Chapter Text
"Who's this?" Clockwork asked.
The young ghost dropped the defensive scowl he'd been wearing since Clockwork arrived, and lit up at the question. He flicked his spectral tail where it lay wrapped around the corpse's waist. "This is my human," he said proudly.
Clockwork floated at the far side of the destroyed laboratory and appraised the murdered corpse that looked so much like Danny Fenton. "He's very handsome," Clockwork said.
The ghost beamed. "Isn't he?" He ran his fingers through the corpse's dark hair. His smile faltered. "He looked better before I killed him," the ghost said. He looked imploringly at Clockwork. "I had to, you know?"
Clockwork nodded, pulsing acceptance through their aura. The young ghost mellowed as the feeling washed over him. He cuddled closer to his human's cold body.
This was not the first time Clockwork had eased their way into companionship with a newborn ghost. The process was always delicate, but Clockwork had infinite patience. Here and Now, they would need it. No ghost begins easily, but this one had suffered an unusually traumatic birth. The battletorn state of the laboratory, with its scorched walls and destroyed machinery, told only the very latest of the short and terrible tale. Even so, Clockwork was determined. Taming this particular ghost was a top priority for the Ancient Master of Time.
As is usually the case with marked children, it was the ghost's originator that drew Clockwork's attention, rather than the ghost himself. Danny Fenton was always a tricky one. There were very few timelines in which he existed without creating far-reaching waves of cause and effect; few timelines in which he was not important. Whether living or dead or somewhere in between, Danny Fenton was someone that Clockwork always kept their eye on. The progeny of his death was no different.
"What's your name?" The young ghost asked after a long silence.
"I'm called Clockwork," Clockwork answered. They didn't ask for the ghost's name. It wasn't yet time for him to choose.
The ghost brushed cold fingers through his human's hair. "Why are you here?" he asked.
"I'm here because I need to be. Because you need me."
The ghost ran a finger around the shell of his human's ear and deliberated. "Yeah, I guess so." He pulled away from the corpse slightly, just to look at it. "Can't stay here forever." He frowned.
"Not forever, no."
"Where will we go?"
"There are better places," Clockwork said. "I could show you some of my favorites."
The ghost's eyes brightened before he reined himself in. He glanced at the corpse.
"We can't take him with us," Clockwork said.
The ghost coiled his tail tighter and cast an indignant glare. "I know that."
Clockwork offered a crooked smile. "We cannot take a piece of him, either."
The ghost sank back into himself and glowered.
Clockwork sympathized. The corpse was, after all, the only thing the ghost had left. Under normal circumstances, a young ghost without a tether or a purpose would simply cease to exist. This ghost, born fully formed, did not have that luxury. Clockwork didn't pity him, despite how damning such an existence could be. Clockwork didn't feel anything at all for the ghost, really. They hadn't come because they cared. Clockwork intervened because the alternative was madness, and the mad progeny of Danny Fenton was not something the universe could endure.
Clockwork waited in the laboratory with the ghost and the corpse for three days. This was no time at all for Clockwork, but it was a terribly long time for a corpse. The remains were becoming impatient, and the ghost was crying for it. He lay draped over the stiff shoulders, cheek pressed against the cold crown of the corpse's head, and leaked glowing tears into the dark hair as he shook soundlessly.
Clockwork floated placidly near the far wall. They opened their eyes to check on their charge, as they had done at least once every hour, and the sight softened them. It was so difficult to remain indifferent to a child in distress. Clockwork reached out delicately with their aura, asking.
The ghost's gaze was hard under heavy brows. He eyed the Ancient with the briefest suspicion before closing his eyes and dropping all boundaries in a desperate please.
Clockwork's aura swirled ahead of them as they allowed instinct to lead, guiding them to blanket the new ghost and hold him while he cried.
