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Chapter Text

Dash's tongue swipes against Danny's teeth. Danny opens for him without hesitation, the warm glide of Dash in his mouth a welcome home. He finds himself grabbing a fistful of that blond hair, of pulling them impossibly closer as if he could devour him whole. Dash's lips are soft against his own, and even though this kiss should be a happy reunion it is instead a ferocious beginning. Dash turns them around and slams Danny against the wall, hands encasing his face and keeping him there. He slots a knee in between Danny's legs and Danny chokes back a moan that threatens to strangle him.

His hands move from Dash's hair to his waist. His fingers scrabble for the metal of his buckle, too clumsy to undo it as fast as he wants because Dash has moved from his mouth to his neck and Danny is realizing he may have a thing for Dash's teeth scraping over the junction by his shoulder because his knees go weak and a pathetic noise whines out from his lips. He feels the hard jut of Dash's hip, swipes his thumb over the bone as he shoves down the other man's pants. The heat of his skin sears Danny's palms as he slides them over Dash's stomach, his thighs, the way too firm ass that Danny is unashamedly obsessed with. How did he land him? This Greek God when Danny is a being of Tartarus.

Danny shifts Dash so they have to look at each other, revels in the blush on the other man's face. He skims the edge of Dash's boxers, pulling at the elastic and dipping lower, searching for–

There's a knock on the door. 

Danny is up instantly. He wipes the drool that's accumulated on his chin and winces at the instant crick of his neck. The room is dark. The shades are drawn, he realizes, a peak of sun coming out from under the white curtain. He barely has a second to register where he is before a nurse is coming into the room, her scrubs easily recognizable even in the low light.

He glances down to make sure that nothing from his dream has carried over into real life and sighs when it seems to have stayed in his subconscious. Though for once in recent memory he wishes his dreams were real. Wishes he could feel Dash's warmth again, taste him again, turn back the clock before he royally fucked everything up.

The nurse apologetically turns on the lights, and that's when Danny recollects how he got in here. He remembers, vaguely, waking up just a few moments after dozing off on Tucker's shoulder. Remembers dazedly ordering an Uber for Sam and Tucker so they could crash at a hotel, and then stumbling into Dash's room. The lights were off, shades drawn, and Dash was sleeping lightly already. Likely exhausted by the excitement from earlier mixed with the relief of pain meds. Danny had pulled the chair by the window towards the bed, sat on it, and promptly passed out.

He's paying for that now when he straightens and hears about seven cricks and cracks from his back and neck. The nurse smiles at him warmly before moving towards the bed, working quickly to take Dash's vitals as he wakes up. She checks the levels on the IV and the needle in his arm before patting it lightly, the other man coming to in a slow drag of time. He looks a little better now, though. A little less like someone had spent the night using him as a jackhammer. 

When Dash is awake enough to speak, the nurse asks him some standard questions for concussion patients. The doctor had said it was only mild, but Danny doubts this is the first concussion Dash has gotten since starting football. It seems even more apparent as Dash answers robotically, answers already preprogrammed into him. Still, his voice is thick with sleep and gravelly, and Danny finds himself hanging onto every word. It may very well be the last time he hears it. Dash could decide he never wants to see Danny ever again and he would deserve it.

Now that all the physical threats are gone, Danny has a moment to think. He wishes he didn't. Because now all he can think of is the hurt on Dash's face as he flicked that lighter, as he brought that cigarette to his lips. He trembles with the weight of it and wants the hurt to eat him alive so at least he wouldn't have to think of the way Dash shuttered at the actions, at the vile words that dripped from Danny's mouth. 

The nurse finishes quickly and marks some things on the clipboard at the end of Dash's bed. She takes her leave, and Danny wishes she would stay. Wishes she would talk more to fill this god awful silence between them that makes his chest cave in. Wishes he wasn't left alone with the consequences of his actions. 

But she doesn't. She opens the door, says some parting words in that gentle tone, and then she's gone. The room plummets into what Danny assumes a black hole feels like. Cold and raw and empty and so vast it feels like an abyss. Danny can feel himself falling, tumbling over himself, unsure of which way is up or down or sideways. He doesn't know where the bottom is, doesn't know if he'll ever stop falling. 

Even though he just woke up Danny is tired. The crash of months of adrenaline leaves him weak and shaky, and worst of all, leaves him with nothing but his thoughts. There's nothing trying to actively kill him anymore, no threat he can beat by curling his hand into a fist. All he has left is the dull headache he's carried since the cadaver lab and shaking fingers. He remembers the taste of mistletoe on his tongue, the smell of it clogging his nose, the burn of it down his throat. The way his brain had become a prison, his own muscles the bars to his cell. 

He tucks his knees up to his chest, wishes he could disappear right then and there. He used to think forgetting was worse. That the lost moments of Freakshow's control over him were a curse meant to keep him awake at night, but he realizes now that forgetting is a blessing. Because he remembers it all this time. The way his thoughts clouded with someone else's. The way he would have done anything she asked. He can feel the grip of her icy fingers circle around the grey matter in his head and squeeze. 

"Danny?"

The voice, inquisitive and unsure, cuts through Danny's panic. He hadn't realized his breaths had gone quick and thready, that he'd curled so far into himself his knees dig into his chin. More importantly, he didn't realize the invisibility creeping up his fingers and onto his wrist, like his wishes were manifesting right there on his skin. 

"Danny, come back to me. Please." And then there's fingers gripping his, warm flesh gripping him in a way that grounds him, that voice cutting through all the screaming echoing in his ears to bring him back down to earth. He feels his heart pound in his chest and struggles to take in deep breaths, choking on them when they go in and hiccuping on the way out. A thumb swipes across his wrist in smooth, languid motion, and Danny follows the rhythm. He breathes in and out with its tempo and slowly, agonizingly, he feels his heart start to slow. 

Oh, Danny realizes, looking at the tan fingers squeezing his own, I'm having a panic attack. Jazz had told him that term once. He'd been fifteen and thought he saw Skulker at the picnic with his family and he was too tired, too exhausted, and the flash of green flame had him choking and trembling and fighting back tears. Jazz had rushed him to the bathroom and forced him to breathe the same breaths Danny is heaving now. He closes his eyes and focuses more, focuses on the fact that he is here, now, and nothing is coming to hurt them. 

It takes a few moments, and he feels shaky and weak afterwards, but Danny comes back completely. His eyes are locked on the fingers still trapping his own and he doesn't dare pull away, even if his own hand has gone a little sweaty. He keeps silent, unsure what to say. Unsure if there's anything even to say.

Eventually, it is Dash who breaks the silence, eyes searching Danny for some answer he doesn't find. "Can you grab my jacket?" he asks, pointing to where his clothes are. 

