Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, despite a freaky prophecy guy and his own wife telling him to stay home or die, Caesar decides to go see the senators anyway?” Ms. Sanchez asked, as though the thought of a husband not listening to his wife was the most asinine thing she’d ever heard of.

Lancer nodded, holding the book in one hand and a dry erase marker in the other. “Correct. Calphurnia had a bad dream from something an unknown man said, after all. Decius then effectively peer pressures Caesar into going to the Senate, implying the others will think he is weak for giving in to a woman’s nightmare, when they’ve just agreed he could be king.”

“So Caesar’s an idiot. If a spooky dude with magic said ‘be careful or die tomorrow,’ I’m not taking the risk. I’m staying in bed,” Mr. Lee added.

“Kwan, you’re gonna die tomorrow from being dumbass,” Mr. Baxter retorted, pulling laughs from several other students, waggling his fingers with faux menace.

“Language, Mr. Baxter,”  Lancer chided, sending the quarterback a glare. 

“Would it have mattered if he’d stayed home, though?” Ms. Manson asked without raising her hand. “The Soothsayer told him to beware the Ides but he didn’t give any actual, like, details. Even if he did believe it, he could’ve choked on an apple or whatever.” She didn’t look up as she spoke, instead scribbling notes in her notebook. Lancer didn’t miss the fact she had two notebooks open and was writing in both - the second likely for the snoring student in the seat beside her.

“Excellent insight Ms. Manson, and one of the themes debated in this story - Fate. Was Caesar fated to die? If he'd stayed home and the senators didn’t stab him in the next scene, would he have survived the day?” Lancer said, impressed by the girl’s question.

“He dies in the next scene?! Spoilers, bro!” Mr. Franklin called out, looking genuinely put out by the knowledge that Caesar does, indeed, die in the story.

“This story is five hundred years old…” Lancer trailed off, unsure if he should apologize for the ‘spoiler’ or not. “Have you never heard the term beware the Ides of March?”

“‘Course I have! It's because March 15th is the day after March 14th, which is Pie Day and everyone has upset stomachs from all the pie they ate…” the student explained.

Lancer was spared from trying to explain that Pi Day was because of a mathematical concept by Mr. Fenton’s sudden shriek, followed quickly by a thump as he fell from his chair. He looked around the room, panic warping his features as he did. The teacher sighed. “Nice of you to finally join us in the land of the living, Mr. Fenton,” he said, unable to suppress the disappointment in his tone as the class laughed at the teenager.

“Dude, get up,” Mr. Foley muttered, reaching down and placing his hand on Fenton’s shoulder.

“Crap,” Mr. Fenton said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lancer, I -” he began to explain, settling back into his chair.

Lancer held up a hand, cutting the boy off. “This is the third time this month you’ve slept in my class,” and woken up screaming, “let’s see if you can stay awake this afternoon, during detention.”

Fenton hung his head in defeat. “Yes, sir,” he murmured, his fist clenching around the singular pencil on his desk. It was the only thing on his desk - he hadn’t even bothered to pull out his notebook to use as a pillow.

“I’ll also need to call your parents -” Lancer started, but he was cut off when he saw Fenton’s full body flinch at the mention of his parents.

“They’re out of town!” he hurriedly explained.

“Is that so?” Lancer asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Fenton nodded. “Yeah. Uh, big conference in Los Angeles. They’ll be back next week. They’re doing, uh, what’s it calleds? A symposium? That thingie where you sit in front of a room of people and explain things and answer questions. They won’t be able to check their phones.”

“He’s staying with me and my parents, if you need to inform an adult,” Foley added.

“And what’s this conference called?”

“Explorations and Validity of Fringe Scientific Methodologies.”

“Fine,” Lancer sighed. He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to calling the Fenton parents anyway. They’d only gotten louder since Jasmine had left for college. “But I will be calling them if it happens again.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Lancer,” Mr. Fenton said with a forced grin. 

“Now, who would like to read the next part? We are starting at Caesar’s ‘I thank you for your pains and courtesy.’” Lancer said, getting the class back on topic.

The day went slowly after that, each class a drag. Lancer didn’t know how he’d gotten roped into teaching English to all four grade levels, but he only sometimes minded it. Casper High really wasn’t large enough to need multiple teachers per subject - not anymore, at least. Since ghosts became a fact of life over two years ago, many people had either moved out of Amity Park, or moved their children to Amity’s other public school or one of its private schools, once it became obvious Casper was attacked more often than any other school, for some reason no one could really nail down.

Lancer really didn't understand why Mayor Masters kept Casper funded and didn't have it condemned as too dangerous, but Lancer also didn't want to have to deal with job hunting or moving, so he didn't mind it.

The hours passed and - to Lancer's surprised pleasure - Fenton was only three minutes late to detention.

“You know, they say ‘you may delay, but time will not,’” Lancer said, pointing at the clock. It was only three minutes, but it was still three extra minutes the two of them now had to be in this room.

“Did you seriously just quote Benjamin Franklin at me?” Fenton said, laughing. Lancer apparently couldn't keep the surprise off his face, because Fenton explained, “I have a friend who's really into quotes about time.”

Lancer knew Manson and Foley were the only friends Fenton had to speak of, so he wondered which one of them had such a niche interest. “What's your favorite quote about time, then?”

“‘Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately, it kills all its pupils.’” the boy answered, slightly grimacing.

“Who's that one by?”

“Uh… Hector something-or-other. Dead French guy. Let me guess, your favorite quote is by Shakespeare?”

“Actually it's a Latin quote. ‘Damnant quod non intellegunt.’ Translates to ‘they condemn what they do not understand.’ Seems appropriate, considering how often my students hate the classics because they don’t always understand the works on the first pass through.”

A dark look passed over Fenton’s face for just a flash, replaced by a grin. “Definitely a very Lancer-ish quote, I think.”

Lancer shrugged. “I’m assuming you brought homework to do? I know you have assignments in at least two of my classes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fenton muttered, pulling a notebook from his tattered backpack. “Gonna finish up that creative writing assignment while I have time.”

“‘While you have time?’ Didn’t realize you had such an active life outside of school.” 

“Uhhh… y’know. Video games. Takes up a ton of time. Yeah, video games.” Fenton stuttered out.

Lancer chuckled. Yes, he understood the appeal of video games and how sometimes time could disappear into the frantic button mashing as hours passed, but he couldn’t exactly say that. His after hours life was a secret, thank you very much. “I do hope you’ve worked on the assignment prior to today? It is due in two days, after all.”

To be honest, Lancer had begun to dread the assignment Fenton was referring to. Creative writing was one of Casper’s elective courses. This year, Lancer had decided that rather than doing several, super short writing assignments with narrow options, he was going to do one medium-length story and three mini stories. The longer story had been assigned at the beginning of term nearly four months ago to give the students plenty of time. They had full creative decision - it just couldn’t be inappropriate for a high school setting. Comedy, mystery, romance, sci-fi, even fanfiction - Lancer had all but told them to go hog wild. It just had to be the length of a standard novella, so roughly 20,000 words at the low end. Things like grammar and spelling weren’t a major concern, he just wanted them to be able to create and flesh out a fictional story.

In an attempt to keep from all of the assignments being turned in at once, Lancer had said they could turn the papers in early, if they wanted to. Out of thirty students, four had turned theirs in early (including one student whose story was nearly 200,000 words long and was now the reason there’d be a word limit next term).

“I’ve been working on it for a while, Mr. Lancer,” Fenton laughed. “I know even I can’t last minute an assignment this long.”

“You have enough experience with doing assignments at the last minute by now,” Lancer agreed, amused. “What’s your story about?”

“Fae trickery is the main plot. The lesson is the consequences of making dumb ass decisions.”

“Language,” Lancer immediately lectured, though he was pleased by the answer. Fenton had at least been listening at some point in the class, then - Lancer had emphasized he wanted the stories to have some sort of lesson, but wouldn’t penalize if there wasn’t one. He glanced at the clock. “Well, you have forty-six minutes of detention left. Use your time wisely.”

Fenton hummed in agreement, flicking open the notebook and flipping through several pages full of chicken scratch-esque text. The two settled into a comfortable silence as Fenton began to scribble into his notebook while Lancer pulled the eleventh graders’ Taming of the Shrew assignments to him.

If Lancer still had hair to pull forty-six minutes later, he’d have been pulling on it for the past forty-four minutes. He loved his students - really, he did! - but sometimes reading their work was like being subjected to something out of a Saw film.

“Mr. Lancer?” Fenton said, breaking the calm quiet.

“Yes?”

“It’s 4:03,” he said, pointing at the clock behind Lancer.

“Oh, already?” He could've thought seventy years had passed while he was grading.

Fenton nodded, already halfway through shoving his supplies into his backpack. Lancer smiled slightly. Oh, to be young and full of life and excitement again, with less aches and pains. “Have a good evening,” he dismissed.

The teen grinned, waved, and bolted out of the classroom without another word. Lancer chuckled quietly, now alone in the room.

He leaned back, clasping his hands together and stretching his arms above his head. Lancer wasn’t sure what cracked louder - his spine or the chair beneath him. He packed up as well, slow and leisurely. He’d much rather do this reading at home with a bottle of his favorite scotch and his cats than here at the school.

Half an hour later, Lancer slid into his car and turned his music up inappropriately loud. He knew everyone probably suspected he was an uptight classicist who listened to Beethoven and Bach, but he was perfectly at peace as Limp Bizkit sang their troubles through his radio. He had no shame as he drove home, singing along to one of his favorite bands, off-key and at the top of his lungs.

Lancer pulled into his driveway, whistling the tune of the last song as he stepped out of his car. He frowned as he walked into his house, studying the begonias at either side of his door. He was quite proud of his secluded little bungalow, with its red exterior and lush garden. “Come on, you can do better than that,” he scolded the plants, which were drooping far too much for this time of year. “If you don’t improve…” Lancer gestured to the recently planted rose bushes underneath the bay window. He’d been sad when he’d had to uproot the original bushes that had been there, but they’d fallen short of his expectations too many times. 

With a final pointed glare at the flowers and his threat hanging in the air, he pushed open the door, smiling as he was greeted with his little one’s meows. “I missed you, too!” he said, reaching down to scratch behind Sola’s ear as she rubbed against his legs. He laughed when Luna jumped up on his back, her claws digging into his shirt but not quite breaking skin (yet). “And you as well, little one.”

Seemingly pleased with the acknowledgement of her perfect existence, Luna hopped off of Lancer, immediately attacking and chasing her sister around the living room. He chuckled, letting the two go off and play. Lancer sat his briefcase down, pulling out the ungraded work. Immediately deciding he needed some grading help, he grabbed some scotch from his kitchen and sat down in his plush armchair. “I can do this,” he mumbled, pulling the first paper randomly.

He groaned when he saw the name Danny Fenton sprawled across the top. Fenton had gotten better compared to his freshman year, but he still wasn’t exactly a great student. Lancer knew both he and Foley largely copied from Manson, but they’d at least gotten better at hiding their blatant plagiarism of their friend’s work. Deciding that he actually didn’t want to work on the eleventh graders’ assignments on Taming of the Shrew and would much rather review the ninth graders’ worksheets on Flowers for Algernon , he reached into his briefcase again.

He settled into the grading, taking occasional small sips whenever he read something extraordinarily stupid (not that he’d ever say that to a student’s face). Thankfully, those were few and far between - the more modern works tended to be easier for his students, he’d learned.

…that also meant they were easier on his liver, and he was resoundingly sober when he finished, Sola and Luna both curled in his lap. He smiled as he sat the final Algernon worksheet on the overflowing table at his side, gently scratching behind Sola’s ear. She peeked open an eye and began to purr, curling further into her sleeping sister. He bent over slightly, pressing a kiss to her fuzzy forehead.

Time to stop procrastinating, William… he tried to rouse himself. The Shrew assignments were all he had left to do, and he only had a half dozen of them left. He stared at the paper on top, Danny Fenton a shining black beacon of doom against the crisp whiteness. He pulled the paper to him, licking the end of his red pen, knowing it was about to get a lot of use.

Lancer could immediately see Ms. Manson’s influence as he read through Fenton’s paper, arguing about marriage inequality and the story’s theme of economic ramifications being a major influence on choosing a partner. Well, at least that meant it was going to be a somewhat coherent argument. Still, he pulled out Manson’s paper that he’d graded earlier to compare.

Halfway through the teen’s paper (and finding himself surprised at how well written the paper was, without rehashing anything from Manson’s), his focus was jerked away as his home phone began to ring. Luna lifted her head up, throwing an angry meow Lancer’s way, as though he were at fault for interrupting her beauty rest. He gave her an unimpressed glare, grabbing the cordless phone next to the ungraded papers.

“Residence of William Lancer.”

“Ah, William, you’re awake,” came Ishiyama’s voice and Lancer didn’t bother suppressing his groan.

“What’s wrong?” Lancer asked.

“An alarm tripped at the school and I saw Jack Fenton when I checked the exterior cameras,” she explained and Lancer debated dying on the spot. So much for the Fentons being out of town…

“You want me to go check if the school is still intact enough to open tomorrow?” he asked, already knowing the answer. They’d already made that mistake before - opening the school when four full rooms and half a corridor were either in rubble or covered in ecto foam.

“Please? I’m still an hour away from town and you’re the only one I trust to actually go check this late at night.”

Lancer glanced at the clock, mildly surprised to see it was already past one. “And my bonus?” 

“Will be increased another 50%,” Ishiyama sighed.

“Make it 60% and I’ll go.”

“Deal.”

“Give me an hour or so and I’ll call you with an update.”

“Just avoid Jack Fenton or any ghosts, okay?”

“Kiyo, I’ve lived in the same town as Jack Fenton for 20 years, and the ghosts have been plaguing Amity for the last two of those. I know to avoid the Fenton family.”

“Still, be safe. Ghosts nor Jack Fenton are covered by our insurance plan.”

“I know, I know… I’ll call you soon.”

The two said their goodbyes and Lancer hung up, staring at his ceiling. “I am happy and satisfied with my life. This is a career path I chose and went to school for. This is what I wanted to dedicate my life to. Amity Park has excellent property values. I am highly valued and highly paid for a teacher.”

Lancer spent several minutes repeating these mantas as he gathered the courage to go to where a probably harmless ghost and a definitely-not-harmless Jack Fenton likely awaited him.

He sighed, having sufficiently psyched himself up, and gently pushed Luna and Sola off of him. “I know, I’m horrible, you have never known such betrayal,” he said as they protested the movement, hopping down at his insistence. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He grabbed his keys, grateful he hadn’t drank much of the scotch he’d poured and was entirely sober. “Yes, yes, I know, I’m awful, you’re the horrifically abandoned and unloved victims of parental neglect,” he continued to the cats, lightly tapping his foot against Luna as she made her predictable escape attempt out the front door. “It’s been three years, you know you’re not going outside,” Lancer added with a long-suffering sigh.

He slid into the car, grumbling as he turned the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. He grabbed his binder of CDs from the backseat, flipping through until he found appropriate music. It was late and he was already eighteen degrees of ‘over this shit,’ so only his favorite band - Foster the People - would do for now. He found the one he wanted, sliding the CD in and noticeably relaxing when his favorite song, Don’t Stop, came on.

Lancer turned the music up and rolled the windows down, letting the warm air flow as he drove out of his driveway and towards the school. The entire drive he spent hoping and praying that the ghosts (or at least Jack) would be gone by the time he got there.

It seemed some sort of higher power might be real when he parked at the curb in front of the school and all was quiet. He stepped out, flashlight in hand, letting himself feel a cautious hope as he crept towards the front door. Typically, Fentons and/or ghosts were pretty loud but that didn’t mean he could throw all caution to the wind.

Quietly unlocking and pushing the door open, he clicked on his light, sweeping it across the front hall. Okay, no rubble, no ecto-spatter… good start so far.

He made his way through the school, cataloging each and every room, bathroom, and storage closet. All was silent - until he reached the last hall, the one his classroom was on.

Lancer froze, hiding the light from his flashlight quickly, unsure if he should risk the sound of clicking it off in the otherwise silent hall. He didn’t even breathe for a moment, focusing on the slight sound. He frowned as he identified it. It sounded like… someone sobbing? He looked around the hall with the light, finding it as pristine as everywhere else had been. He held still, trying to pinpoint the soft sound. It seemed to be coming from further down the hall, on the right - where his own classroom was.

He tip-toed to the door of his classroom, suddenly very aware of the fact he was entirely unarmed. He’d left his school-issue FentonTM branded net at home. He considered backing away, but the sobs broke his heart and he just couldn’t. It sounded too human - it sounded too young. 

Lancer pushed the door open before he had a chance to second guess himself. The sobbing sound increased and his stomach turned at the ectoplasm splattered across the room. It wasn’t hard to locate the source of both the ectoplasm and the crying, glowing as he was in the middle of the room, leaned over a desk he’d knocked over.

“Phantom?” Lancer asked, though he’d know that shock of white hair and black jumpsuit anywhere, even from the back.

Phantom jumped to his feet and spun around in an instant. “Lanc -” he started. He grunted, pressing a hand to his hip and collapsing to his knees.

“Phantom!” Lancer rushed forward, placing his hands over Phantom’s to try to help staunch the bleeding. Is it still called bleeding if it isn’t blood? he wondered for just a moment, but the icy chill of Phantom’s skin and ectoplasm drove the thought from his mind.

