Chapter Text
It can be harder connecting with your child in the teenage years. He’s gaining independence, learning more about himself and his place in the world. Where he fits in. where he doesn’t. Try showing more interest in what he’s doing. Ask questions. Listen carefully to what he tells you. And if he doesn’t tell you anything, be persistent. Be a stronger presence in his life, since it sounds like your work takes priority much of the time.
There’s something about thresholds. The beginning. The entrance point. The absolute limit. If Danny were a more poetic person, he could put these thoughts into words. String together portal and hunger and would you still love me into something painful and maybe even beautiful. And somewhere in it would be something about thresholds.
But English is one of his worst classes for a reason, so instead he stands at the kitchen counter, staring down at a plate wrapped in foil and illuminated by the soft blue glow of the stove clock, which says it’s just past two a.m. Monday morning.
The plate is cold. The kitchen is dark. And there’s an unread text on his phone from five hours ago asking him to come home for dinner.
Evidence of a meal shared lurks throughout the room. Dishes on the drying rack. Three plates used and cleaned in good time, rather than stolen away to labs and bedrooms and forgotten there. Proper serving dishes—a platter and bowls—instead of the pots and pans the food was made in. The leftovers are even put away, shovelled into a plastic container and tucked into the fridge, when normally they sit out on the counter for hours, so anyone can come and take dinner when they find the time.
Danny tears the tinfoil off his plate to see the meal beneath. Chicken, the skin golden and crispy, accompanied by carrots seared to perfection in a blend of butter and herbs. A scoop of mashed potatoes finishes the plate, slathered in gravy with a sprinkle of pepper and parsley.
Despite eating with Sam and Tucker—a Mighty Meal from the Nasty Burger—Danny’s stomach rumbles. He peels the skin off the chicken, then sticks the rest of the plate in the microwave and slumps against the counter as he waits.
The skin is always his favourite part, though it’s better hot, fresh, and at peak crispiness. It’s a bit too cold now, and turns to mush after only a couple bites. Doesn’t have the same satisfying taste.
Fenton Works is a place built for noise, but it’s late enough that the only sound to keep him company is the hum of the microwave. A low, constant thrum that pushes out all other thoughts. It fills his head while he watches the plate spin. Sees the steam rising off of it. Follows the rivulets of gravy as it they melt over the potatoes and pool along the edge of the plate.
It isn’t until the timer goes off that he realizes maybe he should have been watching it. Their microwave is never that loud during the day, singing a jaunty little song that he often thinks is too quiet. But Danny has forgotten that microwaves, like closing doors and creaking floors, follow the same cardinal rule: they are so much louder at night.
The first note startles him out of his thoughts—or reminds him that he has thoughts other than a constant buzzing. The second, somehow even louder than the first even though he’s sure there’s only one volume, reminds him that it’s two a.m. and he’s trying to be discreet. He rips the door open, but half the tune has already played, and the by time he settles at the kitchen table, there’s a creak from upstairs.
He’s a few bites in when the creaking hits the bottom step, and he pauses when the noise moves to the hall just outside the kitchen.
Danny isn’t surprised to look up and see his dad standing there. Most people might look at his dad and assume he’s a heavy sleeper, although Danny struggles to think why anyone would wonder after his dad’s sleep habits; but if, for whatever reason, they did ask themselves how does Jack Fenton sleep , they would probably assume it’s heavy and deep. They would be wrong.
His dad’s eyes flick toward the clock. “Bit late for a midnight snack. Too bad you couldn’t have it fresh!”
“Yeah.” Danny’s head bows over his plate. “Sorry, I didn’t see Mom’s text. Uh, I was at Tucker’s…studying. Yeah! We’ve got this test tomorrow that I want to do good on, and also Tucker’s parents weren’t home to remind how late it was, because they went to a movie. At midnight.” He shoves some food in his mouth so that he can stop talking.
His dad laughs. “Must be some test! I bet you’ll do great after that study session. Make good use of those Fenton smarts!”
Danny shrugs, shovelling another forkful in his mouth before he can swallow the first one.
His dad doesn’t get the hint, pulling out a chair to sit opposite Danny. He drums his hands on the table, glancing at the clock again. “No time to check your phone?”
“It died suddenly,” Danny says around his food. When he swallows, he feels the lump all the way down his throat. “Tucker doesn’t have the same charger. No Fenton brand, you know?”
“That’s no good. Guess we better upgrade that battery of yours again. I really thought this one would last after it passed the test run. Seventy-two hours of juice!”
Danny hides his wince with another bite. He’s lost track of how many times his parents have upgraded his phone after all the times it’s “died” on him. Pretty soon they’re going to make him a battery that never stops. It’ll charge itself on pure oxygen or something—although ectoplasm is far more likely—and he’ll lose one of his favourite excuses.
Imagine what his parents could do if they weren’t so focused on ghosts.
Danny finishes the chicken, but he still has the potatoes and carrots, and no desire to continue this conversation, so he attacks them with a ferocity usually saved for the ghosts he fights.
“Not to worry! We’ve got a few spares lying around. We can have your phone fixed by dinner tomorrow,” his dad says.
“Cool.”
“Meatloaf night!”
“Nice.”
“Maybe I could drive you to in the morning.”
