Archive of Our Own ^beta

This piece of chapter art was created by Saphir, and their official post is here.

This piece of chapter art was created by Roxy (omegasmileyface), and their official post is here.

He woke up swathed with stars.

He blinked, and yeah, that was a thing he could do. He could also stretch, and so he did, reaching his arms above his head and burying his bare hands in the softness of whatever cradled him. The muscles in his arms and back felt tight, but not painfully so. It was a comfortable feeling, if a little tender, and he wondered if he’d been in a fight again.

No, that didn’t feel right…

Thoughts swam, and he tried to parse through his recent memories, only to come up blank. He had the sense that he’d been through a lot, and his core smarted at the fleeting snatch of realisation, but he couldn’t piece together anything specific. It was all far too foggy, and this unfamiliar bed of clouds drifting in an endless night sky should have been alarming in its strangeness, but it was overwhelmingly soft and comfortable.

He was just so tired, and trying to think made him confused, so he pulled the cloud fluff tighter around himself and gave in to the exhaustion.

As he skimmed along the precipice of sleep a hand gently stroked his hair. It felt kind, if a hand could send such conviction through touch alone, and coaxed him deeper into slumber. He sighed and allowed himself to tip back into nothing, filled with gentle reassurance that all was well.

The next time he opened his eyes, he rubbed away the sleep that crusted their corners before looking up at the starscape that enveloped his little cloud. The constellations felt familiar, and he knew he should be able to recognise them, but his thoughts were still too fuzzy. Forgetting should have been stressful, but a comfortable stillness forbade any upset. He felt slow and weak, if a little lost. It was like being sick in bed, waiting for a loved one to come and soothe the fever.

“Daniel,” someone murmured from beside him, and he blinked.

Right. That was his name.

At least, he thought it was. He thought he might have been called something else, too, but the vague recollection blurred back into soft obscurity as he turned his head to look at the person who had spoken.

He was dressed in a purple cloak and had the hood down, with long white hair in an over-the-shoulder braid and an expression that was soft and open despite the deliberate-looking scar that cut through his left eyelid. Tiny stars glittered in his hair and on his pale blue skin like freckles.

Daniel knew this person. He struggled to recall the information, frowning when it eluded him. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but there was a disconnect that stirred the first true feelings of unease. He… he tried to speak, he really tried, but he couldn’t seem to say so much as a single syllable. His throat worked fine, and he had no trouble moving his mouth, but the concept of language fizzled into obscurity at some point between thinking a word and speaking it. All that came out was a soft, questioning, formless sound. It was as though his body had forgotten how to form the words he needed.

He curled onto his side so he was better facing the person, and attempted once again to say something. Any word would have been fine, but nothing came out, and Daniel sucked in a breath — he could do that?! — as tension began to wind him taut.

The person floating casually beside his cloud ran a large, gloved hand over Daniel’s hair. He wore an assortment of watches, and they glinted in the soft white light that seemed to have no source. “Relax,” he said, and his voice was so familiar that it was maddening. “Your speech will return when you’re ready, as will your knowledge and memories. For now you need to rest.”

Daniel felt as though he’d slept long enough, but when he tried to sit up he fell back into softness, gasping as his core smarted with the effort.

The person tsked with a slight mechanical click of the throat and helped him to readjust, settling him back in the bed. He moved fluidly, and his hands were soft beneath the gloves, but he ticked like a clock and there was the faint whir of machinery when he leaned in close.

Daniel allowed himself to be manhandled. The visitor tenderly propped him up on drifts of white fluff as though on a pile of pillows, not quite reclining but not needing to put in any effort to stay upright.

There was a beat of stillness, and the ghost shifted with a jerkiness akin to an animation that skipped a handful of frames. A glass of something clear materialised in his hand and he tilted it forward in offering.

Daniel was suddenly keenly aware of a sensation, and it took a moment for him to recall that it was something called thirst. It scratched at his throat from the inside and made his tongue feel thick, and he swallowed. He was once again pricked with surprise at this very living desire, but then his fascination in his body’s processes died back as the ghost added a straw to the glass and pressed it to his lips.

The first swallow was cool, and burst with a million snatches of moment. He was standing in front of a sink and gulping mouthfuls so big that they stretched his throat with a brief ache with each swallow. Then he drank away the stickiness of sleep from a plastic bottle, slurped from a water fountain behind the bleachers, paused to catch his breath… He breathed deeply, sipped as a waiter stood beside the table, sprayed water across the cafeteria as he laughed at a joke, blew bubbles through a straw in a sippy cup with a yellow cartoon sponge on the side…

Daniel blinked, and the rush of fragmented, incoherent memories faded as he twitched his lips, signalling that he’d had enough. He wanted to pull away but any energy he might have had was now gone, replaced with the weight of those untethered snatches of his past. No memory held enough context to understand who he’d been, who he was, and he frowned as he tried to parse through them in search of a common thread.

The ghost smoothed a space at the edge of the cloud with one hand, and instead of springing back into fluff it stayed level for the glass to be placed there, within reach if Daniel stretched. “Don’t push yourself,” he said, and his tone was so gentle that Daniel couldn’t help but relax once more. “Go back to sleep for a while longer, and when you wake up, you’ll be able to have breakfast with your father. Does that sound okay?”