The ghost relaxed his grip on the corpse just enough to let himself be pulled against Clockwork's chest. The Master of Time slipped off their gloves and cradled the ghost's face in one long hand, and the creases in their palm ran luminous with tears. They carded fingers through the ghost's ephemeral white hair, and Clockwork felt their own aura slot gently into place around the aura of their charge, pressing deep into jagged valleys and soothing angry spikes. They demonstrated safe, stable shapes to exist in, and gradually the tears and shaking calmed.
The two ghosts spent three hours like that; the elder curled over the younger, the younger curled over the corpse. Their auras flexed together, their cores vibrated with proximity, and Clockwork occasionally stroked the ghost's flickering hair. Otherwise, they were still.
The young ghost spoke in not quite a whisper, "We can't take him with us." It was a statement.
"No. We can't."
"I don't…" the ghost's words tapered off, but as intertwined as they were, Clockwork didn't need words to understand. The ghost's profound emptiness was all-encompassing.
Despite eons of existence and endless practice with loss, Clockwork's eyes dampened. They didn't let the grief seep into their aura. They were demonstrating strength for the child. They answered, also without words, with an ironclad conviction that the emptiness was finite. Against their better judgment, they projected a promise that they would stay with the ghost until that day came. The promise was not the safest one for the Master of Time to make, but once they shared it, they saw that it was true.
It would not be long, in any case. Clockwork had plans for the ghost.
The ghost’s gratitude was bottomless. For the first time since the human's merciful murder, he released the corpse entirely and turned to press his face into Clockwork's robes.
Clockwork held him tight and asked, "Are you ready?"
The ghost nodded, but his aura wavered.
Clockwork waited until the moment was ripe to loosen their grasp on the ghost as he turned back to the corpse. "What will happen to him?" the ghost asked.
The Ancient Master of Time looked into the corpse's future and saw: "Vlad will find him when he returns in a few days."
The ghost graced his new guardian with a maliciously fanged smile. "Vlad won't like that very much."
Clockwork returned his vindiction with more mirth than rage, although they couldn't help feeling a little bit of that, too. "No, he won't," they said. "But he will give your human a proper burial. He will grieve."
The ghost sobered. "That's good. Okay." He touched his human's hair for the last time. "We can go."
Being in the Ghost Zone felt different from when the ghost last remembered — different from when he had been Danny Fenton. The air was less bright and energetic and more calming, blanketing. It might have been a full-ghost thing, or it might have just been because that was what he needed right now; the ghost was buzzing with anxiety. This irritated him, because he wasn't some child and this wasn't his first time in the Ghost Zone. It certainly wasn't his first time sitting at the counter of a 1950s-style diner. There was a popular one on Elm Ave, back in Amity Park.
Unlike those at the diner in Amity Park, these red-cushioned bar stools spun all the way around without even a squeak. The ghost gave himself a hard push off the counter, and grinned when Clockwork didn't tell him to be careful. He'd always hated when adults said that, as if he didn't know how to take care of himself. Being dead had its perks, he supposed.
The ghost tipped his head back as he spun, and saw himself reflected in the mirrored ceiling, the only stationary face in the rotating restaurant around him. If it hadn't been for the stillness and motion, the ghost didn't think he would have recognized himself. It was the same familiar face, of course — Danny’s nose and chin and mouth — but the colors had changed. He lifted a hand to his pale blue cheek, feeling his own skin under his fingers while the ghost in the ceiling mimicked the motion. He drew his hand back into his hair; still white, but now flickering and wisping like flames trailing after him. He looked hard into his own eyes. They were shaped like the eyes he’d always had, and they were framed by the face that had always been his, but no longer blue. No longer green. The ghost's eyes were red.
He felt an aural pulse seeking his attention and looked down; he'd drifted towards the ceiling without realizing. Clockwork was looking up at him, their cowl drawn back to reveal their face in full for the first time. Their long white hair was tied back from their face with numerous thin braids tucked behind pointed ears. Some of the braids had tiny beads woven in, glinting gold and ruby. Even with the light dancing in them, the color was no match for the depthless red of Clockwork's eyes.
