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nabtime · 11 months

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Our Empty Graves IV

Fandom: Danny Phantom / Batman: Under the Red Hood

Pairings: Danny Fenton/Jason Todd (Dead on Main)

Rating: Mature

Tags: batfamily, hazmat AU, Nobody Knows AU, Mute!Phantom, potential ghost king danny, slow burn?, DC means Disregard Canon, AU means AU nothing is exactly the same, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, more than canon typical violence, danny is a Halfa and also a Fetch, no beta we die like basically everyone

Summary: They say that Red Hood has a loyal mutt. The man rules his territory in Crime Alley with an iron fist and a guard dog at his side. They say that Hood calls him Fetch, sometimes Fetcher. No one's ever heard him speak. Anyone who's ever seen him says he looks like an experiment gone wrong, that Hood picked him up somewhere unspeakable. They say he'll do anything Red Hood asks of him and he'll do it well. That he's strong and fast and probably inhuman. The girls say he's sweet; quiet but charming in his own way. Rival gangs say he's vicious; that he'd sooner rip your throat out than let you go.

Jason just wants to help him.

Chapter 4: sing to me (cause i can't hear myself)

Chapter Summary: Red Hood and Danny have a talk over soup

Chapter Notes: title from Sing to Me by MISSIO Links: AO3 // Chapter 1 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 5

What the hell had he gotten himself into now?

Danny hadn’t laid on a couch in what felt like years. Graveyard benches, tree branches, and mausoleum roofs were very poor substitutes for cushions or mattresses. The couch was rank and decrepit and leaking stuffing all over the place and it felt heavenly. There was also a weirdly abundant supply of ectoplasm just floating around the place. Ancients he hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it meant. He better not have invaded another ghost’s Haunt. He did not want to deal with a territorial asshole trying to fight him off when he needed to heal. He was not leaving this couch for anything.

Warily he gathered up the ectoplasm telekinetically and wrapped it all around himself like a faintly glowing blanket, soaking it in with a small contented churr from his core. He still thought it was weird-all the animal like noises he could make. Noises that were instinctual and part of Core Speak, which was a lesser form of Ghost Speak. Ghost Speak itself was less about words and more about emotions and the vague intention of thoughts. Like when sounds and colors could convey a certain feeling or impression. He’d used a bit of it to talk to Red Hood even though Ghost Speak was something humans couldn’t understand or even perceive. It was an unconscious habit- Ghost Speak was the only way he could communicate with the other ghosts (not that they cared much for what he had to say most of the time) and he couldn’t even try to talk to anyone else usually.

It was nice that Red Hood still seemed to be able to understand him, it felt good to ‘talk’ with someone willing to play charades.

But, Ancients, what an embarrassing conversation. He’d been so delirious from being punch drunk and having blood loss. He was lucky he couldn’t talk because he couldn’t imagine what kind of filth he would’ve been spewing, waxing poetic about Red Hood’s juicy ass or something, if he could’ve. Just because it really was a juicy ass didn’t mean Red Hood had to know. Although, he probably already knew that. Man couldn’t walk around with that much cake and not know it. So, Red Hood didn’t have to know that Danny knew about and appreciated his ass. And thighs. And arms. And tits. Aaaand- he really needed to think about something else.

Red Hood being surprisingly hilarious? He called him Ghostbuster Reject and he didn’t even know Danny was a ghost. Not to mention all the names for Batman like Goth Furry Man and Mr. Dark and Stormy Night. He could tell that Red Hood was keeping back more of them too. He’d take any silly nickname Red wanted to give him if it meant he didn’t have to go by the stupid name he’d given himself.

Fetcher the Fetch. Red was right, it made him sound like Moon Moon. It would have to do though. He couldn’t spread the name Phantom around, couldn’t risk the GIW or his parents trying to find him in Gotham. The city had enough of its own problems without the property damage and disregard for by-standers that came with either group.

He felt bad that he’d only given Red Hood the partial truth. He was a Fetch, but that wasn’t exactly a term well used outside of ghosts and the Realms. Fetch- the apparition of a being yet still alive. The ghost of a living person. Both alive and dead. Half ghost and half human. Not that Danny felt all that like a human anymore. He hadn’t changed in a long time and the only reason he knew he still had a side of himself still alive was the faint heart-beat that thumped just under his core.

He still felt a tad guilty about hiding the whole “dead guy” she-bang from Red, but he didn’t need some weirdly nice Gotham Rogue knowing his entire being was against the law. That he could be turned over to the government for a hefty bounty. Didn’t matter that the guy had saved his skin, he’d been betrayed more than once and he wouldn’t risk it with a stranger. He also didn’t want to cause trouble. Red Hood looked like a guy that could handle himself but also someone who would protect his own to the last. He didn’t need anyone getting shot on either side because of him. The GIW didn’t care about collateral damage and they really wouldn’t care about hurting people they thought didn’t matter and destroying homes already falling apart. It was unfair and maddening, but it was how they worked. Ruthless and unforgiving.

Was it sad that the ghosts he used to fight to protect the town were now the least of his problems? Most of them had been scared off by the GIW after they’d gotten more competent and started experimenting. After the Anti-Ecto Acts got passed, most of the regular ghosts had made themselves scarce. Only the more powerful guys had dared to step foot into Amity, and then they became Danny’s problem. And then the whole mess with Pariah had happened and then none of the ghosts wanted to go top side. No, Danny’s post in Amity, stuck as it was in the zone, had become more about preventing humans from entering the Zone than the other way around. He had to stop the occasional reckless spirit, but for the most part they stayed scarce.

He hoped the Realms would be okay while he was gone. Who knows what his parents or the GIW could get up to in his absence.