“Uh-huh.” Danny pops the last carrot into his mouth and stands. “I’m kind of tired.” He tosses his dishes in the sink, giving them a spray, not that there’s much to clean; he scraped up every bit of food he could. A hug for his dad, a quick, “Goodnight, I love you,” and then he’s rushing up the stairs.
His dad calls back, “Love you, too!” right before Danny closes his bedroom door. He still has to brush his teeth, maybe wash his face since it’s a bit late to shower, but he decides to wait for his dad to go back to bed, first. Until then, Danny lays in the dark, staring at the ceiling as his stomach rumbles.
Danny is halfway out the front door when his dad slaps him on the back, shouting, “Just in time! I’ve got the keys!” and nearly sends him sprawling. His hand shoots out to catch himself on the wall. Unfortunately, it happens to be the hand holding his post-breakfast muffin, which slips from his loose grip. Even more unfortunate, when he lunges forward to catch the muffin after dropping it, his foot kicks out just in time to boot the pastry into the road.
So devastated by this turn of events, it takes Danny a few seconds to process his dad’s words, and the fact that he’s now being steered toward the Fenton RV. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot already! I’m driving you to school today.”
“I can walk.”
“Nonsense!” His dad pats him on the back, but with his dad’s size and strength, each hit has Danny stumbling forward.
“Really, it’s fine, Sam and Tucker are already here.” They’re stood at the end of the block, waiting for him.
“I could drive them, too!”
In the distance, Sam and Tucker shake their heads vigorously. A betrayal Danny will never forget. But he accepts his fate and lets his dad usher him into the RV, though not without one last weak protest. “The bus is only a few minutes.”
“This is faster.”
And deadlier than a fight with Skulker. But his dad is sliding into the driver’s seat before Danny can think of a good reason to leave, and he only has seconds to buckle his seatbelt. From this vantage point, he has a perfect view of his muffin lying in the middle of the road, and watches it until it disappears under the RVs treads.
When they reach the corner, Danny twists to see Sam and Tucker through the passenger window. They raise their eyebrows at him, and he shrugs in return. The last Danny sees of them is Sam pulling out her phone.
Danny grabs his own, opening the group chat to type his apologies.
His dad glances over. “Oh, is the battery working okay now?”
Danny freezes. “Uh, yeah. I charged it up last night, and it seems fine now.”
“Let me know if it holds. Maybe we won’t need that upgrade after all.”
“Sure.” Danny draws his knees up, planting his heels on the edge of his seat, and practically glues his nose to his phone screen. Sam and Tucker have questions, of course, but Danny doesn’t have answers, which means their conversation quickly devolves to memes and pictures of Sam nearly walking into a traffic light, courtesy of Tucker. She immediately responds with a middle finger emoji.
“What’s the test today?”
“Hm?”
“The test you were studying for last night.”
Danny blinks at his phone for a few seconds as some poor little synapse in his brain finally connects. “Oh! The test! It’s...science.”
In the corner of his eye, his dad is nodding. He asks, “What topic?” at the same time Sam sends a meme of marine predators on a quadratic chart of prep-to-goth/jock-to-nerd. Tag urself I’m a killer whale , she adds.
Danny says the first word that comes to mind. “Fish.”
He takes a moment, closing his eyes, then stares out the window as despair courses through him. “Fish,” he repeats softly. Sam’s meme doesn’t have an option for idiot/moron, so he picks a swordfish, which sits between nerd and goth. “It’s a biology test. We’re on a unit about ocean life.”
Fish.
“Too bad! I could have quizzed you, but I don’t know much about fish. Anything else interesting going on today?”
Danny shrugs. “Not really. Just the usual stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Probably going to hang out with Sam and Tucker after school.” Danny tucks his phone into his pocket so he doesn’t get distracted again and say anything dumber than fish.
“Any plans?”
Danny glances sideways. “Nothing specific.”
His dad’s fingers tap against the steering wheel as they pull up to a red light. “No new video games or movies? Doomer and Dead Teacher . Ooh, how about that book thingy Sam took you guys the other week? You never said how that was.”
“It’s Doomed , Dad. And do you mean the book signing? That was a few months ago.” In the middle of summer, to be precise, which they’re well away from now as they creep into November. An author Sam likes was doing a reading at the Skulk and Lurk, and Danny and Tucker went along. He ended up leaving early, though, after the Box Ghost made an appearance. All the books in those boxes made for hefty ammunition, bruising both his body and his pride.
Although, in Danny’s defence, taking a 700-word book to the head hurts .
“Wow, that long already?” His dad laughs, though there’s a bit less heart to it than usual. “Guess I don’t know what you’ve been doing since then. You should tell us more!”
“I guess.” Danny watches the buildings go by through the passenger window, but feels his dad’s gaze burning into him every once in a while. Only for a second or so at a time, since he has to keep his eyes on the road, but it’s enough to make him squirm. “It’s boring high schooler stuff,” he eventually says. “You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Sure I do! I want to know how you’re doing. I wasn’t the most popular—who could have guessed—but I had a blast in high school. That’s when I really started getting into ghosts. I was interested before, of course, but I had this one teacher that really inspired me. Bit of a stickler for rules, but he gave me my first scalpel!”
“That seems kind of weird.”
“And everybody thought he was. I never got why, though. Always thought he was cool. And if he’s a kook, what does that make me?” His dad laughs again. “But ghosts! You should’ve seen me, Danny. Raring for my first catch. I’m sure you’ve got something like that going on!”
