Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a pragmatic choice.

A simple, realistic solution to a singular problem.

The problem is this: most people don’t believe ghosts exist. Anyone who bothered to look at the evidence with an open mind would realize they did, but most people weren’t willing to be honest with themselves. Many weren’t smart enough to understand the studies either.

Jack and Maddie are smart people. As a child, Maddie remembers her dad talking about the ghosts in the walls. He heard them sometimes, tapping on the bricks. She’d gone to school aware of their threat, and been laughed at. For a while, she’d conformed, crushed her own spirit and beliefs so she could have friends.

When her dad wound up in an asylum the first time, just as she entered high school, it had gotten so much worse.

Maddie bites her lip. Clacks away on the cheap grey keyboard fresh from Goodwill. The computer her family shares flickers ominously. It cost a little under a thousand dollars and took a year of scrounging dollars away left and right. Jack’s job at the car shop is barely enough to pay rent, and they can’t afford a house. 

She wants a house with every one of the 86 billion neurons most humans possess. One with a lab down in the bottom, with a big decontamination area perfect for ectoplasm. Honestly, the first step would be figuring out what chemicals react with it and what dissolves it.

It’s been two years since she and Jack got their doctorates, two years since they last had the equipment to collect natural ectoplasm. 

Maddie’s right hand drifts to her abdomen, to a tiny bulge barely visible underneath the loose, fluttery edge of a teal, lacy shirt.

A second bedroom would be nice.

Jack is at work right now, actually, picking up extra hours while one of the repairmen is on vacation. They’d agreed her grant proposal was a good idea, and she has the most spare time to work on it. She works part-time despite Jack’s anxiety over the baby’s health, but that leaves her with a lot of time to work on putting both of them back to work as scientists.

The proposal is almost done. She’s checking some final details. There are a few things that always result in Fentons being rejected.

1. Using the word “ectoplasm”. Maddie still resents the researchers who had rejected her experience in chemistry because of the name of her undergraduate degree, ectology, even though her later degrees conform with what most people believe in. Variations on chemistry and biology. Cashiers are a valuable part of society, but she hates being one.
2. Mentioning theories about what ectoplasm is other than being an efficient energy source and electrical conductor.
3. Grammar flaws
4. Unclear sentences

In short, there’s a lot to watch out for in a 19+ page document.

She has to dumb things down for ordinary people, for those who can’t be honest with themselves and admit they were wrong. Maybe phrase things so by the time those reading the proposal check the sources, they’re already invested in feeling right. If they hear that there’s an incredible energy source perfect for augmentation of anti-mutant weapons systems, that it should result in faster, smaller weapons which can be adjusted to do anything from cause mild pain to death…

Why wouldn’t the Department of Homeland Security spring for it?

The studies she and Jack cite, though, could cause problems. Each makes it incredibly clear that ghosts exist. Most of them are from the University of Wisconsin in Madison, the only college in the US to offer an ecology degree.

She hopes whoever reads their grant proposal can see past their own biases.

She dislikes polluting their research to use on people who are only slightly to the left of human, but Jack and Maddie both hate the idea of not continuing their research at all. If that means they have to start making anti-mutant guns and processors for mutant detectors, that’s just the price they’ll pay.

It’s a pragmatic choice.

Chapter Text

It’s a pragmatic choice.

Scott knows this, yet it still hurts. He’d been in college with Jack and Maddie. Back then, they were conspiracy theorists. He’d been forced to work on a project with them in English 101. The project itself went well. Paired with what he can only describe as mad geniuses, they’d made a 105. The extra five points were for exceptional design, and were entirely due to Jack. Scott doesn’t have a head for design. Seeing the world in shades of red doesn’t help one bit. The project lasted all semester. The intent was to show how to tackle long writing projects and condense them into 20 minute presentations.

They’d worked together, jumping between dorms and coffee shops. PowerPoint had just rolled out and they’d used computer time at the campus library to figure out how the hell to cobble slides together. In retrospect, he’s incredibly glad he didn’t have to cope with making the slides by hand. The previous year, that had been the only option.

They’d stayed close, even after Vlad Masters joined the paranormal club. For a while, Scott had thought their friendship had morphed into acquaintanceship. After his accident, though, Vlad stopped talking to Jack and Maddie. They’d gotten closer again, although he’d never told them about his powers.