He dozed on and off for a good bit, sleep light as it always was in ghost form. He could avoid eating when he was Phantom by absorbing ectoplasm, and he could get by with much less sleep in this form as well. But when he was injured, especially as injured as he was now, he needed to rest to get better. Needed to conserve energy and soak. Like a nice bath. A ghostly hibernation.

He started to feel better each time he blearily woke before going back down.

One of the times he could hear clanging and shuffling, like someone making food in a kitchen. He figured Red Hood would have gotten take-out. Was he making food? Maybe he was just dreaming. Dreaming of a better time in a more familiar kitchen…

It was all vague sensations and feelings. Just the warm light of the sun streaming in through the kitchen window. Just the suggestion of a fresh breeze blowing through and stirring up the scent of spices permeating the cramped space. The susurration of curtains in the wind. Just the faintest sound of humming and soft laughter. Like he’d fallen asleep in the kitchen and he was hearing everything through a drowsy fog.

It was warm. The oven was on. There was something giving off steam on the stove. He could hear pots clanging and utensils clinking. He could hear murmuring and rustling. There was the sensation of closeness and a sort of comfort and togetherness he rarely felt. It felt like contentment. It felt like love.

“Hey, sweetie,” his mom said, voice soft and dulcet. He could feel a warm hand rubbing his back. “It’s time for dinner now, sleepy-head.”

He said something in reply but he couldn’t hear it. He felt dizzy, like the room was spinning and everything he’d felt started to distort and spiral. His mother said something again but her voice came out cold and distorted and angry.

“What did you do with my son?”

“Hey,” a gruff voice, still staticky from being filtered, spoke as he was shaken awake. He blinked as the dream he’d been having floated away from his mind, forgotten as he rose from Nocturn’s hold into the realm of the wakeful.

“Black-white-and-green-all-over,” the voice said again, a hint of amusement lacing the words, “time to wake up and smell the bacon.”

“Food’s ready,” Red Hood said, straightening from where he’d been hovering over Danny to wake him.

Mrrp?

His core let out a little sound, much like a cat just being woken. Cats and ghosts had a lot in common, sounds wise, and he was discovering new sounds he could make all the time. Most ghosts could just talk and Core Speak was considered something more intimate, to be used with close friends, lovers, and allies. But for him, it was the only way he could communicate until he could find a way to learn sign. His core seemed particularly talkative around Red Hood, too. Strange. Maybe because Red was the first person he’d encountered in ages that didn’t want to immediately kill him?

“Hohmy-god.”

He blinked, stretching and tilting his head in question. What was that about?

“You’re adorable, kid,” Red answered, teasing.

Red Hood had his hands on his hips, arms bare in all their glory without his jacket, and was wearing an apron. A red apron with frills and a cute little skull printed on it. Who was this man to call Danny the adorable one?! Clearly he hadn’t seen himself in a mirror. It didn’t matter at all that Danny couldn’t see his face- the personalized apron was more than enough. Did he make that? Did someone else make it for him? He had so many questions he couldn’t ask.

Danny chose to just flip him off instead.

Red shook his head and headed back into the kitchen. “Get your ass in here and eat this soup already. You look like you’ve healed enough.”

If Danny could groan, he would. The thought of moving was not appealing. He had already told himself that he wasn’t moving from the couch for anything and that included whatever soup ‘The Red Hood’ decided to shovel into him.

Could Red even cook? He had a whole apron thing going on, but that didn’t really mean anything. Maybe it was a gag gift because of how bad he was at cooking. He shuddered. Well, no one could be worse than his parents. He’s pretty sure sentient food beats out burnt to a crisp any day. There wasn’t any smoke or sign of fire so that was encouraging at least.

He was mostly healed at this point, scrapes gone and bleeding stopped. He could move his arm again and he didn’t need to channel all his ectoplasm into healing alone. His thigh and his shoulder were still throbbing from the shitty Bat-a-rangs but they were on the mend. Honestly, for how bad off he’d been he was healing pretty well and pretty quickly. The benefits of being a dead guy. And landing in a city rich with the stuff that helped him. He had enough he could probably go invisible and freak out Red, but he’d refrain for now.

Still, he flopped over the cushions, debating on whether it was worth it to move or not. He didn’t need to eat and its not like his senses were the same in ghost form as they were in human form. He didn’t smell the same way and while he’d never tested it, he probably couldn’t taste the same way either. So what did it even matter-

And suddenly there was a mass of looming Red just hovering over him and then- still very suddenly, he was being lifted up from the couch. Cradled in very warm, very nice arms.

“H-up we go-,” Red Hood mumbled, very very close to Danny’s ear and making him shiver. He was carried princess style into the kitchen and plopped down into a rickety wooden seat. He stared dumbly down at the, frankly, delicious looking bowl of chicken noodle soup as he tried to process what the hell just happened. Everything was tingly and his mind was blank. He had phantom (haha) sensations of warmth where Red had held him. When was the last time he’d been touched without being hurt?

“Like a handful of grapes,” he heard Red mutter as he settled into the seat across from Danny. Wow, rude.

Red picked up a spoon and used it to point at Danny’s bowl. “Eat.”

He huffed and slid down in the chair a bit but picked up the spoon anyway. If he could grumble he would. He made sure to look as petulant as he could as he dipped his spoon into the broth. He stared dumbly again as he tried to figure out how he was supposed to eat.

He heard a mechanical click and looked up to see that Red had retracted part of his mask somehow, leaving the bottom half of his face bare. A cupid’s bow. Hm. A cupid’s bow turned up into a smirk. Red pointed again.

“Eat.”

His voice was odd without the modulator, smooth and deep. And very clearly amused. And Danny really, really needed to think about other things. He had enough to worry about than to be distracted by a nice voice. One guy treats you like you’re not a monster and suddenly you go ga-ga for him. The thought made him sag further down into the chair, piercing the night with a shrill squeak. Fucking hopeless.