Something almost exactly like that, but a bit heavier on the ghost side of things. But he’s not to keen on mentioning that. And even if he does leave Phantom out of it—which he can—any conversation with his parents about ghosts goes one of two ways:
He sits quietly and listens to them rave about their latest inventions or potential experiments, which becomes a lecture and often dips into topics he’d rather not broach.
Or, he tries to make his opinion known, which becomes a lecture and often dips into topics he’d rather not broach.
Okay, maybe there’s only one way the conversation about ghosts go, and it’s one he’d like to avoid at all costs.
There’s not much else going on in his life, which doesn’t sound right, but it’s true, and leaves Danny with one possible answer.
“Not really.”
The taps on the steering wheel resume. Danny resolved to star straight ahead and say as little as possible for the remaining minutes, but is Quincy distracted by his dad muttering softly. Risking a glance over, he catches his dad frowning at a slip of paper, focus switching between it and the road at an impressive rate. Leaning over, Danny tries to see what it is. A list, looks like, but before he can read any of it, it’s being tucked back into his dad’s pocket.
Danny shoots upright, flushing in embarrassment at being caught.
“Been a while since we went on a fishing trip,” his dad says, far too stiffly to not be rehearsed.
“Last time we went fishing, I got swallowed by a lake monster.”
“Bah. That was two years ago!” His dad’s brow furrows and the smile nearly slips off his face. It hangs on, barely, but doesn’t get as bright as it was seconds ago. “We took care of him. Could always find a new lake monster to hunt.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough of monsters.”
Now that Danny is paying attention, he catches the hint of strain in his dad’s laugh. It’s easy to miss. The volume hasn’t changed, nor has the tone. But it lasts longer than it should, as if he doesn’t know when to stop, when it’s believable enough, so he drags out for another few seconds.
“You got that right!” His gloves squeak as he grips the steering wheel tighter. “Got all the ghosts you need right here if you want to hunt something down.”
A grimace tugs at Danny’s lips. He tries to hold it back, he really does. But despite his best efforts, he feels his expression twist in that familiar way it does when his parents get a bit to intense about ghosts. It only lasts a moment. A second of weakness as he gives into the frustration simmering in his belly at being forced into this conversation. It just so happens to be the same second his dad glances over.
Now, his dad isn’t stupid. Lots of people think so, because he’s loud, and he talks a lot, and he rarely thinks about things before he says them. Makes him a poor conversationalist if you can’t match his rhythm, but it doesn’t make him stupid. He’s a genius, actually; has to be to make half the stuff that pops into his head. And it definitely doesn’t take a genius to connect the words he’s uttered to his son’s sour expression, even if it’s there and gone in a blink.
His voice wobbles. “I guess the family business can’t be for everyone.”
“Maybe if...” Danny starts, then trails off. There’s no way to finish that sentence that’ll leave them both happy. Better this awkward disappointment then another lecture. He turns the radio on to fill the silence, and digs through his backpack for a granola bar to munch on, since his muffin was a casualty of the morning’s events.
Neither him nor his dad utters another word until they’re parked outside the school.
“Have a good day,” his dad says. “Want me to pick you up?”
“Ah, no. That’s fine. I’ll be busy after school,” Danny answers.
“Have fun!”
The tension doesn’t bleed out of Danny’s shoulders until the RV pulls away and he’s left on the sidewalk, watching his usual bus arrive only a few seconds behind. Sam and Tucker spot him out the window and make a beeline for him as soon as they’re off.
“What was that about?” Sam asks.
“Honestly? No idea. I think he just wanted another excuse to talk about ghosts.”
Tucker cringes. “Sorry, dude.”
“At least we didn’t get to the ‘wanting to dissect me’ part.” Danny shakes his head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Want to do a long patrol today? We could hit up that hot dog place.” To Sam, he sing-songs, “They have veggie-dogs.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “Sure, if Lancer doesn’t give us that essay to work on tonight.”
“Ugh. Oh! If anyone asks, we had a test about fish today.”
Sam and Tucker share a glance. “Fish?”
“Fish.”
A ringing pierces the air the same moment Danny’s head hits the sidewalk. He lays there in a daze, and wouldn’t mind living there for the next few hours, on the cold comfortable concrete that reminds him the world isn’t actually spinning that fast, thank you; but the giant frog leaping his way won’t let him. Its shadow falls over him, blocking out the stars, and he has seconds to roll over before the thing crashes down, concrete splintering under its webbed feet.
Danny staggers as he rises, and lurches back just in time to avoid another pounce.
“Dude!” Tucker’s voice echoes down the street. “This is not your night.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed!” Danny spares a moment to press his palm to his aching head before rounding on the frog and firing an ectoblast. The frog leaps away, shrinking down to half its size in the process. It’s not even that strong, just annoying, and so damn jumpy! Every bolt Danny sends its way misses by inches as the ghost hops to safety, leaving a trail of scorch marks along the road and, on one unfortunate occasion, streaked along the side of a parked car.
Moments like this are humbling. Danny Phantom, who fought Pariah Dark and survived, laid low by an oversized toad. Frog. Whatever.
Tucker darts across the street, waving Danny’s phone over his head. “No, dude. Your mom is calling!”