He stroked his hair again, and although the offer was appealing, and his eyes were already drooping, Daniel tried his best to shake off the encroaching wave of fresh slumber long enough to scrunch his eyebrows and make a small noise that he hoped conveyed confusion.

That gloved hand, large enough to cover his entire scalp, smoothed his hair some more. “Your father is Jack Fenton,” he said, continuing to stroke and looking up at the slowly-turning stars.

Daniel followed his gaze, struggling to fight off the increasing heavy cosiness that threatened to drag him under. His father’s name was unfamiliar, but as he turned it over in his mind, he thought about the colour orange, and hugs so filled with affection that they squeezed until your bones creaked. There was a hint of sweetness that ghosted across his tongue, and the texture of a hand-knitted sweater as a booming voice cheered him on.

So that was his father. Huh.

Daniel felt like he was missing something, but those fragments were all he could muster right now.

He reached out, almost blindly as he teetered on the precipice of sleep, and tapped the ghost’s arm before pointing in what he hoped was the right direction.

The ghost seemed to get the hint. “I’m your other parent. Most call me Clockwork, though you may be partial to a name of your own choosing instead.”

This time, the impressions of memory were foggy snatches of ticking clocks, of shifting sands in an hourglass, of the scent of polished wood and oil and fresh cookies, and of running a fingertip over the smooth surface of a broad leaf as water ran quietly nearby. A cloak drifted in his periphery, and something heavy may have once hung around his neck.

It felt like home.

Daniel sighed and sank deeper, barely managing to move his hand off Clockwork’s arm and place it palm-down against his own chest.

He was too tired to look, but he felt like Clockwork might have smiled. “You are Daniel. Many people have different names and titles for you, but you prefer to be called Danny. All you need to know right now is that you’re a liminal child, and that your father and I love you very much.”

Danny.

The name slipped into place like a key into a lock, and as he sank fully into softness, he felt reassured that things would make more sense the next time he woke.

He was where he was supposed to be, home with his parents, and that was all that mattered.

He stirred, comfortable with a cosiness that forbade immediate wakefulness.

“Daniel,” Clockwork’s safe, familiar voice said, possibly not for the first time. A hand rested on his shoulder, heavy but not restricting. “Daniel, it’s time to wake up. You’ve slept more than enough, and your body needs you to care for your living needs.”

That didn’t quite make sense, since Danny was a ghost, but as he rubbed his eyes he took a deep breath. The rush of air in lungs that ached as though they hadn’t moved for a while cleared some of the fog from his thoughts, so he dropped his hands back down and squinted up at the person who’d disturbed his rest.

He opened his mouth to ask a question, perhaps what time it was, but couldn’t do much more than make small, wordless noises. Danny paused, and his puzzlement must have been clear on his face because Clockwork smiled and patted his shoulder once more.

“Come,” he said, “your father’s making waffles.”

Danny breathed again and sat up, stretching his arms above his head. He pushed back the duvet made of cloudstuff, and when he got out of bed this time he didn’t fall back. His core felt weak, fluttering with the effort, but he was up now and that would have to be enough.

Clockwork smiled again and gestured, and Danny flew alongside him. They went slowly, clearly paced to match Danny’s current ability, and that would have been more reassuring if it didn’t hold a sour note that might have felt like pity or even condescension.

Danny shook himself. This was his parent. Clockwork would never judge him like that.

The spacescape faded as though passing through a veil of mist, and they emerged into a hallway that wound its way between enormous turning gears. There were no actual walls, floor, or ceiling, but rather a clear path through mechanical layers that seemed as impenetrable as the tightly-woven branches of a hedge. Interspersed between the cogs were clocks of various shapes and sizes, their ticking a symphony that trickled throughout the lair and made Danny’s soul wish to join the song.

Clockwork turned left, and Danny drifted along behind, watching with interest as they passed the occasional opening that broke away into a clearing. Most of these rooms had glass doors like watch faces, some round, and others mirroring the door in Clockwork’s chest. Many were frosted or draped with dark curtains, but the few without such privacy measures gave him glimpses of a garden bathed in light, a library complete with swirling motes of dust, and a space that resembled an eclectic sitting room, complete with mismatched furniture and a nook built into one of the larger gears.

Other spaces had no doors at all, but were instead shrouded with veil-like mist, similar to the doorway of the starry room. Danny wondered what was behind these barriers, but when he paused to touch one, he was met with hard resistance.

“Those are our bedrooms, and some other locked spaces,” Clockwork said, pausing to glance back over his shoulder. “You can’t enter without my permission, and your father’s room has the same security feature. Yours does too, actually, but your father and I can bypass it.”

He must have sensed Danny’s incredulity because he laughed. It was a pleasant sound, like a clock chiming softly. “We’re your parents. We won’t enter your space if you don’t want us to and so long as you’re not in danger. If you don’t wish for anyone else to be able to go in, they won’t be able to. We want you to feel safe, Daniel.”