A few years later, the Fentons married. Then they began to discuss children. The Fentons called him late one evening, asking him if he would agree to be a guardian for any children they might have. Jack had said it was because he was so mature. They trusted him. It wasn’t like they’d really be likely to die, but they wanted a safety net.

Funny how being forced to grow up fast makes you mature.

It’s one of the awful things he sees in his students. There’s a terrifying number of them who have to grow up too fast.

He’d accepted. It seemed like a small favor at the time. Now, he’s beginning to feel the smallest seed of regret. There’s an email in his inbox and angry achiness behind his eyes.

Dear Scott,

Hi! It’s Jack! How’s teaching the kiddos going this week? Did they do the prank you heard them planning? Did you get them back? You should. If you haven’t, I have some IDEAS! 

Maddie’s gonna email you later. We just got a contract with the DHS! Theyre gonna pay us a million dollars for weapons development! I was thinking about this really cool idea where we make guns with dials to change how much injury they cause! They might even be able to tell whos a mutant if you point it at them. Plus Maddie wants to make them run on ectoplasm! That’s actually how we’ll do the settings. Can’t really control how bad a gun is. Gotta carry multiple weapons. With this, one tool holds all the settings! Like the swiss army knife of guns. Makes me want to include a bayonet or something. We can finally get that refining system going to extract it from the air! Anyways, I gotta go! Can we call you Saturday?

-Jack! 

Sirens echo in Scott’s brain. Betrayal slides up his spine, settles like cold water in his stomach. It feels a little silly to be hurt when they don’t even know his secret.

He wants to write back, declare that they can’t be friends anymore. He wants to scream. But…

There’s an opportunity here. He remembers discussing with the Professor once how nice it would be to know what kinds of threats arise in advance. And maybe, later, when it can’t be linked to the Fentons’ new targets, he can ask to be removed from guardianship. Surely there’s a way to refuse it even if something happens before they change their will.

He doesn’t want to do this, but it’s a way to be useful. It’s what a leader would do, and Scott is a leader. Last year, he led the X-Men for the first time. They’d scraped to victory against an anti-mutant organization, staging a rescue for four mutant teens and children. They’d found bodies miles away in a mass entombment. Children they were too late for.

A whistle of breath threads through the gap in his front teeth.

Dear Jack,

Thankfully, we had part of the week off for spring break. I narrowly escaped the prank–it was obvious when they planned and set it up. The bucket-over-the-door trick only works so many times. They did fill it with glitter, so points for originality. I wish they’d take me seriously though. I get that I’m young, but I’m still the teacher. I won’t be pranking them in return. I sent them to detention with Charles.

It feels so strange to call him Charles.

It’s pretty impressive that you have the contract. I’m glad you’re going to get to work with ectoplasm again. Will it take a while to set up? And you can call me. I’ll be awake after 9am.

-Scott

It’s a pragmatic choice, even if it’s hard.

Chapter Text

It’s a pragmatic choice.

Danny’s fingers run over the deep blue notebook on his lap. Wire loops hold it together. The edges are soft, worn from repeated anxious paging. Not the kind that leads to actually looking at the contents of each page. No, this is from holding one side of the book and letting the pages stutter through his fingers until the other side is reached.

Danny remembers hearing the boom across town when the portal–

His inner cheek pinches, clenched between teeth. At least he’s not bleeding. He can’t taste it anyways. 

The social worker sits on his left, relaxed. Her brown drab sweater is loose, turning her overall chilly professionalism into something close to friendliness. Not really friendliness, considering she’s just doing her job. Despite himself, though, he’s a little impressed she went through so much trouble for him. He doesn’t know what social workers usually do, but probably taking somebody across the country is unusual.

The leather chair he’s sitting in creaks. Sitting this still is agonizing, but he has to make a good impression. It’s this or the fruitloop, and he’s seen how that combination ends.

Screams, the crushing knowledge that nobody is coming–

“When I agreed to be his guardian if something happened to Maddie or Jack, circumstances were different,” Scott Summers says. You wouldn’t think he was ending Danny’s world by the way he says it. “I’m a teacher now, to more than a hundred children. I don’t know if I’d have time to be a good parent.”

The social worker leans forward. “What specific concerns do you have? There are millions of teachers in the US, and many of them have families. I understand it can lead to some awkwardness when your child attends your classes, but I’ve placed several children with teachers who turned out to be lovely parents.”