Danny moves on autopilot, nodding quickly and hastily wiping the tears that had gathered. He doesn't let them leak out, not yet. He winces as he stands, even more protests coming from his body, and moves over to the bag Dash's street clothes are in. He digs through it for the jacket, the same one Dash had lent him the day of the bonfire. It seems like ages ago, lifetimes away from where they are now. Danny almost wishes he could turn back time to go back to that moment, the moment where he started to acknowledge that maybe Dash was truly different. That maybe the stupid stutter his heart did when Dash gave him that brilliant smile was something he actually liked. That the flutter in his stomach when the jacket settled across his shoulders made him feel warm. But Danny has played with time before, and he knows better than anyone how it is not your friend.

So he tamps down his wants and focuses on his cold reality. He hands Dash his coat. Dash uses his good arm to rummage through the pockets as Danny sits down in the chair again. His knee starts to bounce automatically, not sure what's happening even as Dash makes a triumphant noise in the back of his throat, hand curling around something. The adrenaline crash on top of adrenaline crash has Danny's entire body shaking with exertion, eyes fighting the pull of the exhaustion that consumes him. 

Dash looks towards him and in one swift move drops something into Danny's palm. The metal is cool on Danny's skin, and he cups his hand around it to make sure it doesn't fall. He rolls the little metal piece between his pointer finger and thumb. It's made of steel, a monopoly piece, he realizes. "...What?"

Dash looks at him with such intensity Danny fights the urge to avert his eyes. "I meant it when I said I'm still pissed," Dash says, his voice as tired as Danny feels. Still, he reaches out to close Danny's hand around the piece. "But I also meant it when I said to come to me, Danny."

And Danny feels like an idiot, blinking owlishly at the man in front of him. His mouth hangs open slightly in a question he doesn't have the words to ask. 

"They don't make a spool of thread," Dash says simply, hands still on Danny's skin. "But I figured a thimble was pretty close and..." Dash trails off, eyes flicking over Danny's appearance as if assessing him. Assessing the bruises under his eyes, under his skin, the fine tremor of him. "And I think you may be running on empty."

Danny's inhale is less of a breath and more of a sharp gasp. A lump builds in his throat as he resists the urge to shove the thimble straight into his heart, to hold it there forever and keep its meaning in time with his pulse. He looks up slowly, as slow as he can manage, and sees the seriousness in Dash's eyes, the crooked smile on his face, and he breaks.

The floodgates open, and then suddenly Danny is on his knees, clutching his salvation with fingers that can't stay still and mumbling prayers in the gasps between sobs. He doesn't remember the last time he cried, the last time he sobbed so openly, but now that he has it's like he can't stop and he lets the big, fat tears soak his cheeks. They run rivers down his throat and collect in the fabric of his shirt. His chest heaves with the force of his cries. It scares him a little, the jagged sobs he is letting out, the ferocity of his emotion. His fingers ache with how hard he curls them around the side of the bed, his knees digging into the linoleum floor. He can't hold himself back and he's not even sure what he's crying for.

Is it the torture he has been forced to endure every day since he was fourteen years old? Is it the little boy he lost that fateful day? Is it the realization that his ghost is not the only thing haunting him, that his mistakes and grief follow suit? Is it the fact that he had something so careful and he shattered it so spectacularly he's not sure it can ever be whole again? Is it the selfishness buried within him, the part of him that wants to scream for Clockworth, beg for him to turn back his hands and give Danny another chance despite the fact that it may kill him? Is it that he would so easily die to give someone else life? That he can't see himself as anything but a sacrificial lamb because if he cannot help others what the hell is he worth? He doesn't know. He doesn't know. And he doesn't want to find out, he just wants to cry, and he wants to feel home. But he changed the locks, and he's misplaced the keys, and he has no one to blame except himself. 

He's not sure how long it is before his tears ebb. He just knows that sometime between then and now, Dash's fingers moved to his hair, and despite how slimy it is with stale sweat and blood, are carding through it and working the knots carefully. It makes Danny want to lose it all over again, this gentleness he doesn't deserve. He keeps himself together. Barely. 

When he finally stands, Dash's fingers dropping from him, he feels like he has lost a part of him he only just found. He didn't know it was lost before, but now that it's gone again, there's a gaping wound where it once was, and Danny isn't sure how to close it. He wipes his face the best he can. His eyes are puffy and sore. "What happens now?" he asks, voice cracked and raw. 

Dash takes a long, deep breath. He still looks so fragile here, laying on the bed, arm in a sling and bandages slapped against his skin. "You give me time," Dash says. "And maybe I will forgive you enough to try again."

Danny clings to that maybe as if his life depends on it. "How long?"

Dash just looks away, fixating on the light peeking out from under the blinds. "I don't know." He seems to mull something over before speaking again. "And thank you," he says, looking at him one more time. "For my father. I was..." But he doesn't have to finish. Danny understands, and he gives a sharp jerk of his head as a quiet acknowledgement of what Dash means. 

"Dash?"

"Yeah, Danny?"

"You, too."

"What?" The look that crosses over Dash's face makes Danny almost quirk a smile despite the situation. It's cute, all furrowed brows and a downturn to the corner of his mouth.

"Your spool," he says, showing the thimble. "Even if you decide you hate me. I'll always have an extra. Promise."

Dash's eyes seem to glisten at that but Danny can't focus on it or else he may break. Again. For the hundredth time that day. Before it can turn into anything Dash looks away again, playing with a loose thread on the hospital blanket. "Goodbye, Danny," he says, voice catching somewhere in his throat. "I'm sorry."

The doorknob is ice in Danny's hands. It takes every ounce of strength he has left to open it. He arms tremble with the effort. "I'm sorry," he whispers back, knowing if he says the real word, the goodbye that sits curdled on his tongue, he may just crack down the middle. 

Danny closes the door behind him. His heart aches in his chest and Phantom pushes against him, a comfort. Danny leans into it, into the numbness his ghost half brings. Phantom doesn't feel human emotions the same way just like pain, and maybe even the pain numbs a bit too. Danny changes in the bathroom. He breathes in, feels that slight comfort in the way he never exhales, and takes flight.

He doesn't know how he gets to the hotel. He doesn't know how he knows which room is Sam and Tucker's. He doesn't know how he ends up between them still in ghost form, their hands comforting him and soothing him. He doesn't know when one of them turns on the television, a white noise that cuts through the static in his brain. He doesn't know when he changes back in the cover of night, all of them cuddled in one bed like old times. Mostly, Danny doesn't know when he spilled out of himself, and when he got so empty. He aches with hollowness, and he doesn't know how to become full again.

***

Dash is cleared to leave the hospital two days later. It's longer than he initially thought and way longer than he'd like. They put his wrist in a cast, give him extra wrap for his ribs, and tell him to come back in a few weeks for clearance on his concussion and another X-ray. Football is out of the question until then at the very least. He's already sent an email to his professors and the coach from the hospital, and another to the registrar just to double check on his scholarship. So far he's only heard back from his coach and gotten texts from a handful of people he hasn't even saved on his phone. 