Danny frowned, turning back to the mist. It had a pearly sheen, and he skimmed his bare fingers over it again. The loose cuff of his starry shirt sparkled, its ephemeral hem shifting endlessly between a dark cityscape and the swirls of the ghost zone. He realised now that his skin was also star-spangled, and flesh-toned for the most part but barely pale blue-green at the fingertips.

He held his hand up, watching the way his star freckles glimmered and at the shifting clothing for a moment before turning to Clockwork again, a question in his soul that he had no way of voicing. He waved his hand for emphasis, making the strange, wispy end of his sleeve drift like smoke.

“Your clothing will settle in time,” Clockwork said. “We’ll eventually address this turbulence, and then you won’t be in flux anymore. Remember, your appearance reflects your core. Don’t be surprised if you shift in form several more times, especially when you feel unbalanced.” He wrapped an arm around Danny’s shoulders. “Come. Let’s eat, and when you’re ready we can talk more about this.”

They reached the kitchen soon enough, and Clockwork held open the round glass door, allowing Danny to pass through first.

His dad looked up from the bench with a grin like sunlight. “Danny-boy!” He rushed over, wiping his hands on a Kiss the Cook apron with a picture of green ectoplasm sausages. “Morning, Kiddo.”

Danny sniffed as sudden relief washed over him, and he drifted closer as his dad spread his arms wide. In the past he thought he may have barrelled forward and thrown himself into those open arms, but now he moved like an invalid, carefully tucking himself into the offered hug.

He pressed against the broad chest, feeling warm and secure in a way that he hadn’t known he was lacking, and burst into tears.

His dad rubbed his back with one large hand in slow, firm circles. “It’s okay, Danno. You’re okay. I’m here.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, Danny hugging his dad and fisting his hands in the orange jumpsuit that was tied by the sleeves around his waist. It was grounding in its familiarity, but the more he touched the plasticky, waterproof fabric, the less he enjoyed the texture.

He shifted to hug higher around his back instead, and the loose white shirt was much kinder against his skin. Danny buried his face in the softness, his tears wicking into the cotton as he cried.

It didn’t take long for exhaustion to dry the tears, and Danny stayed in his dad’s arms, still sniffling as Clockwork murmured something about not letting the food burn and drifted past them with a flutter of cool air.

He didn’t want his dad to let go.

His heartbeat was loud when Danny pressed the side of his face against his chest, like a muffled drum. When he breathed, Danny breathed, too. It was a little faster than comfortable but his dad was alive and well, and the universe felt like it made a tiny bit more sense.

For the first time that he could remember, his feet hit the floor. Danny looked down in surprise at the legs that his spectral tail had become. His pants were soft and matched his shirt, and his feet were bare. The cold metal of the giant floor gear felt nice on the soles of his feet.

He was so small…

“You’ve had a big few days, huh?” his dad asked, softly guiding Danny towards the table. “Do you remember much?”

Danny shook his head, humming no. The first couple of steps were tentative, and he leaned into his dad for support.

“It’s okay,” he said, pulling out a chair with one hand while keeping the other arm wrapped around Danny’s back. “I’ve made some good food for you, so that should bring back your strength. You’ll be right as rain in no time!”

Danny sank into the chair. It was soft, with a wooden frame and plush velvety green lining. Food actually sounded amazing right now, and he realised that his stomach was tight with what he thought might be hunger. It was an empty, yearning sensation, and he wondered if being alive just meant constant discomfort.

He looked over at Clockwork. He was piling waffles out of a press and onto a large plate, smiling when he caught Danny watching. “This is one of your favourite breakfasts.”

Danny didn’t know how to feel about that, so he looked down at the table. An array of small dishes were already in front of him, filled with an assortment of berries and cut fruit. There was a tiny pitcher of cream, and a pint of ice cream coated with frost.

“Here,” his dad said, and held up two cartons. “Would you like orange or apple juice?”

Danny pointed to the apple and his dad poured some into the waiting glass. There was another glass beside it, filled with shimmering green ectoplasm.

It was a welcome if foreign sight, and he paused, wondering why he was so touched by the meal that had clearly been prepared especially for him.

Danny sniffed again, and wiped his nose on a napkin. He didn’t understand the sudden deep sadness that settled in his chest, and a part of him wished it would just go away. It threaded his bones with a weariness that felt as permanent and fixed as the mountains.

Sure, he’d just woken up, but he was still so washed-out and tired.

He felt like he might have been tired a lot in the past.

The imprint of what he realised was probably chronic exhaustion chafed just a tiny bit, and for a moment Danny’s hands became translucent, like mist.

“Hang on,” Clockwork said, and Danny startled as he flitted across the room in another one of those strange aborted motions, like a timeskip. He rested glowing hands firmly on his shoulders. “Make sure you eat before you shift. We need you to take care of your human needs, too.”

Danny frowned and looked back at the ghost. He made a questioning sound, and Clockwork squeezed his shoulders gently. “You’re in flux,” he explained. “I’m not sure if you recall, but you spent some time as a blob the other day. I know it’s difficult, but I’ll help you stay stable long enough to eat.”

Oh. That made sense.