There’s a stutter in Mr. Summers’ fingertips, a burst of fear. Bitter excuses coat his tongue. “We’re a private school and that leads to each teacher playing a more extensive role in the students’ lives. Each age group has a designated ‘house parent’, and I’d be concerned that I couldn’t really be a good parent due to all the time I spend with the other students. I’d also be worried that he’d feel uncomfortable here. The students are academically extremely gifted and come from all over the world and I feel like when he comes home from his school, he’d want to be in a welcoming environment where he can make friends among peers.”

There’s an insult in there, Danny’s sure. It sounds an awful lot like Mr. Summers is calling him dumb. It also sounds a lot like a desperate attempt to get out of parenting. The social worker reads it as doubt, not refusal. He can feel her trying to turn this around. On the surface, you’d think someone who deals with kids every day would be great at parenting. She thinks she has an opening.

Besides, Danny’s 16. How much work does keeping a teenager alive take? He’s not going to stick a fork into an electric socket for funsies .

Danny considers his options while the social worker speaks. “There’s more risk with other placements,” she says. “As someone who has those concerns and knows what to watch out for in himself, you’d be prepared to avoid those pitfalls. Danny has a history of surviving attempts on his life and this kind of setting would be very safe for him.”

“...attempts on his life?” Mr. Summers echoes.

“From mutants,” she goes on. “As a child of the Fentons, there’ve been a few near-misses from mutants associated with extremist groups, and death threats. A boarding school with top-of-the-line security is an ideal location, much safer than most families.”

There’s a thin twist of amusement wrapped like a bow around annoyance. Mr. Summers doesn’t show it, but there’s also a hint of peppery rage. Dr. Xavier and Ms. Grey’s minds are empty rooms. Danny can’t get a reading off of them. He’s never met people without thoughts.

Well, they probably have thoughts, but Danny can’t exactly sense them to find out.

Danny looks Mr. Summers dead in the eye. As much as he can, anyways, considering the impassive, mostly opaque red glasses. Dredges up a hint of formality. “Can I talk to you before you say no?” After a moment of thought, he adds, “...without her?”, casting a glance at the social worker.

She’s a little upset, but after a few wordless looks between the adults, she stands, tucking her dark grey skirt around her legs and walking to the door. The door thuds ominously behind her when she leaves.

Danny turns his attention to the three adults left in the room: Ms. Grey, Mr. Summers, and Dr. Xavier. There’s a thin film of apprehensiveness coating the room, but mostly he’s pretty sure he detects confusion in their wrinkled brows, in the slight tilt of the professor’s head.

The future of the world could rest on what he’s going to say, and he’s only got a guess. The suspicion that they’re concealing something. Right now, having a non-Vlad house is a thousand times more important than being nice.

“If you take me in, I won’t try to figure out what you’re hiding,” he declares flatly.

Mr. Summers and his girlfriend flinch minutely. The professor doesn’t react. “What we’re hiding?” he asks.

Danny jerks his head in a nod. “You don’t want to take me in. Not because of the time thing. Or me not fitting in. It’s because there’s something up with your school. Or maybe you’re lying about something. And if I don’t find out what it is, I’ll make something up. Report you for threatening me or murder or, or–”

He has to pause. There’s a tightness wound around his throat, words unexpectedly grating when they should flow. His hands tighten around the notebook again. He p̵͈̾r̷̡̛ỏ̶̰m̷̧̀i̸̦͊s̴̗̈́e̸̯̓d̴̮̔. He’s not about to give up now.

“I have a friend,” he stumbles on. “He can hack anything. He’ll look at everything you’ve ever done online, every system in this school. And if he can’t find anything, he can add it. You’ll go to jail. Agree to take me and I’ll obey your rules. I’ll follow whatever stupid things you want me to do, and I won’t pry.”

Danny stops. Waits. He isn’t sure how to prove the seriousness of his threat. 

Mr. Summers looks like he’s found a live atomic bomb in the basement, blinking red, seconds from obliterating the countryside. Ms. Grey’s eyebrows are on the ceiling, lips twisted sharply down. There’s even a tiny burst of fear like a sparkler, just barely noticeable, slipping through the emptiness where her emotions should sit. Dr. Xavier’s face twitches for a split second, then returns to flatness. 

In that instant, Danny sort of hates him. He can’t even tell if the guy cares. He inhales carefully, watching. There’s a thinly-veiled calculation running behind the man’s eyes.

Dr. Xavier smiles, and it is the fakest thing Danny has ever seen.

“I suppose we have a deal,” he says.

It’s a pragmatic choice. The only choice. Danny refuses to become Him.