The ghost opened his mouth but merely coughed, more glowing green blood coming out and landing on Lancer’s shirt. Lancer studied the specter; he’d never been this close to him before. The child was pale, with soft green freckles going across the bridge of his nose, and far too skinny. Lightning-like scars marred his face, unnoticeable until one was this close to him. “How can I help?” he asked, trying to ignore how much this child - this dead child - looked like he could be one of Lancer’s own students.

The wound on his left side was clearly the worst, but burns also littered him - his face, his neck, his shoulders. Even one hand - the one not pressed to his side - was burnt clear through the glove, angry green blisters covering the boy’s right hand. A long cut ran down his right leg, but it didn’t seem to be leaking much ectoplasm.

“The… the tile in the ceiling over where you’ve always got the date written,” Phantom finally managed, stuttering coughs interrupting his words as he pointed to the spot. “There’s a medical kit up there. Can you get it down?”

“Sure, sure, I can manage that,” Lancer said, his mind somehow going both miles a minute and utterly stopped at the same time. “Keep pressure on this, okay?”

Phantom managed a muffled hum of agreement, pain contorting his features as he continued to sob, though quieter now.  Deciding that was the best response he’d get, Lancer hurried over to the whiteboard, grabbing a step ladder from the cupboard as he did so. He pushed on the tile and it yielded to him easier than he’d expected. He moved it back and poked his head into the hole, seeing the white first aid kit right where Phantom had said. He grabbed it and already had it open and pulling out bandages.

He was grateful he’d forgotten to eat dinner when he saw how much ectoplasm painted the inside of the box.

“What first?” Lancer asked.

“Needle and thread,” the ghost slurred.

Lancer froze. “What?”

“I’ve gotta sew this up, Mr. Lancer,” he said, reaching out for the box. “Don’t worry. It’s not my first time.”

Lancer was normally proud to be a man of exceptional literacy, one who could weave words into stories and feelings with masterful precision. He decidedly did not feel like that man as he stuttered incoherent syllables, at a loss for words.

“Mr. Lancer, please,” Phantom pleaded, the supplies still out of his reach.

The desperation in the ghost’s tone pulled Lancer back to reality and forced him into crisis mode. “I have EMT training, move your hand,” Lancer ordered, still feeling decidedly out of his body.

“Can EMTs even do stitches?” Phantom asked. A pause and then he continued, “Wait, you were trained as an EMT?”

Lancer explained as he sat next to the ghost, pulling out what he needed from the kit. “Not technically supposed to do them but I know how. Casper High staff all received training after the ghosts started and we learned some extra things as well, in case the roads were blocked.”

Lancer knew he was rambling as he pulled a green-stained rag from the kit and pushed Phantom’s hand off the injury, sopping up as much of the blood-but-not-really as he could to get a better look at the wound on his side. He grimaced. It was a long, deep cut that continued pouring ectoplasm at an alarming rate.

Phantom looked away as Lancer spoke. “They gave you more training because of us?”

Lancer nodded, threading a needle. He tried not to be surprised that he was using actual, medical grade suture materials instead of fabric needle and thread. It spoke too much of how often Phantom had to do this. “Several students have gotten injured. None too badly - and none ever because of you, of course - but we’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course not ‘cause of me,” Phantom muttered.

“I’m about to start, okay? It’s gonna hurt, I don’t see any local anesthetic.” 

“Just do it, I’m used to it by now.”

Lancer’s heart twisted at Phantom’s words. He didn’t sound irritated or annoyed by the statement, it was just… a passing comment. He said it like he was saying the sky was blue. To him, it didn’t seem to be a concerning statement. Phantom was reassuring Lancer that shoving a needle repeatedly through his skin wouldn’t hurt too bad simply because he was used to it. He swallowed all of his concern and put it in a box in the corner of his mind, to unpack later.

With a simple “Okay,” Lancer shoved the needle into Phantom’s skin at one end of the wound and the teacher wondered if his heart breaking was an audible sound when Phantom didn’t even hiss in pain. Lancer would grumble in pain simply when he brushed his nearly-nonexistent hair and snagged on a tiny tangle.

As much as he wanted to believe what the Fentons said about ghosts not feeling pain and that was why Phantom was so unresponsive, he knew in his soul that it wasn’t true.

He remembered Phantom crying too well.

Lancer felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He wasn’t sure if it was pride or pity that kept them at bay, though.

The next several minutes passed in tense silence, Lancer’s hands growing slick with green blood as the wound continued to bleed. He hadn’t even realized the kit lacked gloves until that moment.

What he had realized, however, was that Phantom knew this was Lancer’s classroom. He knew it was Lancer who wrote the date on the board, who wrote it everyday. 

Why did this ghost of a child know Lancer’s classroom?

Lancer knew the obvious answer but he refused to think on it. It went in the box with the other topics he couldn’t handle right now.

“I think that’s got it,” Lancer said, snipping the thread, ignoring the way his hand had begun going numb from the extended contact with the icy ectoplasm.

“Thank you,” Phantom said, seeming genuine as he poked at the injury. He winced slightly but seemed to find Lancer’s work good enough as he reached into the kit and pulled out a large thing of wrap bandages. He rose a hand to the collar of his jumpsuit and hesitated, throwing a glance at where Lancer still sat beside him. “I need to wrap it, to keep it sterile.”

“I can help, your hand still looks pretty bad.”

Phantom chewed on his lower lip and Lancer tried not to react to the fact he had fangs. “Okay. But I’m going to face away from you, and you are not going to look at my front, okay?”

Lancer nodded, unwilling to ask. He knew young teens could be finicky and he desperately wanted to help this particular teen, as young as he would always be. Relief made Phantom’s face sag and he handed the roll over, turning away. Lancer heard as the front of the jumpsuit was zipped down and Phantom shrugged his arms out of the sleeves, wrapping them around his waist.

The faint lightning scars on Phantom’s face seemed to extend across his entire back, apparently branching out from his arm. Lichtenberg figures, he remembered, some half-forgotten science class from when he was a teenager feeding him the information. Caused by electrical injury. Other scars criss-crossed Phantom’s back, various healed injuries that looked like burns and cuts, and Lancer had to force his mind not to count them, knowing the number would be high.

His heart continued to contort into a knot as more topics got shoved into his little box. Phantom had died young and he had died painfully and even death hadn't stopped his pain.

And he seemed to be a student of Lancer’s that he couldn’t remember.

Determined now to never open that box and inspect the pieces within - instead locking it in layers of chains with a heavy duty lock and dumping it into the Marianna Trench in his mind - Lancer got to work wrapping the bandage. He carefully wrapped it around the cold child, passing it from one hand to the other while still careful to maintain distance to keep from crowding the kid. He made a half dozen passes around, tying off the bandage carefully, grateful that his stitches were holding well enough (there were a few pinpricks of green, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of blood earlier).

“What’s next?” Lancer asked, as though this situation were fine and he was not losing his mind. Phantom hummed, untying the sleeves and pulling his jumpsuit back on. He didn’t turn around until it was zipped back up.

“I think I’m fine from here,” Phantom said, checking his burnt hand and the laceration on his leg. “These are pretty minor and will heal fast enough.”

Lancer wanted to argue. He wanted to drag this kid to the hospital and make him get looked at by medical professionals instead of an exhausted, overworked public school teacher. So he just nodded. “You know your body best.”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I heal fast.” Phantom said, packing up the kit (dirty cloth and all) and moving to put it back where he’d stashed it. He stopped, his hand halfway to the ceiling. “Uh, you don’t mind if I leave this here, right?”

Blinking himself out of the fog that was trying to settle over him, Lancer looked at Phantom. Honestly, he’d just been thinking he was relieved Phantom was moving so well when he’d fallen so easily not even fifteen minutes ago. Followed by thinking about several of the times he got thrown various windows or into mirrors and shattering glass. “Uh, no, yeah, that’s fine. It, uh. It looked like you had to use it pretty often?”

Phantom grinned and Lancer was struck by how tired the ghost’s face looked. “Yeah, it gets a good bit of use.”

“Do you have help?” Lancer asked before giving his mouth permission to say the thought.

“What?”

“You, um. You seemed pretty willing to stitch yourself up, earlier. Do you have to do that often?”

“More often than I’d like,” Phantom shrugged, placing the kit in its spot and pulling the ceiling tile back into place. “I have help, but they can’t always get to me.”

“If you’d like another option… well, I do have the training. And I’m available, day or night.”

Lancer was surprised at the laugh Phantom let out. “An adult? Wants to help me?”

The teacher pursed his lips. “That is what I just did, is it not?”

“Oh,” the ghost said, his eyes widening. “Uh. Duh, Phantom. I, uh. Kinda just thought you wanted me to hurry up and leave so you could clean.” He gestured to the various pools of glowing green saturating the floor, the swipes of it against the walls and desks. 

To be completely honest, Lancer had forgotten he even needed to clean. He’d just seen an injured child and needed to help. “Maybe you should wait here while I clean up? Take a second to rest, Phantom.”

It was almost humorous, how easy it was to read the ghost’s face as he contemplated his options. Lancer could almost read Phantom’s thoughts as they flickered across his face, from doubt to distrust to acceptance to relief. “That sounds like a good idea,” he acquiesced, dropping slowly to the ground with a wince. He stretched his legs out in front of him and sighed, leaning his head back against the wall behind him.

Lancer let himself slide onto autopilot as Phantom rested. Using an elbow, he opened the cupboard door, pulling out paper towels and cleaning his hands off. A mop and various rags followed, and he got to work, feeling Phantom’s eyes on him the entire time.

“I don’t get you,” Phantom finally said after a few minutes of silence.

“What do you mean?”

“Most people, they get me alone for longer than a few seconds, and they’re either trying to kill me or ask me a million questions I don’t want to answer. You’re being quiet.”

Lancer shrugged. “I’m a teacher. I know when a kid doesn’t want to talk, even if they need to. Sometimes a little quiet is the best gift I can offer.”

“I don’t need to talk, anyway,” Phantom said, immediately defensive, a sure sign that that was absolutely what he needed.

“Of course not, I didn’t say you did,” Lancer said, throwing a cheeky grin the ghost’s way. “But if you wanted to, I’m still a stranger to you. You’re famous, but you still have a right to your privacy, like every other celebrity.”

“Technically, I don’t have a right to anything. I’m dead,” he countered, his voice full of bitterness.

“Do you actually believe that? Or are you just parroting what the hunters say?”

Phantom fell quiet, thoughtfulness on his face. Lancer hid his grin. Oldest trick in the book and teen ghosts weren’t any more immune to it than living teens.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, then feel free to add my voice to ones you parrot to yourself: You are a hero and you have every right to privacy, happiness, and safety as the humans you save do.”

Phantom visibly choked on air. “I’m not a hero.”

“You absolutely are,” Lancer said, setting down the rag and moving to kneel in front of him. “Why were you here tonight?”

“Uh, Technus was trying to get into the Internet again. He kept shouting about uploading himself to ‘the human bank.’”

“That’s why Technus was here. Why were you?”

“To stop Technus, I guess.”

“And you wanted to stop Technus because…?”

“Because… I didn’t want him getting into a bank, even if he seemed to think there was only one bank serving all humans.”

“You were here to stop a malicious ghost from doing something that would harm innocents, is what I’m hearing.”

Phantom seemed to be doing his best to mimic a fish out of water as he flapped his mouth open and closed repeatedly. 

A few moments passed like that and Lancer sighed. “Phantom, there’s no way I’m the first person to tell you you’re a hero. If I am, then the people you say help you are actually doing the exact opposite.”

“No, they tell me it too! I just…” Phantom trailed off, pulling one of his legs to his chest and propping his head on his knee. “They’re my friends. They’re kinda obligated to say that.”

“Well I’m not obligated to say anything. Ask almost any student here. Ask any other Casper High teacher. You’re a hero, Phantom.”

Phantom blushed, a green tint coloring his face as he looked away. “Not everyone sees me like that.”

“The Fentons and the Red Huntress, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I know at least Jack Fenton was here tonight. Is he the one who did…?” Lancer asked, gesturing to the hole in the jumpsuit where the recently applied bandage showed through. 

A strangled squeak escaped Phantom and it was all Lancer needed for confirmation.

“I’ve never hated anyone, but the Drs. Fenton might change that,” Lancer said with a sigh.

“They think what they’re doing is right,” Phantom mumbled, so low Lancer barely heard him.

“So have many of the most notorious and violent dictators and religious extremists in history. Besides, it’s not just their ghost view points. Between you and me, they’re awful parents.”

“I wouldn’t compare them to people like that… And what do you mean bad parents? I remember the time they drove around with a megaphone because one of their kids had been missing for a few hours.”

Lancer shrugged. “They’re loving, but they’re neglectful. I’m not stupid; I know their daughter was the only reason any of their son’s paperwork got filled out. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve almost contacted child protective services.”

“You’ve contacted CPS about the Fentons?!” Phantom shouted, jumping to his feet - er, well, to his tail and hovering several inches above the ground.

“Almost contacted CPS,” Lancer corrected, confused by the ghost’s reaction. Did he think the Fentons would blame him if CPS came knocking? “I kept deciding not to. I know CPS’s limits and that, technically, CPS would be forced to find them fit parents. Daniel nor Jasmine have ever appeared underfed or abused, their school fees are always paid timely. The Fentons donate money to repair efforts and often help with the repairs themselves. By my own admission, they clearly love their son. All CPS showing up would do is stress the kids out.” He grimaced. “Sorry. It's not your business. Ignore I said all that, please.”

“Why would you want to call CPS in the first place, then? They sound like wonderful parents,” Phantom said, oddly sad.

Lancer shrugged. “It's hard to explain. I've been a teacher for thirty years. You pick things up.”

Lancer didn't bother to explain all the weird things he'd noted over the years, including Daniel's lie earlier about his parents being out of town, the way he'd flinched, the way he falls asleep constantly and jumps when startled, how often he runs out of the classroom with a haphazard explanation. Jasmine had never been like that, but Lancer knew she resented her parents, even if she'd never outright said it. His concern had only grown this year, now that Jasmine was gone and Daniel was getting worse, especially in the past three months, despite her starting college eight months ago. 

But he didn't have cause to remove Daniel from the home and he knew it.

Phantom mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Uh, nothing. Just thinking.”

Lancer gave a small hum to confirm he'd heard the ghost and stood, resuming his cleaning.

The next several minutes passed in silence as Lancer got the classroom good enough for tomorrow, Phantom no longer paying him attention. He returned the cleaning items and went to his desk, pulling out paper and a pen.

“Phantom?”

“Yeah?”

Lancer held the piece of paper out, Phantom's automatically reaching for it. Lancer let go as soon as Phantom's hand was on it. “My cell phone number. I mean it, day or night, school in session or not. You help Amity Park all the time. Let us help you back. The ones who like you are the majority, don't let the Fentons convince you otherwise.”

Phantom fell quiet, staring at the paper in amazement.

“You're free to stay here and rest until class starts, if you want, but I also have a spare room at my home if you need it.”

That seemed to bring Phantom back to earth. “Uh, thanks, I'm good,” he said, tucking the paper into his pocket. “I feel better and I'm pretty healed up, see?” Phantom turned so Lancer could see where the long cut on his leg had been, now looking weeks old. “But, uh. Thanks. Seriously. Thanks.”

Lancer smiled, nodding at the kid. “No problem.” With a quick wave, Lancer left the room, leaving the ghost to his own devices, as much as it pained him to do so.

The box at the edge of his mind tried to open and he slammed it even further shut. He needed to call Ishiyama and let her know the school was okay to open tomorrow. Making his way to his car, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket, not surprised to see the four missed calls he already had from her. He must’ve forgotten to turn his phone off silent.

…he probably would never turn it back on silent, now that he thought about it. Now that the slim possibly of Phantom calling him existed, he wouldn’t risk missing the call.

He hit the call back button and she answered before a full ring had passed. “William! Is everything okay? It’s been two hours since I called!”

“Everything’s fine,” he reassured. “Some cleaning was needed but the school is good to open tomorrow. Well, today, I suppose,” he added, glancing at the clock on his radio as he slid into his car.

“Since when do you clean before you call?” she questioned, immediately calling him on his lie of omission.

“I’ll explain in the morning, I’d like to get some sleep before I have to be back.”

“Your first period is free, right?”

“You know it is.”

“My office, 8am?”

He sighed. “Acceptable.”

Hanging up before she had the chance to give him even more grief, Lancer made the trip home, following his usual ritual: music turned up too loud, using his blinkers despite being the only soul on the road, scolding his bushes when he got home, being assaulted by his cats and giving in to their demands to be petted, though they didn’t nuzzle against his legs like they usually did.

That reminded him of the ectoplasm still coating his clothes and he hurriedly stripped out of them and into his pajamas, throwing the ruined clothing in the trash. Normally, he hated when his clothes got damaged beyond repair, but he didn’t find himself particularly minding it right then. Lancer beelined for the bedroom, passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The box he’d pushed to the side of his mind shuddered but mercifully stayed closed.

Chapter Text

The next morning found Lancer wanting to smash his alarm clock against the wall as it woke him up at ungodly-o’clock. He snuggled further under his covers, Luna curled against his chest and Sola at his back. 

Lancer had never been the type of person who was able to go back to sleep after waking up, though, so he did extract himself from the warmth of his bed shortly after that. Luna and Sola - both already irritated at him for throwing them off their normal sleep schedule last night - stayed where they were.