He couldn’t remember actually becoming a blob, but now that Clockwork mentioned it, Danny was brushed with the sensation of being cupped in a giant warm hand and feeling the hammer of his father’s heartbeat reverberate through his tiny body as he nuzzled into his chest.

“Take a deep breath,” Clockwork advised.

He did. It felt good to fill his lungs, and he held it for a moment before blowing through pursed lips. He did it again, just for the sensation, and when he looked back at his hands they were solid once more. The freckle-stars glittered, and he fancied that they’d moved since he’d last taken a look.

“Food’s up!” his dad announced, and Danny blinked as two steaming waffles were deposited on his plate.

His dad grabbed a serving as well and sat down across from him, and Clockwork pulled out the chair beside Danny and sat so that he could keep one hand around his back. His long spectral tail wrapped its cool tip loosely around Danny’s bare ankle. “Do you need help?”

Danny shook his head and murmured wordlessly. He reached for the dish of cut strawberries, holding them up to his nose and breathing in their rich, sweet smell.

His mouth watered, and he felt fresh tears of gratitude prick his eyes. He wanted to ask why they were being so nice to him. Somehow, even without memory, he knew this was his favourite thing to have for breakfast. It was a treat, reserved for special occasions such as birthdays or a good report card. A hint of candle smoke drifted through the air, and a faint cheer reached through the annals of time and echoed in the gaps between Danny’s breaths. It wasn’t as intense as the water memories had been, but still served as a reminder that he’d potentially lost more than he realised, and Danny wasn’t sure how to feel about that right now.

Clockwork nudged him in the side. “Go on, it’s good.”

He pushed aside his musings and dutifully spooned some of the strawberry wedges onto his waffles, followed with blueberries and blackberries, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. As he loaded them up his arms became progressively more tired, and when he couldn’t pick up the jug of syrup Danny leaned back in his chair and whined.

Clockwork’s arm tightened around his back in an instant, and Danny froze as his dad’s head snapped up at the noise. “What’s wrong, Kiddo?”

He didn’t know why he’d made that sound, and distress wound him tight when he whined again. The noise poured involuntarily from his core and he shrank back, wincing when Clockwork used his free hand to brush his hair back from his forehead.

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’ve done so well. It’s alright if you’re tired. I’ll pour the cream and maple syrup if you’d like.”

He nodded, cheeks flushing with ice in a frosty blush, and wished that he could just melt away.

“Oh no you don’t,” Clockwork chastened, putting the cream back down and giving Danny a tug before he could sink through his chair. “Once you’ve eaten and had your ectoplasm you can go, alright? You haven’t had any food for almost four days, and you need to take care of your living needs.”

Danny looked back down at his plate, disquieted, and sniffed again. Clockwork offered him a napkin to wipe his nose and resumed pouring the cream, drizzling it artfully over Danny’s food.

It looked and smelled amazing, with the promise of heady sweetness, and Danny’s stomach chose that moment to growl audibly.

His dad laughed. “It’s okay, Danny-boy. It’s not gonna come alive and try to eat you.”

Danny winced. He didn’t know why, but that comment felt a little too close to home. He looked down at his hands, tilting them to watch the stars glow, and wondered why there weren’t any scars. As though he expected some, for some reason.

But why should he expect something like that?

Clockwork gestured to the plate when he still didn’t move. “Come on,” he murmured. “I know you don’t feel the best, and getting used to human needs again is going to be uncomfortable, but if you don’t eat this then you’ll need a supplemental shake. I’ve heard that they don’t taste the nicest.”

Danny watched the maple syrup drip slowly off the scoop of ice cream. It looked wonderful, but at the same time, he hesitated.

Clockwork tilted his head as Danny curled up one hand and mimed writing.

“You can certainly try,” he said, and his hand stuttered for a moment before a pen materialised.

He passed it over and Danny laid out a clean napkin, pressing the pen to it, and…

He couldn’t do it.

His thoughts swam, and words and letters slipped away like smoke.

“It’s alright,” Clockwork murmured after a long moment. Danny felt him pry his fingers open and take the pen away again. “We can work on some basic hand signals. You’re still too unsettled for complex communication right now.”

He really didn’t like that. Danny wanted to be able to talk, to write, to express himself properly, but instead he was stuck relying on his parents figuring out what he needed without any major input from him.

He tried again to speak, but couldn’t manage more than a wordless strain, not quite whine or whimper but definitely an unhappy sound.

Clockwork tilted his head. “If your arms are too tired I can help hold your fork if you’d like.”

Danny recoiled, shaking his head violently as he squirmed in the suddenly-suffocating presence of his parents. He had the creeping inkling that he’d already lost so much independence, and the idea of relinquishing more was… was…

His next breath stilled his troubled thoughts somewhat. He glanced at Clockwork, who seemed to be waiting patiently, holding out a fork with a blueberry speared on its tines.

It felt infantilising, and Danny tried not to be too hurt by that. His parents didn’t mean it, but he was old enough to be able to do these things on his own! Losing that ability, even temporarily, was immensely frustrating.

He glared down at his plate as Clockwork slid the fork into his hand in place of the pen. “Do you need me to cut your waffles up for you?”

Danny ignored him and picked up the knife beside his plate, but exerting any pressure with the tool made his arms feel like jelly.