Only then does Danny notice the ringing hasn’t stopped, and isn’t coming from inside his head like he first thought. His mom’s contact photo fills his phone screen. Tucker is only a few steps away when a green blob shoots between them. Tucker yelps, backpedalling toward the closest building, while Danny pivots toward the frog, just in time to catch it with his face. It hits him with a wet smack before jumping away.
“Gross!” Danny cries as he wipes at the slime the ghost left behind, scraping it from his eyes. By the time he can see again, the frog is flying for him once more. He tries to throw himself out of the way, but the frog balloons into its larger size and slams its foot down. It catches Danny in the chest and slams him down onto a mailbox. The bolts holding it down rip free from the concrete, and the metal folds around him as they both hit the sidewalk. The ghost bears down on him, driving the breath from his lungs, then hops off again.
Danny wheezes, torn between cradling his still aching head or pressing a hand against his bruised ribs.
“I’m on it!” Sam calls from somewhere above Danny’s head.
He pries himself loose from the mailbox, wincing when a sharp edge slices across his arm. Not deep enough to be concerning, but it’s sure going to leave a mark. He grips his elbow to try and staunch the flow while Tucker jogs up to him, Danny’s phone still ringing in his hand.
“It went to voicemail, and she called again,” Tucker says.
Danny cradles his head in his hands, massaging his temples, but his headache is going to go away as long as his phone keeps ringing. “Give it here. I need a minute, anyway.”
Tucker deposits the phone in Danny’s outstretched hand, along with their takeout bag from the hot dog place a couple blocks over. He even gives Danny a commiserating pat on the head before running after Sam.
The street cleared out pretty quickly when the ghost first appeared, and it doesn’t look like any curious onlookers have stuck around, so Danny hunkers down next to his crumpled mailbox and transforms. The pulsing in his head grows sharper, as does the sting of his new gash. One of the great things about his ghost form, the lower body temperature soothes a lot of his aches. But he doesn’t want to be caught as Phantom chatting on the phone while a ghost rampages nearby.
On the flip side, at least his clothes are intact, though his sweater is quickly growing red around his elbow. He shrugs the sweater off and ties it around his arm as best as he can. It’s a little nippy out, but the cold doesn’t affect him much, anymore.
Once he’s settled with the takeout bag in his lap and his phone balanced on his shoulder, he answers the call. “Hey, Mom.”
“ Danny. Where are you? ”
“I’m—” Danny breaks into a hiss when he straightens his arm and pulls at the gash. Gritting his teeth, he waits for the sting to fade before reaching into the takeout bag for a hot dog.
“ Are you okay? ”
“Tripped and banged my arm. You know me, so clumsy.” Danny tears the wrapper off the hot dog. “What’s up?”
“ Are you on your way home? ” she asks.
“Should I be? I’m with Sam and Tucker right now.”
“ We’re having dinner soon .”
“Oh.” He pauses with the hot dog halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t think...”
“ I asked Jazz to text you a while ago. ”
Danny takes his ear away from the phone just long enough to see that yes, Jazz did text him over an hour ago, telling him Mom was making dinner and could he please actually come home for it tonight.
His stomach grows tight, and it might not be because of the hunger. It shouldn’t be, since he’s moved on to his second hot dog by then.
“Sorry, I didn’t see it. We were busy. Um...” Danny pushes himself up, wincing when he uses his injured arm to brace himself, and searches for the ghost, or Sam and Tucker. The former is nowhere to be found, but the latter are making their way back toward him, neither one looking as bruised as he feels. He cocks his head at them, and they shake theirs in return. He tries not to let his disappointment show.
“Can I text you? We had plans and I don’t want to ditch.”
Silence, just long enough that it could be contemplative or judging. Danny’s not sure which.
“ I’ll be waiting ,” his mom says.
Danny frowns as the call ends.
“We lost it,” Tucker says when he and Sam are close enough. “Sam got it with the wrist ray, and it burst into a thousand little frogs.”
“There were twenty, maybe,” Sam cuts in.
“A thousand . They touched me. They were so gross. Wait...is that my food?”
Danny freezes, thinking of the two discarded wrappers in the takeout bag and the third hot dog now in his hand. “No...”
“Come on, man!” Tucker snatches the takeout bag and peers inside, finding only Sam’s tofu dog. “Aw.”
Danny offers him the last few bites, but Tucker shakes his head and says, “Just eat it, dude.”
“I swear, if you’re turning into a carnivore like Tucker,” Sam says.
“Oh, relax. That stupid frog wore me out, is all.”
“How the mighty have fallen. What did your mom want?”
“Dinner. Apparently we’re actually doing that now, and she wants me home for it.” Danny does an admirable job ignoring Sam and Tucker’s pointed looks as he polishes off the hot dog, licking mustard off his fingers and chucking the wrapper into the bag.
Tucker grumbles under his breath, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Go home, man. We’ll find the ghost, and maybe you can join us again once we track it down. But we’ve got a spare thermos, anyway.” He turns to Sam. “We’ve got a spare, right?”
Danny bites back a groan. “Are you sure?”
“Danny.” Sam, this time. “It’s fine. And no offence, but Tucker was right. You’re a little off your game today. Go to sleep early for once.”