He got ready and was out the door quickly, driving to the school and making it into Ishiyama’s office five minutes after 8. Neither said anything about his being late - he could’ve gotten there at five til nine and been fine, as late as he’d had to be at the school last night.

“So what happened?” she asked, forgoing any pleasantries, for which Lancer was grateful. It was too early in the morning for that shit. 

“Technus - that technology ghost - tried to access the internet from our computers. Phantom stopped him, but he got shot by the Fentons at some point. Not sure how he got away, to be honest, but it was just Phantom when I got here. He was in my classroom, pretty injured. Helped patch him up before I cleaned.”

Ishiyama sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “I worry about Phantom.”

Lancer leaned forward, determination suddenly driving him. “Is there a way we can show him that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he seemed pretty sure none of us actually saw him as a hero, much less did something so banal as worry about him. Is there anything we can do to show him our support?” 

The principal studied him, frowning. “How badly was Phantom injured?”

Lancer sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, though he answered honestly. “Pretty bad.”

“Must’ve been, for you to be acting like this,” she murmured. “I’ll get with the phanclub and see what we can do.”

“I’m sure Ms. Sanchez will be thrilled,” Lancer said, one side of his mouth tugging up in half a smile. 

Ishiyama grumbled slightly, visibly unenthusiastic at the prospect of having to deal with the ghost boy’s number one fans - or ‘phans’ as they liked to style themselves.

“If that’s all,” Lancer said, standing up and clearly dismissing himself. “I’m going to go nap in my room until my second period class.”

“Sweet dreams,” Ishiyama said, glancing at the clock behind her that showed a solid forty five minutes until class change.

The rest of the day passed mercifully quickly. Lancer managed to sleep for about twenty minutes and his back didn’t protest it. He reminded his ninth graders to read the next two chapters in Alas, Babylon, the tenth graders that the first draft of their research paper was due soon, the elevenths to do a worksheet about Act 3 of Julius Caesar, the twelfths to study for finals, and the creative writing course that their big assignment was due the next day.

He didn’t mention anything to Fenton about the fact he knew his parents were in town the prior day. It wasn’t a conscious decision to notice the boy’s injured hand, immediately going into the box without him even realizing it.

The day finally completed, Lancer was eager to go home and fall asleep. Drive home, threaten plants, shower and get ready for bed, feed the cats before they chewed his toes off, and straight to bed. He was immensely grateful in his stroke of luck that he had nothing he needed to grade that day.

He groaned as he remembered the twenty six creative writing assignments awaiting him tomorrow.

Lancer fell into bed as soon as he could.

His nightmares were tinged green that night, though he didn’t remember them the next morning.

When he woke up, he felt refreshed. He’d had plenty of sleep, and his cats were in their usual spots in front and behind him. “C’mon, up and at ‘em,” Lancer said sleepily, poking Luna to get her to move. She gave him a half-hearted whine and stretched, then resoundingly headbutted him in the face. “I love you too.”

He yawned and stretched, swinging his feet off the side of the bed. He took his time getting ready that morning, not in the haze of panicked hurry oversleeping had had him in yesterday. His phone buzzed and he pulled it, reading the message from Ishiyama asking to meet him during first period again. He shoved the phone into his pocket without responding.

Lancer took his time that morning, leaving early enough to go by his favorite bakery to get a danish and an iced mocha for himself and a plain coffee for Ishiyama.

Sometimes, he didn’t need mantras to remind him he liked his life. Most times, even, he just genuinely enjoyed his life (even if he did end up being late to his meeting with Ishiyama when Phantom got pile drived into the concrete by Skulker. Lancer didn’t miss the way ectoplasm smeared across the young ghost’s face from a rather impressive cut on his forehead.) 

“Good morning, Kiyo,” Lancer greeted as he walked into her office, placing the coffee on her desk.

“To you as well, William,” she answered, sipping the drink with an appreciative sigh. A moment of silence passed, the two educators enjoying the caffeine before speaking again. “I spoke with the phanclub.”

“Did they have any usable ideas?”

“Somewhat,” Ishiyama said, leaning forward and placing her elbows on the desk, steepling her fingers together. “At the next pep rally, do something for him that shows our support. A cheer routine was Ms. Sanchez’s specific idea, but I’d want to do something with the staff as well.”

“This assumes Phantom will both be at the pep rally and that he’ll be there without a ghost disrupting it,” Lancer pointed out with a frown. 

“That’s what I said. So some of them had another idea: put up posters around the school. Somewhere he’d see them, inviting him to our rally.”

“And how do we keep Ms. Gray from tearing them down?” The girl’s hatred of the ghosts was no secret, despite being the only person in the entire school to feel that way.

“I’ll be speaking with her next period and reminding her that removing school-sanctioned and approved posters is grounds for detention unless the posters are inappropriate or offensive, and that it is the school’s policy that offensiveness based on discrimination of any form is not a valid reason for removal.”

Lancer raised his eyebrow. “You’re gonna tell her that even though she finds it offensive, the only justification of it is her bias against ghosts?”

Ishiyama shrugged. “Do you have any better ideas? You and I both know she’s the only person in this school who is going to protest. I wouldn’t remove a poster with someone wearing a hijab based on people being offended by hijabs, I won’t remove one with a ghost based on someone’s prejudice against ghosts.”

A moment passed as Lancer thought, but he eventually nodded. “I don’t have any better suggestions, no. I agree with you.”

“Wonderful. We’ll be putting posters up in all of the halls. Some of the more artistic members of the club already dropped several off,” she said, waving to a small box sitting on top of a nearby filing cabinet. “Will you speak to Mr. Fenton to make sure he doesn’t mention this to his parents?”

“Daniel doesn’t want his parents anywhere near him or his peers anymore than we do, but I’ll still mention it to him. Back to the rally, though, you said you wanted the staff to do something as well?”

“I do. Maybe matching shirts showing our support or making banners?”

“Hm. Give me a few days and I’ll get back with you. The rally is in two weeks, so we have some time.”

“Wonderful. Want to help me hang some of these and I’ll grab Ms. Gray between classes for our chat?”

“Of course,” Lancer said, grabbing the box as Ishiyama pulled out a roll of double sided tape.

They spent the rest of his free period hanging up posters, each of them displaying Phantom’s well known logo and extending the ghost an invite to the rally with various degrees of enthusiasm (but all still quite eager).

Once the bell rang, he handed the box to Ishiyama and they bid each other goodbye, her going towards where Ms. Gray’s first class was letting out and Lancer towards his own classroom. He assumed the meeting went as well as it could when none of the posters had been taken down by lunch.

Lancer was on his way back from the lunchroom when he saw Fenton and his two friends, remembering how he’d agreed to talk to the boy about his parents. And, perfect opportunity, as the trio were studying one of the posters near Lancer’s room, their backs to him. He didn’t immediately interrupt them, letting them continue their conversation.

“I just can’t believe it,” Fenton said, his head leaned against Foley’s shoulder.

“Told you so, dummy,” Manson said on Fenton’s other side, wrapping her hand around his. “You should listen to me.”

“You really should, dude,” Foley agreed, nudging his elbow lightly against Fenton’s side. “Everyone knows Sam’s the brains of this operation.”

“I know,” Fenton mumbled. Lancer knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop but… well, he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Phantom he was concerned about the youngest Fenton child, and Lancer couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Fenton so relaxed, alone as they were in the hallway. “After what happened…”

“We know,” Foley said, his voice surprisingly soft suddenly, wrapping an arm around Fenton’s back and giving him a quick squeeze. From his position behind them, he could see the concerned glances Manson and Foley threw to each other over Fenton’s head.

Loudly clearing his throat made the three jump, Foley quickly withdrawing from the shorter boy. “Mr. Fenton, may I have a word with you?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, waving his two friends away. Lancer didn’t miss the annoyed glares the two gave him as they left. “What’s up?”

“Well, I know you’ve seen the posters inviting Phantom to the school,” Lancer said, gesturing to the poster.

“Yeah. What’s that got to do with me?” Fenton asked, straightening up.

“I just wanted to ask you to make sure not to mention this to your parents. We want Phantom to come and be safe, after all.”

“Oh, uh, no problem. I prefer them being nowhere near the school. Still sorry about that one time with the Ghost Peeler…” Fenton trailed off, an apologetic grimace on his face.

Lancer repressed the urge to shudder at the memory. Nothing quite like being pantsed by an overzealous ghost hunter’s harebrained invention in front of half the student body. “Let’s just… try to forget that ever happened, alright? Just don’t mention the rally to your parents. Either of them.”

“‘Course not, I’m not that stupid. Can I ask you something?”

“I know you’re far from stupid, Mr. Fenton. Unmotivated and poor at time management, yes, but certainly not lacking intelligence. What is your question?”

Fenton’s face was burning red at Lancer’s analysis of his intelligence and he stuttered when he spoke. “Uh, the, uh. The rally thing. Why? Like, why are you doing them?”

“Because he’s earned it.” Lancer answered simply. “He deserves to know he has us at his back. We may not be as loud as the ones shooting at him, but we are here for him.”

Fenton’s eyes were piercing as they searched Lancer’s face, and Lancer had the feeling his honesty was being judged. “I didn’t think any adult supported him.”

“No offense, but have you asked any adult besides your parents?” Lancer said, the conversation already feeling similar to the one two days ago with Phantom. 

“I guess not,” Fenton responded, deflating slightly. “Anyway, uh, I’ll make sure not to mention it to them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenton. I’ll see you later in class, then.”

“Yeah. Bye,” he said, waving to Lancer and heading in the direction his friends had gone, disappearing as he turned around a corner. 

The next class period passed by quickly, and it was finally time for the assignment Lancer had been dreading all day. 

Creative writing class - time to turn in their novella length stories. Lancer hadn’t even started yet and he was already regretting his decision to assign this to them.

“Alright, class,” he began as the writing class settled in after the bell, “as you know, your novella stories are due today. Please have them on your desk and I will come collect them. As a reminder, I will only be accepting typed assignments using the proper font and size. There is an automatic 5% grade reduction penalty for every day this assignment is late if you do not turn it in today and have not turned it in prior to today. Meaning - if it ends up being worth a grade of 95 and you turn it in tomorrow, the grade you’d get is 90. If you turn it in in two days, it’ll be an 85, and so on. To reiterate, however, this grade is based on effort. Grammar is not a concern, though you may see grammar corrections I’ve suggested. It will take me at least two weeks to read all of these. So long as it meets the word count requirements, is not plagiarized, and is turned in timely, you will get a good grade. Any questions?”

No one raised their hand, to his relief.

“Perfect. For the next two weeks, this class is your study hall, to give me ample time to read and grade. Still no talking, but you are free to work on assignments from other classes, study, or read quietly to yourself. I’m going to come around and collect your assignments now.” 

He walked around, collecting the folders from each student. He was missing three, but that was less than he’d expected to be missing, and to his surprise, Fenton’s was on time.

The rest of the period passed quietly, Lancer randomly grabbing a folder. He most certainly did not groan as he began to read Mr. Baxter’s story about a quarterback in space who was kidnapped because of his ‘drop dead gorgeous’ good looks and high IQ, because the aliens wanted to make clones of him, as he was their perfect specimen.

…Honestly, maybe Lancer should consider just… not offering this class again.

He was halfway through the assignment when the class ended, and he had never been more grateful for the normal English Literature class that followed, even if he did have to run to Ishiyama’s office in between and give his verdict that he thought the matching shirts were the best idea for the pep rally so she could go ahead and order them.

Lancer finished the day, gathering up all the folders and taking them home, already mentally preparing himself. He wanted to finish Mr. Baxter’s and at least start on one other and Lancer had forgotten that, while he was normally a quick reader, few of these stories would likely be the ‘easy’ reads he normally did.

Once home, he settled into his chair, kicked his feet up, patted his lap until one of his cats jumped up to join him - Sola, this time - and pulled Baxter’s folder back out.

Two hours later found Lancer scribbling a 100 in red pen on the corner of the front page. The pacing wasn’t great, and Lancer had noted several grammatical errors (Mr. Baxter seemed to struggle with keeping the whole story in one tense, jumping back and forth between present and past with no identifiable reason), but he had created a unique work of fiction with the message of ‘perfection will get you killed,’ so the assignment was good enough.

He sat Mr. Baxter’s folder aside, grabbing another one randomly, not seeing the name until he flipped it over. 

Danny Fenton.

I’m picking all the best ones right off the bat, aren’t I? Lancer mused, glancing at the stack beside him. He knew he had several good writers in the class - he was particularly excited to read whatever Ms. Scarlet King had written - but apparently he was pulling the worst ones first.

He mentally scolded himself. He was trying to be nicer; he’d realized he’d gotten cruel at some point in the past ten years. These were works of fiction, these were stories and worlds from the imaginations of children, and he needed to treat them with the respect they deserved. Scratching behind Luna’s ears - when had Sola jumped down? - Lancer opened the folder, letting himself be enveloped in the world in Daniel Fenton’s mind.

For as long as the Boy has known, his family has believed in magic. He was raised to fear and respect it, to mind the dangers and be prepared to fight. The village looked up to them - they were researchers, they had answers when nothing made sense. They understood the fluidity and erraticness of magic and those who wielded the powers.

The Boy’s parents sought more knowledge, though. Magic was not of the mortal plane, what they studied were the wisps brought by tears that led to the immortal plane - to the Lands of the Fair Folk, inhabited by the capricious Fae. They reasoned that if they could open a portal to another reality, they could study it better, they could harness it for the good of man. It was a noble cause, and their goals spread throughout the land, it was the talk of the common folk, that the brilliant researchers would soon wrest the control of magic from the lying Fae and grant it to humankind, who deserved it.

It was all the Boy’s parents worked on. Years passed, and the Boy was raised in the shadow of the spell his parents were trying to create. Finally, time passed, and the parents believed they had it, that they had cracked the code. Excitement spread through the land as word traveled, soon everyone whispered. The masses gathered as the Boy’s parents cast the spell, the start of the next era in understanding magic.

They were still gathered when the spell withered and failed, dying before it had a chance. They tried again, and again, and again, and eventually night fell. Days passed and excited belief fell into disappointed mockery.

His parents fell further with each vicious barb. They withdrew from him, from the town, from the world. Even their research began to decay.

Days passed, and then weeks. When the Boy’s birthday came and went without his parents’ notice, he didn’t know what to do. He desperately wanted to help, but he wasn’t that smart, he wasn’t able to create spells, he couldn’t wield magic. In that moment, he had never felt so useless.

That night, he fell to his knees beside his bed and clasped his hands together in prayer. “Please,” the Boy pleaded, “tell me how to help them. How do I bring back my family? They are but shadows of themselves, they do not eat, they do not drink. They have forgotten how to laugh, they have forgotten how to sing. Please, help me.”

He didn’t know who he prayed to. He prayed to all the gods of man and magic, nameless, shapeless beings he’d only ever heard snippets of. He didn’t care who answered his prayer.

When he went to bed still without a sign or divine knowledge, he wondered if he'd been abandoned, by both his parents and the rulers of the world.

The next time the Boy opened his eyes, though, he instead wondered if he had lost his mind. Instead of his warm bed in his family’s wooden cabin, the Boy woke up against a marble pillar that seemed to leech the heat from his body. He’d never felt so cold in his life. It’s a room he’d never seen before, all shocking white and glittering gold. The ceiling was taller than any tree he’d ever climbed before and the dark wood doors at the end of the room were so far away, they seemed child-sized. Gold tracing the wall made pictures he couldn’t understand - a language, maybe? One he didn’t speak?

“You’ve awoken.”

The voice came from behind him and made him jump. The voice was neither male nor female, was neither warm nor cold. The voice was soft and infinite, and made his skin crawl with fear for reasons he couldn’t place.

“Hello?” he asked, turning around slowly, his voice catching when he saw the thing behind him. 

“Hello, child,” the being said with something might have been a smile on a human mouth. The figure was taller than any man the Boy had ever seen before, their hair was blacker than ink and teeth whiter than bleached bone. Jewels seemed to replace their eyes, glittering iridescently, shifting and changing without a light source.

“Where am I? Who are you?” the Boy asked, trying to bravely hide the shake in his voice.

The beautiful monster smiled. “I am the Morrigan. I am the Highest God of the Fair Folk. I heard your plea, child, your prayer. Tell me more. What you seek is magic of the highest order.”

The Boy hesitated, studying the Morrigan - the Fae God. He knew gods were fickle, and Fae were even more so, so he knew he shouldn’t trust the Morrigan. But… this was what he’d asked for, wasn’t it? This was what he’d gone to sleep and begged for.

“I… I want to help my parents. They’re trying to make a spell to split the veil between the worlds. It’s failed and they’ve changed, and I know I can get back to life as it was before if the spell will just work.”

The Morrigan tilted their head to the side, studying the child before them. “You’d have me grant fae hunters access to this realm? To watch the torture and slaughter of my people, who pray for me as you did?”

“No, no, no, of course not!” the Boy protested. “They don’t want to hurt anyone! They’re researchers, not hunters. They want to study and harness magic, not steal it or harm the Fae.”

They tapped a long, too slim, too pale finger against their chin. They sighed, and it was a sound like imploding glass. “Your wish I will grant, but there is a price for this kind of magic. It is a price you may find too steep, child.”

“I will do anything to save my family,” the Boy said, determined as he remembered the way his mother used to play with his hair, the way his father used to hug him.

“It will cost you your human life.”