He gathers his things and doesn't think about Danny's hands on his, on the broken noises that came from his mouth. He doesn't think of the feel of Danny's lips, just a ghost on his own, of the way he craves that feeling again. He can't think of it, because every time he does, that flick of the lighter burns it all down. The anger comes back, and Dash wants to vomit it out, pretend he can't feel it at all. But he does feel it, and it scares him, how much of it there is. He'd spent so long working out a way to get rid of it, but every time he hears that flick, it's like he's back to being fifteen and scared and so, so angry.

When he saw his father enter the room, every ounce of progress he'd made had been swept out from under him. He'd frozen, cold as ice, body suspended in a cryogenic freeze. He hated that feeling. That, after everything he'd seen, everything he'd just gone through, the most terrifying monster he faced was the one that looked just like him.

He hated seeing how much of him resembled his father. How much Dash carried over into a new generation from a man who didn't deserve any piece of him. Everything about Kenny Baxter brought up the hate that resided in his bones. The hate that Dash had worked tirelessly to smooth out in his marrow. Still, he carried it like a torch, and no matter how hard he tried it never seemed to burn out. So he put it towards something that would actually help him. He put it towards football and school. He turned that hate into a drive, that anger into motivation, and he pushed forward.

And all it took was one glance to remind him where he started. In that moment, Dash was glad Danny was there and unrelenting. He's not sure what he would've done if he were alone. He's not sure if he would have unlocked enough to do anything at all. Thinking about it makes his heart jack in his chest and he doesn't like that, so he stops and pulls out his phone. The battery is running on empty as Dash scrolls through his contacts.

He calls Robin and hopes that asking for a ride at nearly midnight isn't asking too much of this tentative new friendship. The truth is, ever since Kwan and he fell off, Dash hasn't been in the habit of making new friends. He misses it, the comfort of others. So he tests his luck as the phone rings and rings.

When the receiver picks up Dash stops himself from sighing in relief. "Dash! Oh my god, the entire team has been worried about you. Are you okay? Where are you? What happened? I mean out on the field that wasn't... I mean, it wasn't a..."

Dash stops him before he can keep going. He doesn't have the energy to do this right now. Even if Robin supposedly believes in ghost, that's a far cry from actually seeing one, let alone a poltergeist like the one they experienced. He can't do the whole yes, ghosts are real talk right now. "I'm at the hospital," he says instead, voice flatter than he meant it. He attempts to put some life back into it. "I'm fine, just out of commission for a few weeks. Listen, I know it's a lot to ask, but is there any way I can ask for a ride back? I'm kinda stranded here."

He hears Robin grab his keys before he says, "Yeah, of course! It's like a ten minute drive no worries. I'll be there soon." 

Robin hangs up abruptly and Dash goes to the waiting area by the doors. When he looks up, he sees the stars. There's a few out tonight and he counts them over and over, throat tight, because all he can see in them are sparkling green eyes.

The clunk of Robin's old car filters through the windows and Dash clears his throat. He walks outside and breathes in the cold air. It feels crisp in his lungs even if it makes his ribs ache. He'd refused the pain pills the doctors offered him. The pain would fade like it always did, and Dash would grit and bear it like he always did. 

He forces himself into small talk with Robin on the way back, though if anyone asked him what he said he's not sure he could answer. His brain buzzes too loudly in his head and his heart thumps so hard in his chest it hurts. His muscles ache with the need to run to Danny, and part of Dash is glad he doesn't seem to remember the fall, the things that Dash said. He's not sure, if Danny had said it back, he would have been able to leave.

Robin drops him off with a careful pat to his shoulder and reassurances that he'd get Dash whatever he needed, including another ride to the hospital in the coming weeks. Dash gives him a litany of thank you's and heads off to his dorm. He wants nothing more than to take some aspirin and sleep for a few hours, something he feels he hasn't done in weeks. 

He smiles when he sees his door. It's covered in cards and get well wishes and his football jersey signed by all his teammates. He'll need a new one, of course, but seeing this one makes his heart swell in all the right ways. Growing up, Dash didn't have a family. Not like his friends, his team. When they came back from winter break or long summers and told stories of vacations and presents and siblings and actual meals, he would just smile. He didn't truly understand what they meant. His family meals consisted of whatever he could cook himself, which as a teenager mostly meant boxed mac 'n cheese. There were a few times, rare times, when his father remembered he was a sentient being who needed sustenance and not just a breathing punching bag. On those days, the nice days, he would bring home some fast food after work and they would pretend to have a civil conversation. Dash would always be on the edge of his seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop. On lucky nights, good nights, it wouldn't.

He realized early on that other kids didn't have lucky and unlucky nights, they just had nights. So he nodded along as his friends prattled on about their Thanksgivings and Halloweens and all those other holidays Dash never got to experience. Until, one year, Kwan invited him over. His parents were all the things Dash secretly longed for. His mother worked as a florist, so their home was full and colorful and always smelled like something sweet and welcoming. His father was the cook, and that Thanksgiving, Dash had a homecooked turkey for the first time since his mother died.

Kwan doesn't know about his home life. With any luck he'll never find out, but when Dash left high school, he realized just how much of a family his team had become. He knew their ins and outs, their fears and strengths, the unguarded things they said between jokes in the locker room. When he got to UCLA, when he rose through the ranks, that became his new family. He's come to realize in his short time here that this team is yet another branch. 

He carefully trails his fingers over the edges of the cards, through the fabric of his jersey, looking at the words scribbled over the paper and fabric. With more care than he thought he could muster, he takes them off the door. One by one until his hands are full. He opens his door and ignores the fact that he can smell Danny in the corners of it. Instead, he puts all the cards on his desk. He carefully folds his jersey and puts it in the top drawer of his dresser. He goes back to his desk, finds the carnelian ring, and slips it over his ring finger. It feels cool against his skin. 

***

Danny pries himself out of Sam and Tucker's grip the next morning. He slips out of the room and down into the hotel lobby, pouring three cups of shitty coffee for them and putting extra sugar in Tucker's, before going back up. He places one on each nightstand before chugging his own and going to the bathroom.

His throat feels tight, his eyes itchy, but he looks better. If the mirror is to be believed, anyway. There's more color in his face, less purple under his eyes, hair a tad more manageable. Though he still feels grimy. He strips and steps into the shower. He scrubs himself as hard as he dares before toweling off and dressing again, knowing he needs to go home for fresh clothes.

By the time he's out his friends are awake, and they've ordered room service. Sam pushes a pancake towards him with a small smile. Danny sits on one of the chairs next to the bed and bites into it, not realizing until then how hungry he is. He can't really remember the last time he ate. A day at least, maybe more. Suddenly he's ravenous, and Sam is slowly inching over her plate into his and he doesn't have it in him to care. Even when he eats her vegan bacon.