The ghost looked up at himself in the ceiling once more and back down at his white-haired, blue-skinned, red-eyed rescuer. He laughed, "We match!"
Clockwork smiled. They extended a hand upwards, and the ghost took it and settled back at their side. The murmuring background noise of the restaurant resumed, and the ghost was embarrassed to realize that it had quieted while he was exploring.
An aproned woman planted herself across the counter from the two of them, wearing a huge smile. The ghost thought she looked exactly as a waitress in a 1950s-style diner ought to look. "Hans! I've been missing you around here. How's tricks?" She asked.
The ghost glanced at Clockwork, whose demeanor had changed. They seemed larger somehow, more open and inviting. The ghost sat up a little straighter. Clockwork set one elbow on the counter and propped their chin in their hand. "I've been here and there, spinning my gears," they said with an easy smile. "You're looking radiant as ever, Clara. Has time been a friend?"
The waitress — Clara — laughed, and said, "Certainly hasn't been a foe. Nothing much changes around here and that's how I like it." She set two menus on the counter, winked at Clockwork, and bustled away.
The ghost prodded Clockwork and gave them a suspicious look. "Hans?"
"I go by many names," they opened their menu flat on the counter and smirked at the ghost, "Whichever opens the most doors, generally."
The ghost tried not to smile with the thrill being included in Clockwork's secret, but he was not particularly successful. He bit his lip and opened his own menu. Most of the items were familiar, but some dishes didn't look like they'd strike human appetite. Some were not even printed in English. He flipped through a couple of pages. "How is this organized? It doesn't make any sense."
Clockwork glanced at the ghost's menu and then held up their own. It was different. "It's categorized by feeling. No two ghosts' menus will look alike."
"Oh." The ghost flipped to the first page, and sure enough, Danny Fenton's usual order was listed as number one. "It's even got the extra blueberries written in."
He read the text over. The Usual: Three blueberry pancakes, eggs over easy, side of bacon, extra blueberries. He could almost taste his favorite breakfast on his tongue, and he shivered. He read it again. He wasn't sure anymore. After all, the ghost wasn't Danny.
"You don't have to decide right away," Clockwork said. The ghost looked up at them. "But if you want it, you can have it." They projected warm reassurance across intermingled auras. "It can still be your regular order."
The ghost dropped his menu on the counter and folded his arms over it. He tucked his head into the hollow and glanced up. Clockwork was watching him. The ghost sighed. "I miss him," he mumbled. "I miss…" He thrust a bramble of memories and feelings at Clockwork. Memories of being Danny. Before everything had happened.
Clockwork rested a hand on the ghost's back.
Clara returned with a mug and a small pitcher. "Your usual, Hans. Hazelnut and half-and-half, right?" She smiled sweetly, showing dimples. "Can I get your friend anything to drink?"
The ghost sat up to lean towards Clockwork and cupped a hand over his mouth. "I don't have any money," he whispered.
Clockwork laughed, bold and brief, and returned a conspiratorial grin. "Breakfast is on me," they whispered back.
The ghost didn't even bother trying to hide his smile this time. To Clara, "Can I have a black coffee and a chocolate milkshake?" He eyed Clockwork, who was occupied stirring milk into their own coffee.
Clara nodded. "Sure thing, short stack." To Clockwork, she projected a sense of approval and something about the ghost being cute, if he caught the flavor of the sentiment correctly.
She left to fetch the drinks and the ghost bared his teeth at Clockwork. "I am not cute," he hissed.
"Not at all," Clockwork took a sip. "Scariest ghost I've met, if I had to judge."
Before the ghost could complain, a steaming mug and a tall chocolate milkshake were placed in front of him, and adjectives didn't seem to matter so much in the face of ice cream for breakfast. The ghost dropped a spoonful of milkshake into his coffee, stirred, and tasted. It was just as good as he remembered, if not better.