The Boy froze, suddenly unsure of his decision. “What?”

“The cost of this magic is life, boy,” the Morrigan said harshly, before their face softened. “However, it will not take your whole life. You will be ripped apart, broken into atoms smaller than you’ve ever imagined. After you are torn into uncountable pieces, you will be reborn - a hybrid, made in the image of myself and your parents. You will be killed, make no doubt, and you will die in pain. But this is the cost to open a rift. And there is also a cost for my help. You wish to build a bridge, then you will also be its guard.”

“So, I die, but not fully. I will be made again, with the abilities of the Fae, and I will guard the portal?” the Boy asked.

The Morrigan nodded. “You will guard both sides of the rift. Unsavory Fae may cross over, but you must also ensure no human assailant makes their way into my people’s home.”

The Boy hesitated again, before drawing every ounce of courage he had. He wanted his family back. “I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure, child? Is this wish worth your life?”

“I’ll have my family and I’ll still breathe, it won’t take my whole life.”

With that, the Morrigan grinned and the Boy’s skin prickled with terror. “Very well. This is your choice. I will not make it for you.”

The Fae God waved their hand and parchment appeared in their lap. They drew a knife from their robes and sliced it across their palm. Purple blood dripped from their hand to the parchment, the liquid soaking up immediately. Even though he knew where to look, the Boy still couldn’t see the stains. They had melted in with the normal discoloration of old parchment. The Morrigan held the item towards the Boy.

He stepped forward, accepting the parchment. “Inscribe the spell onto this, using this special quill,” the Morrigan explained, waving their hand and creating a silver quill. “Be warned, this will be your last chance to change your mind. The quill will use your blood to write, and it will hurt as it etches the words into your flesh as you write. Once the inscription is finished, read the spell, and die, and be reborn. Put this copy of the spell where you found the original, and the next time your parents attempt to cast it, it will work. And you will be one of the things they wish to study.”

The Boy nodded his understanding and with a startled breath, he jerked awake in his own bedroom.

The discolored parchment and the shining quill on the table beside him were the only way he knew that hadn’t just been a dream.

His phone ringing pulled him from the surprisingly interesting story. He could already see where Mr. Fenton had pulled from his own experiences and desperation and was crafting the story from there. It was quite ingenious, really. Lancer closed the folder, glancing at his phone.

Unknown number calling.

Lancer frowned, looking at the time. Shortly after 7pm, he’d been reading longer than he’d realized. Normally, Lancer would reject calls from unknown numbers - he’d had one too many parents call him at three a.m. - but… he had given Phantom his number.

Making his decision, he opened the phone and accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Mr. Lancer?” a familiar voice asked, coughing wetly. “I need help.”

“Phantom?” Lancer said, shooting to his feet, sending Luna tumbling to the ground and she quickly ran away, irritated at his interruption. “Where are you?”

“The warehouses,” Phantom wheezed. “Off the edge of town.” He coughed again. “Big orange building.”

Lancer quickly sifted through his knowledge of the area, suddenly very grateful he was born and raised in Amity Park. “It’s a twenty minute drive, I’m heading there now.” he said, grabbing his never used first aid kit from the bathroom, along with several towels. He swept up his keys and was out the door faster than he’d ever thought possible. “Can you talk to me while I get there?”

Phantom gave another weak cough. “Yeah. Uh, yeah. Just… please hurry?”

“Of course.” Lancer was about to drive in a way even Jack Fenton could never dream of.

“‘m sorry to bug you…”

“You’re not bugging me at all, Phantom, I want to help.”

“I… I woulda called my friends, y’know…? But I’m too far away from town.”

“Then I’m glad I was an option to be called.”

The two talked the entire time Lancer drove, the veteran teacher going through every ‘first day of school’ question he could think of to keep the kid talking, though he actually heard very little of it. Phantom’s answers were short and not really answers anyway, seemingly unwilling to give personal information even while badly injured, a fact Lancer could hear in the child’s voice.

After far longer than Lancer would have liked, he found the building, an old packaging plant that had been in disuse since Lancer’s childhood.

“I’m here,” he said, driving straight to the front door despite the potholes rocking his car. He parked and got out, grabbing the kit and towels, phone still held between his shoulder and ear.

“I hear you,” Phantom said, relief palpable in his voice. “I’m by the front door.”

Lancer nodded, forgetting Phantom couldn’t see him through the phone. He pressed against the door, grunting with effort as he pushed it open. He expected semi-darkness as he walked in, the sun already inching down towards the horizon, and he found himself desperately wishing it had been darkness that greeted him.

Instead, a green glow was cast over what looked like an entry hall, mixed with the ethereal whiteness that indicated a ghost was nearby.

“I’m in here!” Phantom called out tiredly.

Lancer moved towards the voice, a hallway branching off the entrance.

“War and Peace!” he exclaimed, Phantom weakly waving at him. Lancer immediately knelt down next to him, pressing one of the white towels to the injury on the ghost’s back.

Phantom was laying on his side in the middle of the floor, his own glowing blood coating almost every visible inch of him. “What in the name of Huckleberry Finn happened?!”

“D’ya know Skulker?”

“Unfortunately,” Lancer grimaced.

“Him. Got me with a new weapon that cancels my powers and then a big knife. Still kicked his ass, though,” Phantom said, pointing to the silver Thermos sat against the nearby wall.

“Language,” Lancer found himself saying out of habit. “I mean, rest for a bit. This cut looks pretty deep,” he corrected, tossing the first towel to the side as it soaked through, replacing it with a fresh one.

“I’ve had worse.” Phantom said, making a movement that might have been a shrug.

“You know that doesn't make me feel better, right?”

“I’m fine,” the ghost insisted. “Skulker just nicked my spinal cord again, I think.”

It was only through several years of both teaching and emotional regulation practice that kept Lancer from screaming. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding far more calm than he felt.

“Oh, it’s not that bad on a ghost! Just means I can’t feel anything below the waist right now.” he insisted, despite the fact he still sounded as bad as he looked.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Ghost. Ghost. Ghost. “You’ll heal, then?”

“Yeah, he’s done this loads of times. Normally I just swap to my tail while I wait to feel my legs again, but, y’know. He short-circuited my powers and I don’t know how long for.”

Lancer kept up his deep breathing exercises as Phantom spoke, trying to remind himself he couldn’t apply a human approach to pain to a ghost. He gently pulled the towel away from the wound on Phantom’s back, grimacing when he saw the tissue and muscle. “So you’ll heal from this?”

“Yeah. I just… needed some help stopping the bleeding. It’ll, uh… it’ll probably be a few hours before I get my powers back. You don’t have to stay the whole time, of course!” Phantom explained, hurriedly adding on the last sentence.

“Does it need stitches again?”

“Uh, no.”

Lancer sighed, pulling out gauze and medical tape. “Then let's patch you up and then you’re coming home with me until your powers are back.”

“No, that’s fine, you don’t have to -” Phantom protested.

Lancer held up a hand and Phantom obediently quieted. “I don’t have to do anything. But I’m not going to leave you here, bleeding and injured, with your powers out of commission. I’d also rather not have you - or me - stuck in this condemned building any longer than necessary.”

Unsurprisingly, Phantom argued the entire time Lancer applied the bandages, all the reasons he was fine to stay there once the bleeding was staunched. Lancer disputed each of them as they came (though when Phantom gave him the particularly asinine reason of ‘might make a mess from bleeding,’ all Lancer could do was stare at him sternly).

Lancer did eventually manage to convince Phantom he would be safer with Lancer and that Lancer wanted to help him. Once he was done bandaging the ghost, they then had a rather riveting argument when Phantom realized Lancer was going to have to carry him to the car.

That argument took longer than Lancer would have liked, but it was one he won as well. There was a reason he was known as being a stubborn ass by the rest of Casper’s staff. Lancer pressed the last clean towel to Phantom’s back, just in case the bandages leaked through, and carefully lifted the child, one arm under his knees and the other supporting the ghost’s back. He staggered slightly under the ghost’s weight - he was light but not as light as Lancer had anticipated.

“If you tell anyone about this, I will haunt you,” Phantom grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you not already?” Lancer joked, though at Phantom’s wince, he realized it may have been taken wrong.

“I didn’t -”

“I was kidding, Phantom,” he interrupted. “Are you going to make me go through the hero spiel again?”

Phantom gave a small harumph, blowing a strand of his hair out of his face. Determining himself to have won the argument with the teenaged ghost, Lancer navigated them to his car, carefully setting Phantom down in the back. Phantom winced as his back was jostled.

“Sorry,” Lancer mumbled, going to the front seat and beginning the drive home at a much less erratic pace. 

Silence settled into the car and Lancer drummed his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel.

“Is that Where Ferns Die by Dumpty Humpty?” Phantom piped up.

“Yeah, you a fan?” Lancer asked.

“They’re only the best band ever!” Phantom answered. “I saw them in concert once! Well, technically I did, at least. The Guys in White crashed it after I - literally - crashed into it so they didn’t actually play anything.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t worry, you wouldn’t remember it,” he explained nonchalantly. “I wiped everyone’s memory.”

“You wiped -”

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Phantom answered, his voice suddenly hard.

“Okay,” Lancer said, unwilling to press for more reasons than just not wanting to anger the ghost with apparent memory wipe capabilities. “I have Dumpty’s newest CD if you want to listen to it?”

“Uh, duh!” he answered, back to the teenaged sass Lancer was used to.

Lancer grabbed the CD from its case at the next stop sign, sliding into the player. The familiar sounds of the band floated through the air, and the silence that fell between the two was comfortable.

“Here we are,” Lancer said as he pulled into his gravel driveway, trying to take it slow as his car rocked across the uneven terrain, wincing every time he heard Phantom make a pained gasp. He’d never hated having such a long driveway before. He parked and got out, carefully lifting Phantom again (who mercifully did not protest being picked up).

“You live here?” Phantom asked, studying the house, lit as it was by Lancer’s external lights.

“Yes?”

“Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” Lancer asked, amused.

“I dunno… Something a lot older and more… bland, I suppose. Next you’re gonna tell me you have pets.” he said, gesturing towards the flowers and the colorful exterior.

“I do, in fact. I have two cats.”

“You’re shitting me right now.”

Lancer just shook his head, grinning. He managed to get the front door open without too much hassle (helped largely in part by the fact he seemed to have forgotten to lock the door in his earlier hurry).

Like clockwork, Luna and Sola immediately meowed at him upon his entrance. “Yes, yes, I’m home, move,” he said, toeing both of them away and bee-lining for his couch. He maneuvered Phantom onto the couch, glancing down and confirming the bandage hadn’t bled through, handing him a towel just in case.

“I can’t believe you actually have cats,” Phantom murmured as Sola - always the braver sibling - jumped into the ghost’s lap and meowed until he pet her. “Hi!” he said, scritching under her chin with a grin.

“Lower maintenance than dogs,” Lancer explained, digging around in the mess on top of the living room table.

“I prefer cats, anyway. Dogs don’t like ghosts, but cats don’t seem to care I’m dead,” Phantom said, seemingly thrilled when Sola laid down, curling up and purring as he petted her.

Lancer flinched at the nonchalance in Phantom’s tone about his death, carefully schooling his expression back neutral when he found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, handing the television remote to the teen. “I’m guessing you’d prefer the TV to sitting in silence or reading a book.”

“I like reading, actually,” Phantom said, accepting the remote and clicking the television on, but muting it. “Just… not old, stuffy stuff. I like sci-fi or silly stuff, mostly.”

“Oh?” Lancer asked, grinning. “What’s your favorite book?”

Phantom’s face went blank and Lancer worried he’d offended the boy somewhere. “I have forgotten every book I have ever read in my entire life, oh my Ancients.”

Lancer couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, so hard it made his stomach hurt. It was such a normal thing to say, he could imagine any number of his students saying the same thing. “Are you reading anything right now, then?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure!” Phantom said, his face lighting up. “The newest Percy Jackson book dropped two weeks ago! It’s called Sea of Monsters!”

“I haven’t read that one yet, what’s it about?” Lancer asked, settling into his chair, his grin widening as Phantom launched into an explanation, excitement on his face as he did so, talking with his hands as much as he did his mouth.

“So there’s this kid who thinks he’s just a normal dude, right? Nope - monster from Greek mythology tries to kill him and BOOM! He’s half god and has powers and he keeps having to save everyone’s ass. But people are also suspicious of him because of who his dad is - the god Poseidon. The first book everyone thinks he stole something from Zeus and he has to prove he didn’t. The next book - I haven’t gotten very far into it yet, to be honest - but apparently the camp for halfbloods like him is under attack and again, only he can save them!”

Lancer’s grin widened the more the ghost talked. “It does sound quite interesting.”

“It is!” Phantom exclaimed. “I can really relate to the main character!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his face falling slightly, but still happy. “Being judged for things outside of my control. Having to save everyone. Never being able to just… rest. Kinda wondering if it’s worth it all.”

“I’ll add it to my own list of things to read, then.”

“Isn’t it too new for you?” Phantom asked, playfully grinning. “Its author is still alive.”

“I do read new books as well, thank you,” Lancer said, sitting up and miming straightening a tie, even though he didn’t have one. “Books published within the past hundred years even!”

Phantom laughed and the two lapsed into comfortable silence. The boy unmuted the television, flicking it over to a children’s channel and seeming pleased by the show that was on - something with a red-headed cheerleader who beat evil villains with gymnastics moves, a bumbling friend with an ironic name and his funny pet, plus a super genius in her PDA.

Lancer watched him for a moment, then grabbed Fenton’s assignment back when he determined Phantom seemed as comfortable as possible, given the current situation. Flipping open the folder, he found the spot he’d left off at.

It wasn’t hard to steal his parents’ copy of the spell later in the day. They barely left the bedroom anymore, leaving him reliant on himself and the kindness of neighbors.

The Morrigan hadn’t lied about pain. The spell was long and every stroke of the quill was a knife dragging the words into his skin. The quill wrote in red, but the blood dried black, and he could feel the wounds on his back seeping into his shirt. The Boy had to take frequent breaks because of how much it hurt, but he refused to fail when it was his family on the line. It took most of the day, but, eventually, the spell was copied over.

Later, under the cover of night, the Boy made his way into the woods. He didn’t know how long the process would take, or how loud dying would be, so he decided he needed to be far from his home and village.

He knew the woods like the back of his hand, though. He knew of a small pond near a giant tree that was beautiful but it was far enough away, few people ever visited it. With only the rose bushes and their thorns as his witness, as the moon reached its peak, the Boy read the spell. 

As it turned out, writing the spell was barely painful. In comparison, it was just tree brambles dancing across his skin. Or, at least, this is what he realized as he died. Every nerve he had was on fire. He was being set ablaze and struck by lightning and drowned in boiling water all at once. Dying was every agony he’d ever imagined could exist, and then ones he’d never been able to fathom as well.

His death and rebirth was an eternity within a second. When he awoke this time, it was with stuttering, pained breaths and muscles that spasmed without his consent. He sobbed and dug his fingers into the damp dirt, struggling to drag air into aching lungs. He crawled to the pond, desperate for the relief of cool water against singed flesh. A harsh scream was dragged from the Boy’s lips as he reached the water’s edge, and his own reflection glared back at him.

He had expected to look human.

The Morrigan hadn’t warned him that he wouldn’t.

Too white teeth and too sharp ears looked back at him with too bright eyes from too pale skin. He rose a shaking hand to his face and sobbed when the reflection moved as he did. The Boy scrambled away from the pond, and his hand brushed against something soft and warm. He turned, and found himself screaming again.

He had expected to die.

He hadn’t expected to leave a corpse.

The Morrigan seemed to have left a lot out of their warning.

“No,” he muttered to himself, pulling his corpse into his lap. There was no damage visible to his body, no indication that he’d died except for the lack of movement in his chest. He clutched his body to himself and wailed in pain, rocking back and forth as he wondered how this could have gone so wrong, eyes clenched shut against burning tears.

“Why do you cry, child?” a familiar voice asked.

The Boy forced his eyes open and instead of the woods, he was now back in the Morrigan’s throne room. The god studied him, curiosity painted across their features in a way that almost looked genuine.

“You said I’d be a hybrid!” the Boy yelled. His hands were now empty; his body left behind in the human realm. “I look like Fae! I left a body behind! This isn’t what I agreed to!”

“Have you tried looking human?” the Morrigan asked.

“What?”

“You’re a hybrid, yes, but our kind aren’t meant to mix. You have two distinct halves of one whole. Focus. And try to look human.” the Fae God explained calmly. “Just trust me. You already trusted me enough to die.”

The Boy bit his tongue against an angry retort, and did as he was told, closing his eyes. He focused on his humanity; he focused on his love and hope and joy, on his desires and dreams. Moments passed before he felt the change. His body stopped feeling so angular and jutted, softening back down into gentle curves and soft edges.

When he opened his eyes back in the clearing, he went straight for the water’s edge.

His face was still wrong. It wasn’t what he was used to. There was still an off-ness he couldn’t explain. But he looked human. The Boy turned and stared at his body.

He looked human.

But he had a suspicion he’d just abandoned his humanity.

A thought that persisted even as he went home, fetched a shovel, and went about burying his corpse.

It wouldn’t be until he was placing a marker on his grave that he realized - he hadn’t felt the cold this time in the palace of the Morrigan. Even now, late at night on a fall evening, there was no chill nipping at his nose, no cold causing him to flex his fingers.