Tucker has turned the T.V. on again and Danny is grateful, because he's not sure how to talk right now and hates the idea of silence. Eventually, after breakfast is done and HGTV has shown off their fourth shittily remodeled home, someone speaks. It shouldn't surprise him that it's Sam. "Danny," she says, voice calm and patient and everything she knows he needs it to be, "do you want to come home?"

He shakes his head. He wants the comfort of his room. He wants his mother's arms wrapped lovingly around him as she soothes him over his heartbreak. He wants his dad's badly made food and his mom's really fucking good cookies. He wants their craziness because maybe it'll make him less sad. But he can't. He can't dodge the other bullets home means. Danny hasn't been back to Amity Park since he left. He's not sure he can start there. "No," he says, hating how much his voice sounds like a croak. "I'm...I can't."

"Do you want to come with us?" Tucker says, completely serious. "We can have you hide out in our dorms for awhile. Or, I don't know, maybe we can rent an apartment off campus."

The thought sounds nice. He'll have his friends. His sister. It's been too long since he's talked to Jazz, he knows. "Thank you guys," he says, putting as much emotion and truth into his voice as he can. "I love you, you know that. But I think this time...this time I have to stick it out. I can't run away. Not again."

Sam loops an arm around his shoulders, presses him close. He leans into her heat, the smell of her lotion, the beat of her heart. Tucker throws his arms over both of them, the tallest of the three, and pulls them in until their limbs are so entangled they may just be one. This is how it's always been, how it's always supposed to be. Them, one unit, always. Breaking apart feels like losing half his limbs. But he knows they need to go home, that the danger is over, and life has to go on.

He says goodbye to Sam and Tucker two days later, heart heavy and tears once again poking the edges of his eyes. When he closes the door on their taxi he feels his fingers tremble. He watches until he can't see the yellow cab anymore and then walks the entire way from the hotel to his dorm. He swiped Tucker's sweater, something he thinks the other man noticed and chose wisely not to speak about, and he puts it on, reveling in the smell of Tucker's terrible cologne everyone bullies him about. He's a little pathetic for that, he knows, but Danny thinks he's allowed a little patheticness after someone tried to murder him and he lost his boyfriend in the same 48 hours.

He lays down on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. Before he knows what he's doing his fingers are opening his phone and dialing a number he knows by heart. It rings once, twice, Danny thinks about hanging up because it's been an embarrassing long amount of time since they've talked, and then she answers, voice soft and older and familiar. "Danny?"

Danny exhales. "Hey, Jazz." He feels his throat close up, now that he hears her talking. Now that he knows his big sister is there.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Jazz. I just wanted to say hi." Even he can hear the lie in between the tears that have managed to escape.

Jazz breathes over the line. "It's okay, Danny."

And that sends him over the edge again. He hasn't cried this much possibly ever but now he's losing it over the phone and wishes so badly, like Tucker and Sam, she were here so he could hug her again, feel her arms around him in that protective way even though he's the one who saves them. He clutches the phone too hard and tries to stem his choked tears. "I fucked up, Jazz. I fucked up really bad."

Like usual, with that annoying ability siblings have to always see right through the bullshit, she cuts to the chase. "What's her name?" she asks gently, shifting something in the background. 

Danny swallows thickly. It pushes against the confines of his throat. He didn't think this would be something he'd ever have to do, and it scares him. Not that he thinks Jazz would reject him. It's just that hiding has always been Danny's default. He got used to it, comfortable with it. His closet isn't so much a closet as it is the wardrobe to Narnia with the amount of things he's had to hide on a daily basis. But he promised himself. He promised Sam and Tucker. He can't run away anymore. "His name," he gets out, words like nails against his teeth. "His name."

"O-oh," Jazz says, barely missing a beat. He can practically see her straighten with the realization. "His name, then."

"Dash."

This time there's a silence. Then, like the big sister she truly is, she explodes. "Are you fucking kidding me? Daniel James Fenton tell me you did not get together with that piece of–"

"He's different!" Danny rushes out. "I swear, he's different!" And he goes through the motions of telling her everything that's happened in the months since Dash has come to his college. He spills everything he has been hiding, always hiding, even when Jazz knocked on the hollow back of his wardrobe. When he's finished, slightly out of breath, his chest feels lighter. He can't do this to her anymore. Block her out in that way that's so easy. Jazz doesn't deserve that, not from him.

"Oh, Danny... You fucked up real bad."

Danny nearly chokes. The constricting is back in the depths of his throat, the tears poking back in his eyes. He curls up on his side and listens to the sounds of Jazz's breaths on the line. "I know, Jazz. I know. What do I do? Please," he begs, not man enough to pretend it's not a plea. "What do I do?"

Jazz takes a deep, long breath. Without even realizing Danny mimics her, timing is breaths with hers. He wishes again she were here. But Jazz has actual patients now. Ones that don't include her half-psychotic brother, and she's helping people in ways Danny never can. He misses her so fucking much and he thinks that once his heart doesn't feel like rending out of his chest he'll make that fly after all, and he'll buy her a really fancy dinner and give her stupid Turkish delight which he thinks is disgusting but is one of Jazz's favorite deserts. 

There's a quick crackle over the line before she says anything else. "You give him that time, Danny. More importantly, you give yourself that time, too. You start to heal."

She hangs up. Danny curls around his phone. He finds the thimble in his pocket, still cool to the touch, and grips it so hard he can feel the metal bite into his skin.

***

It takes Danny two weeks to go back to class. He's been doing most of his homework remotely, with Tucker helping him forge some doctor's notes so his attendance is still okay. Shaky at best but not something to make him fail. He sits at his laptop for hours on end, chest aching and throat tight, and pretends he still has any words left to say for his essays. 

He aches and hurts and wants to crawl into a six foot hole for those two weeks. He gets angry too. He silently rages at Dash for not understanding his reasons, at Dash's father for having the nerve to show up, at Callie fucking Rodinsha for screwing up the life he was supposed to have. Most of all though, Danny gets angry at himself. For being a loser, a coward, for doing something so evil even his future self would be proud. He has no one to blame except the person he stares at while brushing his teeth. 

In those two weeks he spends more time as Phantom than he has in years. It makes him more in tune with himself than he has been in a long time, and even though it dulls the pain somewhat, it also reminds him how strong he is. He developed so many powers as a teenager because he pushed himself to the limit and kept finding new ones every time he reached them. He can do that again, he knows, and he starts with control. He starts with the drills Sam and Tucker helped him do once a week when Danny was still new and flailing. One eye green and one eye blue. Making each finger ghost one by one. Reminding himself how ingrained his DNA is, and how being strong means helping more people. Means never letting people like Freakshow and Callie get to him ever again.

The weeks tick by slowly until one morning Danny wakes up and it doesn't hurt as much as it did the day before. He can actually eat breakfast without wanting to throw up. He takes the thimble out of his pocket and puts it on his nightstand. He checks his school emails and actually does his assignments on time. Most importantly, that Monday, he goes to his epic poetry class. 