Danny sighed internally and went back to trying to figure out how to eat. Well, if he was healed enough to go invisible he was healed enough to go intangible. Partially.

He made the mask intangible but still visible, so to someone else it didn’t look any different from before. Then he brought the spoon up and let it pass through the mask unhindered. Oh Ancients. Chicken noodle soup. Good chicken noodle soup. He couldn’t smell it before but he could now, and it smelled divine and tasted even better. He would die a second time for this soup. Hell, he might kill someone for this soup. Red Hood wanted someone gone? He would do it. He’d do it for soup. He kind of wanted to cry about it. How long had it been since he’d had something to eat? Let alone something this good. And even less something that was home-made and this good. Yeah, if he kept thinking about it he would definitely cry.

He took another eager bite, willing to sink into the flavor- rich with things he’d almost forgotten about like garlic and onion and carrots and celery. Spices he couldn’t name giving it a taste like nothing else. He felt a deep warmth spread through his body and his core purred with contentment.

He blinked open his eyes that he hadn’t even realized he’d closed to find Red Hood staring at him.

“How the fuck are you doing that?” he asked, incredulous.

Danny tilted his head in feigned innocence. He had no idea what Red was talking about, no sirree.

“Don’t give me that, you know what you’re doing,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger towards him. “How the fuck are you doing it?”

Danny rolled his eyes and dropped his spoon . He held up his hand and then phased it through the table, waving his fingers in a little ta-da motion afterwards.

“Alright. Density-shifting,” he said, sounding just a bit exasperated. “Okay. That’s just a thing you can do, then.”

He didn’t know what density shifting was but figured it was close enough to intangibility that he nodded. He picked up his spoon but before he could eat the most delicious meal of his life, Red had another question.

“Anything else you can do that I should worry about?”

He paused (a tragedy, really) . It’s not like he could actually give a list. He could write it, yeah, but where was the fun in that. It also didn’t help that he couldn’t remember half of his powers on a good day. They were instinctual. Like a muscle he didn’t know the name of that he could flex . He could move the muscle but its not like he was aware of it. What it was called or how it worked.

He shrugged and continued eating.

“You know, glow-stick, there’s gonna come a point where I need answers,” Red said, voice wry. “I’ve let you get away with a lot already. Don’t think I’ll be lenient again,” he spoke with finality.

Danny regarded him seriously. Red Hood had let him move on without explaining things multiple times now. He was grateful for it honestly. He didn’t know how he would even start to untangle all that he was to this stranger. He couldn’t even do that with people he knew and trusted. And he didn’t want to go through being interrogated within an inch of his half-live again either. At least Red was being civil about everything.

He put his spoon down again (mournfully) and gave Red Hood a solemn nod. There wasn’t much else he could do to convey his thanks and his seriousness, but Red seemed to get the message.

“Good. Don’t cause trouble and it won’t be an issue.”

He wanted to laugh at that. Like he could ever stay out of trouble.

Red must have sensed his amusement because he made a motion with his head like he was rolling his eyes. Danny could tell even though he couldn’t see them behind the helmet. Looks like they were both able to communicate with body language pretty well, probably why Red was so good at reading him.

They ate in silence for a bit, the distant sound of sirens and gunfire lulling to a background noise he wouldn’t have thought he’d get used to so easily. But it was still somehow familiar, like a song he knew played on an instrument he’d never heard of. Police sirens instead of ghost attack sirens and gunfire instead of the odd electric crackle of ecto-blasts.

Danny melted into his chair as he finished his last bite, the warmth of the soup turning him into a puddle of goo. His belly felt full in a way it hadn’t in years. The last meal Jazz had made for him had been when he was what? Sixteen? Before she left. Before he left.

“So,” Red started, voice firm. Danny wanted to groan again. He didn’t want to have serious discussions, not now. All he wanted to do right now was become one with the table and savor his beautiful, beautiful soup. But Red Hood was relentless. Merciless.

“You said you fell from a portal?”

He nodded. Miserably.

“You got any way to get back through said portal?”

He stilled. No, he didn’t. He really didn’t.

He thought about what would happen next. Would he go back to his Haunt? Could he? He’d found his way topside and the only stable portal connecting the two halves was in the ruins of the place that Amity used to occupy. Both his parents’ portal and Vlad’s had been victims to the shift into the Zone, both weirdly inverting on themselves, collapsing and reforming- twisting reality in ways it should never have twisted.

Vlad’s portal never stabilized, shrinking down and imploding in on itself- condensing like a dying star becoming a black hole but bursting out in radioactive shock-waves instead. It took out half of Elmerton in the explosion as well. Thankfully the neighboring town had been evacuated the moment Amity disappeared so there weren’t any casualties. But it had definitely been a close call. His parent’s portal survived on a miracle, creating an exit for the townspeople when everyone realized that the city was stuck and there was no going back. Nobody died but- there wasn’t a single citizen who hadn’t lost everything. There was only so much that could be transported through the portal after all. It was the only time anyone ever let him near enough to help, if only to use his strength to carry the boxes of meager belongings through to the other side. Boxy knew better than to mess with them when he was around.

The truth was that he didn’t have anywhere to go. Anything to do. If he weren’t only half-ghost then the loss of his Haunt and Obsession could have Ended him, but as it were it just made him sad. Restless. Core-tearingly despondent. He’d already just been listlessly haunting the cemetery, fighting ghosts when they wanted to pick a fight with him. Skulker was really the only one that tried anymore.

The most he could hope for was a natural portal popping up that he could sneak into, and that was only if it didn’t spit him back out somewhere completely different instead of the Zone. While Gotham seemed to have an abundance of ectoplasm, that didn’t mean it had an abundance of portals.

Would he build a new place for himself here? Haunt a new graveyard? He could never be human again. He’d left that life far and long behind. Maybe he’d find a house to haunt, be a proper ghost and scare some people.