The rest of the day passed in a haze.

He walked home, noting the way the sun made the sky bleed.

He thought of the scars etched into his skin.

He put his copy of the spell where he’d stolen the original.

He thought of the way his heart was too slow.

He convinced his parents to try again; he can’t even remember how.

He thought of the way his body had slowly gotten cold and stiff as he’d buried it.

And the Boy felt like he was dying again when his parents' spell finally worked later that night.

He dreamed again of the Fae God when he fell asleep.

“How was your first day?” the Morrigan asked.

“The spell worked,” the Boy answered shortly. His mind was a fog. It was just an adjustment period. He would be fine. This was what he had agreed to.

The Morrigan hummed noncommittally. “And how was burying your body? All in all, you chose a beautiful final resting place.”

“That pond was always my place of serenity. I’ll never be able to go back.”

“Did you mark your gravesite?” the god asked. The Boy almost believed they were actually curious about him.

“Yes,” he answered, his eyes lighting up slightly for the first time since his death. “The constellation Corvus. It’s my favorite. I positioned the stones to mimic Corvus.”

The Morrigan smiled. “Corvus is a good choice. Tell me, however - do you still say that this was worth it?”

Without hesitation, the Boy nodded. “I’m still alive and now I’ll have my parents back. I’ll adjust. It was worth it.”

The Boy didn’t notice the way the Morrigan’s smile turned sad in the moment before he woke up.

“Mr. Lancer?” Phantom asked, pulling Lancer from the story.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to let you know I’m feeling better and am about to leave.”

“Your back has healed?”

“Oh, no, that won’t be fully better for a while. But my powers are back! See?” he said, calling an ectoblast to his palm, shooing a sleeping Sola away with his other, much to her chagrin.

“I’d really rather you stayed until you were fully healed,” Lancer said with a frown, then sighed. “But I won’t keep you. If you say you’re well enough, I trust you. You can fly and uh, not have legs?”

“Yep!” Phantom answered, going invisible and then popping back to visibility hovering three feet over the couch, sans legs and with tail. “See?”

Lancer smiled. “You sound better, too. Alright, well, call me if you need me.”

“Thanks, Mr. Lancer. Like, really. It’s… nice to have other people helping and not having to burden my friends.”

“It’s not a problem at all, Phantom. And I doubt you’re any more a burden to them than you were to me. And before you ask, you were exactly zero percent of a burden.”

Phantom chuckled slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in a motion that was oddly familiar but not quite placable. “Bye!” he said, flying up and phasing out through the ceiling.

For the first time since Phantom called, Lancer relaxed. He glanced at the story in his hand, marking his place and sitting it down. It was a riveting story already, Lancer had been surprised to realize, but he was just too tired to focus any more tonight.

Heading to bed, Lancer was asleep within minutes.

The box he’d buried in his mind began to wriggle.

Chapter Text

Lancer took several deep breaths, pinching the bridge of his nose as the two argued in front of him. “Mr. Baxter, Mr. Lee, what is the issue here?”

“Kwan fumbled the ball last night! He cost us the game!” Baxter yelled, hands balled into fists at his side.

“That does not mean you can call him a… er, what was it?”

“He said Phantom wouldn’t save me next time we got attacked!” Lee said, pouting as he crossed his arms.

“And that’s why you two nearly came to fisticuffs in the middle of lunch?” Lancer asked, going through his internal mantra that reminded him he liked his life and job.

“Duh! Of course Phantom would save me! I’m too cool not to save!”

“Phantom saves everyone. You know he doesn’t care if you’re popular, right?”

“You’re sure?” Lee asked, his eyes wide and puppy-like.

Lancer thought to the previous night, Phantom sat on his couch, happily petting a cat and watching a cartoon after excitedly talking about a children’s book, about how tired he is of the responsibility. “I’m positive.” Phantom will always save all of us. 

Is it fair we keep asking him to?

“See?!” Mr. Lee said, reaching over and shoving Mr. Baxter. “He would so save me!”

“Do not make me give you two detention,” Lancer said sternly, glaring at them both when Baxter went to retaliate. “You’re pushing your luck already. The only reason you aren’t serving detention tonight is I know you have football practice and Ms. Tetslaff will come up with better punishment than I could. Do you want me to ask her to make it worse?”

Both jocks paled, quickly shaking their heads. Lancer and Ms. Tetslaff may not get along in general terms, but by god was he grateful at the fear she managed to put into some of her players. “Good. Back to lunch,” Lancer dismissed, the two leaving as fast as they could, the open door left to sway slightly.

He rolled his eyes once he was alone, giving into the childish urge he always repressed in front of students. He turned back to his desk, looking over the take home test he was grading. He really would need to have yet another talk with Mr. Fenton, and possibly the boy’s parents. The test was half-assed at best and the long form question hadn’t even been attempted, not to mention what appeared to be a grease stain in the corner. Lancer sighed, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbing. 

He went to mark the grade - a D, and he was being generous - but paused, the grease stain catching the light with the movement.

What? he wondered, drawing the paper closer to his face. Is that… green?

Lancer moved the paper back and forth, letting it catch the light in a few different ways before confirming his suspicion. That’s ectoplasm. He studied it again, realizing the ectoplasm had been streaked, like it had dropped onto the paper and then tried to be washed off.

He looked at it curiously before brushing the thought away. He hadn’t thought Mr. Fenton had any interest in his parents’ ghost hunting, so it was probably splashed onto his paper by one of them on accident.

Lancer’s heart clenched slightly, the familiar feeling of helplessness in regards to this child seizing him momentarily. Ectoplasm wasn’t hazardous, though. Daniel’s exposure to it wasn’t any worse than anything else he dealt with - none of which were enough to remove him from the home. He couldn’t help but think of the child’s story - the Boy character willing to undergo anything just for his family.

He hurriedly scribbled the grade on the top corner of the paper (a very low C - he’d reconsidered some of the answers and decided he’d judged them too harshly) and continued through the stack of other tests.

It was time for his creative writing course when he thought next of the story, pulling it back out to continue it. He was actually quite intrigued by the narrative Fenton was forming. Lancer set the class to their quiet self-study or private reading and dived back into the fae tale.

The Boy knew his life would never be the same. He just had been ignorant of just how much would change.

Wild Fae Beasts began to cross over from the immortal planes, and the Boy found himself fighting for his fake life nearly every day. He was beaten and bloodied to the point of exhaustion, but the Boy persisted. This was the consequences of the decision he’d made, and it was his duty to suffer for them. He tried to catch as many as he could. His parents had managed to catch one, early in the beginning when he’d still been dealing with the pain of dying.

He wouldn’t wish what happened to that creature on any being - mortal or otherwise.

The Boy hadn’t fully understood just what lengths research meant going to, not until he walked into his own kitchen and saw it covered in purple blood, so similar to what he himself now bled.

But he fell into a routine. Keep his secret. Fight the Fae Beasts. Force them back through the rift. Tend his injuries. Count his scars. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Then, something stronger than a Beast came through.

A true Fae.

One who wielded magic like he did, who could call nature to her fingertips the way he could call storms. Their fight leveled a building and left him needing more than just rags as makeshift bandages. His friend, an amateur tailor, would later say stitching him up was no different than stitching together a leather tunic. 

At home, in the safety of his bedroom, he’d studied this new scar as he had all the others. This one stretched across his back, disrupting the words of the spell etched permanently into his skin.

He wasn’t surprised when he awoke in the Morrigan’s throne room again that night. “Why did that Fae cross?” he demanded of the god, not waiting for their greeting.

“Why not?” the Morrigan answered with a grin. “You asked for a rift between realms. Bridges go both ways, my child.”

The Boy signed. He was used to the Morrigan’s non-answers by now, though they still irked him. “Why did you call me? I would like to rest.”

“I wish to know if you still believe it's worth it.”

“Yes,” the Boy said without hesitation. His parents were happy again. They were seeing him again. Well, as much as they’d ever seen him.

“Sleep well, blessed child.”

It was dawn when he awoke in his bed, still tired. It was five minutes after dawn when a new burn joined the patchwork of damage his body bore.

He met several more times with the Morrigan, each time asked the same question, each time answering with the same yes.

Broken bone? Worth it.

Pierced lungs? Of course, his family was happy.

Burns on half his body? Not a problem.

Loss of limb? It grew back, he was fine, and this was worth it.

Without fail, he always said it was worth it.

He couldn’t admit to this trickster god that the Boy had been wrong.

Lancer frowned at the story, glancing up at where Mr. Fenton sat. Mr. Foley and Ms. Manson had pulled their desks close to his, whispering to each other. If it weren’t for the Spanish textbook open between them and the little snippets of conversation he could hear which were definitely them helping him with pronunciation, Lancer probably would’ve gotten onto them. But they were being quiet and working, like several others, which was enough for the teacher.

Still, he studied the boy. The story was… a little too sad. A little too violent. Lancer tried to squash his concern down. It was a work of fiction, after all.

Still, Lancer watched the trio, noticing the way Foley and Manson seemed to try to always be touching Fenton. An arm over his shoulder, holding his hand, even just sitting close enough together that their arms brushed together. It was almost like they were trying to convince him he was still there, and they were too.

Lancer shook his head, banishing the thoughts. He was just overwhelmed from everything that had happened recently with Phantom and Fenton was doing a good job at crafting a heartbreaking story. He returned his attention to the story.

“Child, what a pleasure to see you again,” the Morrigan greeted, their wide smile full of teeth that could rip him apart.

The Boy said nothing. He couldn’t move his body. His body burned and his bones ached and his muscles spasmed.

“I see your parents' research has made great strides in harnessing magic for the greater good of humans,” the god said, watching with bored disinterest as the child struggled to breathe at their feet. “That spell they created was rather vicious, wasn’t it?”

The Boy hated the humor in their voice. Why did they find his pain so funny?

“If you were still human, you’d be dead,” the Fae God mused, studying their immaculate fingernails. “You are in such pain. Good thing you’re a hybrid, hm? A mortal body would’ve crumbled into ash.”

“I don’t… don’t understand. They always said Fae can’t feel pain. Why does everything just hurt more and more?” the Boy managed, his head heavy as he looked up at the far-away ceiling. He couldn’t move. Even just the motion of speaking had him weary.

He dreaded when he would inevitably wake up. He knew he’d managed to get to safety near his serenity before he passed out and the Morrigan called him here. He knew he’d end up sobbing into the moss as he waited for the pain to go away enough that he could walk.

So that he could walk home to the parents who had unknowingly set him on fire.

“Ah, yes, and your parents are so knowledgeable,” the Morrigan said, their sarcasm palpable in the air. “They’re such good people too, aren’t they? Shooting you, hurting you, when you do naught but protect those they fail to keep safe?” 

The Boy remained silent. He refused to cry in front of the god that had damned him.

“Still worth your life?”

“My answer will never change.”

Neither of them mentioned this was the first time the boy hadn’t explicitly answered ‘yes.’

The bell pulled Lancer back out of the story and he set it aside, sighing as he prepared for the next class. The life of a teacher was never-ending, it seemed.

Lancer was glad that night when he got home and was able to stretch out on his chair, Luna and Sola immediately jumping into his lap. He leaned the chair back and settled in, Luna curling on his chest. Content to wait a bit before starting back on grading, he picked up the remote, clicking on the television.

Lancer watched the television in confusion as a cartoon with a… teenaged robot going to high school?… came on. He grinned when he remembered Phantom watching and relaxing more than he’d ever seen before. It was almost a fond memory, if he ignored the part where Phantom had been injured for it. He flipped the channel over, watching the news. Most of it was boring and mundane - just the way adults liked it. But, of course, it was never meant to stay simple and boring.

It cut to a breaking story - Phantom was at the local mall, the camera zooming in from far away as he went through the window display (and therefore the window) of a Forever 21.

“Not my style, dude!” Phantom shouted, barely audible in the microphone, popping up out of a pile of clothes with a hat sitting sideways on his head.

“I don't know, it suits you!” a greasy looking ghost on a motorcycle (hovering thirty feet in the air) yelled back.

Phantom phased out of the clothing (why did he never just phase through the windows instead of going through glass?) and shot back towards the other ghost.

Lancer grimaced when he noticed the cut across Phantom’s side, likely from the window shards. It was bleeding pretty badly, in Lancer’s admittedly uninformed opinion.

He watched the broadcast with rapt attention as the two ghosts volleyed blasts at each other, flinching every time Phantom didn't dodge quick enough. Lancer breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the tell-tale light of the Fenton Thermos catching the biker ghost. Phantom waved at the faraway camera, shouted something about not doing drugs and staying in school then turned invisible.

Lance Thunder began to rant. “I should’ve stayed in Chicago where there are no fu-” and the feed cut him off, going back to the news station.

“And here's Tiffany Snow with the weather, since Lance is still having fun at the mall!”

Lancer glanced at his cell phone, already waiting for Phantom to call him.

Calm down, William, he chastised himself. The injury wasn't that bad and it wouldn't do to turn into a mother hen. Still, he decided a distraction was needed and pulled Fenton's writing assignment to him from his briefcase.

“How is it to be king?” the Morrigan asked.

“I don’t want to be king of the Fae!” the Boy pleaded, falling to his knees in front of them. “You are a god! Can’t you give it to someone else?”

“I could -”

“Please!” he pleaded.

“But I won’t,” they said. For once, there was no cruelty in the Morrigan’s eyes. There was no laughter or mockery, there were no poorly hidden jabs. “You will be a great king. I will not deny my people that.”

“How can I be king?”

“You killed the last one. It is how lines of succession work when you are immortal.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kill the previous king! Don’t make me do this!” the Boy begged.

Cruelty returned to the Morrigan’s gaze. “I have never made you do anything, my king. You have always had the final say in your decisions.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” the Boy said, bitter as a squeezed lemon.

“You chose to stop the king. You chose this crown.”

“I didn’t know that’s what I was choosing!” he yelled. He forced down sobs - he would not cry in front of this creature. “I just wanted to save my world and not die again!”

“See? By your own admission, you made a choice. You had a decision to make: die and let the world burn, or stop a tyrant king.”

“How was I to know stopping him would do this?”

At that, the Morrigan tilted their head to the side, turning the full force of their multifaceted gaze to the child. “You are half Fae, you silly child. Have you not tried to learn of the culture which now makes up half of you?”

The Boy’s silence was all the answer they needed, and had nothing to do with the panic clenching his throat.

“You would have known had you tried to learn,” the Morrigan explained, dropping the full brunt of their scrutiny. “You still refuse what you are - what you chose to become. This is your life now - your immortal existence. Learn what it means to be Fae. Do not cry again to me about decisions you made because you failed to inform yourself.”

The Boy merely glared at the god, though the Morrigan didn’t tremble under his gaze the way he had under theirs.

“I don’t understand why you want me to rule,” he said instead of the curses dripping from the end of his tongue.

“You will be the best king my people have seen in eons. You may be terrified and surrounded by enemies now, but I can see. You will rule with a ferocity my people no longer understand. Your enemies will make you strong. Your fear will make you great.”

But the Boy was tired. He was tired of living in fear. He was tired of waiting for the next fight. He was tired of the injuries, and the pain, and the dread. In a literal sense, he was tired of not being able to sleep.

“I don't want to rule,” he mumbled to himself.

“I do not care,” they replied and the Boy knew the argument was lost and his coronation was inevitable. They grinned coldly. “Was it worth your life?”

The Boy couldn't bring himself to nod.

Lancer continued to read, doing his best to focus on the story Daniel was crafting. It went on to describe the unnamed main character's coronation, detailing the Morrigan character's aloof benevolence and occasional perceived cruelty. Lancer wondered if the inconsistent character behavior was intentional or not. Normally, he'd go for ‘not,’ but the story seemed otherwise well managed, his only complaint being the pacing was a little off.

Still, he wondered if this Morrigan was meant to be reflective of someone in Daniel's life - someone he felt was wise but full of judgment, with the Boy's life in their hands. Maybe it was multiple people made into an archetype? The Morrigan had been given a plural pronoun, after all…

Lancer grinned when it got to a part talking about the boy’s friends and the way they loved and cared for him. They were never given names, never told how many friends he had, never even given dialogue, but their love and help was repeated several times.

Still, even as the Boy began to talk about how lonely he felt because his friends couldn't understand because they were just too human, Lancer's mind wandered. He was worried for the phantom child.

Sighing, he placed the assignment to the side again, replacing it with his phone. He'd saved the number Phantom called from, presumably the boy's personal number. He tossed the phone back and forth in his hands, chewing at his lip as he thought.

Surely Phantom wouldn't be upset if Lancer checked in? Lancer just wanted to help, after all.

He groaned. If he didn't call and get confirmation the ghost was okay, he wouldn't be able to rest. Before his bravery could fail him, he dialed the number.

It rang several times and Lancer thought he was about to get voicemail when the call was finally answered.

“Hello?” a male voice asked, one that was familiar but definitely was not Phantom's echoing tone, completely throwing Lancer off.

“Who is it?” he heard Phantom ask in the background, followed by a sharp “Ow!”

“Don't be a baby,” a third, feminine voice said.

“Don't be a baby,” Phantom repeated back, doing his apparent best to emulate a baby. “I got shot, let me whine!”

“Dork,” the girl said affectionately.

“Can you two shut up?” the first person said, audibly angling his face away from the phone. “Anyway, who is this?”

“It's, uh, it's William Lancer.”

There was silence and then, “Okay but for real, though, who is this?”

