in danger."

"You don't think they know, then?"

He ran a hand over his chin, "I don't think so. His friends seem to know it, but they are too loyal to each other to confess what's been bothering him. But…"

"But…" Clark copied him, teasingly.

"Well," he swayed for a second. "It's just– since he, well, moved in to my office, I've been seeing a very different side of him.

He recounted the times Danny came by his office.

Danny didn't take Lancer's offer immediately — It took until the end of Friday for him to hear a knock on his door. He opened it to find Danny buried under a pile of textbooks and tapping his foot nervously on the floor. He had a deadline in Falluca's class that he needed to meet, and Falluca wasn't letting him work on it during "mandatory documentary time." It wasn't even for a graded assignment, he had said. The whole situation frustrated him so much that he finally gave up his stubbornness and decided to study in Lancer's room. 

They talked. Danny explained some of his troubles with the content, Lancer gave him some pointers. Danny mentioned that one of last year's graduates, Weston, sometimes helped him catch up with homework, since Wes apparently owed him some debts, whatever that meant. 

They then settled back into silence, but Lancer kept noticing Danny looking up at the door, trying to peep through the glass window. He seemed agitated, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if he was expecting someone to appear. Whoever they were, they never showed up.

Danny came back Monday morning, thanking Lancer for his help. The assignment was done on time, but there were some complications that stopped him from submitting it properly. He got a grade for it, though: after decreasing some points for tardiness, he still got a B+, which was great news. 

And so, he kept coming, and they kept chatting. Every few days, he would knock twice on Lancer's door, and either take a nap on the couch or study on the desk. And, ever so often, he'd actually be able to finish it.

Danny would never explicitly tell him details of his life, but he would slip certain comments here and there. Lancer would have to pick them apart like secret treasures, hidden between jokes and complaints about class. He found out that his cousins, Dean and Ellie, lived with Mayor Masters, which honestly explained a lot of the animosity between the families. He heard first-hand about the Fenton's inventions, mostly through Danny's complaints of being late because he got "accidentally blasted in the face by a bazooka. Again." 

He wouldn't deny it, a lot of these slip-ups were very concerning. Danny's tradition of arriving late, bruised and battered and never addressing his injuries, never changed.

Last Thursday, he showed up first thing in the morning with a purple eye. Lancer was a bit frantic at first, but Danny pointed out that it was old and already healing, and he just needed somewhere to nap before class. Oddly enough, it really did seem like the bruise had been there for days already, the color fading away back to a muted yellow by the time Lancer blinked twice. It must've just seemed worse at first glance.

Regardless, it was worrisome. He had no idea who Pandora was — besides the mythological figure, of course — but he had even less of an idea as to why she would encourage Danny to uppercut an adult man. He said he was just trying to improve his muscle strength, but getting punched in the face didn't seem like a healthy gym routine. Danny should look for better coaches.

He still mysteriously ran away from his office, leaving all of his materials scattered on Lancer's desk. He still asked to sit alone, to "do research for a project," and then spend the entire time reading a history textbook Lancer had never seen before, hoping to find… something. He seemed confident when he found what he was looking for, taking quick notes on it, but Lancer had no idea what it could be. When he asked Danny about it, he just tensed up and shrugged Lancer's questions away with a snarky joke.

Lancer may be getting good at catching all the lies, but Danny was also getting good at deflecting questions. Every time Lancer would try to strike up a more serious conversation — his home life, his injuries, the reasons why he was always late to class, his future plans — Danny would quickly change the subject. He would either bring up something boring, feigning interest in the weather or the Packers' game results, or he'd just offer a completely nonsensical explanation that Lancer had no context for. By Hitchhiker's Guide, he knew there was something important here he was missing, but he just couldn't understand–

"Where are you getting at?" Clark cut off his ramble. He looked up from his tea, a serious squint in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm–" He frowned. "I'm just worried. There's apparently so much I still don't understand. I know he's been struggling, but for so long I thought he just stopped caring. But now…" 

"Now?"

"I can't bring myself to believe that."

Edward could feel the air stiff as Clark's gaze fell on him. He adjusted himself in his seat and went to take a sip of his tea, only to realize the mug was already empty, with only some small brown leaves stuck to the bottom. He mimicked the motions of drinking anyway.

"I understand why you'd be upset over this. As frustrating as it is, there are going to be struggles he has to learn to deal with on his own, troubles he is way too young to deal with." Clark scooched closer to him, resting a hand on his forearm, sending a shiver up his shoulder. Clark's hand was soft, smooth and uncalloused, but surprisingly cold, and Edward couldn't help but press himself against it. "But don't diminish your own efforts. You've given him a safe space. Maybe…" his voice trailed off. "Maybe that's the nudge he needs to start trusting adults again."

"But how do I get to that point?"

"Gaining his trust takes patience. It must be his decision to confide in you."

"But until then? Just ignore any of the signs that something is off?"

Clark's eyes drifted to the bookshelf. "That is what people do every day, unfortunately."

"I don't know if I can wait that long. I'm running out of time… You said it yourself, earlier."

Clark retracted his hand at that, cringing back with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes widened for a second, connecting the dots as to what brought forth Edward's worries. 

"I don't want you to misconstrue me. Rushing things would only lead to problems. It matters that you try, that you use the opportunities you still have, so give him your time. He will share his story, eventually, once he's sure there's someone there to listen."

"Right," Edward released the tension from his shoulders. "You're right." He may not be able to stop whatever is happening, but he can at least try to make things better. One small step, and whatnot. 

"You'll both be alright, Ed. Trust this."

Edward nodded. "I trust you."

Clark gave him a sad smile. "You don't have to trust me, just trust this."

A small part of Edward couldn't help but miss that cold, tingling sensation on his arm.

Chapter Text

His watch ticked forward. It let out a small click on his wrist, telling him it was about time to start packing up.

It had been a long day; tomorrow was the pep rally, so Lancer had spent most of his time helping with the preparations. He loved Spirit Week, loved seeing the levity in students' eyes every time he put up the colorful flags in the halls. This was a great change from the defeatist attitude that took over the school a few years ago, back when ghosts first started appearing, a sour mood practically haunting Casper halls. Lancer carried a small bit of pride over improving the student's moods as the years went on. 

The varsity season would start the following week, and the anticipation was palpable in the classroom air. They were optimistic, as they hadn't done too badly against other schools of the region lately. They landed a solid third place in last year's varsity league, and hopefully this year they'd be even more prepared.

Their athletes were very passionate and had surprisingly quick reflexes, a useful skill when running for their lives on a daily basis. No doubt a notable part of their successes could be attributed to the terrible sense of dread any Casper player could instinctively instill on their opponents on the field, sending an anxiety-inducing chill up their spines. But their players were quite good either way. 

This was also one of the first years they had a significant number of male and nonbinary cheerleaders, thanks to Paulina's incredible persuasive abilities. As the first male cheerleader in the county, he couldn't stop himself from beaming whenever he stayed late to supervise after-school rehearsals, as was the case today.

Out the window, the sun was already past setting, the sky a faded mixture of greens and dark blues as the night fell over the town. The Casper hallways were painted in an indigo light that bounced off the walls, not dark enough to need the lights on but still making it hard to see far down the hall.

He still had to get some paperwork he left at Tetslaff's office. He'd ask her to review some of the essay students wrote about their athletic experiences, prove their veracity and all that, before adding in his final notes.

He walked through the hallways, pushing down that odd, liminal sensation of being somewhere you don't belong past closing time. He was already used to being at school late at night, but he couldn't exactly cut off that lingering strangeness of the dimly-lit, empty halls.

Not so empty, he'd come to realize.

A creaking noise knocked him off his balance, a sudden stirring echoing down the hall. Footsteps, left and right. Pause. A sink quickly turned on and turned off, more footsteps. 

There shouldn't be any more students around. Lancer was planning to go straight home after this, locking up the school for the night. He was ready to turn off the teacher side of him for the day; put Lancer on the shelf and go back to just being Edward. But he supposed that would have to wait.

More footsteps. It came from a far entrance to the right, a matching set of large metal doors with thin glass windows at the top, too high up to see through. A faint flickering light slipped through the glass and through the gap under the doors, a thin slit of white pulsing in the darkness. 

That was the chemistry lab, he noticed.

Okay. Lancer knew better than the protagonists in old horror movies. He knew what genre he was in. All Amity Parkers did. They knew when to run, to hide, when to avoid or just ignore the danger. In most situations, it would be ludicrous to follow the noise at an empty school, alone, at night, in a town that is more than well-known for being haunted. It would be completely unreasonable to assume that approaching that open door would lead to good results, that he'd be safe in any shape or form. At worst, he'd end up dead. Most likely, he'd stumble onto a small ghost and have to call the authorities: either the Fentons or the GIW — as they're the only ghost hunters with direct telephone channels — and he knew better than doing that. If they were involved, he might as well end up dead too.

But he had to close the school, and if there really was a student there, he couldn't just lock them in. That'd be too irresponsible. He'd probably have to give out detention for this, alongside a long speech about regulations and the reasons for restricted access, but better that than leaving them behind. 

And so, like a fool, there he went, approaching the mysterious noise. Lancer wondered if the rest of the staff would make fun of him for this.

He took a step forward, and something growled behind the door.

Nevermind, they absolutely would. He'd be made a laughing stock, either at the teacher's lounge or at his funeral, and he'd more than deserve it.

As he reached the door, the growls grew in intensity, bubbling up with a sopping wet noise, a muck that lingered behind sounds that might resemble frustrated groans. There was someone else there, though, muttering to themselves in a panic. 

Lancer quickly pressed his hand against his side, reaching into his bag to grab any of the self-defense weapons the Fentons gave out like candy — only to realize his bag was back in Tetslaff's office, right beside all his paperwork.

By the House of Usher, this was a terrible idea.

The iron doors flung open with a gust of wind, the glass panes in the door shattering on impact with many loud cracks piercing his eardrums as the broken pieces went flying to the floor. The cold air blasted him in the face and sent him stumbling back to the opposite side of the hallway, making him trip over his own feet. 

He winced loudly as he fell, scraping the side of his arm with a painful gash.

He only had a split second to glimpse inside the lab as he recomposed himself, picking himself up against the wall. The lights up ahead were broken as well, so he shouldn't be able to see anything clearly. And yet, the outlines of broken beakers and test tubes, all fractured and fallen on the floor, seemed to glow under a nauseating green light that took over the room, and a white light dashed from sight to side, the streaks it left in its path making him dizzy. Before he could stand up, something huge broke through the wall of the room — for Gulliver's sake, the doors were right there — and smashed down against the ground with a growl.

The floor rumbled, white tiles splitting under the thing's weight like the frail surface of a frozen lake ice. It trembled under his feet before rupturing into ruin, with large pieces of the concrete hidden under the tiles breaking apart into debris.

And he fell.

This is the moment anyone would tell him "I told you so." 

Gravity slipped from his grasp in a blink, a sudden silence making his ears ring. Still, as he tumbled down, his feet flying up, his clothes ruffling and fluttering against the wind, the rubble of the floor following him down, sweat dripping down his temples, he couldn't help but feel time slow down. A sense of vertigo washed over him, a strange weightlessness that at once twisted his stomach and left him as light as a feather. 

He wasn't falling for long, he knew, but the seconds stretched like cheap taffy — perhaps to give him a chance to let life flash before his eyes, but all he could see was the debris spiraling down in his direction.

No doubt he'd soon find himself flung out a giant hole two stories high, nothing but a mangled body left on the grass. The only thing he could think of, though his mind seemed too blurry to formulate any cohesive thoughts, was whether Casper's medical insurance also covered ambulance calls. He was not going to take a taxi after breaking all of his bones. But until that moment came, he could only scream. Scream and fall and fall and fall, until he could feel the ground pressing against him.

Or until he could feel a cold touch on his lower back.

A burst of sound cut through the quiet, a crack like lightning ready to strike. For a moment, as he flailed against the forces that dragged him down, his vision was overtaken by an iridescent glow, and a mass of white strands appeared by his side. Wisps floated up in the air and flickered away in smoke trails, almost like a flame in the darkness, a star in the night. Its light was so bright and sharp it hurt his eyes. 