The door is open. He's not the first student there, and someone bumps into him as they enter the room. He's frozen until he's not. Until he reminds himself that running is no longer an option and if he's being honest with himself, it never was in the first place. Danny steels his breath, finds that comfort of holding it in just a little too long, and crosses the threshold. 

He can tell instantly Dash isn't there, and that's just fine with him because he's not sure he could deal with that. Not yet. When he makes his way to his desk, the next thing he notices is that it's not Callie at the front of the class. It's an older professor, one he's seen floating around the English department but never had a class with. It's still a few minutes until class actually starts, and Robin catches his eye in the meantime. 

Robin leans towards Danny with a slight smile on his face. "Hey, dude. You feeling better? Figured it had to be something nasty to be out for so long."

"Stomach bug," Danny says. He grimaces to get the point across and Robin's eyebrows draw sympathetically.

"I'm glad you're back, anyway. You probably saw the email the department sent out, but Dr. Stevenson totally disappeared. No notice or anything. They sent in Professor Song as a replacement."

Something Danny hadn't noticed was clenched unfurls in his chest. The tension releases a bit in his shoulders. He realizes he hadn't actually believed she was gone. A small part of him had been terrified she would still be there, smiling at him, her chalk-stained fingers reaching for him. But she's not here. She's gone for good, and Danny smiles into his book, the one he'd actually read this time. 

***

It takes three weeks for Dash's father to find him.

In those weeks, he'd gradually relaxed. He doesn't know exactly what Danny had said to Kenny at the hospital, exactly what Danny had done to him. The memories are fuzzy in a haze of concussion pain and good meds. He does know intimately, however, the last look of his father's face before Danny dragged him out of the room. Dash had seen it enough in his own expression. Fear, hearty and wild, splayed over his father's features. The same features Dash has, and it was like looking in the world's most cursed mirror.

When he goes back to the hospital for his second appointment, he doesn't expect the panic. His breath hitches in his throat and he stays in Robin's car too long working up the nerve to go inside. Robin assumes it's because he's nervous about what news they may give him, and Dash doesn't say any different. He lets Robin think it's because they may say he can't play anymore and not the fact that his father may be waiting inside, ready for him now, waiting for the exact right moment to strike. 

Eventually, though, he knows he has to go, if only to get the clearance to take this damn sling off. His first steps into the hospital are shaky, but with every one that doesn't end in that smoke ruined voice washing over him, Dash gets more confident. He straightens up, smiles at the receptionist, talks lightly with one of the nurses. He enters the room one of them pointed out and waits for the doctor. 

They give him good news. They allow him to take the sling off. They force him to do some exercises  that feel weird in his forearm, tell him that he can't play for another month at least to fully heal the concussion and his ankle, and then send him home. The appointment lasts for all of thirty minutes, and when he gets back to the car Robin drives them through some fast food joint for a pick-me-up before going back to campus. Inch by inch, Dash relaxes.

He realizes that as a mistake when he walks into his room and the place smells of ash. It's like someone has set Dash himself on fire, every nerve ending frayed and burning across his skin. Some primal part of his brain screams get the fuck out of here right fucking now danger danger but Dash is frozen. It's not just cigarettes that clog his nose, but his cigarettes. The shitty seven dollars a pack cigs he grabs from gas stations on his way home from menial jobs he'll eventually get fired from. 

Nausea climbs up Dash's chest, clawing its way up his throat until he swallows it reflexively. It burns in his lungs and he hears his own breaths, sharp and thready, in the too quiet room. 

The butt of the one he's smoking is the only light. It hangs in between his fingers, skin nicotine stained from how many he's smoked over the years. The shades are drawn despite the fact that the sun has already set. The smoke detector is ripped from the ceiling, sitting in shambles on Dash's desk. His desk, where he knows all those cards are stored in the bottom drawer. Where photos of his mother are stashed in the second drawer, safe in between the pages of his notes. Where his scar cream is kept in the first drawer, just within reach. Where he had his first kiss with Danny, where he admitted to himself that maybe he could have something good in his life. That maybe he even deserved it.

And just like that, Dash understands. His throat loosens and his chest heaves with the breaths he wasn't able to take just a few seconds before. He wonders how it took him so long to see this, and he wishes desperately his mother could have seen it too. Seen it in him, seen it in herself. His father may haunt him, but Dash has experience with ghosts, and he is not afraid.   

He is worth more than this.

"Get out." There is no question in Dash's voice. It's pure command, strong and confident and it scrapes his vocal chords raw.

"Dash, is that any way to speak to your father?"

"You're no parent. You're a worthless sack of shit who found pleasure in torturing a little boy."

His father moves quickly, up and towards Dash at a speed Dash is honestly surprised he still possesses. But Dash doesn't flinch, and he sees the exact moment his father realizes he isn't going to. Still, Kenny doesn't back down. He just brings himself up to his full height, and Dash has never noticed how small that is. What used to be muscle is now sagging skin, premature liver spots like freckles all over him, teeth brown and missing from years of nicotine and alcohol. Dash never realized how much of him was already starting to rot.

"What did you say to me, boy?" The smell of ash and beer fans his face. 

Dash resists the urge to vomit once again and instead uses his newly un-slinged arm to push his father away. "I said," Dash repeats, "that you need to leave or else I'm calling the cops."

"Your little friend tried to scare me off but he's not here right now, is he? So who do you have now?" Kenny punches Dash so hard he sees stars. The man may be falling apart but he can throw a mean right hook. Still, the aim is sloppy, and the fist only clips his chin instead of shattering his nose. Dash recovers quickly. He's been through worse. Hell, he's done worse. 

He knows he shouldn't retaliate. He knows the best move is to open that door and walk away, to call the cops like he threatened, and to let them throw his father into a jail cell over the weekend. He knows the best move is to let his father know he is no longer that scared little boy. To let Kenny realize that boy is dead, and the man Dash has become will stop his father from ever exhuming his body. To let his father know, unequivocally, Dash has become someone in spite of him and not because of him. He did not forge Dash into someone who is kind and smiles and wants to help others.

Dash did that. Dash dragged himself out of the gutters and learned how to stand on two feet. He dressed his own wounds and changed his own bandages and learned, slowly, ever so fucking slowly, how to walk again. It was Dash who broke his nails clawing his way to the top, and who sacrificed everything to leave a home filled with nothing but haunted memories. It was Dash who learned to be kind, who learned that the fire in him didn't have to just burn him, it could light a path, too. It was Dash. It had always been Dash, and he wouldn't let anyone else take credit for it.