“This is William Lancer,” he repeated, forcing more confidence into his voice. Rambunctious students he could handle without issue, but talking to a superhero and what sounded like two sidekicks? Just a little bit out of his league.

“He says it's Mr. Lancer,” the person spoke up again, his voice slightly muffled as though he'd covered the receiver.

“What? How'd Lancer get my number? I never gave it to him and I blocked it when I called - uh…”

There was a moment of silence and Lancer cleared his throat. “Phantom, you did not block your number when you called me.”

“Fuck,” the ghost muttered.

“Excuse me, why the hell would you call some out of shape English teacher for help? Uh, no offense, Mr. L.” the male said.

“Of course not,” Lancer mumbled.

“I… uh… um…”

“Lancer, why don't you explain?” the female asked, and suddenly a mental image of a very impressive glare being aimed at Phantom formed from her tone alone.

“I will not break his confidence, my apologies.”

“It wasn't that bad!” Phantom hurriedly said. “You made it sound bad! Guys, it was just a spinal cord injury.”

“Is that why you were limping today? Clockwork, Da - damn it, Phantom, you know you need to rest after injuries like that!” the boy said and Lancer was warmed by the concern in his voice.

“You would've called us for that, though, it's not the first time we'd have dealt with it,” the other person said. “Full story. Now, Phantom.”

“I hate you guys,” Phantom mumbled in a tone that indicated the opposite. “Fine. Skulker got me with a revamped version of the Plasmius Maximus, okay? No powers, nasty injury, and I was too far away for you to get there.”

“Wait, Plasmius Maximus?” the boy asked. “So Lancer knows abo-”

A loud slap echoed through the phone, and Lancer got the expression someone had just thrown their hands over the kid's mouth. “No! All ghost, just no powers.”

“And you didn't tell us this because…?” the girl asked.

“Well -” Phantom began.

“Excuse me!” Lancer spoke up. This wasn't a conversation for him, after all. “I just wanted to… make sure Phantom was okay. I saw the fight on the news.”

“I'm fine, Mr. Lancer,” Phantom piped up. “Just a couple of scratches. I'll be good as new by dinner time.”

Lancer relaxed, releasing tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in his shoulders. “Okay. Okay, good. Sorry, to uh, bother you.”

“You're good. Thanks, uh, y'know, for checking in. But, don't give out this number, okay?”

“Of course not, Phantom. It was good to hear you doing okay.”

“No problem. Bye, Mr. Lancer,” the ghost said and Lancer heard the other two already grilling him for more information when the line went dead.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Lancer let the phone clatter onto the nearby table. Some part of him was deeply curious what else he could have learned if he'd continued to eavesdrop, to learn more about the ghost boy that had become such a prominent figure in the community.