Still, Danny hesitates. He’s not looking forward to extended time with his dad after their conversation that morning, and he was sort of hoping to avoid him for a day or two until things settled. But Sam is tapping her foot and raising an eyebrow at him, and Tucker is looking anywhere but Danny—mostly back toward the hot dog place—so Danny doesn’t have much of a choice.
“I will be asking Jazz if you followed through!” Sam calls after Danny as he trudges home. He flips her off over his shoulder.
When he gets home, he realizes two things. First, his mom calling him for dinner means the whole family is gathered and waiting for him. Second, he hasn’t done anything for the gash on his arm except soak up the blood with his sweater. Both realizations hit him as he steps into the hall and sees straight through the kitchen to the table, where his parents and sister are sitting, and they see him at the same moment.
Jazz’s eyes go wide with panic as she no doubt realizes what kept him so long. She leaps up to help, as she’s done many times, but their mom beats her to it.
“Danny!” His mom rushes forward, taking his arm and tugging the sweater loose. He winces as the sticky fabric peels away from the wound. “Sweetie, what happened?”
“I said I tripped?” It’s not a good enough excuse now, when his mom is faced with the evidence.
“You tripped,” she repeats flatly.
“Into a mailbox.” Totally nailing it. Or he would be, if his mom weren’t still looking at him like she caught him with crayons in his hand and drawings on the wall. If the crayons are blood and the wall is his sweater and okay, this isn’t the best analogy, but he knows what he means. “The mailbox might have been damaged in a ghost fight.”
Not a lie! Danny pats himself on the back for that one.
Surprisingly, that does not reassure his mom, and she drags him into the bathroom, nudging him to set on the edge of the tub while she retrieves the first-aid kit from under the sink.
“Danny, that’s serious. This could have been contaminated from ectoplasm.” His mom frowns at the open first-aid kit and its lacking supplies. While she picks through what’s left, Danny stares at the towel rack, suddenly very fascinated with how it’s fastened to the wall. Two screws, you say? Phillips-head? Marvellous. Astounding. What will they do next.
He winces when his mom dabs at the wound, clearing some of the dried blood. Her hand hovers over the trashcan as she goes to throw out the antiseptic wipe.
“Maybe I should take a sample, to be safe,” she mutters.
“No!” Danny jerks away, but gives his arm back an instant later when he realizes how suspicious that looks. “I mean, no, it’s fine. There wasn’t any ectoplasm on it. The ghost was long gone by then. Phantom took care of it.”
His mom scowls, but at least she’s too focused on his wound to make a comment about it. The bleeding has all but stopped. The cut isn’t that deep in the first place, and is only a couple inches long. Danny’s had much worse. His mom applies some butterfly bandages to keep it closed and tapes a piece of gauze over the spot.
Really, it’s excessive. Danny usually slaps on enough Band-Aids to keep it covered and calls it a day. His mom’s hands linger on his arm, sliding down to his wrist. Her fingers press into his skin, though not hard, and her thumb drags over a discoloured streak on his forearm, courtesy of Skulker.
Danny yanks his arm back before she can look at his scars any closer. “Thanks.” He goes to press his arms against his stomach first, but there’s a lot more defensive marks on the outside of his forearms, so he opts for clasping his hands behind his back despite how it tugs at his new cut.
“Dinner?” he prompts when his mom doesn’t say anything.
Her eyes are fixed on his arms, or where they’re hidden behind him, and it takes a few seconds before she blinks and comes back to herself.
“Meatloaf,” she says.
Danny slips upstairs long enough to grab a relatively clean sweater before joining his family at the table. Jazz raises her eyebrows at him as he sits down, and he smiles back to reassure her. Under the table, her knee bumps against his.
There’s already a plate set out for him with a hefty piece of meatloaf, coated in a honey mustard glaze. How long did his family sit like this, yesterday, before realizing he wasn’t going to come home?
Danny grabs his fork, shattering the stillness that had fallen over them.
“So, you saw the ghost boy today?” his dad asks.
“Maybe.”
“You should’ve given us a call!”
“He looked like he had it handled.”
His dad shakes his head. “Don’t fall for his tricks, kiddo. That ghost is no safer than any other.”
Danny puts a little too much force behind his fork as he cuts into meatloaf. The metal tines screech as they drag across the plate.
“What were you doing with Sam and Tucker?” his mom asks before his dad can say anything further.
“Just hanging out. There’s this hot dog place by the park we like to go to.” Danny realizes his mistake a moment after it leaves his mouth.
“So you already ate.”
Not a question, not by a long shot, but he answers it anyway. “A little.” If you can call three hot dogs a little. With how much he’s eaten the past couple days, his stomach feels close to bursting. Still, there’s an ache to it that he can’t explain, and it pushes him to take a bite.
There’s not much texture to it, and it looks better than it tastes. Danny reaches for the salt.
“You haven’t been home for dinner lately,” his mom continues. The way she glances at him then down at her plate feels very purposeful. She cuts a perfectly-sized bite from her meatloaf, dabbing it in some of the excess glaze on her plate, and looks back at Danny as she eats. A signal that it’s his turn to talk, even though she didn’t actually ask anything.
“Have we been doing dinner?”
“Since last Thursday.”
“Oh.” Danny makes another slice with the side of his fork, but hesitates to bring it to his lips.
“I feel like I haven’t seen Sam and Tucker for a while, despite how much you’re hanging out.”