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, but he elected to ignore it. He’d only just felt a little like a human again. A mistake.

He’d stalled long enough. He shook his head and waited for Red Hood’s reaction.

“ Anyplace to go?” he questioned, tone flat. Danny couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking, he kept his cards close to his chest. But maybe there was a hint of concern there? Or maybe he was being too optimistic.

He shrugged, truthfully not knowing how to answer that. He could try to get back to Amity, but that was a long, long while to walk and a major fight with the GIW and his parents that he didn’t want to pick. Or he could settle back into the cemetery he’d been chased from. Visit his old zombie pal, Jason and dodge Batman again. It’s not like he needed human accommodations. Nothing an old mausoleum wouldn’t do.

Danny could see the black eye-cover of Red’s helmet narrow (and wasn’t that a trip). He could feel the other man’s stare, intense and analytic. He waited.

Red Hood sighed. “Well, for now, you’re staying here until you’re healed completely . Then we’ll figure it out as we go.” He pressed a button on his helmet that made it drop back down and recover his face, then stood up and picked up the empty soup bowls. “Don’t need Bold and the Bleakness trying to kill you over something stupid again.”

Danny nodded. He could agree to that. He’d stay until the Bat-a-rang wounds and his broken arm fully healed and then drift back to the cemetery. No need to bother Red Hood any further than he already had. He didn’t deserve as much kindness as he’d already gotten. The man might seem to be a crime lord, but he cared about his people and had a surprising amount of warmth. A man like that didn’t need to worry about a thing like Danny.

He would fade out when Red Hood left and go back to where he belonged. Some dusty old mausoleum he could guard. And then he would wait out the rest of his existence there, protecting bones no one cared about anymore for as long as he continued to walk this plane. Maybe someday he’d fully die and make his way back to the empty streets of Amity, maybe by then the ghosts of his neighbors would have repopulated the town. Maybe he’d see his friends again. Maybe, someday, he could rest.

It was as good a plan as any.

“Alright, kid, rest up for now,” Red said, rinsing out the bowls and setting them to dry on a rack by the sink. Danny just watched the man move about the kitchen, enjoying the view. Red ducked out of the apron and folded it up until it was as small of a bundle as it could go and stuffed it in a side pocket on his utility belt. Well, huh. So he just carried that around with him then. Fascinating.

He turned back to Danny and pointed a stern finger in his direction. “I don’t wanna see you anywhere but that couch until you’re fully healed.”

Danny rolled his eyes and nodded. He’d be fine. Red Hood wouldn’t see him anywhere but the couch, not once he went invisible.

Red pulled his gloves on, Danny watching with rapt attention. Maybe a little too much attention when he pulled his jacket back on and his arms flexed with the movement. Hmm.

“You need help back to the couch, glow-stick?”

Danny felt himself flush, face probably turning green under the mask as he scrambled out of the chair and stumbled back to the couch, shaking his head along the way. He plopped down onto the cushions and melted a little into the blood-stained fabric with a bit of intangibility.

Red Hood huffed and shook his head, making his way toward the window and throwing a leg out and straddling the sill.

“Rest up and I’ll see you in the morning, Fetcher,” he called, giving Danny a wave.

Danny gave a wave back, a little sad that this would be the last time he saw Red Hood. He’d be gone in an hour or two, ready to haunt one of the smaller cemeteries of Gotham into perpetuity. For now, however, he’d take another nap and rest like a human just one last time.

#naps fics #dp x dc #Our Empty Graves #dpxdc

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anthropwashere · 4 years

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Phic Phight: these lofty thoughts are killing me

Prompt from @ibelieveinahappilyeverafter: Undergrowth Sam AU. Sam’s time as mother of Undergrowth’s garden left it’s scars - and scars can go deep. Sam’s always known she shared a close connection with plants, but now she hears them. She knows what they think and what they feel and can control them. On one hand it’s terrifying, but on the other… The ghosts should be a lot more terrified of her now.

@currentlylurking @phicphight

Word count: 4,604

Sam tries not to think about then.

Maybe it's better to say she tries not to think about the gaping hole in her memory where then ought to be.

She's hardly the only one in that particular boat. The whole of Amity Park suffers from a ghost-induced amnesia spanning over a week. It's all anyone talks about for ages; where they were when the plants attacked, where they were when they finally woke up again. Trying to make sense of senselessness. And even now, months after the fact, there are still traces of that city-wide attack not yet repaired. Cracked concrete, homes and business too ravaged to salvage, miles of withered vines with thorns like carving knives, enormous mummified plants with mammalian fangs in human mouths, swathes of green-limned ice that refuses to melt even now.

(Every time one of the three of them finds another frozen chunk of Amity Park Danny moves ASAP to take care of it, since not even anything his parents have cooked up can do much damage to it. The guilt twisting Danny up is horrible to watch unfold across his weary face; made worse still because for all that he and Tucker insist otherwise, it really was her fault.)

There's no hiding it: Amity Park was shaken to its foundations by Undergrowth. Even more so, perhaps, than by Pariah Dark. The Ghost King had transported the entire city directly into the Ghost Zone and did his utmost to run it to ruin with his army of skeleton ghosts. It had been a terrifying and impossible experience, and everyone can agree they only got out of that one thanks to Phantom. But the thing is, everyone in Amity Park can remember Pariah Dark's attack.

But Undergrowth? Flashes and flickers of almosts and maybes at best for everyone involved, and that is somehow so much more terrifying. What did they do? What were they made to do? How many missing and confirmed dead weren't taken by the towering ghost and all its myriad minions, but by one of them? Are they ever going to remember what happened? Is it better if they don't?

And on, and on, and Sam's right alongside everyone else except in every way she isn't. Yes, she doesn't remember anything. But she knows she's at fault, because Danny told her just so.