Clockwork jerked, and then the waffles transitioned from whole to cut up into tiny pieces in the single blink of an eye.

That, on top of everything else, made him grit his teeth and slam his hands down onto the table in frustration.

Everything went quiet. For a moment, even the ever-present ticking of Long Now fell away.

Danny choked back a sob, sucking in air through his clenched jaw and forcing himself to take a moment to regulate again. He didn’t want to know what kind of trouble he’d be in if he stormed off now, but the intense edge of his irritation was already starting to dull as that constant comfortable complacency began to creep back into his soul. Both parents were watching him silently. His dad looked like he wanted to talk but sent a meaningful glance to Clockwork instead.

It took a minute before Danny’s breathing evened out fully, and it was only then that his dad finally spoke. “Come on,” he coaxed from across the table. “It’s really good.”

He knew he wasn’t going to get out of here without eating, and the thought washed him with a fresh wave of exhaustion, dispelling any lingering frustration. Danny speared a piece on his fork slightly more violently than necessary and held it up, concerns further fading as his stomach growled again. The sensation wasn’t painful, but it was tight and uncomfortable, and Danny was suddenly fascinated by the sensations of his body as he contemplated the perfectly-normal, completely-human food.

His stomach clenched again and he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was starving or nauseous, but then Clockwork applied the barest hint of pressure to his wrist. “Give it a try,” he suggested, guiding Danny to bring the food to his lips.

He took a moment to remember to open his mouth, and when he did, Clockwork drew back to let him keep going on his own.

The sheer intensity of flavour was an assault to the senses and Danny leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and taking a moment to keep the food just sitting there in his mouth. He must have been caught up in sensation for longer than he realised, because he felt Clockwork’s cool glove return to his wrist. “You have to swallow, remember?”

Right. Danny realised he’d missed that step.

The knowledge that he’d forgotten such an integral, instinctive life skill frightened him on a deep, primal level, but before he could really start to grapple with the emotion, it faded back into soft obscurity.

The food was good, and it soothed a deep, instinctive emptiness that screamed for him to fill it. Danny ate slowly, savouring each mouthful. He took time to test the taste and texture of everything on his plate. Each new food brought a rapid-fire burst of sensation, giving him glimpses of tiny snapshots from before he’d lost himself. He thought he might have had a friend who’d grown strawberries once, and sat on a roof eating ice cream while his legs dangled over the edge.

Remembering the snatches of sensation wasn’t stressful this time. So long as he didn’t strain to try and reach beyond what he was given, it was actually kind of nice.

Still, it dragged against his limited energy reserves until he’d once again slumped against Clockwork. He continued to stubbornly feed himself regardless, shrugging away any attempts by his parent to assist, but it was slow going.

He wondered if there was too much food, or if he just wasn’t used to eating enough, but the sensation of a full stomach was becoming overwhelming. Danny put the fork down and stayed where he was, closing his eyes as he leaned more heavily against Clockwork.

“Would you like to try some hand signs now?”

He shook his head and made a show of yawning, and was rewarded with a soft laugh from across the table.

“You look like you could sleep for a week,” his dad said.

Clockwork hummed, and the gears in his chest cavity whirred against Danny’s ear. “Perhaps we should return you to bed, Little Star.”

Oh, he liked that.

Danny hummed in response, opening his eyes and pushing upright so that he could smile at Clockwork.

Clockwork ran a hand over his hair. Danny fancied that the stars nestled in the strands would sparkle with his touch. “Would you like me to keep calling you that?”

He nodded, and something imperceptible clicked into place within his soul.

“Oh,” Jack piped up, “if we’re choosing nicknames, then can I call you C-man, or would you prefer Clocky?”

Clockwork winced ever so slightly and Danny smirked.

“How about just C?”

Danny’s dad rolled his eyes. “Nah, that’s not a real nickname… Hey , you’re a grandfather clock, right? Why don’t I call you Gramps?”

“Absolutely not.”

They continued the conversation but Danny’s mind slipped away, caught up in the sudden rightness of what his dad had said.

Clockwork was a grandfather clock. He was strong, and protective, and had always been there for him.

It was perfect.

Danny leaned back into his grandfather’s chest. The glass panel was hard and cold, but he didn’t mind at all.

He sighed contentedly as his dad veered into ridiculous territory, needling Clockwork with weird words like “Timey Wimey” and “Alarm-Man”.

None of them worked, but the two of them seemed to be having fun. Even if neither of them was likely to outright admit it.

It was nice, and he continued to settle. A small part of his soul whispered that something was wrong, but once again, it dissolved into that soft contentment that was beginning to become the norm.

Everything was fine. He was good, even if he’d gotten a little tired already…

Danny shifted, uncomfortable with how heavy his body had become. He wasn’t meant to be heavy, he was meant to be like air, flighty and insubstantial.

The meal sat heavy in his gut and he suddenly felt stifled.

He pushed away from Cockwork and got unsteadily to his feet, ignoring how the conversation died off immediately.

“You okay, Kiddo?” his dad asked.

He put his hands together in a praying motion and placed them on one side of his face, tilting his head in imitation of sleep.