“We’ve been here.” Preferably when his parents aren’t, so that he and his friends can use the lab to empty the thermos, test Danny’s powers, or filch some more ghost hunting equipment.
“I hope you haven’t been spending a lot of time around ghost fights.”
Danny’s head whips toward her, then snaps back down to his dinner when he finds her watching him. “Nope. No ghosts. We definitely don’t tolerate ghosts here, do we?”
“Damn right, son!” his dad says.
Danny’s second bite is just as bland as the first, despite the fistful of salt he’s added to his food.
Jazz bumps her knee against his again. “Phantom was actually at school last week. There was this big snake ghost that he saved some freshman from.”
Danny taps her foot in thanks, even though her efforts are likely wasted.
Sure enough, his mom says, “Don’t trust those ploys, sweetie. We can’t forget what happened with the mayor that one time. Or when he robbed all those stores.”
“What would a ghost even do with jewellery?” Danny snaps before he can think better of it. “Never mind.”
His mom eyes him, but lets the comment slide. “So, when you’ve been going out…”
Danny grits his teeth. Is this better or worse than the ride with his dad that morning? He honestly can’t decide.
No one seems interested in filling the silence, and his mom’s unasked question dangles in the air. The words settle over them like a blanket. What have you been doing? Where have you been going? Don’t lie to us, Danny .
She doesn’t even have to say it. Danny thinks it all on his own, and it might drive him mad. Why are they so curious about his activities, all of a sudden? They haven’t cared before.
He goes for his third bite.
“If there’s anything you want to tell us—”
Danny stands so fast, his chair screeches against the tile. “Actually, I’m not hungry after all. Too many hot dogs.” He gathers his plate, tossing his cutlery in the sink, while his food gets wrapped and shoved into the first empty spot in the fridge. “Thanks for dinner.”
He doesn’t run upstairs. He does walk very quickly, but he doesn’t run, and waits only a second after his door is closed before transforming and taking off. With any luck, Sam and Tucker have found that ghost again, and he can’t vent some of his frustrations.
—
The next two days continue in a similar vein. His parents corner him with pointed questions (or not-questions in his mom’s case) and Danny spits whatever lie or excuse will get him out of there faster. He skips dinner the first day, claiming to go out with Sam and Tucker again. He tries the second, tolerating the conversation (and food) as long as he can before excusing himself with an upset stomach a burgeoning headache. And now, morning of the third day, he has yet to make up his mind about dinner that night.
He’s already grown tired of eating until his stomach is fit to burst, and wonders if the ache that’s settled there is here to stay.
“Is it me?” he asks his friends at school.
“Yes,” they chorus. A beat, then Tucker adds, “Is what you?”
“My parents. They’re being weird, right? This is weird?” He’s told them bits and pieces about the odd interactions, including that first disastrous day.
“I hate to break this to you, but your parents are weird. It sounds like they want to spend time with you, though.”
“And that’s weird, right?”
Tucker stares at him. Sam stares at him. Mikey from math class who’s walking a pace ahead stares at him.
Danny glares at Mikey before falling back a step and lowering his voice. “It’s weird.”
“It’s pretty normal,” Tucker says. “I spend time with my parents.”
“Right, because you have normal parents. I have ghost hunting parents who eat in the lab more often than not, and now my mom is making dinner every night and wants us all to sit down and talk about our day. Sorry, no, she wants to make general comments about what my day could have been like and waits for me to fill in the blanks.” Danny drags his hand through his hair. “And, like, it’s not just the comments. Sometimes the way they say things...Meatloaf night. My mom said something. I don’t know, it’s been stuck in my head.”
Danny stops walking, forcing Sam and Tucker to pause, too, and block half the hall. They tug him aside to clear the way, but he barely pays any mind.
“‘If there’s anything you want to tell us, we’ll listen,’” he quotes. “I cut her off, but I know what she was going to say. It just...” His voice drops even lower. “I came out to my parents, right? I didn’t forget about that?”
“Your parents, who call you Daniel and shop for you in the boys’ section and helped you get puberty blockers when you were too young for T? Those parents?” Sam asks.
Danny sticks his tongue at her, but fine, she’s got a point. It still feels like he’s losing his mind. “Sometimes, it sounds like the exact same things they would say before I came out.” And other times, it’s the worst interrogation ever because he doesn’t know what to say to make it stop.
“You don’t think...” Tucker trails off, though none of them need to hear the end of that sentence.
Still, Danny grimaces. “No, absolutely not. If they did, they either wouldn’t talk about Phantom the way they do, or I’d already be under a scalpel. And not in a fun way.”
“Is there a fun way?”
Danny gestures vaguely to his chest.
“Ah. Got it. Maybe they’ll stop? Asking those questions, I mean.”
“Or maybe they won’t,” Sam says, just to be contrary, or so Danny hopes. He really doesn’t want to think about this going on for any extended length of time. “Seriously, though,” she continues. “If your parents are going to keep questioning you like this, maybe you can use that to your advantage somehow.”
“Like how?”
“I don’t know. Somehow? We’ll think of something, once we’re in class, and you’re not at risk of being late again this week.”
Goosebumps raises along Danny’s arms, and his next exhale is a puff of blue fog. “Thanks, Sam. Just. Thanks.”
