Summary:
Lancer refers Danny to the school counselor, hoping he'll work through whatever issues are keeping him from succeeding in school.

...The counselor notices A Lot.

Written for the Phic Phight 2020, for Babyhedgehog-cutebutdeadly aka Zombie Merlin. I am on team Ghost. This chapter is 2,027 words.

I always like Lancer as a character, don't you?

Red Flags
—

Chapter 1

Lancer knows trouble when he sees it.

"Thank you for staying after class, Mr. Fenton," Lancer says, as he motions to the chair to indicate where Danny should sit. "Do you know why you're here?"

Danny perches on the lip of the chair, bracing for a lecture. His posture reminds Lancer of a statue he once saw in a museum—Atlas, bowed forward, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lancer wracks his brain for what might make the teen look so tired, but beyond the usual suspects (Late night? Bad habits?) nothing springs to mind. The teen doesn't participate in any extracurriculars, doesn't have any big project deadlines looming, and as far as Lancer knows, there hasn't been any trouble at home.

Danny's always been a bit of an enigma.

"I'm here because I didn't get my essay done," says the boy at last.

Lancer's eyebrows rise an inch on his forehead. "That," he concedes, "And also because you were late for my class for the fifth time this week. I know I have you for first, third, and seventh period, but by The Odyssey, Mr. Fenton, this is getting ridiculous." It's only Wednesday, after all.

Danny's eyes flicker to the floor. "Sorry Mr. Lancer," he says. "I'll try to do better next time."

The teacher's lips press into a frown.

See, the thing is, he believes it. Danny really will try. He's seen Danny put forth the effort before, and when he really applies himself, the results can be astounding. Danny might not be the prodigy his sister is, but he's got plenty of intelligence in his own right, a unique way of approaching the world, and an unusually high work ethic when he decides to commit.

But somehow, every few months, they end up back here at square one. Multiple tardies, missed assignments. Falling asleep in class. Without an intervention, Lancer fears that Danny might stop coming in entirely. Something is keeping Danny from staying on track, and for the life of him, Lancer can't figure out what it is.

"Mr. Fenton, is there something going on that I don't know about?" Lancer asks at last. "By all rights, you should be easily passing my classes. And yet—"

Danny stiffens at the mere suggestion. "Nothing," he denies, a little too quickly. "It's nothing. I'm sorry. I just thought the essay was due on Friday, that's all. If you can give me an extension…"

"I don't give extensions. You know that." Lancer gives the boy a long, hard stare, knowing full well that Danny is hiding something. "Although, if there are outside factors affecting your schoolwork, accommodations can, of course, be made."

Danny fidgets in his seat, before he settles, at last, into a defeated pose. "No, Mr. Lancer."

Lancer holds for a moment longer, hoping Danny will change his mind, will explain whatever issues or circumstances are holding him back. But the promise of potential leniency for his missed essay—and any future assignments—doesn't seem to be enough of a temptation to share whatever is ailing him.

Danny stays silent.

"…Very well," Lancer says at last, pulling out a pen. "Here is a worksheet you can do for a little bit of extra credit - along with a practice test you can use to study for the exam tomorrow." He hands the two sheets to Danny, along with a permission slip after he finishes signing it. "This will get you to your fourth period class without a tardy mark. Don't abuse it. And don't be late to seventh."

Danny takes the papers and mumbles a thank you before gathering his things and leaving. Lancer watches him go, at a loss for what to do.

Lancer knows trouble when he sees it. Too many bright, promising kids have fallen off the back of the wagon on his watch— so Lancer definitely recognizes the signs, however subtle they are.

But what else can he do?

"He's a good kid," Lancer insists, holding Danny's file. "He just needs a little help, that's all."

Across the desk, the school counselor, Connor Matthews, puts his face in his hands and groans.

"…You do owe me," Lancer adds, suddenly worried that the answer might be 'no.'

"I do," he agrees. "I do. Christ, though, Arnold, couldn't you have picked a better week? I am up to my neck in traumatized kids! There've been five on-site ghost attacks this week—and it's only Wednesday!"

Something about that argument seems ironic, but Lancer isn't exactly sure why. He hums. "I'd make it worth your while," he argues instead. "Dinner on me, perhaps?"

Connor rubs his face, then lets one hand drop, so he can fix Lancer with a tired blue stare. His eyes are shadowed and shot through with veins. The stress makes him look much older than his thirty-something age affords him. Being a counselor at Casper High is certainly no walk in the park.

"Must be some kid," he says at last, "If you're calling in a favor. What makes him so special?"

Lancer hesitates.

"He's…" the teacher casts about for words. "He has a good heart."

"Most kids do," Connor points out. "Until it's beaten out of them by the public school system."

"Hey now—"

"You come into my office, you hear my truth." Conner cuts him off. "And deep down, you know it too. You see hundreds of good kids every day. Hundreds that stumble and fall short of their potential. Why did this one catch your eye?"

Lancer crosses his arms, deep in thought. He works his jaw back and forth, trying to put words to the nameless swirl of worry in his gut.

"Maybe I'm biased," he says at last. "His sister, Jasmine, was one of my best students. Maybe I'm holding him to a higher standard than I should."