“Of course.” Danny’s grandfather shimmered and then was floating beside him faster than a blink. He held out his hands, there in case Danny needed them, but respected his space when he shook his head. “Would you like to walk, or should I carry you?”

Danny stepped back at the offer, even though his legs felt shaky.

“Danno?”

He hadn’t noticed his dad moving around the table to be closer to them. The fresh proximity was a lot, especially when his grandfather was already right beside him, and he already felt so off-balance. The offered support was nice, but it chafed. Danny wasn’t a baby! He could take himself to bed, thank you!

He just… he just needed…

The tower struck the hour, and Danny shuddered as the vibrations rang through him. His core hurt.

“Come on,” Clockwork coaxed when he didn’t move, “you can’t hear the chimes in your bedroom.”

Danny shook his head, stepping back again. His hip hit the table.

His parents moved closer and he recoiled. They both looked confused, but he suddenly felt sick, his mouth thick and cloying as he swallowed and leaned back against the table.

“Take your time,” Clockwork said, drawing back.

Danny closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath through his nose. He didn’t know why he felt threatened by their tandem approach, but it was as though a shadow passed over him, dimming the light and making his heartbeat flutter faster as he slammed into the ground and two figures in the distance cheered…

He shuddered, and the memory was gone, washed away with a flicker of thought.

He really did feel nauseous though, and pressed a hand to his stomach, curious. He probably ate too fast or something, but now he felt so heavy and solid, and…

He shivered. His core felt soft and achey, and he wanted nothing more than to just melt down into nothing if it would help ease the intensity of this corporeality.

His body stiffened of its own accord and Danny cried out, eyes flying open as his throat seized too, cutting off any sound or ability to draw breath.

“Whoa there,” his dad said, placing a large hand on Danny’s arm. “You good?”

Danny couldn’t move. He tried to breathe, and the tension started to cramp along his body.

“He’s shifting again,” Clockwork supplied. “It’s alright, Daniel. Just let it happen.”

The permission seemed to do the trick. Danny’s panic melted away in an instant, and he watched with a detachment that threatened to chill his bones as his body began to warp.

Large white feathers slipped across his skin, shining a smattering of constellations along their tips. His clothing unravelled into dark ribbonlike swathes of softness, and the tension loosened just enough for Danny to give a single, long sigh as he condensed down, limbs and features melding until he was nothing more than a small ectoplasmic structure of wings and soft, gentle wisps of trailing clouds and starscapes.

He felt so much better now. His meal was still heavy, somewhere deep within, and he felt filled to the point of bursting, but the discomfort was offset by the lightness of constructural incorporeality.

His grandfather stroked a wing. “Do you feel better now, Little Star?”

Danny chimed affirmatively, nuzzling into the touch. Now that he felt less overwhelmed, having his feathers stroked like that was comforting, and as his thoughts blended into blurriness he wondered why he hadn’t wanted to be touched earlier.

His dad traced the feathers on another wing. “Do you still wanna go back to bed?”

Danny pressed deeper into the contact, seeking more, and chimed again. He was grateful that his parents understood him so well, and were so kind when he’d been tetchy over breakfast. He kind of felt embarrassed to be honest. There wasn’t any issue with not being able to speak anyway. He didn’t even have a mouth right now! They were communicating just fine as it was, and as he fluttered and fluffed up his feathers along his myriad of wings, he hoped that they’d both stay near him for now.

His grandfather seemed to understand and opened his arms, and Danny drifted into them, humming when they folded tightly around him with a pressure deep enough to press into his soul.

It was grounding, and he’d never felt so safe.

The garden glittered like a jewel, and Danny knelt on a soft foam pad, running his bare hands through the damp dirt. He breathed in the deep smell of freshly-dug earth. It was soothing, and he passed his hands through the dirt again, enjoying its cool softness.

“Here,” Clockwork said, placing a tray of seedlings beside him. “Start with these, and make sure you plant them in the spots we’ve marked so they have enough room to grow.”

Danny nodded, picking up the tray and working a pastel yellow seedling out of its spot. This one was labelled confidence. He put the tray back down and worked the plant into the little pre-dug space, tucking the dirt around its base and drizzling it with a shower from the pre-prepared watering can of diluted ectoplasm and plant food. He took the label, written in neat print on a tiny wooden peg, and tucked it into the dirt near the seedling.

Working with his hands felt good, and he liked having something meaningful to do instead of just sleeping and eating. It had been a long couple of weeks, and he’d honestly found it far more difficult to stick to one form than it should have been. It was just too easy to melt into a blob ghost though, especially when he could tuck himself into his grandfather’s hood or nestle in the crook of his dad’s neck and watch them work on their various projects!

Still, being stable enough to do something other than just watch was refreshing, and as he patted the dirt one more time around the base of the sprout, he hoped that he’d be able to get through the entire tray without help.

Finished, he moved to the next spot a few metres away, this time planting a sprouting blue one with tiny feathery leaves labelled trust. The work was easy enough, and he liked the dirt beneath his hands. He felt a little bit more solid than he had in several days, but it wasn’t enough to be overwhelming yet, so he continued to move through the tray, planting various coloured seedlings with labels like self-love, forgiveness, and healthy boundaries.

