[Third Person Pov]
Tucker stood in the middle of his cluttered bedroom, still catching his breath from the sparring session he'd forced himself through. The air smelled faintly of sweat and the lingering ozone of residual ectoplasm that always clung to anything connected to the Ghost Zone. He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and dragged it across his forehead, then the back of his neck.
"Does he even need our help?" he asked, voice low but edged with something restless. "I mean… not that I don't want to help Danny. But I've been keeping a close eye on him. He's gotten stronger. Skulker shouldn't be someone he's struggling with. Skulker is definitely someone Danny could handle on his own."
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly between them. She looked up at him, eyes sharp with that familiar intensity she always carried when Danny was the topic.
"I know he is," she said, the words coming out more passionate than she intended. "You're not the only one who's been paying attention to his exploits. Just because he can do everything by himself doesn't mean he has to. It's not up to Danny to shoulder everything alone."
Tucker nodded slowly, agreeing with the sentiment even as something heavier sat behind his eyes. He walked a slow circuit around the room, towel still draped over one shoulder, and stopped in front of his dresser. He pulled open a drawer, rooted around for a clean orange shirt, and tugged it on over his head.
"I agree," he said, voice quieter now. "Just because he can doesn't mean he should. But I'm going to be honest with you, Sam." He turned to face her fully, expression serious in a way that made the usual easy humor in his face vanish. "I'm saying this as your best friend. You're being a total hypocrite."
Sam froze. The words hit harder than she expected—not because they were cruel, but because they were accurate. Her mouth opened, then closed again. No defense came. She could only stare at him, throat tight.
What was worst of all was the quiet, stubborn knowledge settling in her chest: deep down, she knew he was right.
Tucker's gaze softened a fraction, but he didn't look away. He reached for his red baseball cap on the nightstand and settled it backward on his head the way he always did when he was preparing to go out. His voice, when he spoke again, carried a careful mix of sternness and sincerity—like he was finally saying something he'd been carrying for too long.
"Letting him shoulder everything alone is exactly what we made him do when we decided not to be honest with him. A small part of me still resents you a little for making me lie to my best friend."
Sam's eyes stung. She looked down at her hands, fingers twisting together in her lap.
"…I deserve that," she whispered.
Tucker glanced over his shoulder at her, then turned fully and crossed the room. He crouched in front of the bottom drawer of his study desk and pulled it open. From inside he lifted the phantom-deflector—the same one that had once protected his memories from being rewritten. All the damage it had taken looked repaired now; the metal gleamed under the low light of his room, clean and whole again.
"However," he said, standing and fastening the device carefully around his waist, "I wouldn't have agreed if some part of me hadn't also believed in what you were doing. Danny needed time to heal. Not by our involvement—not by us hovering and explaining and trying to fix everything. We had to support him from a distance. He needed to… not necessarily forget that timeline, but learn how to move past it. If we'd told him everything right away, we would've become an anchor to a reality that no longer exists."
He clicked the belt into place and straightened, meeting her eyes again.
"I'm not saying you don't want to help Danny. I'm sure you do. I'm not doubting the love you two have for each other. But your love for him isn't the only reason you want to step in now. Part of you just wants to clear some of the guilt you're feeling."
Sam didn't argue. She couldn't. The truth of it sat heavy between them, undeniable.
Tucker exhaled slowly, one hand resting on the phantom-deflector at his hip.
"And we both know he's not as alone as we're making him out to be," he added. "He has a solid support system now. Batman. Robin. Bruce Wayne. Richard. Heck, even Superman by the looks of it. They're all there for him."
He paused, then gave a small, rueful shrug.
"I suppose you could say we're both hypocrites. I'm no different. I have no right to preach at you about this when I'm just as guilty."
"Tucker—" Sam started, the name catching in her throat. She wanted to interject, to snatch the entire weight of the blame and settle it squarely on her own shoulders so he wouldn't have to carry any of it. After all, every hard decision—the secrecy, the distance, the careful lies of omission—had ultimately been hers.
"Stop."
Tucker's voice was quiet but firm. He sighed as he grabbed his backpack from the floor and upended it, dumping textbooks and notebooks onto the bed in a messy pile. Without missing a beat he began packing it again, this time with purpose: a compact laptop, his PDA, coils of cable, a handful of carefully wrapped gadgets.
"Just forget it," he said, zipping the bag shut with a decisive tug. "It doesn't matter anymore. The damage has been done. Talking about it more isn't going to reverse what we did. I just… needed to get that off my chest."
He swung the backpack over one shoulder and adjusted the strap. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm honestly glad everything's out in the open now—even if it didn't happen the way we wanted."
Sam was still looking down, eyes bright with unshed tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Tucker's smile softened. He held onto the strap of his bag with one hand and offered the other in a loose fist.
"I'm not the one you have to apologize to," he said gently. "Now come on. We've got some amends to make."
Sam stared at the offered fist for a second. A half-formed grin finally broke through the guilt on her face. She carefully wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, then bumped her knuckles against his.
Tucker's smile widened into something brighter, almost boyish.
"Team Phantom," he declared, "is officially getting back together, baby!"
Sam answered with a wet, reluctant chuckle. She watched him stride to the open window, swing one leg over the sill, and disappear into the night with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times before. She followed a moment later, pausing only long enough to close the window softly behind them.
Outside, the city air was cool and carried the distant hum of traffic. Sam stepped onto the narrow railing of the fire escape and rose into the air without effort, violet light briefly flickering around her boots. Tucker, meanwhile, launched into an impressive display of pure athleticism—hands and feet finding purchase on the metal rungs, body swinging and climbing with controlled power. He scaled each level of the fire escape like it was second nature, then pushed off the top ladder in a clean leap that carried him onto the flat rooftop.
Sam landed lightly beside him a second later.
She couldn't quite hide the impressed look that crossed her face. "You've gotten better at that."
"Thanks," Tucker replied, a small grin tugging at his mouth as he caught his breath. "I had a great teacher." He glanced out across the dark stretch of rooftops between them and their destination, then frowned. "Okay, but how am I supposed to cross the entire distance? It's not like you can just carry me all the way out there."
Sam's smirk was pure mischief. "Don't worry. Watch this."
She raised both hands. Violet light bloomed around her fingers, bright and steady.
"Volare!"
The word rang out clear and sharp. Instantly Tucker's sneakers sprouted a pair of sleek, glowing wings from the heels. He yelped, arms windmilling as his feet left the rooftop and he shot upward a few unsteady feet.
"Waah—! How—?!"
Sam hovered beside him, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Just like you, I had a great teacher. Now come on—you can learn as we go."
It took Tucker several panicked seconds to stop flailing, but his training kicked in fast. He found his center of gravity, leaned forward the way he would during a controlled fall, and let the winged shoes do the rest. The wind rushed past his ears as he leveled out, flying—actually flying—beside her.
"It seems you've improved with your magic," he called over the wind, a note of genuine admiration in his voice.
Sam's expression turned faintly exasperated, though the corner of her mouth still curved upward. "Yeah. Apparently the Lantern ring makes me a lot better at charm magic… and saying the words in French makes the spells more potent."
Tucker nearly lost his balance again as he twisted to stare at her. "What? Why French?"
Sam looked at him with a perfectly straight face.
"Because it's the language of love."
For a beat Tucker just blinked. Then he burst into full, helpless laughter, clutching his stomach as he wobbled in midair. The sound carried across the rooftops, bright and free, as the two of them flew onward into the night.
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