He squeezed them shut, picked a god, and prayed.

…

Huh. He wasn't dead. Must've prayed to the right one.

He fell to the ground in a flash of light, smoke billowing in all directions. A cloud of dust burst from a ring on the ground, a perfectly round crater etched deep into the floor. Breath escaped his lungs in hiccups, but he was fine. Fine as he could be, at least, with no signs of injuries beyond a few deeper scratches and stains on his shirt.

He coughed away the dust that choked him, his eyes still settling to the light. What was that? One moment, he was free falling two flights of stairs, and the other–

His heart almost stopped as he saw the figure in front of him. He was too bright to look directly at, his spectral aura flickering away in swirls. The cracks on the floor spread out from under his white boots, and pure energy radiated from his form. He held a fighting stance in front of Lancer, body leaned forward and a sharp glare in his glowing green eyes. 

Anyone would recognize that hazmat suit.

The ghost's stern look suddenly fell as his eyes moved back to Lancer, a relaxed fanged smile spreading on his lips. "Sorry about the rough landing. You okay?"

"Phantom!" He finally gasped out. "Y-yes, I'm–"

They were both covered in that green light again, as something oozed through the hole between the floors. It slid its way down the broken ceiling like sludge, vibrant green sludge, slowly dripping down between the pieces of rubble.

"Oh, Ancients."

"What is–?"

It fell down to their floor.

Blob ghosts were some of the most common ghosts around Amity Park. Some people even decided to take them in as pets, though they were more like cute little pests than anything. They weren't purposefully harmful, and they definitely weren't dangerous.

This, though, was the absolute largest blob ghost Lancer had ever seen.

It easily towered over Phantom and him, its slimy sides squished up against the walls of the hallway. It reminded him of some fictional monsters he had heard about in his youth — square gelatinous creatures in fantasy books and video games. But this was real life, not a story. Lancer had long accepted that the line between reality and fiction was not just blurry, it was invisible; like… well, like a ghost.

"By Food of the Gods, what happened to it?" 

"Ectoplasm doesn't really mix well with other chemicals." Phantom gently nudged Lancer backwards as he floated up, his fists lighting up as he charged up his attack. He turned back with a wink. "Remember your lab safety, folks!"

Lancer could only stay seated as Phantom blasted the enormous blob. Each blast that hit made its ectoplasm splash out and smear the walls with a neon explosion. Pieces of the blob melted away where the ecto-blasts hit, leaving holes in its sides and creating small gaps between it and the walls. It wailed in a low tone — it was recognizably the same chirp blob ghosts usually let out, but pitched down and much more distressed. 

It moved from side to side, swishing its body around the hall to attack Phantom back. The two went back and forth, Phantom dodging the slimy swoops of its head and it screaming back when its edges were hit. 

As the blob ghost — if it could even still be called that — inched forward, a loud noise suddenly blared from the hallway speakers, and a translucent layer of green spread over the school's walls: the ghost shield. Lancer flinched at the buzzing alarm, and noticed Phantom and the blob did too.

"Shit!"

"Language."

The ghost shield zapped to life, sending out electric sparks down the hall. The sides of the ghost that were still pressed against the walls suddenly sizzled in an electric heat. The blob ghost screamed in agony.

"C'mon! This is why I've been trying to get you out of–"

The blob wailed again, swiping wildly to the side. This time, Phantom got caught in the back movement, sending him flying up to where the debris was mounted against the wall.

"Augh!" Phantom screamed with a howl that, even through the echo and the static, sounded concerningly youthful. Lancer could see a small green stain splatter onto the debris, dripping down from the tip of a broken tile that poked through Phantom's shoulder.

"Phantom! Are you–"

"I'm good!" He pushed himself up from the rubble, the tile sharp slowly slipping out through the back. He flew up again and pulled out a metallic thermos from… from who knows where. 

By Handmaid's Tale, did Lancer feel useless. He sat there helplessly, mindlessly watching the scene play out as if he was an audience in a play. He was used to seeing ghost fights, but it was always from afar — by this point in any fight, as big or small as it was, he would've already ran as far away as he physically could, ready to keep himself and his students safe. He would have already, if the front door to the outside wasn't blocked by two piles of fallen ceiling tiles. Instead, he couldn't bring himself to move his legs.

Soon enough, the fight was over. The blob ghost had lost enough of his ectoplasm to shrink in size, no longer trapped between walls. In a flash, its form twisted around a blue beam of light, stretching and swiveling in a helix through the air, until it was fully absorbed inside the thermos.

Lancer couldn't stop wondering where the idea of a ghost-capture thermos came from. Sure, Phantom had been seen using many tools throughout the years, but the thermos was almost a universal capture device, also used by many other ghost hunters. Why it was in the shape of a water bottle of all things, he would never know. Perhaps it was just for the practicality of transport?

"See? I told you not to eat that stuff, little guy." Phantom shook his head like a disappointed father as he locked the thermos' lid shut. "Now you're not so little, and now you're stuck in soup jail."

"Thank you, Phantom," Lancer let out, smiling at the ghost. "As usual."

"It's the least I could do." Phantom walked towards him. He pressed a button on the thermos to compact it and phased it inside his chest — so that's where he kept it? — before reaching a hand to pull Lancer up. "You shouldn't stay here this late, you know? Being this workaholic could be dangerous."

Lancer took his hand. "I've noticed."

He had never seen Phantom this up close, and not for this long. His ethereal form made him almost blur away in front of Lancer, his glowing form flickering between an almost angelic surreality and a tangibility that made him seem more grounded than other ghosts. It was faint, very faint, but standing so close to him, Lancer could see small star-shaped freckles sparkling on his cheeks.

As Phantom stood on his own two feet, instead of floating high up with his spectral tail, their height difference was really hitting way too close to his heart. Even if the ghost had grown as the years passed, both in height and in strength, his voice a bit deeper, he was still slightly shorter than Lancer. He wondered if other ghosts grew, or if it was just Phantom deciding to change his form to seem more relatable.

From this angle, he could see something wavering over Phantom's head. It was just a wisp, but a shadow of the outline of a shape, but it was clearly there. Or, at least, it seemed like it was trying to be there, its flickering form almost beckoning to appear.

He honestly had no idea what that could be. Had nobody noticed this before, or was it new?

"You take care, alright, Mr. Lancer?" Phantom smiled, but it came out a bit more crooked than he wanted to. He crossed his arms over his chest, though his hand quickly moved up to a spot in his shoulder. At the touch, a faint green stain spread between his gloved fingers.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" He lifted an eyebrow.

"You're hurt."

Phantom paused at that, eyes widening slightly. His hand gripped his shoulder more tightly, almost trying to cover the wound, but that just made him wince slightly.

"It's fiiiineeee," he chuckled. "I've been through much worse." He moved his hand to swat away at the air in disregard, and a chunk of ectoplasm that was pooling in his palm splattered to the floor. His eyes dropped down to the new green splotch. "And I should probably stay behind to clean up, anyway. This might be a hazard."

It must be painful. It seemed painful, from the way his eyebrows knitted at the wet noise. He was never much into ghost biology, but he understood the basics — ectoplasm made up a ghost's insides, right? He most definitely didn't care what the Ghost Investigation Ward tried to convince people in their informative pamphlets, about ghosts being unable to feel pain, especially when his own eyes told him otherwise.

On the surface, Lancer knew that Phantom had dealt with worse than this. This was probably nothing to him: what even was a big blob ghost, compared to the world-destroying monsters Phantom had fought to protect the town? But measuring all the fights Phantom has won, it was almost unfathomable. It was too much to think about it all, putting all that in one person's shoulders, human or not.

It took Lancer much too long to start appreciating Phantom's efforts. He took months to stop treating the ghost as a villain, even longer than that to treat him as a hero. It took him even longer to treat him as a person. He was an elusive ghost, well-known and powerful in his own right, but always too far from reach for anyone to really get to know him.

And now he stood there in front of Lancer, noticeably injured, noticeably tired, biting the inside of his cheek as he looked at all the damage to the school. 

"You don't have to clean this up," was the only thing he could really come up with.

"I can't exactly leave," he nodded to the walls, green from both the splatter of ectoplasm and the ghost shield. "So, you know, might as well be useful."

"I'll call the staff in the morning to help me clean, Phantom. You should rest, at least until the shield turns off."

"Have you never heard the expression, I'll sleep when I'm dead?" He bit back with a smirk. "I can handle it."

"But you're injured–"

"You're the one who should go home, Mr. Lancer. Sleep away the trauma, and all that? Tomorrow's a big day for Casper, and the students need their vice-principal."

Lancer couldn't help but be flattered, but his head was too full of worries to dwell on that. Where did Phantom even go after ghost fights? Did ghosts even have a home?

What was his story?

"I can't leave either. There's some debris blocking the exits, so, if we're both here, let me at least give you a hand. My office is at the end of the hall, you can heal there."

"I can just move the debris–"

"Just let me do the bare minimum after you saved my life, Phantom." 

He was a bit more stern than he wanted to be. He was used to this frustrating back and forth with his students, but this was THE Phantom, for Ulysses' sake. He shouldn't treat him like a child. This was the elusive town hero. A ghost. Lancer mustn't have been thinking right, between the shock and the exhaustion. Maybe the height difference really was messing with his head.

He turned away and pressed his fingers against his eyes, almost worried that Phantom would be gone once he opened them again. Yet, when he turned back around, the ghost still stood there, a hand on his bleeding(?) shoulder and eyes dropped to the floor.

"You do so much for this town. Let me pay you back, just while you recuperate."

If Lancer had blinked one second later, he might have missed the startled look on Phantom's face, before it quickly shifted to a puzzled expression. The ghost hummed a bit, his eyes looking around the room as if trying to piece together his options.

"Okay. Fine."

Chapter Text

Lancer took the lead, with Phantom walking a few paces behind him, the ghost's natural — or rather, supernatural — aura lighting their way. 

The space between them pulsed with an awkward tension. This situation didn't feel real, between the scattered debris, the emptiness of the school, the air still slowly returning to his lungs, the distant static noises ringing in his ears.

Every few seconds, he felt the urge to look over his shoulder, to see if Phantom was really following him, to check if he hadn't disappeared into thin air. Any ghost could do that, would do that, especially one like Phantom. A certain Greek myth came to mind.

Lancer didn't turn, though; he didn't have to. A small part of him couldn't help but hope that Phantom chose to walk, and not hover, just to let his boots click against the paneled floors, to kick some rubble to the sides, to hear his footsteps echo down the remains of the broken hallway. To show Lancer he was there. Was it too naive to believe this was the offering of an olive branch? Lancer almost felt jittery. Yes, sure, he tensed at the thought of trusting a ghost of all things, but his agitation was more so over the fact that the ghost trusted him in return.

He walked into the office. It wasn't the largest place, but it was still pretty sizable compared to the other rooms in the building — he was the vice-principal, after all. He had at least a few standards.

There was a dark red couch in the back, a plastic plant vase, some shelves for textbooks, a small clock over the door, a printer, a music player, a decorated carpet — an antique, he'll have you know — amongst other things, but nothing too personal. It was mostly an assortment of tools he'd use for class and papers he forgot to file away. There was a minifridge, though, which he was very grateful for. It was more messy than usual, with papers scattered over the desk.

Phantom didn't seem surprised or impressed or anything — he had probably flown invisibly through this room a million times before — but he waited by the door, as if waiting for permission to enter. Ghosts weren't that closely related to vampires, right?

"Ah, come in. Sorry for the mess, it's been a busy week."

The clock ticked forward as Phantom stepped through the door. Lancer could see his eyes tracing the posters on the ghost-shield-covered walls, those classic motivational banners with images of eagles and people climbing mountains. He mass-printed them years ago, back when they were "trendy" and such, and ran out of places to put them. At least they helped make the room seem less bare-bones, decorating the cheaply-painted walls with something minimally interesting. Plus, call it cliché, but the "believe in yourself!" messages did occasionally motivate him when he needed to get through the rough days. Hopefully they'd inspire Phantom too.

It was odd. Phantom was always the one inspiring others, not the other way around. He seemed so small standing there. 

Lancer made a beeline to one of the shelves, grabbing a white box at the bottom.

