#poll fic

You weren’t expecting him to ever be creepy, or the like, so that must wasn’t what you anticipated. Very few ill thoughts could arise at all from what you knew of him: the local florist who ran that quaint little shop down the end of the road. You rarely saw him because his work required him to be up at the crack of dawn and his lights were already dimmed by the time you’d come back home. Usually it was only because the library ate up whatever you had of your time.

This time, it was because you had been out drinking, and, mind you, it wasn’t something you would usually be off doing, but even your professor in the module had encouraged it. Just a small get-together to let loose and relax with your fellow students. It felt right to do so, fun, even.

You ended up stumbling back home without a single worry, only to find him—your neighbour, Choso was it?—stood at the bottom of the stairwell you needed to take. His arms were folded as he blocked the way, his brows knitted in concern, his lips pursed in disapproval. The birthmark he had lining the midsection of his face creased with expression.

At a glance, he seemed almost gentle in his presence. He looked soft and kind, with features that should have put you at ease. Though, something about the way he looked at you, did anything but that. The look in his eyes was focused, yes, intentful, but not in a way that was warm, not even curious, no, but simply just careful, and far too precise.

“It’s a bit too late for you to be out like this,” he said, breaking the tense quiet with his voice. It sounded low and steady as he spoke, deep—pacifying, almost—as if he meant to soothe whatever you brought back. His messy hair filtered gently through the soft breeze as he tilted his head, glancing you up and down, just taking in the state of you.

You gave a small and unsteady gulp because that was quite the introduction. You had never otherwise before spoken to him—only ever catching glances at him at most, and yet, there he was, confronting you over what? Staying out late? Being tipsy? Why was it even an issue for him?

Thinking maybe that you were being noisy, even if you were certain that you weren’t, you tried to say something.

Your own voice came out as meek, however, more than you had meant it to. It sounded rough around the edges from drinking too much. “I, uh,” you started, only to gulp a second later. “I’m sorry. Did I make too much noise coming back?”

“No,” he replied, straightening his posture, “but you did worry me. It’s late and you look so… drunk. There’s some bad people out there, you know.”

On the surface level, his intentions did not seem cruel, which added to the problem. His concern for you sounded real and there was no threat laced in the way that he spoke. Maybe you were just tired and drunk, and that’s all it was, but something about the way he just was as a person, left you unable to trust him fully.

“Well, sorry,” you mumbled out. “I’m usually home earlier, I guess. Tonight I was just at a thing and I ended up drinking quite a bit. Won’t be a habit. Promise.”

Choso gave a small nod to your explanation and then stepped aside.

“Alright,” he accepted.

You let out a deep breath, too, relieved for maybe only a second, starting up the winding stairs, only for him to follow closely right behind you.

Something cold and dreadful anchored in your gut and refused to budge as soon as you felt him step so close. The hairs on the back of your neck rose in alarm, unable to place what it was that you were feeling. Panic, maybe? His hand settled right at the small of your back whenever you swayed, keeping you steady, and he didn’t hurry you as you walked, keeping you intentionally close.

Then, by the time you had reached your front door, your hands trembled with panic that you could no longer hide. Your keys rattled violently in your pockets and you found yourself trembling as you tried to guide them into the lock. Choso, of course, was directly behind you within a heartbeat. This time, so close that his chest brushed against your back. His hands were far steadier than yours, and he helped you without you asking him to do so. Your whole body went rigid, even, as he closed his palms around your hands, easing the key into the lock and turning it slowly to the side.

All the while, you were waiting for something worse the whole time, because how could you not have been? Your neighbour—who you have never spoken a single word to—cornered you on your walk home, hounded you up the stairs, and was now walking you into your unit.

You expected the worst.

You anticipated a fight, a struggle, perhaps.

And yet—

He only walked inside with you.

He didn’t place his hands on you at all, either, and instead moved right past you as you were left frozen solid and stood in place, closing the distance between the door and the kitchenette. He took the electronic kettle that sat on the edge, filled it with water, and set it to boil, finally turning to face you.

“You should try to drink something warm before you sleep,” he said softly. “It’ll help with the hangover.”

By that point, you had moved yourself up against the opposite edge of your home, pressing both your back and your palms against the cool wall, your chest rising up and down too fast. Panic, indeed, quickly gripped you in a way that you could no longer mask, but it didn’t seem to deter him.

If he had been loud about it—if he had been crude, pushy, unkind—then you would at least have an excuse to feel the way that you did, but your neighbour, Choso the florist from the floor below, did not check any of those boxes. He was acting kind and concerned, going so far as to make you tea.

If he had been a woman, you thought, would you still feel as off as you did?

You tried to think about that double standard.

You tried to ground yourself, but god, the unease stayed no matter what you did.

You watched apprehensively as he poured the boiling water into a cup, steeping something he sourced from your cupboards, his hands far too steady. Your breath caught as he then brought it over to you, settling it on a table nearby, before gently easing you down into the small breakfast nook you had by the kitchenette. He crouched in front of you after that, waited until the cup had cooled down enough, before guiding your hands—just as he did with the keys—to close around the hot porcelain, guiding it towards your mouth.

“Drink,” he encouraged.

The tea went down slowly, comforting you slightly in a situation that still felt so wrong. By the time you had emptied maybe about half of the cup, you were able to think a little more clearly.

“You didn’t have to do this much,” you said, your words less slurred than before, your voice less rough now that you had warmed your throat, “but thanks.”

Choso took the cup from your hands, rinsing it off as soon as he rose to his feet. When he turned back, he met you with a smile that hid the way he must have truly felt about you then.

“I’m just being neighbourly,” he assured you. “That’s all.”