He throws a fist back. It crashes harshly against his father's cheek and he can feel the bone beneath his knuckles, feel the faint throb of it already. Kenny knocks back and into Dash's desk, ramming his hip into the wood. It's the first time Dash has ever spoken out against his father, let alone acted out towards him. He doesn't want to hurt him. He doesn't want the acrid smell of smoke in his room, on his clothes, in his hair. He doesn't want to touch the man in front of him at all. He just wants him gone. 

Dash is breathing hard as if that one punch was an entire marathon. The skin on his chest is taut and he fights to get the next words out evenly instead of screaming them at the top of his lungs. "Whatever you think you can do to me, you can't." He takes out his phone, flips it to the emergency screen, and dials 9-1-1. "Danny's not here right now, but I am. And I won't tell you again to leave." He hovers his thumb over the call button. 

His father straightens as if he's not cowing like Dash knows he is. He snarls at Dash, a parting act of cowardice, before slipping out of the room. Dash locks the door behind him and immediately opens up the windows. He sets up his little fan to try and draw the air out and that nausea comes roaring back up and then he's vomiting into a trash can he's most definitely going to throw out. He feels disgusting, rinsing out his mouth and brushing his teeth and disposing of said trash can in a dumpster. He feels disgusting, but he does something he hasn't done in years. 

For the first time in recent memory, Dash Baxter exhales.

***

Another ghost shows up a month later. It's a little thing, something Danny could get rid of in his sleep. Still, he freezes when he sees her, climbing up a tree in the woods. He's right at the line, hiding in the shadows. It's easy to do when the stands are ridiculously filled. It's Dash's first game back and the school has been talking about it nonstop. He hasn't come back to their class, and he managed to weasel out of Robin it's because Dash dropped due to special circumstances.

He's been weak a few times, been pathetic a few times, and found himself "accidentally" walking past Dash's room on his way to the gym. It's not really on his way. It's three floors and two wings over from the gym. But he just wanted...he doesn't even know. A glimpse, maybe. Except he finds out that Dash hasn't lived there in weeks, and officially transferred to a different room. Danny doesn't know why, and his neighbor doesn't either, but by the lingering smell of smoke stained somewhere in the wood, he can guess. It makes him angry at first, that Kenny would come back so brazenly. But then pride swells in his chest because Dash is still standing, still sewing himself up just fine, and maybe even starting to tie off the knots, too.

He knows that they can't ever be friends. It seems Dash and Danny have two modes, and neither of them are casual, so he hides by the tree line as Phantom and uses his invisibility when he needs to. He hears her first, the rustling of leaves and little giggles. A girl no older than seven smiles down at him. "Wanna play?" she asks, holding her hand out.

"Watching someone do that already," he says back. 

The girl makes some sort of huff before jumping down to meet him on the ground. "My name's Eva."

"Phantom," he says back, looking over the field. The players are still warming up. It's freezing out now, just before winter break. 

"You're the halfling, right?"

Danny groans and finally looks back at the girl. She's a cute kid, but he sees immediately how she died. Her right eye flickers every few seconds, the right side of her face going with it. Cracked and bared to the sky. She's wearing old clothes, out of style by several decades. "Don't tell me. You want to try and possess me to get some life back. Good luck, kid."

She shrugs. "Not really. I just like to play here. Sometimes I check on my family too. There's just rumors about you out here."

"What're they saying?" He thinks of the rumors back home. Of ones that must have said hunt kill feast destroy. 

"That you got rid of that lady. The one who kept trying to summon us. Thanks for that."

"You didn't like her?" Danny asks, raising his eyebrows.

The girl shakes her head, drawing her arms closer, her head cracking open once more. "No," she whispers, "she was scary."

Danny looks down at her. At how small she is. He pats her shoulder. "Yeah, kid, she was."

Eva sits on the floor. Danny eyes the game, where the coin toss is about to happen, and sits down next to her. The cold doesn't bother him much right now and he takes that as a blessing. He and Eva watch the game together for awhile, and Danny still doesn't really know what's happening, but he cheers with the crowd when Dash scores a touchdown. "So," Danny says, still trying to get a vibe on the ghost next to him. "You ever wanna move on?"

She shrugs. "Eventually. I can feel the pull. It's weird, but I know staying here will make me mean. I don't want to be mean. I just have to say goodbye first."

He sighs and stands, ruffling a hand through her hair. She is only seven, but a ghost is a ghost, and if they stay here for too long, eventually they'll become something he has to deal with. He doesn't know where the line is, considering she's been here for years already. He supposes it has to do with the ghost itself. "Eva?" he says, gearing up to fly again. They're winning the game, that's all Danny had to see. He has homework he has to actually get done. He's gotten better at that lately, the whole school thing. He's gotten better at going through the motions again. But he's still tired, still plagued by dreams he may never get rid of. 

Eva looks up at him. "Yeah, Phantom?"

"Do me a favor?"

Her eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"Don't make me have to get rid of you, too. Say your goodbyes."

If a ghost could blanche, that's what Eva does. She nods mutely, knowing their moment has passed, and shimmers out of existence. He hopes she follows through. He hopes he never sees her again. He hopes he doesn't see another ghost around here for a long time. He's not sure he's strong enough for that quite yet.

***

Dash curses when he rounds a corner and catches a glimpse of shiny black hair. Danny's cut it recently, the undercut fresh beneath his floppy hair. Dash finally succumbed and trimmed his own hair. Not the crew cut of high school though. It hovers around his chin now. Just long enough to pull back for games. He finds himself tracking which way Danny goes without realizing and curses again, this time at himself.

It's a month after his first game back, putting them firmly in the middle of winter break. The campus is bare bones, and there's an orphan holiday dinner happening tonight. Dash wants to go. Robin had invited him over, somehow knowing that Dash didn't have anywhere else even if Dash himself never said anything. Maybe it was the way he avoided the topic of going home for the holidays, or seemed to get more skittish the more people's parents kept picking them up. Either way, Dash declined politely, knowing he would be an awkward blight on their holiday traditions. He doesn't really know how to act around functional families or around festivities, and more importantly, he can't explain to Robin why he hates the holidays so much.

So he stayed on campus with everyone else who didn't have a better choice. But it meant less and less people, less and less of a buffer. Dash understands why Danny didn't go back to Amity Park, he's got an active target on his back, but he wishes the man had gone somewhere. He feels like his heart is going to leap out of his chest every time he sees a tuft of black hair.

Dash walks thirty minutes in the cold just to avoid the barely functioning cafeteria when he sees Danny go into it. Halfway through, with a bright red nose and fingers stuffed into his jacket, he realizes he's an idiot for that. 

The next day he takes a deep breath and goes through the doors of the cafeteria. It's like a sixth sense, his Danny radar. He knows instantly that Danny is at the coffee station, pouring himself that watery dark roast, thin fingers pressing down the lid. He finds himself tracking those fingers for a moment. The way they still shake slightly, the careful swipe over the lid as he checks to make sure it's all the way on. He remembers those fingers against his skin, in his hair, and allows himself this memory for a second. Danny's warmth slotting so perfectly against him, the smell of his shampoo, something sweet, which Dash wouldn't have expected. How good they felt together, like after all those years they'd carved out places in each other that couldn't be filled by anyone else.