"Hey, why do you have a–"

"One of my students does." He gave him a lopsided smile, propping the first aid kit on his desk. He had asked the nurse's office if they had any to spare, and they did — no extra supply expenses, thank goodness. "I thought it'd be a good idea, if it was ever needed. Like now, I suppose."

"Oh. Uh. That's really nice of you." 

He grinned as he opened it, picking out some of the antiseptic spray and Band-Aids. He rolled up his sleeves, seeing a trail of crimson scratches going down his forearm, bits of flesh exposed under his skin. It still ached a little, with little small specks of blood coming out of the deeper cuts. He wiped his wound and sprayed it to disinfect it, breathing through his teeth at the sharp pain.

He then glanced up to Phantom, who had a hand on the deep gash on his shoulder, splatters of ectoplasm all over his suit, green eyes still lingering on the kit. Lancer shuddered.

"Feel free to clean up, too," he offered. "Let me know what I can do to help."

Phantom hesitated for a moment. He stood still, unnaturally still, looking between Lancer's arm and the kit, before offering a curt nod. 

"Sorry about your arm, by the way."

"You don't have to apologize," he placed down his own bandages. "It happened before you arrived."

"Well, still," Phantom shrugged, wincing slightly. He took a step forward. And he–

He reached for–

It was lying there, open on the desk, a bunch of small needles stuffed into a yellow hand-held pillow.

One of the cheerleading uniforms had ripped earlier that morning, and he couldn't say no to helping patch the tear. That Freshman was almost sobbing over his paperwork, and he had genuinely never seen Star stare at him with so much ferocity. He was happy to help, of course, but the passive aggressive threats may have pushed him to work faster.

He wasn't amazing at it, or anything, but he learned the basics back in his college days, when he pursued — uh, pursued some more flamboyant hobbies. The academic life took away a lot of his free time, especially for certain activities he wanted to experiment with. Plus, once you teach a group of 11-year-olds with unrestricted access to computers in LAN houses, you learn to keep some passion projects to yourself.

It's not like he's embarrassed about it. He's not. He does look good in dresses and he knows it. They are comfortable and hide unflattering curves. Those are objective facts. He just learned how to separate personal curiosities and professional life, and with how busy he's been, he has not had any time to indulge in anything too risky. Or risqué. But he could still use photographs to emotionally blackmail his students to study, so win-win.

Lancer was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of ectoplasm splattering on the floor as Phantom removed his hand from his shoulder. He picked up some gauze along with the sewing kit, and pulled the black thread, silently stretching it out between his fingers. 

"What are you doing…?" The word escaped Lancer's mouth before he could bite them back.

"Most of these cheap first aid kits don't come prepped for sutures. Gotta make do." His face fell back into that serious look, his lips curving to form a gentle and sad frown. That, paired with his mastery of the string, looping the thread through the needle and pushing it down to make a knot, proved his experience. 

"Do you do this often?" He choked on his words. "Sorry if that's too private."

"It's fine," Phantom pushed the office chair back to the corner of the room. He removed his right glove, still stained with ectoplasm. "I do, yeah."

Lancer had never seen the ghost without his full getup. Beneath the white rubber, his hand was small, but clawed, his nails sharp and pointed. Something flickered between his fingers, that same wavering image that faded in and out of existence. It was like almost a distant mirage in a desert, a shifting presence that was there and not there at once. That was definitely new.

He pulled down the collar of his suit, just exposing his right shoulder. The wound looked deep, a hole that pierced all the way through to his back and ripping up in a long cut. 

Lancer's mind jumped back to other ghost fights he had seen in the past, and the way that their bodies seemed so malleable and gooey. Ectoplasm seemed viscous enough, and he had never seen other regular ghosts properly patching themselves up after a fight. They all just weaved their bodies back together after getting blasted away. 

When he offered the first aid kit to Phantom, he genuinely thought that he would just wipe himself up and kind of… squish his shoulder back together, ectoplasm sticking to itself like whipped cream. Well, he didn't know exactly what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

"I thought ghosts healed naturally."

"Th– We do, but it usually takes way longer." Phantom looked down as he wrapped the thread around his finger. He started stitching himself back up, taking a deep breath and grimacing as he spoke. "Closing it helps stop infections and stuff."

"Can ghosts even get infections?" Did painkillers work on ghosts? Phantom looked like he needed some. That did not seem like proper suture technique, though he worked fast enough that it was obvious he had enough chances to practice.

Phantom paused, letting out a short laugh. "I dunno, but I am not willing to find out."

He continued applying the stitches to himself. For a few seconds, Lancer just watched, not exactly sure what he could do. He tried to offer some extra wipes to clean off excess ectoplasm, but Phantom didn't look back up.

This was too strange, too uncomfortable for both of them, but he couldn't stop thinking of how much mindless trust Phantom had placed on him. Sure, he never had a reputation for disliking ghosts, but he had only really interacted with Phantom from afar — besides a rescue mission here and there. Well, regardless, they had never really spoken like this, one-on-one. And to let Lancer see him in his most vulnerable moment, that was… unexpected, to say the least. Surprising.

"Phantom, are you–"

"Yep," he popped the p, tensing his shoulders. "Just a bad angle."

He only had to hear Phantom wince one more time before he picked up the kit and rolled another chair towards Phantom.

"Wh–?"

"You're not gonna be able to reach your back like that, so," he sighed, in disbelief of what he was signing himself up for. "Let me do it."

"You really don't have to."

"Phantom," he took a moment to collect himself. "You're seriously injured. You deserve better than dealing with your wounds on your own. Please, I invited you here. Let me."

He didn't respond to that, barely looking up.

But after a few seconds of anticipation, he dropped his hands to his lap. He quietly moved his right arm fully out of his sleeve, slowly enough to avoid undoing the front stitches, and placed the needle down on the chair next to him. He nodded, and Lancer took that as a sign of agreement.

"Do you even know how to do this?"

"I've taken lessons before." Lancer picked up the needle and sat down in the chair. He wasn't going to add that he only took first aid lessons after the ghosts started showing up, since that might seem offensive. Would that be offensive? "You can guide me a bit, if that would make you feel more comfortable."

"Sure." Phantom now had his back to him, arm exposed. "Thanks."

It was then that Lancer had a close view of Phantom's shoulder. His eyes first went to the open injury, piercing through him almost like a bullet hole. He wasn't confident he could close any deeper layers, but hopefully just closing the surface level would be enough.

Ectoplasm seemed to ooze out in a muddy and desaturated mixture of colors, not as bright and green as he was expecting. It was viscid and clotted and mucous, but ever so slightly different from the ectoplasm he knew, a mixture of things he couldn't quite pin down. 

There were older scars, too. They were tiny, barely visible, but they were everywhere, healed up with some sloppy handiwork. And he could see the ends of something peeking from under the hazmat suit.

A longer scar, raised and thick, spread through his back and around his shoulder, a familiar design of fractured electricity that crawled up his bicep and down his arm — a Lichtenberg figure. It was jagged and sharp, weaving around in lightning strikes that looped against themselves. It was much more defined than any of the others, and it seemed to pulse like a beating heart. It was hypnotizing, its intricate pattern drawing him in, but Lancer could tell that it must have hurt.

"Don't look at me like that," Phantom snarked.

"S-sorry, it's just, your scar–"

"Yeah, I know. Death Scar. Scary. Just, don't make a big deal out of it, okay? It's not like I stayed dead."

Oh.

Right. 

Ghost. Dead. He kept forgetting that.

That thought opened a certain can of worms that Lancer didn't want to look into just yet. Even as he looked away, focusing on the green open wound, his eyes couldn't help but dance over those electric scars. He couldn't bring himself to think about what they meant.

He had so many questions — What really happened to Phantom? Why was he so different from the other ghosts? How did he d–

Well, perhaps he now had an answer to that big question.

"Okay. I won't ask."

"Thank you."

He needed to give himself time to think, to reflect on everything, but he wanted to at least wait until his hands weren't covered in what was basically ghost blood.

He gave Phantom a small nudge with the side of his hand, and the ghost nodded in return, confirming that he was ready. Lancer then started to work on the suture, which Phantom took without much fuss, only taking some deep breaths to steady himself — ghosts didn't actually need to breathe, did they? But Lancer could swear he could see his chest expand and deflate as they talked.

It was a harder process than he was expecting. The ectoplasm-like substance, he'd call it, kept leaking from the open wound and sticking around the needle. He couldn't focus on much beyond the rough texture of the black thread at his fingertips.

"So, uhhhhhhh, what papers are you reviewing?" Phantom asked with a shrug.

"Ah, yes." Of course, small talk. Low stakes. He could probably do that. He let his mind slip into casual conversation, to avoid overthinking what he had just seen and to keep his hands from shaking too much. 

"Personal statements. It's almost the end of the semester, so seniors have been writing essays for college applications."

"Cool, cool, cool…" Phantom's shoulders tensed slightly. "Any, uh, favorites?"

"I can't have favorites," he bit his lip. "That'd be unfair."

Phantom laughed, rolling his eyes, but the movement pulled at his shoulder a bit and made him flinch. Lancer had to reach forward to follow his motion so he wouldn't loosen the string too much. 

"Come on, Mr. Lancer. Aren't I, like, a billion years old? A powerful and wise ancient being, or whatever? I'm not gonna gossip."

The way he grinned made it very clear he was, in fact, going to gossip. 

"To be honest," Lancer gave in, "The one paper I was most eager to read hasn't been submitted yet."

"Oh reeeally?" Phantom teased, his fangs peeking out of his thin smile. "Whose is it?"

"Daniel Fenton's."

Even with Phantom turning his back, Lancer could see the way he deflated. His eyes darted to the floor, the green glow of his irises moving around the room like faint spotlights. Lancer cleared his throat in the quiet. 

"I'm just curious as to what he plans on doing after graduating."

"You have a lot of faith in your students," he hummed. "Might be a liiiittle misplaced, though."

"They all have a lot of potential. Especially Danny."

He gave out a "mhm," though it sounded more frustrated than agreeable — it was closer to a groan than anything. He almost seemed salty at the name, as if simply uttering it was a bad omen, an uncomfortable reminder.

"I'm serious. I'm excited to see what their futures look like."

Phantom fell back in silence, the room suddenly growing colder like a weighted blanket of ice. Ugh, good job, Edward. Things were delicate enough as is. 

"He's not like his parents, if that's what worries you," he posed, trying to break the tension. 

That made him look up.

"Uh, yeah, I know. I'm friends with some of his friends. I know Danny's not really, uh, in that business." He paused. "His parents aren't actually all that bad, you know."

"They aren't?" 

For Phantom to say that, either they were a lot more incompetent than they appeared — and they already seemed very incompetent — or he had very skewed ideas of badness.

Lancer wasn't sure he'd like to find out the answer to that.

"Well, we have a truce going on, actually. And they," Phantom sighed, letting out a stream of cold air that made the hairs on Lancer's arm stand. Again, did ghosts even really sigh? Did that count as breathing, or was it just some imitation of living habits, a supernatural movement of the air? "They mean well. They just want to keep everyone safe, like I do."

"Ah, I didn't know you were allies."

"Not… exactly that. They just don't shoot me on sight anymore. But hey, it's a step!" 

Lancer got the answer, then. He really didn't like it.

By War and Peace, how did Phantom handle it? Lancer almost had a breakdown over scraping his arm while running from a big blob ghost, he couldn't begin to imagine the adrenaline of facing infinitely worse threats on a daily basis. Thank Prince and Pauper that most ghosts didn't need to wear shoes, because he would not like to walk a mile in them.

Of course, Phantom must be used to all the danger by now — beyond the three, maybe four, years he's been in Amity Park, how long has he spent fighting other ghosts back in the Ghost Zone? The feeling of dread that comes with running from danger must be nothing but a small inconvenience to him. 

Hm, maybe ghosts didn't feel that mortal terror. Maybe Phantom couldn't fear for his life because he didn't have one? That would probably make saving the world easier. But that was a line of thought that put Lancer concerningly close with organizations he did not agree with.

Moreover, even if some paranormal adrenaline robbed him of feeling fear, he most certainly felt pain. All the goo getting stuck under Lancer's nails attested to that. 