Connor just sits there, head tilted to the side, waiting. He's known Lancer too long, and is too good at his job, to mistake the excuse Lancer threw out as the unfiltered truth. Eventually, his patience pays off.

"…But I don't think so," Lancer admits. "I've seen Danny meet—and exceed—my expectations before. It's just… it's like something is holding him back. Getting in the way? But I can't figure out what, and he won't talk to me. I thought a more experienced eye like yours might help."

Connor sits back in his chair. "And you're sure about this," he says. "You're sure he wants help?"

"He deserves help," Lancer says.

"So do all the kids on my waiting list," Connor says. "I've got dozens. This school is chock full of them. Kids who suffer from anxiety. Depression. PTSD. Because of the daily ghost attacks, because reality around here gets bent out of shape every Tuesday or so—because a dragon just burnt their college admissions portfolio, and submissions are due in three weeks."

Connor pauses here, and raises a finger. "But you know all this. And still you're asking me. So, why?"

Lancer's mouth twists unpleasantly.

"When I first dealt with Danny, I admit I thought he was a troublemaker." Lancer says. "From trespassing, to vandalism, to destruction of school property—you name it, he's done it."

He hands Danny's file—his permanent record—to Connor. The man flips it open and jerks back a little, face set in a frown. The file is earmarked with dozens of disciplinary notes, redlines, detention slips. It's quite a thing to behold. "And you think this is a cry for attention?"

"Quite the opposite, really," Lancer says. "This behavior started roughly the same time as his trouble in school. I think they're linked—though I don't know if one problem is causing the other, or if they stem from the same source. But like his school problems, whenever Mr. Fenton runs into trouble, he just shrugs and takes the punishment. No arguing, no backtalk. Like he's trying to sweep it under the rug. He's trying to hide his outbursts, not make a spectacle of them."

Connor frowns. "If the two are linked, then we should see an uptick in incidents like that, too. What kind of trouble has he gotten into lately?"

"Nothing beyond a few tardies," Lancer says. "But I worry they might start up again soon, if we don't do anything."

"Or," Connor shrugs, "He's been doing it all along, and you just haven't caught him."

"…A Study In Scarlet, Connor, don't even joke."

A sigh. "You know it's a lot harder to help a kid who doesn't want it," Connor points out. "I might be wasting resources here."

"I doubt he needs much," Lancer argues. "He's pulled himself out of this pattern before. Maybe if we just lend a hand—offer a friendly ear, teach him some basic time scheduling tools? —then we can stop him from falling too far."

"If it'll be that easy, then why bring him to me at all?" Connor asks.

"First, because Mr. Fenton certainly won't talk to me - given that I'm usually the one doling out his punishments."

"Fair."

"And two:" Lancer says, "…Because Danny is the type of kid who slips through the cracks if you let him. I'm not going to make that mistake this time."

Connor sits back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

"All right," he says at last. He dons a pair of reading glasses and casts a dry glance down, again, to the manila file laying open on the desk before him. "Danny seems like the kind of kid who'd normally get put on my radar anyway, if I didn't have such a flood of other, genuine cases, I suppose. But you owe me. Dinner, restaurant of my choice. Deal?"

"…Deal."

"Also," Connor adds, "On a completely unrelated note, I need to borrow your Xbox."

"Ready Player One, are you serious? Again?"

Connor crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, not budging an inch.

"…Fine." Lancer sighs. "Just try not to beat my high score in DOOMED this time?"

"No promises."

Danny is late to seventh period, but so is everyone else, largely due to yet another ghost attack in the halls of Casper High.

There's a tree growing out of the floor in the middle of the hallway now, flanked by dozens of twining plants and venomous flowers that snap at those who get too close. The truant officer directs a detour for anyone trying to get into the A Wing. Danny trails in later than most, with thorns clinging to the hem of his jeans as a tell-tale sign of how close he'd been to the action.

"Mr. Fenton," Lancer clears his throat as he spies Danny trying to sneak in, heading to his usual seat.

Danny stops in place and hangs his head. "…I am gonna kill Undergrowth." He mutters.

Lancer blinks at the odd turn of phrase before brushing it off to the side. "A word, please?"

Danny follows Lancer into the hallway, marching like he's headed to the gallows. The door closes behind them, leaving them alone in the quiet hallway. From his pocket, Lancer produces a hand written hall pass.

"Instead of attending English today, I'd like you to take a trip to Mr. Matthew's office," he says, handing off the paper. Danny, clearly expecting a detention, snaps his head up, startled.

"I—" he begins, and squints at the hall pass. "Who's Mr. Matthews?"

"Connor Matthews. Casper High's new counselor." Lancer explains.

Danny goes very still. "You're sending me to a therapist?"

Lancer nods.

The teen rereads the hall pass, then turns to give Lancer an almost desperate look. "…Uh, I think I'd rather just get detention, please."

"Off you go, Danny." Lancer presses a firm hand at the boy's back and points him to the offices. "No detours."

Danny sulks, but does what he's told, trudging off one way - before belatedly remembering the botanical blockade and pivoting on his foot towards the detour. Lancer watches him exit through the fire escape, then shakes his head and sighs.

He hopes Mr. Matthews can be of some help.

He hopes he's made the right choice.