Deciding that that was quite enough excitement for the night (and honestly probably the past several days), Lancer retired to the bedroom, content to snuggle with his cats and look forward to tomorrow being the weekend.

~~~~~~

It was late morning when Lancer finally woke up the next day. He stayed in his bed reading Jane Eyre until his rumbling stomach forced him to his feet. He studied the sparse offerings of his fridge (he preferred works of fiction to cookbooks, he was unashamed to say) and decided to go out to eat. He’d been planning on going to the mall anyway - he’d lost too many pairs of his favorite pants to ectoplasm stains and burns after two years teaching at a supernatural hotspot. He could get food there and he did want to check out the Books-A-Million there as well.

He threw on his lazy day clothes (which were the same as his work clothes, just with the top button not done up, all casual-like) and made coffee to tide him over. He set up the automatic laser pointer in the living room to keep the little ones entertained - they got a little crazy when he was out of the house for too long sometimes.

Amity Park’s Lakerun Galleria mall was clear on the opposite side of the city, and Lancer enjoyed the ride there - windows down, music up, traffic tolerable. He pulled into the parking deck, grumbling slightly at the distance he had to walk, but at least it was well shaded. The Galleria was unsurprisingly busy, and Lancer settled into one of the seats in the central food court after grabbing a basic burger meal from one of the various vendors. He looked up, studying the ceiling. He’d always liked the Galleria’s glass ceiling - made of windows instead of concrete, it made the area feel more open and warm, and allowed him to watch the clouds going across the blue sky.

He studied the carousel occupying the center arena of the food court, smiling to himself as he watched the various little children drag their parents and siblings onto the attraction. The smell of cookies and pretzels wafted around him and he was perfectly content in this moment in time, surrounded by happiness and people.

Wrapping up his meal, he stood and stretched, his joints popping in protest as he dropped his tray off at one of the trash receptacles. Stomach satisfied, he made his way to Sears, only briefly stopping to study the store Phantom had been thrown through the previous night. The glass had been cleaned up and the store was open, but yellow and black caution tape had replaced the window itself.

Lancer glanced around at the happy people milling about - children with their parents, teens with their friends, young adults with their partners - and found his heart aching for the teenaged ghost they all owed far too much to, for the child who’d died too soon only to have to stitch up his own injuries in death.

He turned away, resuming his march to Sears, unwilling to dwell on Phantom. Lancer had started getting too close to Phantom, he knew. He was worrying more, he was thinking about the damage to Phantom more than the damage to infrastructure. Lancer had several identical pairs of pants in the same size thrown over his arm when he froze, realization dousing him.

That was what everyone did. They stopped seeing Phantom as someone who protected them and could get hurt, instead seeing him as a superhero straight out of a comic book. He checked out, heading back towards the Forever 21 Phantom had been thrown through, studying the patrons who walked by. None of them even glanced at the shattered glass; they all knew what had happened and that made it uninteresting. But it was interesting, at least to the boy and his friends who had to tend to him after.

Lancer sighed and moved towards the other end of the Galleria, slinking his way through crowds to get to the bookstore. He went the opposite direction he usually did - ignoring the Classics section in favor of the Children’s section. He started making his way to the section for authors beginning with R, only to be pleasantly surprised when the books he was looking for were on an end cap, prominently featured.

“Rick Riordan’s The Lightning Thief - ‘a riotously paced quest tale of heroism,’” Lancer read quietly, flipping the book over to read the blurb on the back. It had been a while since Lancer had read a children’s book… but he couldn’t deny the book sounded interesting. He grabbed a copy of both the first and second book, heading to check out.

“Hello, Ms. Robertson,” Lancer said, gently placing the books on the checkout counter.

“Mr. Lancer, hi!” she said in her usual perky tone. She was one of Lancer’s twelfth graders and one who enjoyed books nearly as much as Lancer himself did, though she preferred more current books, especially mystery, as he’d gathered from all of their ‘choose your own book’ assignments. “Didn’t peg you for being into children’s books,” she added, scanning his purchase.

“I normally am not, but this series came highly recommended,” Lancer explained, handing over both his membership card and enough cash to cover the transaction.

“Have you read The Da Vinci Code?”  she asked as she handed his change back to him.

“I have not. Is it good?”

“It’s only my favorite book!” she said, grinning and excitedly waving her hands in a manner that reminded him of Phantom. “It’s a mystery book based around riddles hidden within the works of Leonardo Da Vinci following a murder of the Louvre’s curator! You should read it - more novels from this century may help you keep ‘hip with the times’ with your students.”

Lancer laughed, remembering the time he’d been carrying around a book that made him sound even more out of date than he already did. “I don’t know, I think How to Sound Hip for the Unhip already did wonders for helping me sound like one of the kids.”

“Oh, definitely,” Ms. Robertson said, visibly repressing laughter. At least Lancer could make fun of himself these days.

Another patron lined up behind Lancer and the two said their goodbyes. Lancer went back to the food court, unwilling to go home quite yet. Instead, he bought a smoothie from the Nasty Burger stand and sat down on the outside edge of the terminal. He flipped open the book he’d bought, sipping leisurely at his banana smoothie as he did so, letting the smells and sounds of the mall fade around him in a way that wasn’t distracting but also made him feel like a part of the world around him.

He was fifty-some pages in when he was suddenly interrupted, a shout of “Danny, watch out!” the only warning he had before one clumsy black haired teenager fell against his table, knocking it over. Thankfully, both book and smoothie were secure in his hands, and nothing got truly disturbed.

“Shit! Sorry Mr. L!” Foley said, reaching down and helping Fenton up. “Guess we were, uh, what’s the word? Goating around too much.”

“Horsing around is the phase you meant, I believe,” Lancer said. “Are you alright Mr. Fenton?”

“I’m fine,” Fenton grunted, pushing himself to his feet, though he winced as he pressed a hand to his side.

“Are you sure?” Lancer asked, concerned.

“I’m sure, no EMT-trained care needed over here,” Fenton answered with an exasperated eye roll as Manson righted the table.

Something with that sentence bothered him but Lancer waved it off. “As long as you say so,” he said, gesturing to where Fenton still held his side.

“Oh, that’s from earlier. I decided to forget there was a doorknob on my bedroom door and slammed my side into it.”

“It really is amazing how often he forgets doorknobs exist on most doors,” Manson added with a laugh. 

Lancer grinned, appeased with the explanation. He’d seen Fenton do that with the door to his classroom enough times to know it was true.

“Is that the first Percy Jackson book?” Fenton asked, pointing to the book still in Lancer’s hand.

“It is. An… acquaintance recommended it highly and I found myself curious.”

“Who do you know who reads books for teenagers?” Manson asked.

“Ah, it’s no one you would know,” Lancer said, waving the question away.

“Well, sorry again, Mr. L,” Foley said. “C’mon guys, we gotta get to Radio Shack already! This sale is too good to pass up!” he continued, turning his attention from Lancer and grabbing his friends’ hands, pulling them behind him.

“We’re coming!” Manson protested as she laughed, waving goodbye to Lancer. Fenton followed, his free hand still pressed to his injured side.

Lancer resumed reading, continuing with his smoothie.

It was an hour and another hundred pages when Lancer finally finished his drink and subsequently decided it was time to head home. The book was surprisingly good for the age range it was aimed at, but Lancer had other fictional stories he needed to get to.

Throwing away his trash, he made the irritatingly long trek to his car. Once home, he made his way to his chair, grabbing Fenton’s story, determined to finish the story and hoping for a happy ending. With both Sola and Luna in his lap, he began to read.

When next the two met, the Boy wondered if he'd finally died. He pressed a hand to the still weeping wound slashed across his torso.

“You are still alive,” the Morrigan answered his unspoken question. “Well, as alive as you've been the past year.”

“Did you save me?” the Boy asked in disbelief.

“Of course not,” they answered with a dismissive wave of their hand. “Did you think you were physically here all the times you've visited?”

‘Yes,’ he thought, but didn't speak aloud. He didn't like being wrong or seeming stupid, in general, but he especially didn't want to appear dumb in front of the Fae God.

The Morrigan continued on, uncaring as ever. “No, you are still on that table. You're unconscious, so I can reach your mind.”

‘Still on that table?’ he wondered, doing his best not to look down at the violet violence dripping from his injuries. He couldn't help but wonder, if he'd bled red instead of purple, would that have stopped them? Would they have shown him mercy?

“I'm going to wake up back there?” he asked, his voice hoarse from the screaming.

If the Boy hadn't seen it for himself, he'd have never believed what happened next. The Morrigan's sharp features softened and, for the first time, they placed their hand on the Boy’s shoulder. Their touch was warm like the sun, though it did not burn. It was a peaceful heat.

“No,” they said softly, “you will not wake up there. Your friends are on their way to save you. You'll wake up in their arms.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice shaking with something that might have been grief. Two days. It had already been two days on that table.

“I am. Your friends prayed to me.”

The Boy's head snapped up. “No! You can't do that to them. Let me stay there, don't kill them like you killed me!” Panic had begun to bubble up his throat. He knew the cost of prayers answered by the Morrigan. He wasn't willing to have his friends pay the price. 

The Morrigan shushed him, gently running a hand through his hair. “There is no price for them to pay. I do not make it a habit of setting prices on prayers. The price you paid was to the spell; not to me.”

“What happens after I wake up?”

“You will heal. Eventually.”

“Do I go home?”

The Morrigan shrugged, pulling away from the bleeding child before them. “I do not know what decision you will make.”

“They love me,” the Boy muttered to himself. “They'll be missing me.”

The god hummed. “Oh, they do love you so, don't they? You’ll bear the scar of their love forever, stained upon your skin. They didn't even notice you were gone, did they?”

“They didn't know it was me!” he protested, ignoring the second comment, because it hurt more than his wounds. His chest burned when he shook his head and he ignored that too.

The Morrigan's kindness faded and their normal uncaring façade reappeared. “Does it matter? They injured you. They nearly killed you. You pleaded and begged and they did nothing but silence you. All you did was exist in a world they said you didn’t belong in.”

In that moment, the Boy felt his long-held, tattered and torn pride shatter. The pride he'd fought so hard to maintain fell in pieces around him as he collapsed to his knees, deep, heaving sobs racking his injuries, and only making him cry more.

“You were the one who said they were just researchers,” the Morrigan reminded him, not unkindly, “that they just wanted to study my people.”

‘I didn't know this is what they meant by study,’ the Boy realized, only to cry harder. In his naiveté, he'd never bothered to think what studying a living organism meant. It wasn't a study of the being in nature - it was a study of pain and inhumanity, a lesson he’d learned in blood.

The Morrigan studied him, a deep sadness in their eyes. “Was it worth your life?”

“Yes,” the Boy answered immediately, the first time he'd done so in a long, long time.

“You cry, yet you say yes?”

“It was worth my life. I don't mind dying for the happiness of the people I love,” he explained, voice breaking with agony that went far below his skin. “It wasn't worth my resurrection. It wasn't worth living.”

“I am sorry that fate decided for you to live,” the Morrigan said, “though I am happy you do.”

“I don't know if I can keep doing this.”

“You will because you must,” they said, as if it were the simplest thing in the realms. “You have no choice but to. You will not allow innocent blood to be spilt on either side.” 

“I'm not strong enough for this!”

“When you need strength, look to Corvus. Look to the sky and draw strength from me. I am with you, as much as I can be.”

The Boy didn't get the chance to respond. As he blinked, he was awoken in the arms of his friends, screaming his name. He felt the damp dirt beneath him, digging his hands in like claws as his blood saturated the earth. 

His friends cried and thanked the unknown Fae God who answered their players, they tended him and held him and loved him.

But things weren't the same. Not anymore. Not after what had happened. Distance he didn't mean to grow began to spread between them, a mawing chasm consuming their love before it reached him. They didn't seem to notice it, they only noticed as he grew quieter.

The loneliness within him grew endlessly, a bone deep ache he couldn't shake, a weakness that atrophied his muscles.

The Boy tried to draw strength from others when he could not wield it himself. He tried. He really tried.

But even the Crow in the sky could not grant him strength when his peace had been shattered. So he wore his taped-together mask and tried to be the human everyone wanted.

Lancer reached the end of the story, his heart breaking deeply. Sure, Fenton had seemed off a few months prior, but he’d seemed fine recently. This read like something had happened and he was lying to his friends, pretending to be okay when he didn’t feel it. Or was Lancer reading too deeply into things? Did Fenton just have a penchant for sad stories? From what Lancer had understood, the Boy - who had never been given a name, never humanized in that way - had saved his family from depression just to sink into his own misery.

Lancer thought through all the mental notes he’d been making as he read. Concerns about the pacing, the way the Morrigan’s character seemed to seesaw back and forth inconsistently, the lack of a noticeable arc for any of the other characters beside the Boy. Lancer couldn’t find it in himself to criticize the work, all of the things he’d thought of seemed stylistic. The main character was a traumatized child and the story was told from his point of view - it made sense that things wouldn’t make sense. Besides, he’d been planning on giving the story a 100 the entire time. It was a fascinating tale of heartbreak, fate, and family.

So instead, Lancer circled a few of the more glaring grammatical errors, knowing it would look suspicious if he didn’t, and praised the work.

Setting the story aside and with a slight chill to his bones, he blindly grabbed the next one. He was almost relieved to see Kwan Lee’s name. Lancer spent the rest of the day and the next working on the stories.

Kwan Lee’s ended up being about dying and the humorous shenanigans of becoming a ghostly superhero, dedicated to ‘saving his town and collecting all the hot babes.’

Paulina Sanchez’s was about a supermodel who had secret, intelligent depths and was afraid to show it for fear of backlash, until the town’s superhero was in danger and she was the only one who had an idea to save him. Lancer was mildly surprised the story ended with an emphasis on being one’s true self and not romance.

Mikey Jordan’s was a surprisingly detailed high fantasy story that Lancer could see becoming the next best-seller if Mr. Jordan would fix his grammar.

Eliza Robertson’s - the girl at the bookstore - was a refreshing and remarkably well thought-out mystery thriller that had even Lancer at the edge of his seat.

Come Sunday afternoon, however, Lancer had had quite enough of the creative writing stories after finishing five in two days. He was quite content to curl up with and finish The Lightning Thief before laying down. All in all, it was a lazy Sunday, and Lancer couldn’t have been happier with his day.

If only the box in his mind had gotten the memo, instead of releasing nightmares into his rest.

Chapter Text

The next morning found Lancer in Ishiyama’s office, discussing the pep rally next Monday.

“So the shirts should be ready Thursday?” Lancer asked, scribbling down meeting notes on a writing pad.

“Yes. And all staff have agreed to the shirts. We've also not had any student complaints. Just the opposite, in fact. The students seem excited - barring Valerie Gray, of course.”

“Of course,” Lancer said with a sigh. He wasn't so daft as to say he didn't understand Ms. Gray's ghost hatred but honestly, everyone could see what had happened was an accident. Ms. Gray just needed someone to blame, and Phantom was the easiest target.

“She hasn't been too bad about it, though,” Ishiyama continued. “She tried to get some other students to agree with her and other than one of the freshmen, not a single student agreed with her. I don't think she realized just how popular Phantom was among her peers.” 

Lancer nodded in agreement, relieved that she wasn’t causing any issues. After the little bit of time he’d spent with Phantom, he really was determined to show the ghost he was loved by more than his friends/sidekicks. They discussed a few more things - Dash Baxter’s falling grades, Daniel Fenton’s continued truancy, Tucker Foley’s tendency to hack the school system and leave ‘humorous’ messages for random staff members - but eventually, the meeting wrapped up and Lancer took his leave.

He fell into a comfortable routine over the next few days, almost like what it had been before - but now he texted Phantom every evening, making sure he was okay whether it was due to one of his publicized fights or simply because Lancer hadn’t seen the ghost that day. Sure, he knew he seemed like a mother hen, but honestly, could he be blamed? He’d finally realized all the things Phantom dealt with, and it felt right to do what he could to help him, even if it was only simply checking in.

If Phantom minded his worrying nature, he didn’t say anything.

Still, Lancer couldn;t help the way his heart leapt into his chest with panic when he got a call from Phantom at two in the morning the following Friday. 

“Help,” the ghost said as soon as Lancer answered, bleary eyed and exhausted until he heard the word.

“Where are you?” Lancer asked, already out of his bed and pulling appropriate clothing on over his pajamas.

“I’m - ugh,” the ghost said, taking a ragged, pained breath, “I’m near your house. I need to hide. I know it’s a lot to ask, but -”

“Come over, I’ll get the first aid kit ready,” he interrupted. “Are you good to phase in or do I need to unlock the door?”

“I can phase. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Phantom said, immediately hanging up.

The next four minutes were the most slow-moving, anxiety-inducing four minutes of Lancer’s life. He paced his living room, Sola and Luna voicing their displeasure when he refused to sit and be a couch for them, voicing it even louder when he locked them in his bedroom. He grabbed some blankets he didn’t mind losing and tossed them over the couch - if Phantom was bad enough to come here, Lancer could at least try to minimize the stains. And it distracted him for a whole seventeen seconds!

However, even with being prepared for a ghost to appear, Lancer still nearly jumped out of his skin when Phantom came through his walls, immediately collapsing to his hands and knees, coughing up ectoplasm onto Lancer’s pale cream carpet.

The image of Phantom like this, with what appeared to be a spear embedded through his chest, would haunt Lancer for years to come.

“Phantom!” he exclaimed, running to the ghost’s side.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Phantom mumbled as Lancer gently helped Phantom to his feet, keeping a grip on the injured ghost’s elbow as he navigated him towards the couch.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Lancer lied, studying the spear jutting through Phantom’s front and back. There were few other injuries - some burns, a minor cut on his face - but the visible impalement was concerning enough on its own. Lancer’s anger flared when he realized the spiked side of the spear was the one piercing through Phantom’s chest - meaning whoever had shot this ghost had shot him in the back. 

“We need to get the metal out,” Phantom said, adjusting on the couch so neither end of the spear had any pressure on it. “I can’t phase through this material, it goes intangible with me.”

“Pardon my ignorance but is it possible for you to bleed out? Er, ectoplasm out? Please don’t tell me this is something else you’ve had experience with…”

Phantom shook his head and suddenly stopped with a groan, grabbing his head with both hands. “I’ve never been impaled, no, but I’ve had a lot worse done to me where I woulda bled out if I could,” he answered and Lancer forcibly shut down the part of his mind that tried to come to terms with that particularly worrying statement.

“Alright. Well, then, let's get this out of you. It would be best to… pull it the rest of the way through…” Lancer said, his face paling as he realized what he was about to do. Still, he pushed through. “I’m going to cut away your jumpsuit around the entry and exit wounds. I know you heal fast, but I don’t know if how a ghost would react to a foreign body healing inside of you is different than a human.”

The ghost raised his hand to where the spike poked through his chest, gently pressing at the skin surrounding it. “Just… don’t panic if you see scars, okay?”

Lancer would absolutely be panicking, thank you very much, he would just also be hiding it very well. He dug out a pair of scissors and began to carefully cut a large swath of fabric from around both sides of the injury.

He immediately understood why Phantom warned him about the scars. Sure, Lancer had seen the ones on Phantom’s back that first night at the school.

He hadn't, however, realized there were exponentially more, a fact obvious to determine with the limited amount of skin visible from the bit of cut away fabric.

It also had done nothing to prepare him for the sight of this ghost’s chest - this happy, joking child, gone too soon yet ready to save innocents at every turn despite expecting their scorn - and the top portion of what even he knew to be a Y-incision. 

Lancer dug his teeth into his tongue to keep from making a sound and fought to keep his expression neutral. He saw Phantom’s eyes flick towards him when the scar was exposed, a fearful expression crossing his glowing face as he seemed to wait for Lancer’s reaction. Still, the teacher refused to let the ghost see just how utterly devastated he was by the revelation of such a horrific injury.

“Okay, Phantom,” Lancer said, dropping the cutaway portions of suit haphazardly beside himself, “I’m going to pull this out, okay? It’s going to hurt, I’m afraid.”

“Heh. Lancer pulling out a lance. Is that irony?” Phantom asked as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“It most certainly is not, Mr. Phantom,” Lancer answered, wrapping his hands around the spear, careful to avoid the spikes on the end. “Three… two…” he began counting, hurriedly pulling before saying ‘one.’

Phantom screamed, shoving his own fist into his mouth as his body shuddered violently.

“It’s out!” Lancer said, dropping the spear to the floor. It was fully coated in Phantom’s green blood from tip to end, and the ectoplasm immediately seeped into the carpet, growing rapidly into a large stain.

“Fuck,” Phantom breathed, tears visibly pooling in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m going to patch it up, okay? Can you talk to me while I do? I know you said you won’t pass out, but just for my own sanity, okay?” Lancer said, trying and failing to add the notes of humor to his voice that he’d meant to.

“Talk about fucking what?” the ghost growled, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around himself.

Despite the way the ghost tried to hide himself, Lancer still saw the way tears dripped from his face, flowing like an ethereal diamond as they fell to the floor.

“I don’t care. Anything. What’s your favorite topic?”

“Space,” Phantom answered without hesitation.

“Tell me all about space, then. Do you… like… stars?” Lancer asked, grasping at straws. Astronomy was not anywhere near his forte.

Apparently his floundering was amusing, however, as it drew a pained chuckle from Phantom. “Yeah. It’s been something I’ve always liked. First just ‘cause stars are pretty and then I wanted to be an astronaut to go touch the constellations. ‘Course, that was before I realized how space actually worked…” 

“Do you have a favorite constellation?” Lancer asked, glancing up at Phantom’s face. He looked paler than usual, his glow dim and his eyes glazed over, but overall he was hiding his pain well, from the looks of it. The biggest indication he had that Phantom was more than a little pain-addled was the fact the ghost actually answered his question.

“Corvus, easy.”

Something stirred in Lancer’s memory and he frowned slightly, trying to remember where he’d heard of the constellation Corvus before. “I don’t think I know much about that one, can you tell me about it?”

Phantom shrugged. “It’s not as big a thing in the human realms, so I’m not surprised. It’s not like Corvus is a Zodiac, but it’s, like, a divine symbol in the Ghost Zone. It’s like the Zone’s version of old Irish legend.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. So, like, the constellation Corvus is the crow or the raven. Corvus is said to be the deceased youngest sister of the Great Queen, one of her triplet sisters. Corvus is the Badb, a war goddess that looked like a crow and one of the lesser rulers under the Queen. When the Badb died in war, the Queen hung her in the mortal sky, a warning to all, and she replaced her sister as the war goddess, and she was already, like, the goddess of fate. It’s… actually a long story.”

“Intriguing - I wonder if there’s a book about this? I’d love to know more.” Lancer prompted when Phantom trailed off, his eyes going more unfocused. The words were slightly stuttering and sometimes took him longer than usual to say, but that was unsurprising. The bandaging was done, so Lancer grabbed a nearby towel and wiped his hands, settling into his chair.

“I’m sure the Ghostwriter has a book on it…” Phantom said. “I’d have to break in and steal it, though.”

“Or you could just tell me the rest of the story?” Lancer prompted, wincing slightly at how casually Phantom mentioned breaking and entering what sounded like a ghost’s home. “I’ve got no other plans.”

Phantom grinned slightly, his lips barely pulling up at the corner but still there. “So, the Queen declared that Corvus was the constellation of Death, ‘cuz Badb was dead. As time passed, the Queen became associated with doom, death, and victory, because the wars waged after Badb died were more violent and with higher death costs. People stopped tryna negotiate or come to peaceful solutions. The weapons got sharper and deadlier. So, since so many ghosts form from war, she became considered the Queen of the Infinite Realms. It earned her the name the Phantom Queen, even though she rejected the throne of the Zone. But ghosts still pray to her and when they’re on the human side, they look to Corvus in the sky - to the ‘Death above them’ - and will use it to guide them home. There was a legend that if your favorite constellation when you’re alive was the Corvus, it meant the Queen had marked you for death, and the Morrigan would come to guide you to the throne.”

Lancer’s entire body went rigid as he remembered where he knew about Corvus from. Where he knew the name Morrigan. The box in his mind, all the small things he’d noticed, exploded with the force of a collapsing star. “Oh. Uh, I’ve never heard of that. It’s an interesting story,” he forced out as he studied Phantom’s face, so familiar to another’s when he just looked hard enough.

“Yeah, only ghosts know it. I think you’re the only human who knows it, actually,” Phantom said, running a hand through his white hair in a way that cast black shadows and made Lancer’s heart spasm with grief.

“Well, I’m honored,” the teacher said after a moment too long of silence. 