Either way, if not getting shot in the face was his standard of alliance, he must have very low expectations for truces. Lancer had never read Phantom as a particularly trusting ghost, considering how secretive he was after ghost fights. Was that why he was so quick to accept Lancer's suggestions: because nobody else had ever offered? 

Well, that was a disconcerting thought.

"And what's–" Phantom's echoing voice brought his attention back up. It was a mumble at first, words slipping off his tongue without much thought. "Do you know what your future looks like?"

Well, that was another disconcerting thought. 

His long-term plans, those hypothetical unattainable dreams that he hoped to someday reach, had all been flushed down the drain the moment he saw his first ghost. The few items on his bucket list had to be postponed — he had to focus on surviving and making sure the school stayed open — so he pushed them to the next week, then the next month, and then suddenly three years had passed and he hadn't started on any of his New Years' resolutions.

But things have been changing recently, haven't they?

Maybe he really should look at his old bucket list again. He didn't have forever, after all.

"No, not really," he answered after a pause. "Just new assignments and new students, if I were to make an obvious guess. But who knows what might happen, Amity Park is always a mystery."

"Ah, gotcha. The woes of teaching at Casper High: you get good bonuses, but you also get to see your school explode every Tuesday."

"Exactly," he chuckled. "Though that must be a bit tedious for you, I'd imagine, compared to your daily l–" Oops. "Daily routine."

"Yeah, you get used to explosions after a bit," Phantom snickered. "Oh, but if I were as tedious as a king…"

I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship, his mind offered. 

Lancer stopped in his tracks.

"… Excuse me?"

Phantom looked over his shoulder. "Oh, you know, uh, it's a joke from Much Ado? The servant guy gets confused, accidentally tells the King he's really boring?"

All thy tediousness on me, ah? Act 3, Scene 5.

"It's, like, this whole thing about how power doesn't make you happy–" He drew circles in the air as he explained. "I just thought, uh– you'd get it– cause you– ugh, whatever."

"N-no, yes, I know what you mean." Lancer blinked. "I was just startled. Didn't expect you to have read it."

"What, ghosts can't read now?"

Lancer almost jumped out his seat with how pale he got, his heart fluttering in a panic. "No, no, of course, that's not what I–"

"I'm just messing," Phantom laughed, then his voice faded to something a lot softer. "I watch your classes, sometimes."

"Really?" Lancer gaped at him. "I'd never imagine."

"Well, the assigned books are surprisingly not bad," he chuckled. "Mostly. Grapes of Wrath was bleughhh. I did like Hamlet a lot, though. And Benedick is kinda hilarious."

Benedick: One of the main characters of Much Ado About Nothing, known for dumb jokes and feigned confidence and quick wit — A character too marked by war to accept people in his life.

"Yes, I can see the resemblance."

"Though what even is that name? His parents must've been terrible. Who calls their kid Benedick?"

Lancer pulled at the last pieces of the string, tying it with a knot. It was so bizarre, the way that his sort-of-skin would slowly absorb the thread. He could see the stitches Phantom had done earlier, curving over his shoulder — and they seemed days old already, far into the healing process. He tried to keep his mind off of it.

"His name is only really misconstrued nowadays. It actually means to be blessed in Dutch, and Beatrice means one who blesses. It shows they were made for each other."

"Ohhhh," Phantom nodded. Lancer brushed at his shoulder, applying some cotton to clean off the ectoplasm around it, when Phantom abruptly turned with wide eyes. "Wait, they end up together??"

"Sorry, sorry." Lancer flinched back. "I can't exactly spoil a book older than the steam engine."

"Well," Phantom sat back down, a smile spread on his lips. "If I ever get the chance to actually finish it, I'll make sure to write that down."

"I didn't think you even had the time for this sort of thing."

"Oh, no, I barely do. Bless chapter summaries. But y'know, I try."

A thought appeared in Lancer's mind that almost felt like a slap to the face.

Nobody in Amity Park actually knew how old Phantom was. 

It was clear, in his face, his build, his charm, that he was young. It was not news that Phantom was young. When the ghost had first gained popularity, over two years ago, many had grieved for the loss of life, youth robbed of opportunity. It wasn't the kind of thought many wanted to dwell on, and most didn't — the hero seemed to be doing great for himself, he seemed happy, and he had saved the town more times than they could count, and to them, that was all. He was just a mysterious hero.

Still, there were moments. Small, quick, blink-and-you-miss-it details. A joke about a new video game. A confused question about historical events. A soft sigh at the mention of a mother. They were heavy reminders that he was young, and he had died young.

Of electrocution, apparently.

Phantom was young when he became a ghost, but for how long had he been young? Eons? Centuries? Less than a decade? How long had he been stuck in that limbo of an existence beyond death, an existence that puts him on such a distant pedestal?

It couldn't have been for long. If he had been a billion years old as he claimed, shouldn't he know all this already? Why would any being, supernatural or not, alive or dead, go through the trouble of keeping up with high school content again? Lancer knew, as much as he loved teaching, that no reasonable person would ever want to do that — unless they had recently been barred from their studies.

Phantom could have been in his classroom. He might have been in his classroom. Lancer would have known, he should have, he must have known if any of his old students disappeared. He must have known if any Casper students suddenly passed away so early in life. Right? Could he have known Phantom, before all this?

How much life had Phantom been robbed of?

Maybe it wasn't just the height difference that was getting to him.

"I think you should be good to go," Lancer patted his shoulder, covering it with a tight gauze to stop any further damage. The wound was nearly fully healed up already and, despite the size of the gash, it didn't seem like it would scar at all. While that came as some sort of relief, it only made him wonder what kind of injuries actually did scar. "How are you feeling?"

Phantom interlocked his fingers and stretched upward, reaching his hands to the ceiling with a soft groan. He looked at the patched up shoulder with a grin. "Wayyy better already. You know, you're actually pretty good at this."

"I-I'm no expert."

"Eh, it's still way better than I expected. Tuc– uh, one of my allies bet that you'd be really queasy with this sort of stuff."

"Well, I won't lie," Lancer offered him his glove back. "If you weren't so green I would've passed out."

Phantom laughed a bit — a soft laugh, though, tinged with a grief Lancer couldn't identify — and looped his arm back into the sleeve. He stood up from the chair and zipped up his hazmat suit, once again hiding the amalgamation of scar tissue that Lancer never expected he'd be privy to.

Phantom now stood in front of him, exactly the same as he always had, beyond a few colorful stains on the white parts of his suit — it looked like nothing had ever happened. But Lancer knew it did, he knew what scars were hidden, and couldn't stop himself from frowning.

"And you, Phantom, do you have any future?" Lancer choked. "Future plans, I mean."

"Uhm, well…" Phantom took the glove, but he didn't immediately put it back on. He just held it at the palm of his clawed hand, brushing it with his opposite thumb. "Let's just say that next year will be very different. Not sure I'm ready for it."

"Big changes?"

"Huge," Phantom emphasized with an exhale. "I don't… I don't exactly have a choice in it."

He tilted his head. "You don't?"

"It just fell onto my hands, I guess. Literally." He lifted his arm to show Lancer the back of his ungloved hand. In between his fingers, that one shadow flickered in and out of existence, until the shifting blur billowed in circles around his ring finger and solidified into a thin dark strip.

In a blink, Lancer could see it clearly: an intricately engraved black ring, bedazzled with two small sparkling blue jewels and a great green crystal in the middle. It wasn't larger or heavier than any other regular ring, but it seemed to carry a much greater weight. Much greater importance.

"I'm not against it, I have a lot of support, it's just… it's a lot."

Lancer's eyes lingered over the ring. It seemed to glow in the darkness, even more so than Phantom himself.

"Do you… do you want to do whatever this is?"

"I…" His voice trailed off. The way Phantom stood there, unmoving, quiet, eyes darted to the side, made him seem like he was frozen in place. His ghostly aura was the only thing that shifted, grainy and fuzzy as if it were a glitch in reality. "I don't know? It's getting harder to balance things. I can't really plan for… for other goals, but those dreams–" He snickered. "Those dreams have been dead for a while. Not sure I'll ever get the chance. But I'm… I'm dealing, I guess."

"You have a lot of pressure on you," Lancer said in a low voice. "I'm guessing heroics doesn't come easy."

"Nope," Phantom chuckled, bitterly. "It doesn't."

"I've always wondered why you protect the town," he took the opening to ask. "The other ghosts certainly don't, and it's a lot of responsibility."

"Well, I have to. Amity is my home, has always been. I don't want to lose it. And I don't really trust anyone else to protect it–" He cut himself off. "Well, except for Red, she's very capable."

That was a comfort, at least: to know he wasn't completely alone. He mentioned many allies, so he wasn't fully alone… but still. Phantom was an enigma, one that Lancer believed he'd never understand. Yet, there Phantom was, opening up to him. This was a chance of a lifetime — an honor that anyone in Amity Park would even risk a wish for — but instead of the expected excitement of being one of Phantom's confidants, Lancer just… he didn't know what to feel.

"But, like, it is my responsibility, not anyone else's. I gotta take care of rogue ghosts breaking into this realm. It's my fault, anyway."

Lancer was going to cut him off there, ask what that meant, but Phantom kept going. He ran his ungloved hand through his floating hair, eyes distant like he forgot that Lancer was still sitting there. Oh, Strange Case, how much was he hiding?

"But like, I just keep messing up, over and over, and it's so tiring. I struggle being all over place and I never asked for these responsibilities and I can't even really explain myself without telling everyone that I'm a–"

Phantom stilled, looking up at him. He paled, if that were even possible for a ghost to do.

"That you're…?" Lancer prompted.

"That I'm, uh, busy."

"Busy with what?"

"Busy with stuff." He sighed, finally stretching the glove to put it back on. "Secret ghost stuff."

Lancer felt so out of place — he really was just an outsider to his story. He slowly shifted in his seat as Phantom turned away with a pout. "Is it… related to that big change you're going through?"

"… Sorta."

"I'm sure you'll do great." Lancer stood up from his seat, offering a thin smile. "You are a wise ancient being, aren't you?"

"Ha, ha" Phantom snarked, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"Whatever you face," Phantom turned back to look at him, and Lancer realized once more how much he towered over the specter. "I'm sure you'll take it by storm."

He instinctively moved to put his comforting hand on his shoulder, but paused at the sight of the wet, muddied texture on his fingers, instead closing his fist close to his chest.

"You're a hero, Phantom, not just for all the great things you do, but for the brave spirit you are. I can only imagine you will try to do something good with whatever this duty is. You have a big heart." He knit his eyebrows. "Or, uhm, do ghosts have hearts?"

"We have cores, but I get your point." Phantom let out a pleased breath with a hum.

"I may be just a stranger to you, but here at Casper, I see firsthand how many students' lives you've changed. Whatever secret ghost things you do, you'll have me, and all of Amity, cheering you on. You are already a wonder."

Phantom paused for a moment, taking a breath — which, again, what? — and barked a laugh, with a fully fanged smile. He whispered softly. "You are concerningly good at that."

"I'm experienced," he smiled back. 

"Ah, the woes of teaching at Casper High," he repeated.

They were interrupted by an electronic sound, a sharp artificial whirl like the wobbling sawtooth. It was a strange sort of metallic laser noise; the only way he could detail it, or approximate it with onomatopoeia, would be, well… nyeuuuwwwmm.

The office, already dim as it was, with Phantom as its only source of light, grew even darker as the ghost shield deactivated, probably from inactivity. The walls — that one moment ago shimmered like an optical illusion, a thin layer of green sparkling waves that covered the room top to bottom — now returned to that dull, sandy concrete.

"Welp, guess it's time to head out." 

"Where do you go after here?" Lancer pondered, mostly to himself. "You do have, ah, a lair in the Ghost Zone, correct?"

"I do, yeah! But right now it's going through so many renovations. For Ancients' sake, I don't get why they need that many pillars…" Phantom put his hands on his hips with an eye roll, like a tired parent coming home from work. "But anyway, I usually just stay home in Amity, so I don't really care what they do with the place."

… home?

"But hey," Phantom smirked, a smile that only emphasized the sincerity in his eyes. "You're a good teacher, Mr Lancer. Your students are really lucky to have you." He brought a hand up for a handshake.