He looks over Danny as discreetly as he can from the salad bar. He's pretty sure he's picking up one piece of lettuce at a time as he notices the deep bags under Danny's eyes. He knows Danny's sleep troubles may never go away, but the bruises make him frown. Still, despite that, he looks well rested. Put together.

Danny seems to sense something and looks over at him. Dash nearly drops his bowl, freezing in place. His breath catches in his throat and he feels stupid for choking over the sight of Danny's eyes. Those stupidly beautiful eyes. But then Danny smiles, albeit shakily, nods once at him, and walks out of the cafeteria. Dash shoves his heart back down into his chest, picks up the tongs again, and focuses on his salad.

***

It's January 17th. 

Dash wakes up in a cold sweat and shoves his blankets off him. He's not thinking, not really, when he swaps his drenched t-shirt for a new one and stumbles out the door. Everyone is still on break, the hallways are empty, but he knows one room that is still occupied. He shouldn't. He should still stay away, but he needs this. Needs some comfort that isn't the darkness of his own room, and there's only one person he can think of he trusts to do it.

They haven't spoken in over two months. Awkward glances here and there, conceding to maybe running into each other in the caf, nothing more than that. And so Dash knows he doesn't deserve to do what he's doing but he can't care at the moment, just knows he needs something other than this gaping hole of grief inside him. 

So when Dash knocks on Danny's door, he's surprised when it opens. He's surprised when Danny ushers him inside, and he's surprised at the soft glow from the other man's laptop. Which, at this point, he really shouldn't be surprised that Danny is up at ungodly hours. He sees it's four in the morning when he checks the clock.

Dash stumbles forward, catching himself on Danny's bed. He's vaguely aware he has no right to this bed. Still, the covers comfort him, and he realizes he's never actually been to Danny's room before. They spent most of their time together in his. Danny's room isn't as neat. There's clothes on the floor and an abandoned energy drink on the dresser. He has a small bookshelf stuffed to the brim with both required reading and what looks like space exploration books, some sci-fi nestled in with the classics he has for class. 

"Dash...you don't look so great. Are you sick?" 

It's been two months since he's heard Danny speak, and the effect is immediate. It's like someone has doused him in cool water, a refresh after his burning sleep. It slithers over his skin and he soaks it up. "Told you," he huffs out, pulse just starting to calm, "I don't get sick."

He feels the bed dip where Danny sits next to him. Then there's hands on his, those slim fingers opening up his palms and placing something inside. "Here," Danny says, pressing the object down into his skin. "I think you may need this more than me tonight."

When Dash looks down, he can see the thimble. The same one he'd given Danny lifetimes ago. He feels it more than he decides it, the dam rupturing. Feels the shaking of his shoulders and stuttering breaths. He doesn't cry, manages to keep that on hold if just for a moment. His body does everything except supply the tears. His shoulders jerk with movement, his skin hot with the force of it, and he feels cold fingers across his neck, across the feverish skin. It's that unnatural cold and he knows if he were to look, Danny's fingers would be blue. Dash curls his hands around that damn thimble. Tt feels like he's sealing his fate.

"Tell me what's wrong." Danny's voice whispers across his ears, in his head, across his flesh. He sinks into it in a way that he shouldn't. In a way he has denied himself for two fucking months. 

"It's January seventeenth," Dash says. His voice feels dead in his mouth.

"What happens on January seventeenth, Dash?"

Dash hangs his head, hair falling into his eyes. His body aches. He wants to shut his eyes but knows it just makes it worse. He can't escape memory. He clears his throat. Once. Twice. A third time before he can form words again. 

He raises his head. Looks into those eyes that see into his very soul. "I find her."

***

The feeling comes back to Danny's hands too fast. His skin prickles with pins and needles and he resists the urge to shake it out, to move anything at all. His blood rushes in his ears and he can hear himself saying, just vaguely, "Who do you find?" even though he already knows the answer. 

Dash curls in on himself more and speaks as if each word carves itself into his skin. "My mom," he croaks out. "I was the one who found her."

Danny no longer cares that he was just starting to get over Dash. He no longer cares that there can't be anything except explosions between them. He only cares about seven-year-old Dash, scared and alone, finding something like a dead body. Finding his mom. He thought he was the only haunted one in Amity Park. He was an idiot to think so, when the man next to him has so many ghosts clinging to his memories. 

"God, Dash..."

"I didn't know at first. I didn't understand. I called for her and she didn't answer and she was so cold and her eyes weren't blinking and I just couldn't–" He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. Danny wraps Dash in his arms and lays them down. He doesn't have any illusions of sleeping, not with the rapid of pace of Dash's pulse beneath his fingertips. 

"I'm sorry," Danny whispers into his skin. "You should never have seen that. I'm sorry."

There's beats of silence that feel both comfortable and miserable between them. Dash's fingers grip Danny's arm with enough pressure to leave bruises. Danny doesn't say anything. He can barely feel it. "I want to forget," Dash says, releasing his fingers to trace patterns over Danny's skin. He presses his lips against Danny's throat. A question. A promise. 

It is the hardest thing Danny's ever done, pulling away. Maybe he'd been getting over Dash but there was a part of him that still belonged to that man. That, he suspects, would always belong to him, whether they were enemies or lovers. He would know the feel of him across the room, across the planet. The way his hair shone in the sun and his eyes squinted when he smiled. He would smell that fucking laundry detergent in a grocery store someday and know instantly which clothes it would wash a hundred times. He would know Dash even in death, in the feel of his ghost. 

He's only felt this way once before. On the night he said it to Sam. That part of him has healed into a scar, tissue covering up where the hole once was. Dash had come with a pickaxe and started a new one, and he's scared. Scared it may already be deeper than Sam's ever was. 

It's because of that. Because he knows how deep his feelings run, that he separates them. He feels his fingers shake with the effort of it. Danny wants to take Dash up on it. He wants. He wants the warmth of Dash's mouth, the slick slide of his tongue, and those fingers to touch him everywhere. But not like this. Not when it's just a distraction.

"Dash," he says, voice barely anything. "Please don't do this. Not tonight."

"Danny, I need–"

"A body. Not me. You're not clear headed right now."

"I need you, too," Dash says, a plead. It's exhausted, Danny can hear it in the slur of his words. The man's the type of tired where his eyes are fluttering with the weight of his lids. 

Danny nearly falls into it. He clenches his jaw. Breathes in slowly, holds in that way of his, and exhales. "We can talk about this after you sleep. Breathe with me, okay?"