Not in so many words, of course. He's too good for that. Too good a person, too good a ghost, too good a hero. He would never lay the blame for anything terrible that happened at anyone's feet but his own. He wasn't good enough, strong enough, fast enough—and on, and on. Never mind that he went and scrounged up and mastered an entirely new subset of powers just to counter Undergrowth—

(and her)

—and never mind the countless lives he did save. People were hurt, and worse, because he thinks he wasn't the hero Amity Park thinks he is. That's just the way he is.

Undergrowth was wrong. Sam knew that. She knew that. He was too extreme, too insane, too insistent on terraforming the entire planet to suit his self-aggrandizing whim to consider the consequences for whatever else lives here. Not just self-centered jerks with their gas-guzzling cars and plastic, one time use lives. There are so many people out there who understand what Sam's trying to do here in Amity, who do so much more to fight the ceaseless grinding up of Earth's finite resources than what one fourteen year old can do on her own. There are good people in the world fighting the evil and corrupt and greedy. There’s good in this world. You can't just—wipe the slate clean and start fresh.

You can't.

Sam remembers—the first attack.

Sam remembers—waking up after it was all over.

She remembers feeling sick and sluggish. Boneless. Dizzy and swooping like she'd downed too much cold medicine. Limbs slow to react, her thoughts even slower. She remembers her surroundings like a badly dubbed old kung fu movie; everyone moving at exaggerated angles, their voices not matching their mouths. She remembers Danny blinking too quickly, like he was trying not to cry he was so glad to see she was okay.

She remembers thinking with a cold and sullen fury, How dare he?

What the fuck? had followed right on the heels of that, thankfully, because she’d had no idea why she'd ever in a million years be so angry with her best friend.

She remembers—knowing time had passed. Too much time. A dangerous and scary amount of time. And she remembers looking around and seeing the city halfway destroyed. And she remembers—

—guilt.

Guilt that made no sense until Danny, hours and hours later, faltered through an obviously edited summary of the week Amity Park forgot. She and Tucker had both blinked at him, and at each other, horrified and dismayed to find that Danny had had to do so much all on his own, that they'd been so vulnerable, so useless—

—but there'd been no guilt in Tucker's expression. No sign of the guilt that tangled up her guts in a cat's cradle until she was certain she'd throw up—

—and then she did have to throw up, staggering off to the bathroom in her basement, barely able to slam the door and fall to her knees before the toilet in time. She hates throwing up, hates the sweating and the shaking, hates the smell and the sound, hates how no matter what something always gets stuck in her nose. She'd screwed her face up tight so she didn't have to watch, rode out the worst of it, then sat there breathing wetly and hating life for a minute.

One of the boys had knocked gently on the bathroom door. "You okay?"

"Guh," she replied, throat hurting terribly at the effort.

Sam remembers—opening her eyes, and the fear, and the confusion, and the certainty that she couldn't tell anyone, ever.

The toilet bowl had been full of flowers.

That hasn't happened since, and—as far as she can tell—there haven't been any health issues that could have sprung up from having an indeterminate amount of flora taking root in her digestive system.

She hasn't gone out much since then. School, patrol, the ghost attacks that invariably spring up outside of when she's penciled in time for a little extra chaos. She's made up excuses whenever Danny and Tucker invite her to hang out. She hasn't gone shopping or to a movie or any other perfectly normal after-school activity.

She's not hiding.

She's not.

It's just... easier, to not be around people any more than the barest necessity. At least until she feels... settled again. Normal again. For her, and for whatever 'normal' is worth in a town regularly terrorized by bigger and toothier and crueler ghosts with every passing month. It's fine. Danny's got Tucker and Jazz for the attacks that she's slow to arrive for, and Danny is—

Danny can handle himself. He's strong. He's amazing. He took Undergrowth—

(and her)

—down all on his own, no power suit or ghostly backup needed. It's fine.

Her parents seem to have miraculously caught on for once that she really does need some space; after the initial handsy-hugsy panicked relief the first couple days after Undergrowth, they gave her space (and anything else she asked for too, for that matter), only prodding her gently to come inside to eat now and then. Which she's grateful for, really, because she's pretty sure she wouldn't remember to eat at all without some prodding.

Something about eating rubs her wrong, now. The resistance of a carrot clenched between her teeth, the juicy flesh of an orange slice bursting under pressure, rice grains squirming like maggots on her tongue. She made a salad two days ago and couldn't stop thinking of the glamorized crime scenes from all those police procedural shows on TV; oversaturated, garish, someone's life torn open in a tasteless arrangement of stiff limbs.

A cabbage is not a person. Cucumbers are not people. Almonds are a good source of protein.

Damn it.

Most of the time she hides—relaxes—in her greenhouse. Tucker had cracked a joke about that, though it had gone in one ear and out the other. Something something, bad taste. Blah blah, she's gone native. Didn't I tell you plants are the enemy?

Danny had laughed. Sam had to fight to keep her hands loose at her sides, to let it roll off like it didn't hurt while she tried to remind herself that it shouldn't hurt. That had earned her another tally in the ‘needing time away from people’ column. Not like, total isolation. School. Patrol. Dinner with her parents and grandma. She still does things with people. But every minute she's not in her greenhouse she feels this—this hand around her heart. This tightness that squeezes just enough that she's never not aware of it, and it's become so, so much easier for her to startle, to flinch from loud noises, to find herself overstimulated by her friends laughing as she is people screaming in the wake of ghosts. The hand squeezes until she can hardly breathe, and she thinks of the flowers she'd thrown up and thinks of roots, and thorns, and the fragility of her lungs, and it gets so hard to breathe—

Nobody's caught her breaking down yet. She hopes she can keep it that way. She hopes she can get over this—this anxiety, or fear, or whatever this is.

But for all that she spends so much time in her greenhouse, the only place she doesn't feel that hand around her heart, she can't really say she's all that relaxed there either.