Lancer quietly wiped his palm on the side of his pants, getting rid of the wet goo, before taking it. It was a cold grip, but a lot gentler than he expected.

After everything, the only words Lancer could really whisper was that old mantra, that quiet prayer, that same silent blessing that said so little but meant so much.

"Good luck," Lancer nodded. "Stay safe."

Phantom took a step back, nodding back. 

"I'll try."

Lancer blinked and the ghost was gone.

Chapter Text

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇙ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

20:00.

Well, that was something.

As Phantom vanished from view, Lancer walked over to the couch without a second thought. He collapsed over dark red cushions with a deep, guttural sigh, letting his head flop back against the pillow.

Lancer couldn't stop telling himself that all this had been wrong. It was so wrong. He was wrong, somehow, but he couldn't point to what exactly ailed him. His mind was littered with questions, just a chaotic garbage shoot for his worries — But most of all, an uncomfortable itch kept crawling up his throat, forcing forward the thought that he was missing something. Again, he was forgetting something, he had something to do, had some connection to make, and it was making him sick to his stomach. Or maybe it was just the smell of antiseptic.

A chill ran up his back — the room was somehow still freezing, even with Phantom gone. 

His hands felt strange, the memory of the sticky and tangled thread etched onto his fingerprints. He lifted them up to his face, taking up most of his vision beyond the sections of the tiled ceiling that peaked between his dirty fingers. Wet and slimy and unbearably cold. The color left behind on his hands, on his shirt, and now on his couch's old leather covering was a rotten olive tone, a molded green stirred with a faded rusted brown like the world's most spoiled coffee.

This hadn't felt like patching a shirt, nor doing sutures on those plastic fake skins they showed him in first aid training. It was not how he imagined it would feel like to do stitches on a ghost — his mind went to gelatin, with a flimsy movement of the needle piercing and sliding through the goo — nor what it would feel like to actually close someone's injuries, firmness and warmth burning the area around the gash.

Rather, it felt as if he had stitched a water bed of a person, a shifting husk. The surface was solid, soft as any other skin — but underneath, it was a cold squirming undulation of pieces, as if nothing was holding together the insides. Perhaps that was realistic, that his expectations of ghosts' physical forms were inaccurate, but it was hard to wrap his mind around how righteously this felt like the touch of death. He shivered as he imagined himself doing an autopsy, one he was much ill-prepared for. Why had he even offered in the first place? Lancer did not have the skill or stomach for this. 

And then he remembered the lightning.

Phantom needed the help. He deserved the help — he had more than earned it — even at the expense of Edward's bandaids and carpet and sanity and entire perception of reality. What else could he offer? Even as he bit down the strangeness that ate him up on the inside, even as all that had felt so unnatural, he wouldn't undo it even if he could.

Suddenly, a soft feeling enveloped him, lingering around him like an invisible pat on his shoulder, a gentle nod, a smile from an old friend. The room didn't feel so empty anymore.

He took a deep breath. Edward knew he had done something right.

Something good.

He stared at his green-stained hand for a long time. Too long? He wasn't sure. Time passed imperceptively outside his narrowed vision. The clock ticked forward, as it always did, hanging over the door of his office, but he didn't count how many times he heard the click of the seconds tauntingly drifting away from him. He just stared.

He came back to his senses when his heavy eyelids pressed down involuntarily after too many minutes without blinking. It was only then — as he opened his eyes again and saw his hands in very clear detail, the muted splotches that painted his fingertips, the mixture sticking in between of the folds of his palms, dark streaks swiveling between the layers of slowly drying ectoplasm — that he realized the room was pitch black.

He shouldn't be able to see. He had never flicked on the lights. 

By Dracula, he needed a drink.

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇐ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

09:35.

He did not dream. And if he did, he doesn't remember. What he does remember, though, is the sudden crash as the door to his office burst open.

"Lancer, get yo bum off that couch!"

He uncurled from his position, his neck flopped over the armrest and his back loudly complaining. Ooh, it felt like thousands of needles were shoved up against his spine. Aging is a curse.

"Ugh, wh–" He went to rub his eyes, only to glimpse at how dirty his hands were. His vision was still blurry — had he fallen asleep on the couch again? His whole body felt heavy and rebelled against him as he tried to sit up straight.

On the other side of the office, a woman stood over his desk, with light chestnut hair slicked back and a whistle hanging from her neck. She was an absolute unit, with a broad square build that made her noticeable in every room. Her biceps bulged slightly from under her white polo shirt, muscles veiled beneath a soft layer of fat, giving them an almost cushioned appearance. But Lancer knew those muscles, knew her power, and immediately tensed as he realized how alert she sounded. She was not someone he wanted to cross. Ever.

"Tetslaff," Lancer puzzled. "What is–"

Her arm whipped forward as she rapidly threw a brown bag over her shoulder. It flew across the room and smacked down on the floor near the cabinet with audible strength, the shelves rumbling with impact and making Lancer flinch.

"This is where you've been hidin'?" She huffed. "You never came to pick up your stuff!"

Oh, true. Those papers had completely slipped his mind. He was still in a dreamlike haze, so much so that he could barely open his eyes as she scowled at him. He could only imagine the state of the essays after Tetslaff recklessly swung them around like that; it would take hours to flatten out the crumpled pages.

She turned around to close the door, slowing down her movements so as to not fully slam it shut. She waited until it clicked closed to let out a long sigh, dropping her head.

"You got us all freaked out." 

Maybe it was just because he was a literature teacher, or maybe because he knew her all the way back in high school, but Edward could read her like a book.

He used to be a lot more preppy, while she spent most of her time with the jocks, so they didn't really get along back then. He wasn't exactly popular, so she always looked down on him — even now, she was still so commanding — but they've been working together at Casper High for long enough to form a tight bond. Before Clark and Rebecca, she was one of the only people he actually spent any free time with.

It was a strange transition, when she first started teaching — her time in the military definitely made her a quick thinker, but after coming back, it was like the frantic battle energy never left her. She was abrasive, usually the one to take the first step, but a bit too much for Edward. He could rarely keep up with her.

But nowadays, especially after all the ghost attacks, she was one of the only people who could help him keep a sense of normalcy. They could settle down at the teacher's lounge and fall into a routine that he was actually familiar with. It was so easy to slip into casual conversations, even after a long day of death threats and zombie invasions and skeleton armies. Her intense energy seemed relaxing compared to everything else. She was bold, but in a way that made him feel comfortable. Firm.

Even through her rough exterior — her tough love, if you could call it that — Edward knew that look in her eyes, the way she loosely crossed her arms over her chest, the slowness of her breath.

"Thank you, Lauren. I'm alright." His smile rose up into a yawn. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Imma guess ya the reason the hallway looks like the Grinch got food poisonin'?"

"Yes, I–" Edward barked out a tired laugh, before quickly sitting up and almost slipping off the couch. "Oh, right! I completely forgot, I had to–"

"Relax, Ed." She rolled her eyes, a smile stretching on her lips. "I already called the cleaning team, the area's closed off for repairs."

He sighed in relief. Goodness, where had his mind been yesterday? He was so out of it, he didn't have time to do anything before he completely passed out. He didn't get his bag, didn't clean the mess. He left the school doors unlocked, too — the situation could've been much worse, legally speaking. All because he decided to go snooping around and got busy dealing with… with all that. 

And how to even describe what had happened? Not even Edward could really wrap his head around it, and he was there.

"Also," Lauren snapped her fingers. "Charlie's covering your next two classes, so ya only gotta worry after lunch."

"Ah, alright, thank you for that. And thank Falluca too, I know he has enough on his plate. Wait," he paused, still-blurry eyes darting behind Lauren to the clock on the wall. "What time is it?"

Lauren glanced up. "It's like nine thirty-somethin'? The break's boutta start." 

"By Alice in Wonderland…" He rarely wakes up so late. Did he sleep for, what, 14 hours?

"You were knocked out cold," she chuckled, but her laugh drifted off into a gruff hum. She went to sit in one of the rolling chairs, but froze at the sight of it, resolving to stay standing. 

"What the ever lovin'…?"

Right, if his hands and shirt were dirty, he'd imagine the chairs would be too. And the desk. And the floor. And the carpet. Oh, Ms. Burke was going to be heartbroken.

"Were you attacked? Your office's almost as nasty as outside," she marched forward.

"No… yes? Not really? There was… there was an incident."

"Yeah, duh," she scoffed. "I swear if a ghost tried to get yo ass, I'mma hunt them down myself an' blow 'em to bits."

"You don't– You don't have to. I-I mean, there was a ghost attack, but it wasn't targeted. Phantom appeared and dealt with it."

"… Good." She released the tension from her shoulders, letting out a long breath. With her bulk and height, the way she sighed almost made her deflate like a balloon. "You 'aight?"

He paused for a moment to really think about it. Was he "aight"? He had his worries, of course, but physically and mentally, how was he doing? It had all been a lot to take in, but at least he had slept enough to regain some of his energies. He would probably be alright to return to teaching after lunch, though his arm would still hurt for the next few days. Dealing with the existential dilemmas, though, would need to be filed for later. A "Future Me Problem," as it were. Who would've thought that only about a month ago, he considered his collection of Amity Park thoughts officially existentialism-free…

Still, despite the circumstances, he was sort of alright. He would be fine, if only more traumatized than usual. 

"I am okay, yes."

"Well, ya' look like absolute shit. How bad was it?"

He rolled his eyes. Language, Tetslaff. Sure, there were no kids in the room, but it's about building a habit. They had to at least try to be role models and not accidentally slip up. Why do you think he uses book titles as swears? It's about the principle.

"It wasn't that bad, but we–" he grimaced. "Phantom and I were trapped together, and it was… it was discomforting. It's still dizzying to think about."

"You hung out with the spook?"

"No, we didn't hang out," he brought up two fingers to draw air quotes around the words, then opened his unclean palms to her. "It clearly wasn't a fun time."

Lauren's eyes darted between his left and right hand, before she turned back to the ectoplasm-stained chairs with a frown. "Why'd ya always get caught up in this sort of mess? It's like you're walkin' towards danger."

The room went quiet.

 "… Ed?"

He stiffened.

"No…"

He looked away. 

"No…"

"… Look, I had my reasons–"

She cackled, falling into a loud fit of full belly laughter. She rested an arm on her knee as she hunched over. "Ain't no way!!"

"Wait a moment–"

"Did ya run towards the darn monster??? God damnit, Ed!" She snorted through her laughs.

"I thought there was a student!" He gestured wildly, uselessly trying to defend himself with an undoubtedly flushed face. This is how things always went between them. There was no escape.

"Woooow, y'are a dumbass."

"Yes, yes," he crossed his arms. "Laugh it up."

She took a minute to recompose herself, dramatically wiping a tear off her eye. "Ahh, amazin'. Y'are a gem, Edward. Ya empty bald head is shiny like one."

He stared at her unimpressed. Hilarious. So original. Very funny. 

"Really, though–" She softened. "Am glad you're okay, Edds. Ya earned some restin'." Lauren smiled at him, that thin lopsided grin that showed a dimple on her cheek. Then she quickly looked away with a snarl, probably meeting her daily quota of emotional vulnerability. "Now go clean yerself up, ya look like you just got out of an uranium eatin' contest."

"That might've been easier to handle," he chuckled, but she just raised a concerned eyebrow. "Don't worry, I should have spare clothes around here, I'll figure it out."

"Yea, ya better."

"I will, I will."

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇖ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

10:30.

Thank Great Expectations that Falluca was covering his classes, because cleaning that room took so much longer than he expected.

He leaned against the wall as the man put the cleaning supplies back in a small plastic container. Max, as he had introduced himself, knelt on the floor beside the couch, resting his elbows on the pillows and letting out shallow breaths. He was a young man with a very strong build and slick-back dark blond hair — he reminded Lancer of Dash, a little, if only for the obviously sporty archetype. He must've been from out of town, as he seemed to be at College-level age and Lancer didn't immediately recognize him. He didn't seem like an Outsider, though; at least, not anymore.

Lancer had called out to one of the members of the cleaning team working down the hall. With all the lights turned on, he could finally see how horribly precarious the hallway looked. It wasn't exactly his fault, of course, but he couldn't stop himself from wincing at the sight as the guilt of the previous night crept up his back.