It only takes a few minutes of meditation type breathing before Dash is out like a light. Danny knows that type of exhaustion well. It's how he's lived for nearly half his life. He's wired now though, staring out the window as the sun creeps higher over the horizon. His fingers card through Dash's hair. It's soft under the pads of his skin. He works out the knots carefully, attempting to not to wake the man under him. His arm fell asleep around thirty minutes ago but he doesn't care. He just keeps thinking of Dash. So fucking young. Too fucking young for something like that.

Somewhere around nine in the morning, Danny slips out of bed. Classes don't start again until end of the month, so the cafeteria is closed for early morning breakfasts. He shifts into Phantom easily and flies to the nearest coffee joint before shifting back to order. With the students mostly gone the place is slow, and there's no one around when he shifts again to go home. He goes invisible near campus and goes straight into his room, only changing back for the last time once he's set the coffee and bagels on the desk.

He goes to the bathroom, and when he comes back, Dash is blinking sleepily at the coffee. Danny tugs it from the carrier and hands it to him, deciding to sit on his desk chair. Dash sits up completely, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. Danny sees his brain start to boot up after a few sips, and Danny passes him the bagel. Dash doesn't even bother putting cream cheese on it, just tears into the thing, chewing slowly before chasing it with another sip of coffee. Danny more or less does the same.

They sit in silence like that for a long stretch. It simmers. There's something in it that needs to be addressed. Neither of them are brave enough to do it. So they sit in silence more until Dash breaks, tossing his napkins into Danny's trash bin. "I'm sorry for last night. I shouldn't have tried to do that."

"No, you shouldn't have. But I'm glad you came to me anyway. You shouldn't have been alone."

"Thanks for taking me in."

"Always." And he means it. Even if they are trying to kill each other he will leave his doors unlocked and his arms open. He may be an idiot for that. He doesn't care.

Dash makes furtive eye contact with him before looking away like he's nervous. "I meant it though, Danny. I tried to be mad. I think there's always a part of me that will be furious with you over that. But I...I think I–"

"Wait a week, okay? When you've cleared up. And then we'll see."

"During the fall, I said that–"

But Danny cuts him off a second time, this time holding up his hand, like he can physically stop the words from hitting him. "I remember," he croaks out, throat inexplicably dry. "It came back eventually. I remember what you said. What you did. Which is why I need you to do this with the clearest head possible, because I can't take it, Dash. I can't go through this twice. So, please, for me. Wait a week, give yourself time to recover, and then tell me." Danny feels like Jazz in that moment. He hates himself for it, knows that he has to for the both of them. He's not sure he would survive another heartbreak between them. 

Dash nods wordlessly. He stands on wobbly feet, gains his strength back in the three steps from him to Danny. He presses a kiss to Danny's head, just a quick moment of heat before it's gone, and walks out the door. Danny collapses onto his desk, muscles quivering with the effort of being rational.

***

At midnight on June 24th, Danny hears a knock on his door. 

He barely opens it before Dash is crashing in, fingers curling around the fabric of his t-shirt, bringing them together as if they are two halves of a whole. Danny leans into it, feels the wet slick of his mouth, the mint of his toothpaste, before pulling away, staring into those sky blue eyes that hold him captivated. "You're sure?" he breathes, not once blinking.

Dash nods. "I'm sure."

"I think this is what it may be like, too," Danny says back, leaning into that warmth he so desperately craves. Dash's words float around somewhere in the back of his head. He remembers them from the fall. The way Dash sounded so sure of himself and yet still wounded. Maybe that's what love is anyway. Being so rational it hurts, and being so overwhelmingly emotional it makes you stupid. 

So in that moment, Danny lets himself be more stupid than not. He nearly climbs Dash like a tree, wrapping his legs around the man's waist as they shed layers of clothing. They've been naked together before. It was nothing like this. Nothing like the burning he feels when their skin meets, when Dash lays him down on the bed and starts to kiss over his skin, over every inch of him. He writhes under the touch, makes noises even Sam had never drawn out of him. 

When Dash wraps his lips around him Danny nearly loses it right then and there. The soft glide of Dash's tongue slides up his shaft and the whine that comes out of his mouth is downright pathetic, yet he doesn't hold back. He curls his fingers into that hair spun of gold and nearly tugs it from the root when Dash hums in appreciation. 

Then he's fiddling in his dresser drawer, finding the half-used bottle of lube that he hasn't replaced in far too long and Dash gets the hint. Danny is breathing hard, flushed from his face to his chest. He's too pale to hide his want, and he sees every spot Dash tracks over. It only serves to make him flush harder, and then there's fingers at his entrance prodding, asking, and Danny responds with a pant as Dash enters one gently, working him open with a patience Danny himself doesn't possess.

It's not long before he's moving, asking for more in a greedy way that Dash relents to, and then they're lining up and he's on fire, feeling every inch of Dash enter him. The rhythm is less of a rhythm and more of a primal urge, harsh thrusts that run Danny's back off the bed and sink bruises into Dash's shoulder where Danny is gripping him. Dash holds him, muscles in his arm bulging, and trails his teeth, his tongue, over the junction between Danny's neck and shoulder. Danny tilts his head to give him better access and thinks this may be a thing they have to explore later. And then he's reminded there's going to be a later, and he feels that sensation in his chest again. The same one he didn't want to think about all those months ago, the same flutter of his heart. It beats furiously beneath his ribs, and he wants to remember it like this. Remember them so entwined and full of each other that he doesn't know which one his heart beats for.

It doesn't take long. Not with the way they've been wanting for months, with the way they keep grabbing and touching at each other like rabid animals. Dash smiles at him even as Danny winces when he pulls out, and they should clean up. They really should. But it's one in the morning now, and Danny's tired. Exhausted, really. So all they do is smile, laugh a little, and fall into a comfortable sleep.

***

The nightmares wake him again. He hardly remembers a day where they didn't. He feels the gasp stuck in his throat like usual, the picture behind his eyes fleeting and staining him all the same. The cold sweat has broken out over him and he palms his heart over his chest to attempt to get it somewhere back to normal. 

He's not used to the second part though. The arm curling protectively over his stomach. The warm skin behind him, the hot breath on his neck. The, "Danny? You okay?" slurred sleepily into his ears.

Danny smiles. Settles back down. He is not being chased by Skulker or Freakshow or Ember. He's not fourteen and scared anymore. He's here. He's in bed with Dash, the man he is sure about because saying the man he loves still terrifies him a little. He's not that boy in Amity Park any longer, he's the man in Vermont attempting to get a degree. He exhales. He's safe. He's safe here. It doesn't take long to get back to sleep after that. 

He wakes the next morning to an alarm. Danny stares at the sun spread over the pillow next to him, the sky in those slowly opening irises. He pulls the blanket back over them, leans into the heat, and closes his eyes once more. 

Some may say this place is haunted. They would be right after all, with all the ghosts he and Dash carry between them. But Danny finds he prefers to call this place a bedroom. He prefers to call it somewhere to start.