A/N: So, I'm recovered from embarassment of what happened last time I wrote of this show, and now I can watch the show again (which I couldn't for a while). For people who don't know what I'm talking about, ignore what I just said, k? *grin*

The idea of the fanfic isn't really new, but I thought of the idea without seeing that others had the idea on the web, so I went for the original plan and went to write it anyway, so...screw you I guess! :3

I haven't spell-checked, so...yah, edits later, blah blah without the other blah.

Disclaimer: Come on, I'm too incompetent to come up with such unique characters, they rightfully belong to Danny Antonucci. Thank him for taking a part of my childhood.

PS! Double D is a little younger in this fanfic than in the series, for more traumatic effects.

"Mother...It's okay. You don't have to eat anything today either."

No response. mother never answered him. Thus most of his contribution in the household. It was highly unnerving, as well as unsettling, when mother wouldn't move from her spot; just stare down with half-lidded eyes at the plate on the table. Not bothering to pick up her fork, not even seeming to acknowledge his mere existence. Just...existing, as a space-taking prop.

Now as Double D sat there, his hands clutched neatly in his lap and shoulders strained; resisting his automatic will of putting his elbows on the table while observing his parent closely. He knew how mother didn't like it, scolding him for it since birth. Or used to dislike it. Now she didn't even bother to look at him, heck, she didn't even bother to look down at what was offered to her, right there, harder to ignore than notice. Something must upset her greatly; no regular individual could ignore someone for so long, for a week straight.

A few more moments he sat there, unmotivated to do much than just look at his mother. The tone of her skin looked as white as a paper sheet; it must be the result of her being stressed out, he knew how bad it was for the skin. He hesitated for a few moments until shakily reaching his hand forward to her shoulder. It felt cold. Her slumped shoulder looked like collapsed bones beneath her integument; results unknown, though looking as to fall apart any moment. Her mouth was slightly open too; thin, pale lips separated from one another by nothingness, forcing her chin to hang low.

He never let, and never wanted, his eyes to leave her, even when he took her plate and went to the kitchen to dish it off. His eyes finally left her unwillingly as the cleansing OCD senses kicked in and was for one second freed from any negative train of thought, shooing consistently in his mind any other time. Adding more soap, as if to squeeze out more feelings of concern churning in the pit of his stomach, he wanted those strange feelings gone, He didn't want his mother to act so weird. He wanted to see any sort of happiness swirling in her eyes and...

...mom, please stop ignoring me. What did I do wrong? Please, mom, I can do better. I could make it up if you would just tell me, mother. Please, don't just sit there.

That's at least what he told himself, a mantra to stay indifferent to her behaviour. He knew how rude it was to ignore someone, but he better not call out on her on it. After all, she was an adult, a parent to boot, and they knew best; children are exclusive subordinates, him included.

At length, he shut off the faucet, inapprehensive that it had been going for longer than it should have, and the plate long clean. On his way back, he ripped out a sample of sticky notes. He never had this habit a week ago. He told himself that adjustments build a character, preparing oneself for seemingly impossible issues the future had in store. It was convincing, well building layers for his innerly scared core. The core was hard.

He wanted it softened by mother, but it wouldn't work if she just sat there doing nothing.

Anxious, gnawing feelings in his abdomen finally decided to drive him into the dining room, previously musing on just going to bed and pray to the heaven's that she had gone to bed and wouldn't find her sitting here again when he woke up. It was freaking him out. He preferred her being the ghost of the household instead of showing up in the house and suddenly needed to be cared for like a trophy collection. Only softer, only slightly more human, only...

The sticky notes. Oh yeah. Those.

He saw no point in actually giving her the notes at first, seeing as she was home with him and all, but the communication skills she still refused to rely on led him to think nothing really changed in regards to their relationship.

He had been meaning to ask her these recent days what she refused to tell him, why she did nothing. And just like her movements, she also said nothing when he did so. But as he was well-observant, moreso than his parents in their household by habit, he also knew what had to be done.

So he wrote the notes. He intentionally made it so alike as possible, and it actually was kind of easy. Sometimes he could swear that he heard a faint, whispery voice in his head, resembling his mother's, what he should be writing, mixed with what he assumed she wanted to be done. He set them up around the house where each task would be the most fitting.

He went back into the room, registered the image for a few moments, and gasped, beginning to shake and his spine vibrate uneasily.

The sticky notes, the most meaningful sign that he meant something to them, despite in absence.

Mother's upper body had slumped over; her ruffled hair encircling her head, arms sprawled over the surface of the table carelessly. His eyes began to widen, the pupils large in realization, cold sweat over his skin.