Danny wanders down to the kitchen for the tenth time in as many minutes and peeks into the fridge. The food within remains unchanged, which is as disappointing as it is expected. Curry, pasta salad, and, of course, the meatloaf he didn’t eat on Monday, now approaching three days old and on the cusp of inedible. His attention drifts to the door, where various dressings and sauces crowd the narrow shelves. Some half-empty, others with mere teaspoons left, and far too many that have been opened once and untouched since.
He skims the fridge at least three times—leftovers, salad dressing, eggs, milk, other ingredients that take more effort than he’s willing to give right now—and each time, his attention settles on the bottom left crisper, whose usual contents (a rotation of freshly purchased vegetables) is crammed into the bottom shelf with the excess sauces. In its place is a collection of glass jars sealed with Fenton Tape and labelled “ NOT FOOD.” A necessary precaution after one too many kitchen mishaps.
Danny closes the fridge and returns upstairs.
Not even two minutes later, he’s back. Opens the door, checks the shelves, the familiar containers, the plate that will need to be thrown out soon if it isn’t eaten, the crisper. Closes the door.
He doesn’t let go of the handle, fingers flexing as he clenches and unclenches his fist, shoulder still tense. Maybe if he checks again, something both appetizing and acceptable will have suddenly spawned within. Twelfth times the charm.
“Danny?”
He tears his hand away from the fridge, skittering back a few steps for good measure, and all at once feels like he’s six years, reaching inside the oven for a cookie before his mom can take the pan out. Which is ridiculous because he’s not six anymore, nor is he trying to steal food from a piping hot pan. And yet, guilt sinks through his stomach like a stone.
If he should feel guilty for anything, it’s leaving that plate of meatloaf in the fridge until Thursday night. Even then, his guilt shouldn’t stone -sized. A pebble, maybe, for the care his mom took setting the meal aside for him. A speck of sand, even. Or a mote of dust, easily exhaled and forgotten in the next breath.
He hasn’t done anything wrong.
“Can we talk?” his mom asks.
Maybe he’s done something wrong.
This is the most direct she’s been for three days. She lingers in the doorway, wearing a stiff smile and, disturbingly, jeans and a plain shirt. Danny’s not sure if other kids get this feeling when their parents dress a certain way. Maybe Sam, if her mother or father donned anything other than sundresses and slacks. Maybe she, too, would look at her parents dressed plainly and think you’re not quite yourself right now.
Not that he’s never seen his parents in casual clothes—that would be quite the feat, considering he’s known them for sixteen-almost-seventeen years. But the ghost hunting jumpsuits are so synonymous with his parents that they’re almost like a second skin, rather than a piece of clothing to be taken off and exchanged for something else. Especially in the last few years.
It shouldn’t set his nerves on edge. If anything, seeing his mom out of her jumpsuit should put him at ease. Less weapons hidden on her person and all that, although he can’t fool himself into thinking she’s completely unarmed. She’s a Fenton, after all.
But his mom in ghost hunting mode is…not safe, but at least familiar. Curious how a few years in the family business will make him more at ease in dangerous situations, but the moment things settle down, his heart rate spikes and he finds himself checking every corner for threats.
Jazz would probably have something to say about that, which means it’s a thought best shoved into the back of his mind and left for a later date—or never, preferably.
So, his mom is dressed, well, like a mom.
“Uh...”
She doesn’t wait for a proper response, or maybe she isn’t really looking for one. Regardless, she moves to the kitchen table. Rather than taking her usual spot, which is closest to the door, she claims Jazz’s seat just one over.
Another slight again Danny’s comfortable worldview.
Before he can question her about it—what would he even say?—his dad squeezes into the room and sits opposite her. The empty chair between them feels like an invitation.
So, it’s an ambush. They’ve given up on their solo missions and decided to team up and take him down once and for all.
Danny grips the counter and hops up onto it, definitely not retreating, nope. Just getting comfortable where he is. Leaning against the fridge with his arms crossed. Very relaxed. Not suspicious at all.
He waits for his parents to speak, assuming they have something planned, but they both watch him expectantly. His mom only smiles, and his dad sits with his hands tucked under his thighs, mouth drawn into a tight line. He may be biting down on his lips, actually. That may be the strangest thing of all, so far. That his dad hasn’t spewed his usual babble, yet. At least he’s still wearing his jumpsuit
Danny tries to keep his tone casual as he asks, “What’s up?” but almost certainly fails based on the look his parents exchange. He can be casual. He can be so casual and normal. “It’s leftovers tonight, right?”
He hopes so. The fresh meals are nice, but they’re running out of fridge space and Tupperware.
His mom nods. “I didn’t have time to go shopping today. Lots to eat, though. Plenty still from last night.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Danny,” his mom hesitates. “Is there a reason you don’t want to talk to us.
“Not really,” he answers quickly.
His parents share another look. Now, there are five distinct looks Danny has noticed his parents share over the years. The look that’s purely for them; the kind of gooey, adoring thing that makes Danny gag when he sees it, as is his duty being their child and all.
There’s the “I love our children” look. A bit softer, equally adoring as the first, the kind of thing that makes him think, “I love you too,” when he sees his parents exchange it.
The desperate look, for when an invention doesn’t turn out right. Confusion and determination swirled together as they catch each other’s eyes and think it’s not working, but it will .