Another day put between then and now. Life around Amity Park is just about back to normal. If she's feeling generous with her definition of normal, anyway. She's made it through school without any issues and now she's free to hide—relax!—for a few hours in her greenhouse before one of her parents will come tapping at the door.

"Hey guys," she says, lackluster.

The whole greenhouse shivers at the sound of her voice.

Yep. That's totally normal. Nothing weird about that at all!

Ugh.

She goes through her after-school checklist by rote memory, biting her tongue to keep herself from the usual silly commentary she used to say along with it. She's learned better. Undergrowth did—something to her. Something she's lied through her teeth about to Danny and Tucker, assuring them that she's fine, she's normal, there aren't any lingering effects from—whatever it was. Is. She's different now. Not outwardly, not in any of the ways Danny risks being discovered as inhuman every single day. She's not like Danny. She's still human.

She is.

But she can still do inhuman things. Or—not do. Nothing as active as ghost rays or flight or anything fun. But she can—influence. She still has an inhuman influence, and it's all she can do to keep her garden still.

Even with her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw aches and a headache blooms—nngh—at her temples, the slightest graze of her fingers across a leaf makes whatever plant she's touched quiver. When she picks up her pruning shears to clean up the tomato plants she can see them flush bigger and brighter before her very eyes. There's the tiniest, softest—niggling in the back of her mind, an itch on her teeth and goosebumps down her skin.

(mother)

She drops the shears. Before she can move to grab them a tendril of healthy green leaves curls off of the trellis to pluck them up out of the dirt and deposit them neatly in her numb hands again.

"...Thanks," she grits out.

All of the tomatoes swell to the size of tennis balls, their leaves straining to catch up. Two of the nearest ones split their blood red skins open to beam beatifically at her. There are teeth in their dripping grins, or something shaped enough like teeth to curdle her stomach.

"Stop."

The grins shrink, though the seams remain. She resolves to never eat those two. The thought of throwing them out however, is almost as revolting. She leaves without finishing the after-school checklist, opting to hide in the basement bowling alley with her grandma until dinner. It's not half as relaxing as it used to be.

She can't avoid her greenhouse. Not even for a day. Her garden needs daily attention. It needed it—before.

It did.

Now the thought of ignoring it, even for an afternoon, makes her physically ill. So she doesn't know if it's guilt for not finishing her after-school checklist earlier or something—else, something left in her from then—

—she tries, she tries, she tries to remember anything from then, but there's only—

—hunger, and anger, and pride for her—

—her—

—her children.

Nothing concrete. Nothing real. Nothing she can make use of. All she knows is that she's different, and it's most obvious here in her chil—

—garden. Her garden.

They won't hurt her. No matter what she says or does, this she knows for certain. Her garden will never hurt her.

Somehow, that isn't as comforting as it should be. All she can think of are teeth sinking into meat, and the sound of a scream, and splattering—

And she has no idea if Undergrowth made her order the—the—the children to kill someone, or if he goaded her into doing it personally. And she doesn't know which is worse.

It's night now. Late. After patrol. Her cell phone is an intrusive blue glow in her greenhouse, the only light she dare use in case one of her parents is still awake. For all that they've been weirdly accommodating since then, she doesn't want to push her luck. It's a school night, after all. It's hardly any light at all to go by, really. She's tempted to pull up the flashlight app at least, but—

(hello hello)

(mother's back)

(we missed you mother)

—it's maybe safer to do this in the dark. For all that her throat closes up when she hears a loud rustling sweep through her greenhouse. For all that her feet feel like dead weights as she drags them across the dirt floor until she's stood in the center. In the heart of her domain.

She breathes.

"I hear you," she whispers.

The rustling grows louder, and louder still. Tables creak under growing and shifting weights. Shadows move closer into the faint light of her cell phone. A hundred or more whispers settle in some weird space between her sinus cavity and her brain, heard like something from the cusp of a dream. Mother, they all say. We love you, we love you, we're here for you.

Her legs give out, but something cool and dry catches her before she can fall. She clings to it, swallowing a shriek. They won't hurt her.

They won't.

Now she just has to make sure they won't hurt anyone else either.

"That's right. I'm your—ha." She buries her face in her hands, feeling somewhere between playing pretend and outright deranged. "Ha ha! Can—this is—can you call me something else? Please? I'm way too young to be anybody's mom, let alone my own personal—shit, I dunno. All of you. Just—call me Sam."

That earns her a whole bass-boosted chorus of Sam! Sam! Sam! until she lets go of the vine-branch-thing to clap her hands over her ears. "Easy! Jeez! Take it down a notch, okay? I really can't—do this—with all of you shouting at me."

Sam! Sam! Sam! gets a lot quieter. Not manageable, not really, since a bunch of plants are chanting her name like she's a rock star, but at least it feels less like she's laid out in a dentist's chair getting worked on without local anesthetic.

"Okay. Okay. I—" she giggles. This is so stupid. This is so dangerous. "Are you—Undergrowth?"

Shadows chirp no, no, no at her like hulking baby birds.

"Are you still his, though? If he came back, would you listen to him instead of me?"

No, no, no, they chirp. Something coils up one of her legs, catching on her bootlaces and tickling the back of her knee.

"No, you're not his?"

Not his, something whispers right in her fucking ear. She recoils, trips over whatever's feeling up her thigh, and gets caught again by the vine-branch-thing. She's pretty sure it's a branch of her orange tree. It smells citrus-y, at least. Splayed ungainly, she tries to get her heart under control. She feels like she's in the middle of a horror movie. It's way too easy to imagine some know-it-all dipshit yelling at her through a mouthful of popcorn. Get out, you dumb bitch!

Yeah, yeah. She knows. She knows. Messing around with things she doesn't understand is what got Danny zapped in the first place. It's a long chain of events between the accident and tonight, but every step of it's her fault.