Clockwork was pruning some more established plants in another section of the garden, close enough to hear the snip of the shears but far enough removed that Danny didn’t feel supervised. The seedlings now all finished, he watched bees drifting around a nearby blooming cherry tree before he leaned back and laid down in a swathe of empty, recently-churned dirt, and breathed deeply.

He was glad he’d managed to finish the job by himself, and figured that he'd earned a rest.

Closing his eyes, Danny spread his arms out wide and wondered what it would be like to take root, to grow and flourish like a plant under his grandfather’s tender care.

His reality rippled and he sighed, wriggling slightly so that he sank further into the dirt. His hands and bare feet were easy enough to bury, and a deep stillness stole over him as he continued to lay there.

His core fluttered with a brief ache as it shifted into malleability, and Danny’s breath caught as he felt himself extend, his core spiralling and tendrilling outwards until he reached deep into the dirt, drawing vitality from its rich gifts.

He tried to move, struck with the sudden depth of his outreach, and gasped when his straining did nothing. He tried to open his eyes, but found with a tiny trickle of horror that he couldn’t.

He creaked, and he couldn’t cry out but did manage to groan with a noise like straining wood before that, too, was cut off completely. When Danny heaved in one more attempt to get up, his entire body tensed and reached, branching off into sprays like veins that settled into their shapes until he solidified into a form so rigid that the mere concept of movement felt instantly foreign.

“Ah,” he heard Clockwork say, but the word was more of a feeling than an actual noise, and Danny realised that the ambient sounds of rustling leaves and running water were completely gone. “Are you alright, Little Star?”

Danny tried to move, to answer with so much as a hum, to do something, but all he could manage was to be still. The earth was cool and nourishing around his roots, and the gentle air ruffled his leaves ever so slightly, and then his mind began to unspool and melt into the slow drifting of seasons and cycles.

Fluid poured into the dirt around his base and diluted ectoplasm sank around his roots, filling his soul with deep satisfaction.

“A bit earlier than expected, but a prune would probably do you good,” his grandfather said. This time it was even more muffled, but Danny was too deep into the slow pull of water up his roots to pay it any attention. The quiet and forced stillness was no longer distressing, acting instead as a balm that soothed away the aches and sharp spikes of emotion that had rattled him so regularly of late.

A hand rested against his trunk, but he only felt it as an imprint of ectoplasmic power. This may be uncomfortable, but will help you grow. I would never hurt you.

The words were soundless, and almost meaningless as language, but the point came across just enough for the little tree to not be surprised when it felt its gardener’s shears close around an offshoot branch and clip shut.

Pain bloomed from the point, and had it been able to move then the tree would have likely recoiled, but even that concept faded from its understanding as the shears dug into the bark on another branch. A fresh burst of hurt, and a weight fell from its side.

This didn’t go on for very long, for what was a mere snatch of minutes in the grand length of a tree’s existence?

When it was over, the tree felt lighter, and far more balanced. The ectoplasmic nutrients sucked from the soil were already closing over the open wounds left by the pruning, and its remaining branches reached high, freshly unencumbered by the weight that had been threatening to make it grow askew.

It felt good, and right, and the child-tree-construct continued to drift, its nebulous snatches of consciousness growing fewer and further between until it sank into its form with such conviction that the concept of anything beyond the light and the dirt and the air ceased to exist. It was nothing more than a tree with ectoplasm fuelling every single structure and cell, its network of branches and roots growing more with every cycle of light and darkness. It was well watered, fed with the best gardening supplies there were, and if undisturbed, would likely have stayed like that forever.

The tree reached ever upward for twelve more day cycles before its two gardeners coaxed its roots out of the soil and slowly drew it back into its original form, and when the little ghost finally took a breath and opened his eyes, he found himself wrapped in their arms and feeling more content than ever before.

Whatever he’d lost, he was glad for it.

He was so lucky to have them.

When he woke, he woke screaming.

This time it was his dad who came running, bursting through the veil over the doorway so quickly that the mist clung to him like trailing clouds for several seconds.

Danny sat huddled in his bed, practically drowning in cloud fluff. His heart rapped a sharp staccato against his ribs and his chest heaved, sucking air in short, painful bursts as he stared at his shaking hands with sight blurred by tears.

He was wearing a plasticky black jumpsuit with white gloves and boots that felt unwieldy in the cloud bed. Smoke rose lazily from his entire body and he could smell singed hair and cooked meat.

Above all, he burned.

An acidic neon green mark glowed through the fabric, shaped like a spray of lightning that wrapped around his arms and chest and extended fingers of white-hot pain halfway down his legs and up to lap against his jaw.

“Oh, Danno.” His dad climbed onto the bed, close enough to be there but not touching. He moved slowly, telegraphing so that Danny could pull away if he wished.

Danny’s soul felt like it was on fire and he wailed, throwing himself at his father and wrapping his arms as tightly around him as he could. His legs melted into mist and he coiled his spectral tail around him as well, burying his face in his dad’s soft yellow pyjama shirt with a fresh sob.