Neighbourly. That’s all. You repeated those things in your head, already driving yourself mad from what the implication must have been. Whatever this was did not feel even kind, but rather that he was setting up your cooperation to fall right under and into his care, in a way that you would surely have to pay him back for it.

You hoped—prayed—that wasn’t the case.

He stepped closer then, his hands lifting slightly, ready to catch you if you moved away, even though you didn’t, because far too tired, you were—dizzy—far too unsettled to do anything but helplessly watch him. He guided you towards your bed right around the corner, seating you down, gently encouraging you to settle over your back, before pulling the blanket carefully over you with slow, deliberate hands.

“It’s only right to take care of those close to you,” he added softly.

You nodded once. “R-right.”

He leaned in as soon as you were settled, pressing a kiss over your forehead, light and brief.

“So, goodnight,” he murmured, glancing at you for a final moment before pulling away entirely. “Try to take better care of yourself, and… maybe not go to those parties anymore.”

His eyes stayed on yours, a soft, half-stifled laugh breaking his expression.

“Unless… you want this to become a habit?”

“I—” you started immediately after, because the audacity of his presence was almost enough to rouse you fully.

But, he looked away before you could finish, and then, more to himself than you, he quietly added, cutting you off, “But, who am I kidding?” he asked himself, his voice gentle, barely heard. “Of course I’ll still find a way to take care of you, no matter what.”

He left after that, rising to his feet and moving far enough away that you could hear the front door close. Then, a short moment later, the lock clicked from the outside, even though you were certain you had slipped the keys into the bowl you always dropped them in by the entrance. The sound made your stomach feel even heavier than before, as if confirming a bad feeling.

Sleep, however, came anyway, because of the alcohol if not from anything else: your eyelids were already drooping shut—

And, when you next woke up in the morning, your headache not as terrible as you expected it to be, you told yourself it was all just a dream, just to keep your sanity, just also, to not overthink what was technically a very, very strange interaction.

But then, as you stepped outside, ready to head on out to your late morning classes, you found a small mug waiting by your door with a few dried daisies—or, no—chamomile flowers, tucked beside it. Beneath the cup, there was a card with something written on it.

You pinched the card out, your eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh daylight:

‘Maybe instead of going out to drink, you could stay inside and have some tea instead? I dried these just for you.’

Right. That uncomfortable night was real, wasn’t it?

And he did say that he would take care of you, or at least—

That he’d find a way to always do so.

You stared at the offering for a long moment before taking the mug inside, leaving it on your counter and leaving down your apartment stairs in a hurry, almost tripping on your own two feet.

What you didn’t notice was Choso watching you from his apartment, his eyes fixed on your retreating form.

Nor did you see how patient he looked, how certain—

Of course you didn’t yet understand that this was only the beginning of his “care”; a mere taste of something before it bloomed into something terribly possessive.

Because if he had it his way, you wouldn’t even be wasting your time in classes.

Let alone even going out on your own at all.

~~~

He might be going crazy now, seeing as his brilliant idea was to split himself in two and talk to himself.  

But lots of people talked to themselves to work out problems, right?  As long as they didn’t think they were talking to another person it was fine.

This was just a more extreme version of that, that’s all.  

(If he stared at the Ghost Catcher anymore, he might not do it.)

Danny breathed in deeply, transformed in a flash of light, then flew through the glowing green threads of the Ghost Catcher.  

There was a moment of sharp disorientation, of vertigo, of feeling simultaneously caught on the lines, like walking through a spiderweb, and falling through them untouched, of skin pulling stickily away from skin, of looking down and up at himself at the same time, and then–

Phantom caught Danny by the wrist, and, carefully, lowered himself– him the rest of the way to the ground.  

“Wow, that– So, that worked,” said Danny.  The last time, he– they had only been separated for a few seconds.  Long enough to note it as happening and then re-merge.  He'd half expected to get sucked back together just as fast this time.  

Phantom looked up at the Ghost Catcher, then back at Danny.  He nodded.  “So… you wanted to talk to me?”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” asked Danny.  “I mean, it’s about ghost stuff, isn’t it?”

“And lying to everyone in our human life,” said Phantom, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.  

Ugh, did Danny really look like that in ghost form?  All… upright.  And shiny.  It didn’t seem real.  Was it real?  Danny never had to interpret his body language from the outside before.  

Danny slumped.  “Maybe this isn’t going to work.  We should just… go back together.”

“What?  No!” said Phantom.  “We haven’t even tried yet.”

“Then you say something.”

They glared at each other for a second, then Phantom clicked his tongue.  “Fine,” he said, “but it's not like you don't already know.”

“Yeah, that was the point.”

Phantom didn't reply right away, instead looking around the lab with an expression of increasing distaste.  His eyes fell on the portal and he scowled before looking away.  “Can we go somewhere else?  I hate it here.”

“You do?” asked Danny, surprised.  Did… did he hate it down here?  He wasn’t sure.  

“Uh, yeah?” Phantom looked down at Danny, incredulous.  “It's full of weapons made specifically to hurt me.”

“Not specifically you,” objected Danny.  “They made a bunch of these before they even knew you existed.”

“Wow, that makes me feel so much better,” said Phantom.  “They’re just for hurting and hunting down ghosts.”

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Thank you for reading this far! If you would like to participate, please reply to this post with what you want to happen or want to see in the fic next. This can be an event (e.g. the lab suddenly explodes), a character appearing (e.g. Wes, Sam, Undergrowth), a headcanon being added to the story (e.g. ghost hunger), a POV switch (e.g. switch to Jazz), a setting element (e.g. the year is 2104), a ship (e.g. Everlasting Trio), or something else I've forgotten to list here.

To be used in the poll, your suggestions must:

Fit in a poll option (80 charaters or less)

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Be compatible with already established story elements