"Okay," she says shakily. "Okay. And if he came back...?"

We're yours, her garden croons, humming all at once and all through her in a way that makes it feel like her muscles are coming loose from her bones. We belong to you, our Sam.

She shivers. "L-lucky me."

So this is a thing she's got going on now, apparently, and no obvious way to make it stop. At least, not any way that wouldn't require her to tear her greenhouse apart down to the last garlic bulb, which would be extraordinarily expensive, extraordinarily alarming to anyone who knows her, and extraordinarily too much like a whole lot of murder. Plants aren't people, but these plants sure do like to tell her how much they love her.

So. It's a thing. Talking to plants. Plants that are definitely souped up on whatever ambient juice is leftover from Undergrowth terraforming the whole city. Plants that keep growing mouths full of fangs and strangling vines with thorns longer than her thumb despite her practically begging them to just be carrots, please. It's feeling a little too Little Shop of Horrors for comfort. She keeps emphasizing the strict no meat diet she's got them on, glad that her family's never had any interest in coming in here. You know. Just in case. Thing is though, her concern—so far, anyway—seems pretty unwarranted. Her garden seems happy enough on the perfectly healthy diet of perfectly normal plants. Sunshine, air, water, a good layer of compost.

They just keep thanking her so feverishly for so little. It's—unsettling. A little bit awful. Maybe more than a little bit. Maybe this psychic connection thing goes two ways, and her garden is influencing her into—what? Feeling guilty? For what? They all seem so happy for the slightest bit of her attention. It doesn't seem like it'll occur to them all that they could ever ask her for more.

Maybe it's not healthy that she's thinking of her plants as thinking creatures instead of some kind of echo chamber for whatever Undergrowth did to her. The longer she lets this go on, the more the voices of her garden feel-sound like her own thoughts. And it's been going on for a while. Long enough that Danny and Tucker have noticed the uptick in her behavior, both commenting in their own ways that they're happy she's acting more like her old self again.

Yeah. Right. Nothing supernaturally weird going on with her at all, no sir-ee!

Still, for all that she can't stop her garden from going the plantae equivalent of full werewolf, she has managed to keep them organized. Well. Bit of seesaw on that. The overcrowding got sorted out by some aggressive behavior. Some very aggressive behavior. She's definitely had one nightmare already, reliving the gruesomely wet memory of having to bodily haul the thing that used to be her prized Venus flytrap off of the thing that used to be her kiwi vine.

Point is, she has half the number of plants in her garden than she did two weeks ago, which—fine. It's not like she was planning on eating any of them anymore. She's not really—eating much, lately. She's been able to pass it off as no big deal around Danny and Tucker (never in a million years did she ever think she'd be grateful for the Box Ghost interrupting lunch so often, but here she is!), and she keeps reassuring her family that she's gotten into the habit of taking more of her meals in her greenhouse. The truth is she's been eating a lot of cereal and tripling her vitamin intake. Cereal hasn't betrayed her yet, but in a town like Amity Park that's no guarantee.

She knows it's a stopgap measure. Someone's going to find her out, or her garden's going to get ghostly enough for Danny to sense it, or someone will be stupid enough to walk in here and she might actually end up with some real life Audrey II bullshit.

"If any of you start singing, I won't be held accountable for my actions," she threatens one evening, brandishing a trowel. The garden makes a bunch of querying noises at her, tangling around her ankles like an alien's limited grasp of the concept of a pet cat. She's given up wearing leggings entirely, having thrown the last ruined pair away after her parents had gone to bed. She'd bought three pairs of jeans—black, of course—last Saturday when she braved the mall with Danny and Tucker. At least artfully torn jeans are fashionable enough that nobody but her mom is going to think anything odd about it.

"Never mind," she sighs, and gives in to the urge to scratch one of her plants along its spiny sepals. It purrs happily, and soon a whole group of waist-high plants that look like something right out of Poison Ivy's own evil lair are crooning at her for scritches.

She ends up sneaking off on her own to PetSmart an hour before it closes, bailing on patrol for the sixth time since Undergrowth. There's definitely some line between crazy plant lady and weird dog mom she's pole vaulting over, but—whatever.

She buys a lot of dog toys. Her garden especially loves the tug-of-war ropes, but the bright green squeaky bone turned out to be an A+ impulse buy too.

It takes a while, and a lot of adjusting, and she still hasn't figured out an alternative long-term diet, but overall things settle. She finds a new balance. She basically sleeps well enough, and her grades are fine, and the ghost attacks don't get too left-field. Danny shoulders most of that anyway these days, more comfortable with his powers and the popularity boost saving the city gave Phantom with everybody. Used to be her and Tucker put in the same hours and effort as Danny—if you don't count the superpowers—but lately? They're better for cover stories and clean-up, which is fine with Sam while she sorts all this post-Undergrowth ghost-plant stuff out. Tucker's just happy he finishes out the semester with the same PDA he started it with.

Of course, all good things are temporary. She really ought to have this figured out by now.

It's a ghost attack that unravels it all, naturally. This one's a new face; some kind of unsettling, skitter-y combination hydra-centipede about the length of a limousine. Its six necks accordion though, and it spits acid. Both are nasty surprises Danny wasn't expecting, and he ends up getting tossed through the front pane of a mom-and-pop hardware store. He'll be fine, though she and Tucker both have to tamp down on their standard panicked 'oh shit our best friend would have absolutely just died if he were normal' reaction to go distract the ghost from going after a minivan.