Phantom shrugged, the movement making him hiss in pain and he pressed his hand to the patched up wound on his chest, where red lines glared with new vigor at Lancer. “I know how much you like stories.”

Because you sat in my class today, and every other school day, and listened to me tell them, didn’t you? Lancer thought grimly, the story a seemingly troubled teen had written suddenly a scalding hot ember in his mind. 

It was taking everything Lancer had not to fall to his knees and sob. The two continued with idle chatter, Phantom quickly healing as they did so, until he was ready to go only an hour after with an easy smile and an apology if he’d said anything weird - he couldn’t remember the past two hours after getting shot by ghost hunters. Lancer didn’t say anything, he couldn’t remember the past hour of conversation as he tried to keep an avalanche of realization from crushing him under the weight of knowledge.

But as Phantom left, forgetting the spear on the ground, Lancer could barely breathe. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t…

Lancer tried to convince himself it was all a coincidence, it must be a coincidence. He scrambled to his feet and went to the pile of stories he’d finished reading, hurriedly pulling out his damning evidence.

When the name Danny Fenton looked at him from the folder this time, it caused an entirely new type of pain within Lancer. He skimmed through the pages, newfound understanding a caustic bile in his throat.

Lancer was still flipping back and forth through pages, more than a handful now littered with small tears where he’d turned the page too hard, when his clock’s alarm went off. He looked up and out his window, a diluted surprise as he realized it was already dawn. How long had he spent staring at this folder, looking for another answer, one that didn’t make him feel like a house of straw waiting to be blown over?

He briefly considered calling out for the day and continuing his panicked page turning all through the weekend but he steeled himself against the urge.

There were answers he needed that he couldn’t find in the lines of the story he held.

Lancer felt disconnected from his body in a way he never had before as he prepared for the day. He’d been through a lot of surprises in his life. Living with cats will do that. Working with kids will do that. Being in a town with ghosts will do that.

Yet, Lancer didn’t think all of those surprises combined could add up to the surprise he’d experienced that night.

Later, he wasn’t sure when he’d gotten his car or left his house, as he pulled into his parking space. Had he fed the cats? Had he forgotten them locked in his room? 

“Are you alright, Mr. Lancer?” Ishiyama asked, startling Lancer. When had he walked into the building?

A smile that felt like someone else’s crossed his face. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

The day went so slowly, and so quickly, and then it was time for the eleventh grader’s English class. He assigned them the same thing he’d assigned all other classes that day - “We’re going to do quiet reading today.” No one complained, pretty much everyone appreciating the fact they were getting a lazy Friday.

“Mr. Fenton, can I speak with you?” Lancer asked, motioning the boy closer. Fenton threw confused glances to Manson and Foley but obeyed, Foley giving the other boy a friendly pat on the back.

Lancer didn’t miss Fenton’s hastily concealed wince when Foley’s hand connected. He desperately tried to miss the mostly healed scratch on Fenton’s cheek, where Phantom had also had one - more confirmation for what he knew to be true.

“What’s up?” the boy asked casually, as though he hadn’t been impaled through the chest by ghost hunters the night before.

Lancer’s stomach dropped even further. It wasn’t hard to guess who the hunters had been.

Like he hadn’t been shot in the back by his own parents the night before.

“Er, yes, I need to speak with you after school. Can you come see me after your last class?” Lancer answered, steepling his fingers together in a motion that he prayed looked more natural than it felt.

Fenton groaned. “What did I do?”

“It’s nothing bad, don’t worry. I just need to speak with you.”

The teen narrowed his eyes at Lancer, and Lancer did his best to keep his expression neutral. “Is this about my parents?”

“Whyever would it be?”

“I’ve made sure not to tell them about the pep rally. You don’t have to remind me after school not to mention it to them.”

“It’s not about that, I promise. It’s, uh, a question about your assignment. One better to ask in private.”

He groaned again, running a hand down his face, looking far too tired for someone so young. “Fine,” he grumbled, returning to his desk without being dismissed, settling between his friends. The other two threw glares at Lancer, presumably after Fenton explained he’d been asked to stay after school. Lancer pretended not to notice, keeping his eyes down on the papers on his desk, though he couldn’t actually see the words.

The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly, Lancer trying and failing to hide his fidgeting as it did so. Mercifully, most students were oblivious to his struggles, and the ones that did ask accepted his “Ah, not feeling my best, thank you for asking” excuse.

When the final bell rang, Lancer was about ready to anxiously vibrate out of his skin. He knew he’d needed to talk to Daniel… but he still didn’t know what to say. How in the world was he supposed to tell a student that he knew the student was - on some level - dead?

Still, five minutes after the bell, Lancer’s ears perked up when he heard the trio’s voices outside his door, Fenton telling them he’ll call them later. Yet again, Lancer felt like he was drowning on air. The friends Phantom had, the children Lancer had talked to on the phone last week. That was Foley and Manson. How had it taken Lancer so long to connect those dots?

As the door was pushed open, Lancer quickly wiped his face of the distressed expression he knew he wore, presenting a perfectly neutral face as Fenton walked through.

“So, what’s up?” Fenton asked, dropping down into the desk in front of Lancer’s own and allowing his overly full backpack to slump to the ground. 

“I, uh…” Lancer struggled to find the words, still unsure how to proceed. Should he be blunt? Should he explain how he knows? “I need to talk to you about your creative writing assignment,” he decided.

One of Fenton’s eyebrows raised. “I know. You told me. What about it?”

“I wanted to ask about your inspiration for the story. Particularly Morrigan and Corvus.” Lancer pressed.

“Uh, yeah, it’s an old Irish legend. She just seemed the right choice for the topic - a kid caught between death and war and fate. Was the story too dark or something?”

“Not at all! Well, it was quite dark, but not too dark for the assignment. It was actually a really good story, I found myself gripped and wanting to know what happened with the Boy next. You’re a wonderful storyteller, Danny.”

At the sound of his preferred name, the teen tensed. “Then what’s wrong?”

Lancer was struggling to figure out how to continue when the teen’s phone rang. Fenton pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and rejected the call, setting the phone face down on his desk. “Sorry, it’s the GameStop. Probably telling me my order is ready. Anyway, what’s up? You’ve been weird all day, Mr. Lancer.”

An idea struck him and he pulled out his own cell phone, hitting the Call button on Phantom’s contact. As expected, Fenton’s phone started ringing. “Ugh, are they seriously calling me back already? Just leave a voicemail.” he grumbled, turning his phone back over. 

Lancer could tell when Danny read Lancer’s name on his phone, the blood draining from his face and panic rising in his blue eyes. Lancer turned his own phone around, allowing the boy to see his screen.

Calling: Phantom…

“I think there’s more truth to your story than myth,” Lancer said sadly. “You use the generic voicemail in case Phantom’s phone number ever got out, don’t you?”

“I don’t - what are you - how did you - what?” Danny stumbled, his free hand digging into the top of the desk so hard Lancer heard an audible crunch as the wood began to splinter.

“Last night, when Phantom - when you -” Danny visibly flinched “- were at my house, I asked you to tell me about your favorite topic. Do you remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” he continued, trying his hardest to sound gentle and calming. “That was a lot of blood, after all.”  

“Ectoplasm. It’s ectoplasm,” Danny corrected.

“Does it offend you to call it blood?”

“Blood is for humans.”

Lancer made a noncommittal hum. “Is that why you didn’t give the Boy a name in your story? Because you yourself don’t feel human enough?”

Danny fell quiet, glaring at the desktop. Lancer could’ve sworn he saw wisps of smoke as though he was burning the surface with his gaze. After seeing everything Phantom was capable of, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was actually happening.

With a sigh, Lancer pulled the story from his own desk, standing and walking over to the boy, dropping the folder in front of him. “Is it all true?” he asked softly, tapping a finger against it.

“I’m not half fairy if that’s what you mean,” Danny answered, averting his eyes.

“So everything else is true.” Lancer surmised, leaning against his desk behind him, bracing himself with his hands. It was the only way he could think of to hide the way they shook with anxiety.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” Danny responded harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, his fingers digging into his upper arms as he did so.

“But I do want the answer. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care.”

“Do you care or is it morbid curiosity?” the teen shot back, his eyes flashing green momentarily, his voice shaking with anger or fear, Lancer wasn’t sure which.

“I care more. If it genuinely is something you do not wish to discuss, I won’t. But knowing what’s happened helps me help you.”

“Help me?” Danny asked, looking at Lancer with incredulity. 

“I told you I wanted to help you the night I found you in this classroom. That hasn’t changed.”

“You can’t tell my parents,” Danny said in a tone that brokered no argument.

“Danny, are you afraid of them? We can get you out of that house.”

The teen flipped open his story, stopping on one of the last pages. Lancer knew it was the scene where the Boy had met the Morrigan after being caught by his parents and was waiting for his friends to save him. It hadn’t taken much effort for Lancer to guess the true story behind that scene and the Y-incision he’d seen on Phantom.

“It wasn’t like the story. My accident was… well, an accident. Sure, I wanted to help, but I didn’t go into it knowing what would happen, like Boy did. I screwed up and have been doing damage control ever since. I’m afraid of my parents, yeah. But not for normal reasons, and I physically can’t leave.”

“A lot of kids feel like they can’t get out, Danny,” Lancer said, this conversation one he’d had many times before with many other children, allowing him a sense of normality in a profoundly not normal circumstance. “But you can leave. I can help you out.”

But Danny was already shaking his head. “I need the portal. Both to throw the ghosts back in and because of my ghost half. I need the purified ectoplasm. I can’t leave my house. I never will be able to,” he said, sadness and regret obvious in his voice. “And I do love them.”

Lancer chewed at the inside of his cheek, knowing he was far and above anything he’d done before. It had never been this type of literal life and death. “So how much else was true?” Lancer asked, realizing he wasn’t going to get any more on this topic, despite how desperately he wanted to drag Fenton out of that damned death trap of a house.

He shrugged at the question. “All of it, in some way or another.”

“The body? The kingship? The god?”

Danny nodded. “You’re talking to the King of All Ghosts,” he said, spreading his arms wide in a faux grand gesture. “Wanted the position about as much as I wanted to bury my body in the woods two years ago. Didn’t actually meet the Morrigan, though. She’s, y’know, not actually real. But I do have a… mentor guy? His name is Clockwork. He helps me, kinda. But he’s kind of an asshole.”

“The friend who likes time quotes, I presume, with a name like that?”

For the first time since this convention began, Danny gave a slight smile. “You remembered that? But, yeah, he is kinda like a god of time, so… he likes pointing out all of this was my fate, so typically I just want to kick his Ancient ass.”

“If you ever need back up, let me know. I’d quite like a word with a god that thinks all this is acceptable,” Lancer said, only partially joking. While he’d love to give a piece of his mind to this ghost like he had with many parents, he also knew he’d get his ass kicked.

“I’ll keep that in mind, but you may need to get in line behind Sam, Tuck, and Jazz.”

“Jasmine knows?” Lancer asked. He’d already guessed about Foley and Manson, but he was surprised Ms. Fenton would keep the secret. But that did solidify to him there was more to this than he could understand. Jasmine would’ve been the first person to get her brother out of that house - or tell their parents - if it was possible.

“Yeah, she caught me transforming like three months after the accident.”

“Transforming?” Now that Danny mentioned it, of course he’d have to transform into his ghost half…

“Wanna see?” he asked, seemingly grateful the topic had steered away from his rather dangerous life for a moment.

Lancer waved his hand for the boy to continue, not denying his curiosity.

“I’m goin’ ghost!” was the only warning Lancer got before he needed to raise his hand to shade his eyes from the stunningly bright white light that swept over the teen, his baggy clothes melting away to his skin tight black jumpsuit.

“So that’s how your jumpsuit is alway so pristine after fights…” Lancer trailed off.

“I just literally died in front of you. And you’re impressed by my suit.” Phantom deadpanned.

“Please don’t phrase it that way, my brain is already on overload,” Lancer retorted, only half-joking.

Phantom shrugged. “I make a lot of death jokes. Jazz says it’s a coping mechanism.”

“Are you actually dead?” escaped from Lancer’s lips before he had the chance to think the question through, and the teacher flinched as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Phantom flinching as well. “Haunting of Hill House, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, don’t answer that.”

“I’m in a limbo state,” the teen answered, to Lancer’s shock. “Right now, I’m clinically dead. No pulse and no brainwaves, based on my parents’ tech.”

Lancer’s mouth went dry as the mention of the Fenton’s tech. He had a gut feeling Danny hadn’t exactly consented to the circumstances where he’d discovered this, a sentiment which was confirmed when Phantom continued with, “It’s how they justify what they do to ghosts. We shouldn’t be able to feel pain, on a scientific level. But back to the limbo thing - yeah, right now I’m dead. My human half functions like a normal human, though.”

Lancer bit his tongue a little too harshly, pain radiating in his mouth. He kept having to remind himself that if it was possible for Daniel to leave the home, Jasmine would have had him out years ago. He was also confident that she wouldn’t have returned to school after break if there was a concern of it happening again.

So, Lancer turned to his strengths, what he knew he could handle in this instance. “Well, let’s discuss accommodations, then.”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a look of such incredulity as Phantom loudly went “Huh?”

“Well, clearly this condition has affected your ability to do schoolwork,” Lancer said, sliding comfortably into his teacher role. “You’ve missed many assignments and skipped a lot of classes managing it. I think it’s time you got a break, don’t you?”

Lancer grinned slightly as he took in Phantom’s amazed expression, the rings forming around his waist and leaving scrawny little Danny Fenton back in his place. “Like disability accommodations? Lancer, I don’t have a disability.”

“I never said disability, I said condition. And I think you’ve earned more than a few forgiven assignments by now. Don’t you?”

Danny fidgeted slightly. “It would be nice not to fail…”

“Then I’ll work on getting the papers written up. Obviously, we can’t list the actual reason for the accommodations, but I fully believe between Mr. Foley and Ms. Manson, a fake doctor’s note could be generated.”

“I have a doctor,” Danny blurted out.

Lancer raised an eyebrow. Why did the smallest things keep surprising him? “Oh?”

“He’s a ghost yeti from the Far Frozen,” the boy explained and Lancer quickly amended his ‘smallest things’ mental note. “He’s my doctor, though. He’s, uh… given me more than a few bogus doctor’s notes when I’ve had to stay overnight and missed school, either because of injury or because I got busy with King stuff.”

“Right. Injury and King stuff.” Lancer repeated, again feeling more than slightly out of his depth. Nope, nope, this is fine. These were accommodations and no condition should be treated with surprise; just because he couldn’t comprehend living with it didn’t mean he got opinions on it. Somehow, Lancer had managed to forget that Danny had already confirmed that. In his defense, he’d been more caught up on the ‘burying my body in the woods’ bit.

“Yep! Also true,” Danny said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and Lancer remembered all the times he’d seen both Fenton and Phantom do that particular nervous tic. “I’m King of the Ghost Zone. Remember when Pariah Dark kidnapped the city?”

Lancer nodded numbly, recalling both the event and how Daniel Fenton had been out of school for the next week because he’d been ‘caught outside the ghost shield and attacked.’

He also remembered the detention he’d given Fenton the week after for being twenty minutes late to English class. If he thought hard enough, he would probably also remember a ghost attack at the same time. 

“Yeah, well, long story short, accidentally killed him when I shoved him in a magic sarcophagus. Then, surprise! Have a crown! No take backies!” Fenton said, sighing. 

Lancer was at a loss for words. This kid had been through every degree of Hell, more than even Dante had ever predicted possible, yet he still helped with a smile and a quip.

“Wow,” he finally managed.

Danny laughed. Lancer was amazed he even could laugh anymore. “It’s a lot, I know.” His face fell into a frown as he continued. “You can’t tell anyone the truth about me. You get that, right? My parents aren’t the only risks.”

“I promise, your secret is safe with me.” It’s literally the least I can do.

“You’re taking this better than I would have guessed,” he said, leaning back in his desk’s chair.

“I used up my entire lifetime’s worth of surprise when ghosts turned out to be real,” Lancer laughed.

“You can say that again,” he mumbled, before sitting up straight, suddenly serious. “But, like, seriously. You’re not gonna out me to my parents? Or the government? Just to be clear?”

At the obvious fear in Danny’s eyes, if the teen had said Lancer had to quit being a teacher, move to Russia, and change his name to work in the mines forever, Lancer probably would’ve done it. As it was, though, this request was much more reasonable. “You have my word, Daniel.”

“And you can’t like… treat me any different. People aren’t that stupid, y’know?”

“I can promise you, I absolutely will be treating you differently.” Danny opened his mouth to protest and Lancer hurried on before he could be interrupted. “Because you will have accommodations on file, entirely unrelated to being a ghost. No one is going to make a connection because, as far as everyone else knows, there’s been nothing to indicate a change. This town still exists because of you, Daniel. You’re the reason we all have a chance to live somewhat normally. I can at least give you a chance to graduate.”

And Lancer meant it. There was nothing else he could do. This wasn’t a simple case of calling CPS or recommending a therapist. This was something beyond what Lancer had training, knowledge, or experience for. So, as much as it killed him to do so, he’d let Danny return home - return to parents who hurt him. Lancer pulled his key ring from his pocket, swiftly removing his house key and placing it in front of Daniel. He had a spare in the bushes outside his home. “Here. Any time, no questions asked, my home is open to you. Whether it’s for ghost injuries, your parents being too much, or just a quiet place to work on homework. You’re not in this alone. Not like the Boy was.” Lancer said, tapping on the folder holding Danny’s story. 

To his surprise, Danny picked the key up without protest. “You’ll have to learn how to get ectoplasm out of fabric. It stains pretty badly.”

Lancer kept his face carefully neutral. He understood the warning for what it was - it was ‘I will show up, but I will show up bleeding and hurt. Are you prepared for that?’

“I’m sure you have some good tips by now.” Lancer replied evenly, hoping he would understand between the lines as well. ‘I know what you are, I know your history. I know this is nothing new to you. I still will help.’

Danny nodded, pocketing the key without any fanfare. “Thank you.”

“My genuine pleasure,” Lancer responded.

The two continued talking, hammering out the details of Daniel’s new accommodations and coming up with a realistic diagnosis for them to fake on the paperwork.

Wrapping up some time later, they bid each other farewell. Fenton left the room and Lancer sighed deeply, dropping his head into his hands, feeling like his mind was about to explode.

“Mr. Lancer?” 

He looked up, seeing the door partially opened and Danny’s face poking through the crack. “Yes?”

“Thank you. Like, seriously. It… it feels nice to have an adult who knows now.” Fenton said, his cheeks reddening as though embarrassed at the idea of giving thanks.

“Not a problem,” Lancer smiled.

Fenton just smiled and nodded, taking his leave and shutting the door behind him. 

Still, the interaction made Lancer smile to himself. His head still hurt and he felt so out of his depth, he may as well have been swimming in the Mariana Trench, but he was doing what he’d always wanted to do - helping a child who was in over his head. 

A literal super-powered comic book hero of a child, but a child nonetheless.

As Lancer drove home that day, though, he was almost surprised to see life moving in Amity like normal. His world had irrevocably changed, been turned upside down. How was everything normal? Shouldn’t something have changed?

He knew the answer to that was no. Still, it didn’t stop the nearly whiplash-like feeling.

On autopilot more than anything, he got home and let Luna and Sola out of his room, apologizing copiously at their extended, aggravated meows, grateful they had a litter box in his attached master bathroom. “I know, I’m the evilest evil to ever evil,” he said as he sat down, Luna jumping up in his lap and meowing loudly in his face.

Lancer smiled and scratched her behind an ear, her angry meow settling into a satisfied purr. “See? So evil!” he said, leaning back and relaxing, turning his TV on.

And there Phantom was, at Amity’s Serenity Park, fighting with the hunter ghost who liked to scream for Phantom’s pelt. Even as Lancer felt the blood drain from his face at the implications of that, Phantom let out a joke, and a laugh, and then an ectoblast to Skulker’s face.

If Lancer looked hard enough, he could see Manson and Foley in the background, just barely visible to the camera. Children, fighting for the lives of Amity, while the adults sat around or ran away or attacked the wrong ghost.

Phantom won with ease, smiled and saluted the camera, and flew off in the opposite direction. He hadn’t taken any noticeable damage, but this time, Lancer didn’t relax, instead worrying about everything else. How much schoolwork did Danny have to do? It would be a little bit before they got the accommodations in place! Would he have enough time to have fun and be a teen? Would there be more ghost attacks?

The weekend passed in something of a haze. He was grateful for his cats, for setting some normalcy back into his life. They didn’t care about troubled kids or fighting ghosts, they only cared that the Big Hairless God fed them at the appropriate times. Their entire world was this home, and Lancer was almost jealous. So he fed them, and finished all assignments he had left to read and grade, and read the second Percy Jackson book, and messaged Danny Phantom at night to check in.

When Monday came around again, Lancer thought he had everything pretty well compartmentalized.

“I have news about Phantom!” Ishiyama said the moment she saw Lancer in the halls that morning.

“Oh?” Lancer said, immediately panicking. Had something happened? Was Danny okay? Had Lancer missed a fight?

“He stopped by my office earlier!” she continued and Lancer forced the tension out of his shoulders.

“I presume there was no ghost attack that prompted his visit?” Lancer asked, thinking of the way they’d asked Fenton to make sure his parents didn’t catch wind of the pep rally. Knowing what he knew now, their concern was almost humorous. Danny didn’t need to be asked to keep attention off of Phantom.

“Don’t even joke about that, we’ve managed four days without an attack!” Ishiyama scolded and Lancer did laugh that time. “No, he was there to tell me he heard about the pep rally. He was going to make sure he was there, but he’d be invisible to keep commotion at bay. He wanted to give his thanks and make sure we knew our hard work had been appreciated, even if we didn’t see him there.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Lancer replied with a soft smile. Somehow, that kid continued to surprise him. Danny got nothing out of reassuring Ishiyama he’d be there, but he’d done it to be kind.

“Isn’t it?” Ishiyama said with a grin.

The day passed, and eventually it was time for everyone to make their way to the gym for the pep rally. Lancer changed out of his normal blue button up and into the simple black shirt all the staff had changed into. He smiled as he saw all of them together - the lunchroom workers, the janitorial and maintenance staff, the office folks and the teachers themselves - all matching.

Phantom’s symbol was huge and emblazoned on their backs, stark white against the black just like the ghost’s suit. Beneath the stylized P, Casper High Has School SPIRIT! was written in smaller text. A miniature version of the symbol rested over the breast pocket on the front.

The pep rally was supposed to be for the upcoming basketball semi-finals, but no one seemed to mind it becoming a pro-Phantom-palooza instead. The cheer squad did a routine in the ghost’s honor, the theater club did a micro-play thanking him, the A/V nerds put together a little PowerPoint talking about how cool he was, the athletes for various sports all gathered and chanted about the ghost’s coolness.

As it was wrapping up, Ishiyama came to the stage, wishing the basketball team luck, then cleared her throat and bid everyone to settle down. “Alright, alright, I know we’re having fun, but a time for seriousness!”

Quiet filled the room (well, as quiet as a bunch of students in one echoing room could get). “I know we’ve kind of hi-jacked the basketball team’s pep rally, and I do apologize for that.”

“We don’t mind!” the basketball captain shouted, hoots and hollers of agreement from his teammates joining him.

“Good to know. Still, the apology stands,” Ishiyama said with a laugh. “But, Phantom, I hope you’re here. And I need you to know: thank you. From all of us at Casper. We’ve watched you - no older than one of our own students - defend us time and time again. We’re sorry for whatever happened to you so young, and we hope you find peace one day if that’s what you want. I can only speak for the staff, but I think most students agree - you’re a hero.”

“Damn right!” Ms. Tetslaff yelled, and the entire room laughed. “You’re pretty impressive, for someone who’s scrawnier than a pole!”

Various shouts filled the room, different students declaring Phantom their favorite superhero. Lancer looked up to the one student who remained quiet, even as his friends held his hands and shouted Phantom’s praises with the rest of their schoolmates. Tears slipped from Fenton’s eyes as he listened - finally listened - to all the people screaming his alter ego’s name in joy.

“Here’s to Danny Phantom - the hero of Amity Park!” Ishiyama shouted when there was a lull in the student’s shouts.

“The hero of Amity Park!” everyone shouted, including Lancer himself. Fenton’s eyes met Lancer’s and the teen didn’t hide his tears, so few people knew why he was crying anyway.

Fenton mouthed something to Lancer and Lancer grinned at him, despite not being able to understand. This pep rally would never make up for what had been to him - in his life or in partial death. He would never truly recover from the horror he’d lived through. But he would survive, and he would carry Amity Park’s survival with him, whether he was asked to or not.

The second time Fenton mouthed to him, he slowed down and Lancer was able to understand.

Thank you.