He felt bad for the people tasked with cleaning everything up; a job understandably much harder and much more frequent than regular janitorial or garbage disposal responsibilities. Possibly-radioactive waste was no joking matter. The amount of care they needed to handle all the materials was a visible stressor on all the workers' clenched jaws, making them sweat even as the winter months approached.

Well, if there was one thing he should be thankful to the Fentons' for, is that the influx of ghosts… opened up new work opportunities? Maybe? Is that reasonable to say? Lancer doubts there are Professional Ecto-Residue Cleaners in other cities. 

Max seemed to be finally done with the cleaning; it had taken up all the rest of the break, all his free period, and part of the English class he was supposed to be teaching. There were empty bottles of bleach thrown about, some miscellaneous metal tools that Lancer had no idea what they were for, and rags that were probably too dirty to be reused ever again. He might need to burn the rags.

Lancer's eyes lingered on the red couch cushions, the leather already rough from use. It was way better, now, back to its original color — but there were still some muted spots of a faded brown, dark muddied patterns splattered on the pillows.

The vast majority of them were yesterday's ectoplasm, when he had sat down to sleep in that messy state. But some others looked faded and were spread unevenly, almost as if they had been poorly scraped off with a rough paper towel. The dark droplets of ectoplasm were old enough to fully seep into the leather in gradients. He never really paid attention to it, since he barely had the time to use the couch himself, but now that he was properly looking at it…

He should probably burn the rags.

"All done," Max stood up and grabbed the cleaning products. "The room should be good for now. Not going to do a full deep clean, but call me if you spot anything out of place."

"Thank you," Lancer smiled in relief. 

"Just try to keep your shoes on when stepping on the old rug, 'kay? No way's anyone getting stains out of that. Sheesh."

"Well, I'm sure you did a thorough job. It seems all back to its original state."

"As thorough as I could be. But you really made a mess of the place."

"Yes, I–" he sighed. "I suppose I did."

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, before an itch reached up Lancer's throat. "So… uhm–"

"Well, I did this overtime, so…" He adjusted the weight of the container in his arms. "My rate is 30 an hour, for the record."

Ah, of course — Lancer did a bit of mental math as he reached for his wallet, handing over the cash for the hours that passed. Lancer was glad the cleaners were paid decently, but less glad that last night's escapade had to come out of his pockets. Maybe he could convince Ishiyama to put it in the school's account, but he doubted it; then he'd have to explain why the room was dirty in the first place, and he really rather not see the judgement on her face when telling the story.

"And thaaank you," Max hummed as he counted the notes, shoving them in the front pocket of his uniform. "And try not to get in any more messes. Then again, you're a teacher at Casper High, so, like, I'm pretty sure we'll see each other again eventually. Hopefully never, but probably soon."

"Are you– uh, are you not going to ask–"

Max rolled back in a light chuckle, almost spitting out the laugh. "Nah, man. I've seen way too much since moving here. Your town is fucked, pardon my French."

Lancer frowned at the informal exclamation. "Oh. Well, yes, I'm guessing you're used to it by now. How do the kids say… you've been known?"

"Been knew, but yeah." He'd have to write that down later. Max made his way to the front of the room, using his hip to open the door. "Never really gonna get used to it, 'cause Amity is, like, trauma-central. But we can't exactly do much else. It's just busy work for now, but at least it helps out people like you."

"People like me?"

"You know," he shrugged as he headed out the room. "Kind people. Old people. Sad people. Everyone, really."

He wasn't sure what group he was part of. The door slammed shut.

He looked down at the carpet — the old, scrappy, green thing, stepped on and overused and rough at the edges. An antique passed down many hands, with a decorated plant design and too many loose threads.

He could easily replace it back with his previous one: a red-and-yellow patterned carpet that stood rolled up at the corner of the room, ready to be given away at his next donation haul. He could unroll it and throw away the green one, dumping it in the first radioactive wasteland he could find.

But this was a gift.

Sure, the stains splattered in a way that made the ectoplasm get woven between the threads, no matter how much Max tried to scrub at it; but if Lancer squinted, they almost seemed to align perfectly with the patterns of the plant design, making the leaves seem brighter and livelier with the uncomfortably-familiar bright green colors. 

He was keeping it.

But he was definitely going to burn the rags.

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇖´ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

11:30.

Lancer was almost done grading some of the Freshmen's midterms when he felt that strange feeling again. 

He stilled, letting his red pen hover over the page.

Last night, he felt that same odd presence in the room. Like there was someone else there with him. He excused it as just being part of the strangeness of the evening, but if it was back… 

He'd think, considering he lived in Amity Park, that he would've gotten used to sharing a room with beings he couldn't see. It got easy to detect when there was a ghost in the room; the biting chill in the air, the shadows twisting around themselves, the sudden quiet of the sounds, the mysterious fear that urged you to run away, et cetera.

And really, he had gotten used to it, to the point that he rarely even flinched when he heard soft whispers somewhere behind him. If he knew he wasn't actually in danger, then he could handle jumpscares just fine — it's why his Halloween haunted houses were always the best (regardless of what Tetslaff argued) and why he had such high scores in horror video games.

Most of the time, it was just an invisible, quiet spirit passing through from room to room, or a group of blob ghosts floating aimlessly about. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

But this presence was different.

The room still felt several degrees colder than normal, but he didn't feel the hairs on his arm stand up. Instead, it was almost fuzzy, like whatever-it-was watched him through a window. The presence wasn't in one direction, but rather encompassed the whole room before falling gently around him. It was almost… comforting. Warm, if only in the metaphorical sense.

It reminded him a lot of when Coraline would curl up under his desk while he worked, or when she'd tiptoe over the tracks of his tiny model trains — he didn't have to look over to feel she was somewhere close, even if she was across the room. Sure, sometimes she got in the way of things, but she didn't want anything out of it. She was just a cat, and that's what cats do.

It was just closeness. The promise of company.

"Hello?" He tested the waters, putting his pen down.

He should be worried. Scared, even. He couldn't bring himself to be.

"Phantom?" He tried to the empty room. "Is it you?"

There was no reply, beyond the whirring of his printer and the clicking of the clock and the muffled chatting down the hall.

"If it is you, please know you are welcome here," he offered, still not looking up. "If it's not, I would appreciate an introduction."

He waited.

"Or a signal. Or at least something."

Time went by. 

Lancer sighed. Tired of the silent treatment, he quickly pushed back against the table and swirled his chair around — only to find the room empty. The feeling had completely vanished, along with any hope for an explanation. He would've thought he was going mad, if he hadn't already lost his mind years ago.

Strange.

His attention was suddenly turned back to the office door as a group of youthful voices echoed out in the hallway. Bits and pieces of their conversation seeped into the room.

"–get why you're worried, dude," a male voice started. Their footsteps approached the door, but Lancer didn't need to see them to recognize that nazally tone. "But it's not like it's the first time someone sees–" It faded back into a whisper until someone else cut them off.

"Besides, I thought you already decided," a sharp female voice interrupted. Lancer could so vividly imagine the eyeroll. "You need the people, and you know what they've been saying."

"I know," the third member of the trio whined. "I know. I'm just worried that he'll– You know."

"Yeah… Good luck, man."

"Thanks." He sighed, and the door swung open. 

"Ah, Mr. Fenton," he swiveled in his seat, pretending to be caught off-guard. He would never admit to overhearing, after all — how thick did students expect the walls to be? This is cheap drywall. They are literally forced to replace it every other day. "Ms. Manson, Mr. Foley. Shouldn't you three be in class?"

"It was mostly just review, so Falluca let me leave early," he shrugged. "I need to submit some late work for his class after lunch, so do you mind if I work on it here?"

Lancer's eyes widened a little. Danny being caught up with content? That's a surprise, and a good one. Then again, he had been getting better history grades as of late, so it would be unfair to underestimate him. Lancer especially learned the hard way to never judge Danny by his in-class performance.

Lancer nodded back with a gentle smile. "Of course. You can take that chair — Only, hm, be careful. It might still be a little wet."

"Ah," Danny looked away for a moment. "Sure, thanks."

"Let me know if you need any help. And I'd rather you not skip any meals, so please take a break by lunch time."

Danny went to swing his backpack off his shoulder, but the motion made him hiss between his teeth — as if the quick movement had physically pained him, his shoulder blades tensing for a second— before his face quickly twisted back to his usual chill poker face. He dropped the backpack on the desk, and it slammed against it with a great bang.

Lancer couldn't hide his frown at that. A few months ago, Lancer wouldn't have questioned the weight of the backpack, but now he knew what kind of things it carried. But was it digging into his shoulder this badly? He had never shown shoulder or back pain so evidently. Lancer should probably talk to him about using his locker more often.

"No worries, I have my own lunch." Danny unzipped his bag and pulled out a tupperware box with a few sandwiches inside.

He must've noticed the way Lancer tensed, as he paused with an annoyed look in his eyes; "And no, they're not radioactive or sentient or infected or magical. They're not going to come to life or attack you. Sam made them for us."

His eyes darted to Sam and Tucker, standing at the back of the room. Sam had her arms crossed, leaning against the wall, while Tucker kept the door open with his foot. The goth shrugged with a half smile, "We had leftovers."

"And why are you two not in class? I don't assume you have work to catch up on?"

Sam and Tucker both froze where they stood. They glanced at each other for half a second, before turning back towards him and synchronously replying; "Bathroom break." Danny spat out a laugh.

"We'll let you get to it, man." Tucker grinned as he headed back out into the hall. "Falluca's gonna start to get worried for our stomachs." Sam followed behind and both started walking back to class, their voices getting more distant as the door closed.

"Good luck, Danny!"

"Try not to blow anything up this time!"

Danny turned around to his friends, "Oh, fu–" He stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned back to Lancer. "Uh. Daaarn you."

Laughter spilled out of him, quietly and involuntarily. "Let's just make sure you submit it to Falluca on time. What assignment do you need to finish?"

"…A lab report," Danny turned away, his cheeks red in embarrassment. Lancer had hoped they were already at a point where Danny didn't need to feel flustered or ashamed at late submissions — there's no shame, this was what these private meetings were for — but guess he was wrong.

Danny took his notebook out of his bag, alongside a few sheets of scribbled paper stapled together. There were a few stains on them, but this was for a lab experiment, so that was to be expected. "We have to do some acid-base titrations with phenolphta… phenol-something and see the color changes. I tried to finish it last night but, uhm, I wasn't able to. Some stuff got in the way."

"Ah, shame. Did you collect all the data you needed?"

"Nope," Danny shrugged. "But hey, it's a lab report. I could just make stuff up."

That's fair.

Lancer knit his eyebrows for a moment, lost in thought — his mind went back to the chemistry laboratory last night, where the fighting had started. His heart skipped a beat at the thought that there really could've been a student in there. There wasn't anyone, thankfully, but what if? What if there had been? What if Danny decided to finish his report at school instead of at home? What if, what if.

His chest tightened at the idea; he truly had been insanely lucky. They all were insanely lucky. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Amity would look like if Phantom wasn't there. Such a young ghost, a young boy, and all of Amity on his shoulders…

"Uhm, is everything alright, Mr. Lancer?"

Lancer blinked himself out of his stupor. Danny was already sitting down across from him, notes opened over the desk. He tipped his head sideways with squinting eyes in the same way a cat would.

"Yes," Lancer coughed. "I'm alright. Get on with your work and let me know if you need assistance. Science is not exactly my forté, but I'm sure I could lend a hand if required." He gave Danny a curt nod, rolling his chair closer to the wall. He picked up his red pen to go back to grading his papers.

"Well, thanks, but I mean–" From the corner of his vision, he could see Danny grab his earphones from his pocket. He didn't put them on, though; he just left them on the desk. "I mean, like, in general. Are you feeling okay?"

Lancer put his pen down again. "In what way do you mean?"

"I heard about what happened yesterday. The rubble was kind of… everywhere." He gestured to the air. "Hard to miss."

"Oh, I do appreciate the concern, but I'm fine," he smiled. "Only a scratch or two… nothing for you to worry your head around."