Their science look, which is similar to the desperate one, but with a sharp glint that inspires dread in anyone but themselves. Danny thinks of it as a spark passing between them. A brain cell tossed back and forth as they have the same dangerously brilliant idea. That look appears when they think about ghosts, when they hunt ghosts, when they think about hunting ghosts. Danny has watched them exchange this look many times, as both Fenton and Phantom. It’s never aimed at him (that’s a whole other category of Looks to classify) but it rips through his chest like a wicked, barbed thing.
And, of course, the disappointed look, another one Danny sees quite frequently, typically exchanged over his head as he brings them another bad report card or a detention slip to sign.
That’s five. Clear, familiar, not always good, but at least he knows what they mean and what might follow each one—a kiss (ew), a hug, a gun, a lot of noise in the basement, a shake of the head. Five looks. Five .
This one, which they’ve exchanged twice now, might be number six.
“How was school?” his mom asks.
He missed half of first period because a rabid jackalope was tearing up the football field. He’ll never look at bunnies the same after seeing all those teeth. “Fine. Why?”
Danny doesn’t realize how quiet he and his mom were speaking until his dad cuts in, at full volume, “We just want to know how you’re doing!”
“But you don’t care most of the time.” Danny cringes. “I mean about school.”
He knows his parents care about him, at least this form that they know. And they express it often enough; that’s what look number two is all about. But if there’s one thing they don’t do, it’s pay attention. Which sounds awful, but it’s better for him. Makes it easier to hide all the ways he’s not quite human, like his fangs. He pokes one of the sharpened ends with his tongue. They aren’t as prominent in his human form, thank goodness, and growing them in wasn’t a pleasant experience. His original canines fell out one Saturday morning a few weeks ago and new ones grew in by nighttime, after a day of itching and aching gums that made his jaw feel bruised and his eyes water.
So, it’s a good thing.
Because his parents haven’t responded yet, and the silence is eating at him, Danny elaborates. “You only really ask if someone’s called.”
Because of another missed class, another detention, another bad grade, a paper gone missing under mysterious circumstances— yes, Mr. Lancer, a ghost dog did eat his homework . And if the school called, this conversation would probably be very different, and featuring a lot of look four, the disappointed one. But instead they share this new, strange, unfamiliar look once again, and Danny wants to sink into the floor.
Really, he wants to be anywhere but here at the moment. It’s not even bad , just weird, but it’s making his skin crawl.
“You don’t have to talk about school,” his mom says. “You can talk about anything you’ve been doing.”
“We could talk about ghosts!” his dad bursts in again, earning a glare. “If you want to,” he adds before biting his lips once more.
“Right.”
“We can talk about anything,” his mom says. “Whatever you want to say, we’ll listen.”
Danny leans back into the cupboards. Is he overthinking this? Maybe Tucker’s right and his parents really do want to spend time with him. He’s spent the past few days waiting for the other shoe to drop, tolerating all their questions and not-questions as they failed to get the hint. But, how bad has it actually been? Most of his unease has come from the fact that he doesn’t have any good answers for them.
This can’t be it. It can’t be.
But here his parents are, smiling at him, eyes alight with expectation. Being open. Wanting him to be open. The longer the silence stretches, the more Danny realizes he just doesn’t have anything to tell them. Sam dragged him to a movie last week, a foreign film with subtitles and an okay plot that he can’t remember. And there was that barbecue at Tucker’s place, although that might have been last month, now that he thinks about it. Maybe longer. Wasn’t that before the school year started?
What has he been doing other than ghost hunting?
The silence drags on. His parents stare at him, and stare, and stare, their gazes boring into him. Danny squirms. Each second that passes is another layer peeled away. Flesh. Muscle. Bone. But if they split him open right now, he would be empty.
Danny suddenly wants to leave for a very different reason.
“I have homework, actually.” He slips off the counter and sidles around the fridge.
His dad’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Good luck!”
Danny nods, pausing a second in case his mom wants to say something, too. Call him out on what must be an obvious deflection. But she only smiles, so he slips into the hall, quickening his pace when he hears the conversation picking up behind him.
He’s a lot more like his parents than he ever realized, if the only interesting thing in his life is ghosts. If only their thoughts on the subject aligned.
He means to go upstairs, retreat into his bedroom as he’s already done so many times this week, but he stops at the foot of the stairs.
We can talk about anything .
Sam did say he should try and use this to his advantage.
He backs up until he’s just outside the kitchen, close enough to hear his parents again despite their hushed tones.
“But Penny said—”
Danny clears his throat, and his mom falls silent. A pause, a moment to gather himself, then he steps back into view.
His dad, facing the doorway, smiles. “Quick study session!”
It draws an uneasy laugh from Danny. “I can do my homework later. I actually…you mean it? Anything?”
His mom nods. “Anything.”
Danny’s fingers curl around the door frame. “And you won’t interrupt?” He leans forward. “No matter what. You’ll listen?”
The sixth look again, briefly exchanged. Danny holds his breath until his mom nods again.
This could either go very well, or very badly. There can’t really be an in between. He doesn’t like to think of things as black and white, but sometimes the only options are yes or no. Good or bad. We can love what you’ve become, or we can’t.
Only two ways this can end.
“Yeah.” Danny crosses the threshold. “I want to talk about ghosts.”