They circle around it, shouting nonsensical insults that it probably doesn't understand to get its attention, helped by a few firm blasts of some small ecto-guns they'd pilfered a while back. Only one shot actually gets a hit on something that isn't its purple exoskeleton; Tucker whoops loudly when it screeches in pain. Sam uses the precious seconds to circle around to the other side of the minivan to yank open the sliding door and start manhandling a group of elementary-aged kids in blue soccer uniforms out and into whatever shop is closest. The mom squawks affront until Sam hisses at her to hurry her ass up if she doesn't want to go the same way as the hatchback—thankfully empty—that had ended up wrapped around a telephone pole. That gets soccer mom moving, and they're both just clear of the van before she hears Tucker scream her name.

She moves on an instinct honed by two years of fighting for her life; she shoves soccer mom hard and whirls around in time to see the roof of the minivan as it comes flipping right at her. "No—!" is all she has time for, throwing up her hands as bolts of neon green strike up in her periphery. The minivan crumples with a horrible shriek of metal and hangs, creakingly, not a foot above her head. She blinks in the sudden shadow, heart hammering in her throat. She expects to hear Danny's voice, either a dry quip or an earnest rush of concern, depending on how hard the hydrapede rattled him.

A nonplussed, "What the fuck," from Tucker is what she gets instead.

She looks around. There's the familiar ghost-green glow, but it's not Danny's burning hands or headlight-bright eyes. Two thorny vines, thick as tree trunks, have punched through the concrete to catch the minivan before it could crush her.

(mother) she hears them yap at her happily.

Well, shit.

The fight wraps up without any other cars or business fronts getting destroyed. Danny makes good use of those ice powers, and in a matter of minutes Tucker's got the thing slurped up in one of the three Thermoses they've gotten in the habit of having on hand, just in case.

Then Danny and Tucker make matched crazy eyes at her and the modern art she accidentally made out of soccer mom's claim to fame.

"Not here," she tells them firmly. If soccer mom figures out there's a chance she could pin her totaled minivan on her—and her incredibly wealthy parents—they'll get stuck here all day. Tucker gets it before Danny does and makes a show of shoulder-checking him pointedly as he jogs off. Danny shuts his mouth and winks out of sight, leaving Sam to jog after Tucker. Which she will, just after she tries something first.

She glares at the two vines—standard curb weeds once upon ten minutes, more than likely—and thinks at them very hard. Thank you, much appreciated, stop calling me mother, go away.

She gets some kind of bizarre-o feedback that feels like chewing on gum with the wrapper still on, and also like skinned knees, but in her brain? Ugh. With a reluctance that shouldn't be so obvious from a couple of plants, the two vines sort of... shrink? Melt? Reverse-grow back into two perfectly normal bits of scruffy green in a totally wrecked stretch of sidewalk.

Good enough! Better than she expected, really!

Soccer mom starts babbling something very loud about her car, which is Sam's cue to run for the hills. She does so, dreading the conversation she's about to have with her best friends, but also... kind of excited for the next ghost attack?

If she has to deal with having creepy psychic monster plant-making powers, she may as well get some mileage out of them. Right?

#danny phantom #my writing #phic phight 2020 #some body horror and sam fumbling around trying to deal with some trauma #i haven't watched Urban Jungle in 5 years

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travelonlinetipsofficial · 3 years

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10 Best Steakhouses in Toronto, ON

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10 Best Steakhouses in Toronto, ON

There are fully grown adults who suffer through vegetables on a daily basis, but save their delight for when their mouth meets a heavenly piece of beef. For those adults, the steakhouse was created. Toronto has many steakhouses that have an old-world charm with a gentleman’s club vibe (with ladies certainly welcome these days). We have found the best restaurants with the ability to sear a steak to perfection. Some of them are a little dated in terms of decor, but that’s in part what makes them so appealing.

Note the elegant magnetism of Barberians, a steakhouse that is tucked into a side street just steps from the commotion of Yonge and Dundas Square. It will transport you from our technological universe, into an era where the sizzle of steak could be just the ticket for an early end to a workday. Or try your hand at dry-aged beef at Jacob’s & Co, which can be served with sauteed kale with blue cheese and walnuts. Food math: kale will absorb all other calories surrounding it.

Wash down your once-in-a-lifetime (or ten-times-in-a-lifetime) meal with a $12,000 bottle of wine. Wait, you can’t afford that? Us neither. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a little fancy in our lives. Slip into your finest suit or little black dress and slow down your chewing for an evening.

If you like staring at beautiful cuts of meat as if they were the culinary equivalent of the Mona Lisa, go and visit Michael’s on Simcoe’s many social media accounts. If you have too much money burning a hole in your pocket and you have an equal hole in your stomach, then it is an excellent place to sup. A celebrity hot spot during TIFF, this is the place for melt in your mouth steak that will likely elicit grunts of delight. Go for USDA Prime Angus or Japanese Kobe beef. Warning: the latter can set you back $528 for 24 ounces. What else are expense accounts for?

Recommended for Steakhouses because: A picture perfect meaty menu, and the opportunity to run into a carnivorous celebrity.

Courtney’s expert tip: The in-house baked bread is addictive (this is a steakhouse with an Italian twist), but try your best to save some room for the star of the show: the meat.

Read more about Michael’s on Simcoe →

The Keg Mansion is certainly the best Toronto location of this chain of North American restaurants. The gothic heritage building was built in 1868 during a period of great wealth in Toronto. It has had some renovations since, but apparently retains some of its history in the form of ghosts. You can visit this location on one of Toronto’s ghost walks or go to feast in a stunning atmosphere. The rich appetizers impress, such as Baked Brie with basil pesto or Scallops and Bacon. The prices are impressively lower than average for prime cuts of meat such as Filet Mignon or Manhattan Cut New York. Some cuts have inventive toppings, such as pecans and goat cheese that complement rather than overshadow the steak.

Recommended for Steakhouses because: One of the more romantic choices, the gorgeous mansion is worth seeing even if you don’t want to dine.

Courtney’s expert tip: You can add a blue cheese crust to any steak for $1. This information is not on the menu, but it may just be the best $1 you have ever spent.