Danny kept that same expression of concern; it seemed to soften slightly at Lancer's affirmations, but not enough to diminish the feeling that he was being scrutinized, like Danny's eyes were trying to glimpse through his skin to check for fractures. He went to pick up his pen again, but Danny just kept sort of… looking at him. He sat there thinking for almost a whole minute before Lancer spoke up.

"I'm sure you have enough worries as is?" 

Danny looked up, slightly confused. He didn't answer.

"Like the assignment?"

Danny's expression didn't change. Lancer raised an eyebrow.

"The chemistry assignment you should be working on?"

A soft oh escaped Danny's lips as he looked back to his notes, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Ah, yeah. Right."

"Unless you'd rather work on your personal statem–"

"Woah!" He quickly spun his chair around, picking up his headphones on the way. "I am so excited to work on this lab report that I will spend all of my time focusing on! Too bad I won't have time to work on anything else!" 

Lancer chuckled at the display — he was really growing fond of Danny's sarcastic humor, especially when it wasn't: 1. targeted against him, and 2. full of puns.

Danny spun back forward as he settled down, raising the headphones up. "I–" He paused before putting them on. "I'm glad you're doing okay. Really."

"Thank you," Lancer replied in courtesy, and the two of them went back to their responsibilities. Danny turned on his music player — he was playing some new generation rock music: Green Day, if he wasn't mistaken — and went back to his studies. 

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇑ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

Chapter Text

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇑ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

12:00.

Some time passed before Lancer started hearing some muttering beside him. He cast a small glance over his shoulder, seeing Danny's face contort into a compilation of expressions, emotions jumping from one point to another. It was like he was running through dialogue options in his mind — Lancer wondered if Danny knew how expressive his face was, how easily it exposed whatever internal debate he was having.

Lancer took a few unmoving moments, waiting for something to happen, before Danny turned to pause his music. Danny's voice was quiet at first, barely pushing through that uncomfortable barrier between them.

"I, uh, heard some gossip that Phantom stayed behind after the fight."

"You did?" He glanced up. He dropped the pen, again. He doubted he would be getting any more work done today.

"Yeah, but don't worry. Nobody actually knows what happened." Danny squinted his eyes ever so slightly, a stern look plastered on his face. His tone of voice was quite warm, contained, with a thin smile pushed up his cheeks — it almost seemed like Danny suddenly put on a brave mask to comfort him, but he didn't yet get why. 

"I'm not exactly worried about rumors, Mr. Fenton." He really wasn't: those tended to come and go — especially about ghost fights, since attacks happened literally all the time. "Though I am curious how people came to such a conclusion."

"People don't really know the details, but, like, this is Casper High. People love to gossip," Danny swiveled in his seat. "Plus I think the new security guard quit this morning."

"Ah," Lancer grimaced. "Lovely."

"So," he tilted his head. "How was it?"

"How was…?"

"The encounter. Phantom. The whole thing."

Lancer bit his finger, letting his thoughts wander freely for a moment. His eyelids already weighed him down in how tired he was, thoughts overlapping and intertwining in so many ways that he started losing sight of the patterns they were making. It hurt his eyes to try and look at it, to piece together all the emotions and experiences he had gone through last night, in what could have been less than twenty minutes. 

These were worries he'd have to filter out on his own, when he actually had time to think. He's lucky enough to have overprepared for the pep rally — no ghost attack could ever diminish his school spirit — so he wasn't as busy as usual, but he still felt insanely overwhelmed. Tonight, he might skip his evening reading altogether and just sit with Coraline and with his thoughts. It's what he once overheard his students referring to as "floor time," and he could not imagine a more appropriate name.

That is to say that these were not problems he'd ever want to burden Danny with, on top of the rivers of worries the boy was already drowning in. Lancer may not know what flowed down them just yet, but he could hear the rushing water from afar. He wouldn't want to create another whirlpool with this whole mess.

But still, this was all about helping Danny reach a point, academically and socially, that Lancer knew he was capable of. And letting him feel safe enough to tell his own story, to reveal the remaining puzzle pieces, demanded trust from both sides.

By The Da Vinci Code, he was getting a headache trying to solve all these riddles.

"It…" Lancer sighed, "It was interesting. Gave me a new perspective. In terms of fright, however, it wasn't much worse than any other normal paranormal encounter. 

"The normal paranormal…" Danny trailed off. "That's an oxymoron."

"Look who's learning."

"I pay attention. Sometimes." His eyes drifted to the side. "On occasion."

Lancer could feel laughs starting to bubble up his throat, but they were cut off, a frown suddenly dawning on his face. There was still something here. Many things, really: hidden fears, unspoken tension, quiet trust… Every word spoken between them carried a promise of confidentiality. There was still a wall between him and Danny, and every time he called out, a part of it would crack.

And then there was that presence again. A hefty feeling of scrutiny, of being watched — but not in a bad way. A constructive judgement.

It seemed Danny could feel it too, considering how he quickly raised his hand to cover his mouth and how his eyes jumped to the corners of the room. For less than a millisecond, a sudden panic bloomed on his face, before fading back down to tranquility, almost relief — an expression that was rare to see. 

He must be so used to urgency. Poor kid.

"Did–" he started. "Did your parents really call a truce with Phantom?"

"They did. They're a lot more patient when dealing with ghosts now. Things have been really looking up since then, for everyone's sake. "

"That sounds like good news." He sighed in relief. "Phantom deserves that mercy."

"… You support him, then?"

Lancer blinked. What a strange question — he assumed most people in Amity did, by this point. And of all people, he was quite sure that Danny did too. "Of course. He's a very capable hero. He's done great things to keep the town safe, despite the dangers. And…"

His mind wandered back to yesterday. "I'm sure he could do anything he puts his mind to. The universe owes him that much."

It was subtle and quiet — as things tended to be with Danny — but Lancer didn't miss how the teen's eyes widened slightly, a wobbly grin creeping up his cheeks like the remnants of a smile. There was a softness in his eyes, a surprising safety in that half a moment of shock that almost made them glow with a swirling shine. It disappeared just as quickly as it appeared, but it was there. Whatever this meant, it clearly mattered.

"Though, to be honest," Lancer continued, words spilling out before he could properly take a moment to process Danny's reaction. "These past three years have really shaken my expectations of danger. By Dante's Inferno, I'm sure you must understand."

Danny let out a laugh at that — a hearty, youthful laugh, one that Lancer hadn't heard in who knows how long — "Ancients, yeah, that's so real. Jazz would not shut up about the 'parapsychological implications of prolonged social crises' and stuff like that."

Ancients. Danny's little friend group always used that term — and so did Phantom, last night. Perhaps it's a common expression among ghostkind, and the Fentons overheard it? Quite odd, indeed. Then again, he did swear with book titles, so who was he to judge? Nonetheless, he quickly wondered what, or who, these Ancients happened to be. 

"Your sister's always been ahead of the curve, even when pointing out the obvious. You know," he reminisced, "your sister used to come study in my room too."

"Wait, really?" Danny perked up.

"We had a different arrangement," he leaned back against the chair with a stretch. "Since she was on top of so many of her classes, she asked to study independently to learn coursework ahead of time. Diligent as always."

"Wow," Danny rolled his eyes, spinning his chair again. "What a way to rub it in."

Lancer flinched for a second. War of the Worlds, this was a touchy subject for him, wasn't it? It didn't take too many life-threatening situations for him to realize how ill-advised his leadership methods were.

He… doesn't like thinking about it, but he couldn't exactly avoid it forever. He made too many mistakes, and pushing his own stressors onto his students was possibly one of the worst ways he could've dealt with all those high-stakes situations. He used to be so biased, so ignorant.

"That isn't what I–"

"Yeah, I know, Mr. Lancer. I'm just jokin'."

From the way Danny gave him a snarky smirk, a teasing faux-portrayal of defiance, he could tell that he didn't care that much. At least not anymore, or at least not right now. But Lancer could only hope his current actions could make up for the frustrations he unnecessarily put these kids through.

"What I do mean is," he started again, "everyone has needs. Our job as teachers should be to help you learn, regardless of what these needs are. One will never shun a quill for needing special ink when it writes its soliloquies."

Danny paused mid-swivel. "Woah," he leaned against the back of the chair. "Who let you get so philosophical?"

"You learn with time," he smiled.

Danny smiled back. "Huh, yeah. I guess we do."

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … `⇗ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

13:00.

He worshipped it like a god.

A god, mind you. Not capitalized, indefinite article. Edward wasn't planning on making enemies any time soon — and considering the amount of overlapping faiths that had proven their existence and canonized themselves in Amity Park, he wasn't going to be taking any chances. Nowadays, being a heavenly deity was just as casual a job as being a mechanic or a nurse.

And no, he meant no offense to whatever powers were listening, whatever watched, whatever knew. It was just an objective observation. Don't take it personally.

Still, while he was never a religious man, he understood why the pursuit of the good praises of a higher power could bring comfort. He understood the need for salvation in the darkest hours, when the body is too exhausted to move and the mind is too heavy to carry. People need assurance that there is an unknowable purpose for their suffering; that, even in times of struggle, they can still find beauty in the world. 

And this, he prayed as he took a sip of his shitty coffee machine espresso, was a beauty. This coffee was salvation. Nothing could compare to the awful, bitter, lukewarm taste of instant-made enlightenment.

By Paradise Lost, he was exhausted. How he managed to be so tired even after all the hours he slept, he wasn't sure, but every inch of his body complained when he tried to take a step. He felt like he was treading through a swamp all day, and he really needed a boost before the pep rally — he wanted his energy to match his enthusiasm, at least for the kids' sake. He had completely underestimated how quickly his energy would drain.

His suffering better have a greater purpose, because the gauze on his forearm was not very beautiful and he was not very comfortable with the constant, pulsating back pain. Maybe spending most of the day sitting in his office chair didn't help the situation, but the alternatives would be to either pace around his office in circles or lay down on his permanently ectoplasm-stained carpet. Neither were particularly appealing.

The lunch break was nearing its end. Through the door, he could already hear the muffled, excited chatter of students filing back to their classrooms. And, to be honest, he really appreciated how muffled it was — if any room needed proper sound proofing, it was the teacher's lounge.

The teacher's lounge used to be a lot more grandiose. He remembers when walls were covered in wooden detailing and framed awards of past students and teachers alike. There were couches, tables, proper tea and coffee stations, a microwave to heat up lunch, cabinets for snacks, pin boards for flyers and to-do lists. The carpets were soft on your feet, like you could lie down and fall asleep counting sheep. Teaching is, objectively, one of the most underpaid professions out there, so providing this small sanctuary for the staff was one of the first things he pushed for as a vice-principal.

Nowadays, however, it was barely a stain of what it was supposed to be. The couches were old, patchy, and the carpet stuck to your feet like aged gum. They still had snacks, sure, but they were all stale, and the cabinets housed more emergency supplies than proper food. He doesn't remember if the coffee machine was ever replaced — which probably explains why his caffeinated divine savior left such an odd texture on his tongue.

Worst of all was the emptiness. 

Many chairs and many tables were left dusty and untouched, but that couldn't be explained with time. No, only four years ago, he would sit right there, hearing stories about students' fantastical questions or helping someone send a carefully-worded email. This room would wash away all your stress, a sanctum of relief in between the mess of paperwork. Sure, they didn't all like each other — there were way too many stories on that — but it was still nice to share a lunch at the end of a busy week.

But now it was just him.

And Ishiyama, Falluca, Tetslaff, of course. And a few others, who helped when push came to shove — though they were newer, and it was still debatable whether their work could even be considered part-time. They showed up once in a lifetime. Edward barely remembered any of their names. He thinks one of them — that geography teacher with short hair and glasses, the one that always wore that pink cardigan — could've been called Jenna? Jenny? It started with a J, certainly. Or maybe it was G. In his defence, they spoke once, and that was over a year ago.

Regardless, Casper was a surprisingly big high school. In places like this, where no students could be seen, it all felt enormous. It made him feel so small.

Edward jumped up at a sudden blaring noise, his instincts rushing him to spring away to safety. 

He realized, almost embarrassingly late, that the noise was only a charming little piano tune, and it was coming from his bag. He walked over to it, picking up his phone and flipping it open, and– Oh, Rebecca, why was she–

"Edwaaaard," her voice echoed from the speaker, with scratchy shuffling sounds in the back. "Ugh, finally you pick up. I was worried you finally exploded, or something."