A heavy hand rubbed his back in strong circles but it wasn’t enough. Danny made a distressed noise and tightened his grip, and his dad seemed to get the message because he enfolded him in his giant arms and squeezed.

The deep pressure was better, and the fire in Danny’s veins died back down as he cried.

It went on for hours.

“Do you remember what it was this time?” his dad asked once he had finally slowed to sniffles.

He shook his head, adjusting his face to a dry spot. His dad’s shoulder glowed from the tears and snot, and Danny was brushed with the thought that he should have felt something uncomfortable at that, but that was absurd. Why would he ever not be okay showing his parents how he felt?

He tucked his head under his dad’s chin and sniffed again, closing his eyes and settling into the continuing hug. Sometimes he wondered what horrible things his nightmares must have come from, but even in his sleep, there was no memory beyond the feeling of what had happened.

This one had been a burst of bone-melting power, with a wrenching of the soul and a terror so deep that there was no space for anything else.

He shifted, uneasy. Whatever it was, it was probably best he didn’t remember. His parents had been doing a great job helping him to get better at self-regulation, and at being more grounded and less in uncontrolled flux. If he couldn’t remember what had caused him such horror before, then there had to be a good reason for it.

He trusted them. They made him feel happy, and understood, and above all, loved.

His dad stayed there with him, firm and comforting, and Danny slowly drifted back to sleep in his arms, content in the knowledge that he wasn’t alone, and never had to be again.

.

.

.

Clockwork entered after Danny had fallen asleep. “How is he?”

Jack shrugged and answered in a whisper. “Poor kid. Wish I knew who did that to him, so I could make sure they never hurt someone like that again.”

Clockwork frowned as time rippled with the faintest of echoes. “I think… I think you may find that they won’t be a problem anymore,” he tentatively concluded. He wondered why an impression had broken through at this comment, when he typically only recalled the tiniest of snatches when it directly involved one of them and couldn’t wait until the end of the six months of isolation in Long Now. He dispelled the unease with a shake of his head, reminding himself that it was okay. All was as it should be. “Is he feeling settled, or do you think he’s unbalanced enough for a flux?”

Jack shrugged again, slowly moving to lay Danny down in the bed. “I dunno,” he murmured, drawing the covers of cloud up to their son’s neck. “It was the lightning one again, with the black jumpsuit. Awful stuff.”

Clockwork nodded. “You stayed up with him last night. He seemed to need your grounding more when he woke, but I can take it from here now.”

Jack brushed Danny’s dark, star-studded fringe back from his forehead and placed a gentle kiss there. “He seems okay now,” he agreed. “Back to his settled colours and everything. The jumpsuit’s fully gone again, too.”

Clockwork hummed in agreement. “Hopefully the rest of the night is peaceful.”

Jack got off the bed, stretching so that his spine popped. “Why didn’t you prune away his traumas when he was a tree, anyway?”

“They’re too entrenched for now.” Clockwork ran a glowing hand over the edge of the cloud, smoothing it enough to make an easy seat for himself without sinking in. “If I pruned them away his threads of personality could be lost, since many of them are tied so closely with what he’s been through.”

“Oh.” He yawned. “Will they separate eventually?”

Clockwork watched the slow, almost-imperceptible rise and fall of the clouds over Danny’s chest. “With careful enough guidance, we can at least hope to reduce the burden. The seedlings he planted a few weeks ago have grown exceptionally quickly, and should be ready to bear fruit in a few days. A well-rounded diet will go a long way to helping him heal.”

Jack considered that for a moment. “Do you think they’d go well with fudge?”

Clockwork laughed in a cluster of soft ticks. “I’m sure that we could all benefit from some fudge infused with cheer,” he said. “It would marry well with creativity ice cream.”

Jack smiled, looking at Danny with fondness clear on his face. “Yeah,” he breathed, lingering for a moment longer before wiping overbright eyes with the heels of his hands. “Good night, Clocky.”

Clockwork sighed good-naturedly as Jack passed through the veil and was gone.

He turned back to his child, watching him breathe and marvelling, as he often did, at the miracle of balance in this tiny body. Life and death, perfectly combined to create a creature so wonderful that Clockwork wasn’t sure if the realms would ever be ready for him.

Danny eventually stirred, his face scrunching and his breathing turning tense, and Clockwork raised himself up and held his staff aloft. “Oh no you don’t,” he murmured, sweeping it through the space above the bed. Time rippled like water, and the darkness unlatched itself from Danny’s thoughts, drifting free and floating in a miasmic black cloud above him.

“Begone,” Clockwork hissed, and the tip of his staff glowed with soft white light. It was dim enough to not risk waking Danny, but the nightmare cloud shuddered all the same, and when clockwork jabbed it with his staff the cloud collapsed in on itself until it was nothing more than a pinprick.

Clockwork plucked it out of the air and rolled it between his fingers. He caught flashes of swirling green power, of lightning and white hot pain, and then he curled his hand into a fist, crushing the darkness within. It would come back eventually. They all did, and would so long as they kept their roots in Danny’s soul, but hopefully the more Clockwork destroyed them, the longer these things would take to return.

He burned it with ectoplasmic fire anyway. Just to be safe.