Clockwork took a long drink and let their eyes wander across the diner. "I haven't been here in an age," they said quietly. "Always new faces, but some are as reliable as the seasons."
"Mm, regulars," the ghost nodded. He had always liked the idea of being a regular. Danny had been a regular at the Nasty Burger. The ghost recalled the last time he'd been at the Nasty Burger and — suddenly hands were on him and his chest hurt and he couldn't see. The ghost opened his eyes. Clockwork was there. It was Clockwork's hands that were steadying him. The ghost uncurled his clenched fists from the fabric of his jumpsuit, right above his core. It still hurt, but Clockwork was feeding him gentle patterns and the ghost's aura was aligning to them and calming.
"S-sorry," the ghost stuttered.
"A panic attack is nothing to apologize for." Clockwork settled into their own seat again, one hand on the ghost's back. They took another sip of coffee, watching the ghost sidelong.
The ghost reoriented himself around the steam rising from his mug. He remembered panic attacks. Danny Fenton had them occasionally, when things were bad, but they hadn't felt like that. The ghost wasn't even sure what that had felt like. Nothing remotely familiar. Then again, he'd only been half dead, back when he was Danny. He supposed having some vital signs made all the difference.
"Are you alright?" Clockwork asked. The question, or the need to ask it, confused the ghost until he realized that he'd withdrawn his aura beneath his skin; Clockwork couldn't feel him anymore. He wasn't ashamed (he was), but he definitely wasn't okay.
"I'm fine," he mumbled.
Clockwork studied him over the rim of their cup. The ghost looked away, self-conscious, and pulled his milkshake into his lap to sip on.
"Have a peek at the corner booth, with the newspaper," Clockwork said. The ghost turned in his seat. "That's Old Havner. He never leaves the diner. In fact, they say the diner grew around him, and he shaped the inside with his expectations. That's what they say, anyhow."
The ghost examined the large man in his boater hat and jacket. He shook out his newspaper and glanced up. The ghost quickly looked away. "Is it true?" He asked Clockwork.
"Does it matter?" Clockwork answered.
The ghost considered, and Clockwork scanned the room some more. "Ah," they nodded towards the door. "Observe the third table, over there."
The ghost looked, frowned, counted, and looked again. "There isn't one."
"Observe closely."
The ghost squinted. "Oh, there it is." To Clockwork, "That's really hard to see."
"Indeed," they said. "That's Shadow Under Night, sitting there. They hide things. If you ever need something hidden, they're the ghost to go to. But," they lifted a finger, "you can't be certain you'll ever get it back. They are very good." Clockwork glanced at the table again and chuckled. "They've been trying to catch Clara's eye for a refill for the past hour."
The ghost laughed, "Maybe we should tell her."
"That would be good of you," Clockwork smiled.
"Who else do you know?"
Clockwork hummed, then gestured to the other side of the restaurant. "See the booth by the window, the woman in the yellow hat? Her name is Marigold Wine. She spins sweaters out of stories, and she'll make you one in exchange for a bottled emotion. She'll take anything except hopelessness."
"Has she ever made you one?" The ghost asked.
"Mm, several." Clockwork cradled their mug in their long fingers and took a sip.
"What are the stories?"
"I can't tell you, they're sweaters now," Clockwork said. "Perhaps you can try one on, sometime."
The ghost looked at the woman for another moment and then turned back to Clockwork. "What about you?"
"Me?"
"You're a regular, right?" Said the ghost, "So what's your weird story?"
Clockwork smiled slow and wide, showing teeth.
At that moment, Clara returned with a tray balanced on her hip, hands free. She pulled out a notebook and a pen and her sparkling smile. "Are you fine fiddleheads ready to order?"
Clockwork and the ghost shared a glance. The ghost bit his lip and nodded. He turned to Clara. "I'll have my usual."