He shook so loosely, yet so violently. Rushing over, standing beside her. Looking over. Putting shaking hands on her shoulders with new-found effort. Trying to grasp reality, he absently saw a small bottle languidly gripped in her hand.

Tears leaking, a few sneaking their way out and running a path down his cheeks and chin.

He touched her face by sneaking his hand beneath her tousled, unhygienic hair. She was still as cold as she was before.

It suddenly hit him hard. He whispered hoarse "No's" in a mantra, tears slowly growing in amount. This wasn't...no. No. His hand dismissed her frame, and instead latched them onto his face, sobbing soundly in the now dark room.

The sticky notes, yellow sheets of paper; the sign of his cowardice to tell them he wanted them gathered as a family. Or their own of not knowing how to communicate normally with their son.

Mother, you...you left me. You're still so cold. I want you to be warm. I want you to make me warm, hold me close with your warm hugs and words, giving me affection. Stop being cold. Stop it. Please.

Pale. Quit being pale, I beg you. I want your cheeks to be rose-red with life, eyes happy and comforting with just a gaze shot from you. Why are you doing this to me?

The sticky notes. Each word normal, yet so emotional with each syllable. Telling what to do, and ending with a heart. As round as best managed in the hurry she had.

Like a broken record he wondered this, knowing the dilemma hurt less than knowing the whole story. But he wasn't the least curious, he just wanted her to be awake, proven to just be in a deep slumber, and welcome him into her embrace, smiling.

He sobbed on the same spot, hopelessly hoping this would happen.

With a face red with tears, he picked his unmoving parent under her armpits, and dragged her with the small effort he possessed; carried in toil across the floor, downstairs. Funnily enough, the lack of effort he had in treating her like a fragile flower seemed to get back at him now, placing her softly against the chilly basement wall.

Mother, you're so cold. You should be in touch with something your own temperature. It's best so.

...Father.

He had been forced the same fate, finding him down here against the wall earlier on. Fetal position, curled up, a bottle in his hand...

Unlike him, Mother had been trying, so he spared his tears for something he found worth wasting on. Now. Neither had he expected or hoped now, but now it was. It couldn't be more suitable.

Sticky notes. Affectionately accosting his full name in the simplest way possible, fulfilling him more than a whole letter would in it's complexity.

He cradled his weak, slender arms around his body, anesthetizing his goosebumps against the cold. Teeth were shattering, willing him up the stairs once again. Each step felt like a snail's pace. Lastly, he was in front of the basement door, and existed. He didn't look back. He compensated the feel of abandonment with more tears, pulling down his hat over his eyes.

Sticky notes. Like eyes watching your back, being everywhere, protecting you like an angel guardian. Speaking his name, telling him that everything would be alright.

Needing to feel air on his face to dry the tears, he pulled up his hat. Seeing in front of himself, he hadn't noticed before how dark it was until now. The lonely boy decided for striving forward to the corridor that looked endless to eyesight, but visible to determination.

He reached through, fumbling forward with his hands and feeling a chilling doorknob to cling on to. It assumed to be his room. The door creaked soundly as he opened it, not the least appalled that every inch of his room was messy.

Closing the door behind, he trudged on towards his bed, and threw himself down upon it. On the covers, pillow pushed aside and fallen to the floor. He stared into nothingness, hoping to see something there. His hands entangled with the covers and clutched the matress, hoping to stay down on Earth, but feeling like it was a hopeless cause.

The sticky notes. Stuck up. All over the house. Unintentionally emotional words, hundreds of eyes, looking at him, driving him forward into much needed guidance. What needed to be done. Like foot prints. Like a light.

A part of mother. A part of her meant to him. Comforting in her last living hours, teaching him how to put the same emotion into words as her, while sitting there like a soft statue. Her last cue. Her last lesson.

Now he giggled. It wasn't sad, it was a hearty, relieved giggle. A giggle springing emotions, a giggle that was unknowing of it's purpose. Whatever sensation it was becoming, it was vegetating.

So overwhelming.

Cries and giggles slithered into a mix, shifting into sadness and then into happiness again, confusion of his own thoughts. But then it only turned into giggling, which made sleep claim him in the end.

Yes. His guardian should be the notes and they would be watching him over intently.

A/N: You probably puzzled out what happened, but I wont say anything, it will only spoil.

I do know that Double D canonically has parents for real, but the idea was a little interesting as a dark fic, I just had a little trouble making it come about. I'm sorry if something didn't make any sense, I'm not very sharp-headed.

I was more eager to write this after watching "Cleanliness is Next to Ed-ness". I haven't watched much of the later seasons so it was new to me. I have a sadistic delight in watching fictional characters have mental breakdowns (Twilight Sparkle, Ren Hoek etc.) and they make me like them more. So I thought that episode made Double D even more awesome. I'm happy they made it.

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