"Becca! Is everything alright?

"Yeah, yeah," her voice distorted through the speaker, though he could tell she was clearly in a rush. The call would get quieter at times, as she paced around and walked away from the phone. "Where were you, though? My calls have been going to voicemail all morning."

"I'm sorry for not picking up, I left my telephone in my bag, and it was locked in another room, and–" he sighed. "I'm stalling. It's a very long story."

"It better be a good one, then, because I was worried sick. Seriously, you can't just–" She paused for a second, scavenging for the right words. Edward moved to fill the coffee pot and leaned back against the counter as he waited. "You can't just vanish for the whole day with no explanation."

"I thought you'd be used to disappearances by now?"

On the other side of the line, he could hear her snicker to herself, trying to contain her laughter. To be very honest, laughing at the concept of a disappearance is probably not the healthiest thing — but this was Amity Park, so what else was new?

"Well, still, if you're gonna get kidnapped or something, at least leave a message."

"I don't think I'd ever schedule a kidnapping, Becca."

"What actually happened, Ed?"

"Don't–" He started, a deep groan escaping his throat. "Don't ask me about it, not right now. I do not believe I have the mental capacity to explain."

"Alright, then," she laughed; not as amusement or judgement, but as a small peace offer. He couldn't help but laugh with her. "Next coffee date, it is." 

"Surely. Well, regardless, why call me now? What is up?"

"What is up," he could perfectly hear her rolling her eyes, if that was even possible, "is that Elmerton Uni is an hour away from your place, and I have a lecture in an hour. What am I supposed to do with this little freak?"

Footsteps sounded through the speaker, as those scratching sounds got a lot louder. As she walked around the house, Edward could hear a faint hum and skittering clacks against the floorboards. 

And suddenly, a meow. 

"You can't just ask me to cat-sit for maybe a few hours and disappear for a whole day."

"Ah," he grimaced. "Right… Apologies for making you stay so long. If I had known, I promise I wouldn't have asked you to come over."

"It's fine," she said in an earnest tone, though he still felt his guilt squirming at the pit of his stomach.

"I'll have you know I did sleep on your bed, though. You know, your place is actually super nice. Big basement and everything. Surprised you can even afford it.""

Well, nevermind. The guilt was gone. 

"I'm a teacher at Amity Park. The government has to give us something to keep us here." These days, living in Amity was about as cheap as you could get. He wouldn't be surprised if they saw an influx of Outsiders soon, considering the mess that was the housing market. 2008 was a messy year.

But he doubted it. Regardless of any hard-hitting blows of the market crash — Amity was always unaffected. Nobody actually wanted to live here.

"And how is Coraline?"

"She's fine, but a little too hungry. You know, I fed her an hour ago and she's already begging for seconds."

Two more meows could be heard, and Rebecca laughed to herself. He couldn't see what was happening, but he could so easily imagine the way Coraline would rub herself against your leg when she was craving a little treat. She would always tilt her head town and rub her nose against you, before looking up with these adorable pleading eyes.

"Don't fall into her trap," he laughed. "Her cuteness is a malicious weapon of gluttony and greed."

"Well, I can't just leave her here alone," she whined, jiggling her keys to the microphone. "I gotta head out."

Edward rolled up his sleeves, looking for a solution. A quick glance at his watch was enough to remind him of his responsibilities, as the hands ticked forward toward the end of the lunch period. He couldn't wait for the pep rally, and definitely couldn't wait to get back home and pass out in a proper bed. 

He grabbed the coffee pot from the machine and started making his way back to his office. He should probably wrap up the call soon — he had many things to prepare for, both in notes and in spirit.

"Worry not, I think Clark should be free today. I can text him, if you need me to?"

The line went quiet for a moment.

"What?"

"I don't know," Rebecca groaned. "Don't you think he's acting a little strange lately?"

That caught him off guard. "... What do you mean, exactly?"

It wasn't the question of whether Clark was acting in strange ways — because, in most contexts, he objectively would be. He's an Outsider getting used to the bizarreities of Amity Park's liminal nature. He was cryptic. He worked in academia. Being strange was a given. 

What confused him is why Rebecca, of all people, would grow suspicious of Clark. The worst that Edward could remember him doing is maybe sneaking off to talk to someone, or the fact he didn't take phone calls, or how he always seemed to know what you were doing, or how he'd make references to historical events that never actually happened and give incomprehensible explanations for them, or how he'd stare ominously to the corner of the room like an animal sensing a presence that you couldn't see. 

… Alright, yes, perhaps he was odd. But nothing out of the ordinary for most Amity Parkers. He remembers when one of his junior students accidentally proclaimed an ancient prophecy of universal equilibrium in the middle of her slideshow on Streetcar Named Desire. That was, unfortunately, an increasingly-average occurrence.

And Clark didn't sound particularly different. He doesn't remember him having any different eye colors — a possible sign of possession that took years for the town to notice. That didn't remove the option of ghost possession or brainwashing, of course, but it would be much less probable.

Edward trusted Clark. Even if he was planning something strange, he doubted it would ever come from a place of bad intentions. Confusing intentions, maybe, but never bad ones.

"He's been more avoidant lately, taking more time to text back… Sometimes he knows stuff about me before I tell him, and it's been worrying me. I feel like he might be planning something, but I have no idea what it could be."

Ah, it was the normal kind of strange.

He rolled his eyes. He somehow forgot that was even an option in this situation. "What do you suspect? A surprise birthday party?"

"No, I mean–" Edward could hear Rebecca open the front door, the keys clicking against the lock. "Maybe? Is it your birthday soon?"

"Not that I know of. Yours?" 

"Nope. Getting married?"

"With who?" Edward made his way back to his office and put his hand on the door handle, lingering by the entrance.

"Good point. Eh, I feel like it's something more serious. There's a tension there, like he's stalling for time for some heavy conversation. You really don't feel anything in the air?"

Almost automatically, Edward's eyes danced down the hallway. It wasn't too full, since most students were still in the cafeteria, but he barely threw a glance at the people getting ready for class. He looked above the crowds, up to the corners where the lockers met the ceilings. 

He was looking, searching, for that presence hovering around his shoulders the whole morning. 

He wasn't sure why. Perhaps he was subconsciously taking Rebecca's words too literally, looking for a physical tension in the air.

"… Maybe."

"Do you think he's leaving?"

No, he couldn't. Nobody leaves Amity Park. Not really.

It does not matter how long you stay far away, how much you travel or live elsewhere. This town stains you with scars. It would keep a grip on your soul until you joined the specters that haunted its streets. You can never go back to being an Outsider once you were in. If you lived in Amity Park, you might as well be the town's property.

Perhaps Clark just didn't know that. 

… Or maybe he was not as far gone as Edward suspected.

That would be… a loss he couldn't quite place. He would not grieve prematurely, but just the thought of it made his chest ache a bit too much.

"Hopefully not. He might just be stressed, though, so do give him some time. I'll hear you later, Rebecca."

"Yeah. Hear you." She hummed with a smile, before hanging up.

Edward quickly sent out a quick text to Clark about cat-sitting, then opened his office door.

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇗ … ₊˚.⋆ »—

13:15. 

The second he stepped foot inside, the 5-minute bell rang. He dropped his shoulders in resignation. Lancer paused in the doorway, expecting to find Danny hunched over the desk — maybe half-heartedly scribbling through chemistry notes, or even texting his friends on his phone. Instead, the room was quiet. Danny must have gone out to have lunch with his friends, then, leaving his things here to pick them up before class. His backpack and notes were still on his desk, pages scattered and filled with chemical symbols and equations.

Lancer sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He settled into his office chair, its well-worn joints creaking as he swiveled around. He sat there for a few empty seconds, pouring himself another mug of coffee and left the pot back on the table. Maybe it was just that he moved too quickly on the chair, but his brain was still spinning around his skull after everything that happened that day.

But he couldn't stall for much longer, or else he'd be late for class. He picked up the stack of essays, his bag, and the laptop tangled beneath a pile of printed rubrics. And despite much hesitation — his hand refused to move and hovering over the desk as if waiting for something to strike — he also took the sewing kit, for the pep rally. Just in case someone needed it later.

But before he left the room, a small note caught his attention.

On top of Danny's chemistry homework, there was a single lime green post-it note stuck to one of the book covers. It didn't match the color of the other post-its Lancer could see, and it only had one message:

"Let him rest," with a small winking smiley face next to it.

Lancer furrowed his brow. It could've been left there by one of Danny's friends — the handwriting was oddly familiar, enough to give him pause. But it wasn't familiar enough to identify. It had no more purpose, as Danny had already left, but it seemed to be addressed to him directly. It was odd, recognizable in a way he couldn't quite pin-point.

There.

That presence again. 

He could feel that small pressure building at the corner of his vision. The presence behind him was small, but it was there.

Caught you.

He turned quickly, the chair spinning with him, but there was–

Lancer almost tripped over his feet.

Oh, Invisible Man, Lancer hadn't noticed Danny before. He didn't notice Danny was there at all. 

His student was there, curled up on the couch, fast asleep. Lancer hadn't heard a sound; not the quiet rhythm of breathing, not the creak of the cushions. He hadn't heard a single heart beat besides his own. It was as if Danny had materialized the moment he turned around.

He was sprawled all over the couch, with mouth open and arms crossed over his chest. His phone lay face-down on the floor, the NASA logo on the case catching a sliver of light, as if it had slipped from his hand as he drifted off. His head was pressed against the cushions, shoulders tensed and hunched around himself. A purple blanket leaned loosely at the top of the couch, his leg rested up against the backrest. 

There was something else in his hands. A glint of something small; a tiny, sparkling jewel rested between his fingers.

Whatever it was, it caught the light just enough to make Lancer squint. It seemed to blur against the light fixtures — or was it just doing it itself? It was strange, the way it flickered against the world, as if convincing itself that it wasn't an illusion. It definitely wasn't natural. 

Yet, the more he stared at it, the more he thought about what happened with Phantom last night. It acted so similarly to Phantom's ghostly aura, fading in and out of existence, or like the mysterious mist that floated over his head. 

It looked like the same ring.

He took a quiet step forward–

His phone vibrated in his bag. Lancer snapped himself out of the moment and quickly glanced down to silence the incoming messages, to not suddenly wake Danny up. 

It was only after a few seconds of processing that he realized the school bell rang, and Danny was still asleep. A telephone notification would do nothing. This was unsurprising, in all honesty; Lancer had seen Danny nap through extremely exciting literature classes. He could nap through anything.

The text was just Clark responding to him, confirming the cat-sitting and wishing him good luck on the rest of his classes. Perfect, then, Coraline was all set. Lancer let out a quiet chuckle; though his chest ached as he did, his laugh tinged with something bitter he couldn't name.

Lancer gathered his things, looked up to smile at Danny one more time, and made his way out of–

Something moved.

Lancer froze, eyes narrowing at the scene. Danny hadn't moved. He hadn't moved. 

But the blanket definitely did.

Before, it had been bunched slightly at the corner. He threw it mindlessly over the top of the couch after it was cleaned. Danny rested his leg on top of it, squished and discarded without a care in the world.

Now, it was tucked around Danny with deliberate gentleness. Not just laid over him, but placed carefully, as if someone had taken the time to smooth it over his shoulders and fold it lightly at his side. It was tucked under his folded arms, draped over his leg with the same care a parent might have, late at night, trying not to wake their kid.

It was… endearing. He looked cozy, as he rolled himself up and tenderly brought the blanket closer to his face. Lancer could see a faint half-smile spreading on Danny's face, as if he was having a good dream. He hadn't seen Danny look so peaceful in… well, since he met the kid.

And the supposed ring was nowhere to be seen.

Lancer took one more look at Danny — fast asleep on a couch stained with ectoplasm, wrapped in a purple blanket that should not have moved on its own, holding some spectral gemstone with unthinkable implications — and turned around.

After all, there was a class to teach and a pep rally to host. And Danny really should get the rest he needs. Whatever had happened here, whatever all this meant… it could wait.

"Thank you, stranger," he muttered under his breath.

—« ⋆⁺₊✧ … ⇒ … ₊˚.⋆ »—