Author's Note: This is the first one-shot in a collaboration of one-shots on what might happen during or after Danny's secret is found out. I love my dad so much, and I dedicate this one-shot to him and to all of the wonderful fathers out there, who are there for their children no matter what. The world would never stand so strongly without you.
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What the Eyes See
"Danny's Hand"
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"What's this?" asked Jack, poking his son lightly in the stomach.
Danny released a ferocious giggle, wiggling and squirming to escape the large fingers that tickled him. "That's my tummy!" he cried with delight, his smile stretching across his face as he happily but warily watched his father's hand.
Danny squealed again, as Jack poked his knee. "What's this?" he asked, smiling as Danny continued to squirm, but refused to leave.
"That's my leg!" he squealed excitedly. He reached out and poked his father's large orange-clad leg. "Daddy's leg," he declared, as though it was an obvious fact of which Jack needed reminding. He tilted his head back, grinning goofily up at his father, dressed for eternity in that orange jumpsuit.
Jack reached over and picked his son up, sitting him in his lap and wrapping his large arms around him in a protective hug. Danny, his small back pressed against his father's chest, was playing with his dad's large fingers. He poked them softly, whispering, "Daddy's pinky… Daddy's ring finger…" He traced a tiny finger over the gold wedding band on said finger. Jack opened his hand, revealing palms calloused from constant use. Danny laid his hand flat against his father's, marveling at the size difference. His dad's hand was more than five times as big as his!
He sighed, wondering if he would ever be as great as his dad was. Leaning back against his father's chest, feeling his dad's heartbeat thump heavily against his spine, Danny listened to his father inhale and exhale deeply, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with every breath.
Danny smiled. "I love you, Daddy," he whispered, his tiny hand curling around his father's massive fingers in a futile attempt to match his hand.
Jack smiled down at his son and ran a free hand through the boy's raven hair. "I love you, too, Danny," he replied softly, kissing the boy's head gently, cherishing the sweet scent of apple shampoo, "always and forever."
Always and forever.
Danny wished those three words were true, but people so often said things that they didn't mean, and his father was no exception. Sighing heavily, Danny leaned his head back against his crossed arms, staring at the vast sky that stretched above him. He tried to ignore the tears that were rolling down his cheeks. It was only the wind tickling his face. He ignored the sensation, not wanting to reach up and brush his fingers through wet rivers that would betray his resolve.
He was leaving tonight.
He was going to leave earlier, but for some reason, he couldn't pull himself away quite yet. He'd wanted to leave the moment it happened; rush home and grab the few sentimental items he dared to take with him, and then run, never to return. He couldn't bear to return to this world… this world that was not his own any longer. He would never be accepted; he was a ghost, not a human. He was a human, not a ghost.
Freak!
The word burst into his mind, a firework of blood-red agony and despair.
Half-bred whelp!
His eyes were burning again. They were just dry, though, he knew. He blinked, and the wind was tickling his cheeks again. Just the wind.
You don't deserve to live, but you're too much of a freak to die!
He should never have come back. He knew he should leave now; every second, that realization ticked away like a bomb in his mind. Leave now… but a few minutes would pass, and he would have to remind himself again, but then he wouldn't leave. He couldn't leave.
But he couldn't stay.
His father knew.
Danny hadn't known he was in the park, watching as he fought off Skulker… again. The bounty hunter was as strong a fighter as ever, and Danny was so tired… he hadn't been sleeping well. Ghosts were constantly attacking, not to mention Valerie as Red Huntress, and then there were his parents. They were getting better every day; more and more of their inventions were working, and Danny didn't know how long until he wouldn't be able to avoid their weapons without causing them harm.
But of course, he would never hurt them.
But his dad knew.
After Danny had finally sucked Skulker back into the thermos, his exhaustion nearly grounded him instantly, but he'd managed a half-decent landing, changing back after only a quick glance around. It was the middle of the night; no one should be up.
But then his father had come out of the bushes, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.
Danny still didn't have a word to describe the feeling that coursed through his body. It was a strange sensation: a cold pair of fangs that simultaneously sank into his stomach while ripping out his heart. He didn't remember running, didn't remember the houses that he passed or the rain as it started to come down. He remember hearing his father calling out his name desperately, trying to get him to come back and talk to him, but the next thing that Danny knew, he was lying on the roof, staring up at the cloudy sky as the rain came down in sheets. Somewhere in between the thunderous roars and the flash of the lightning in the sky, Danny had started to cry.
And he had yet to stop.
He didn't want to leave! He didn't want to!
But he couldn't stay. They'd never accept him, and he knew it. He was a ghost, and his parents hated ghosts. Worse, he wasn't even a full-ghost! He was a half-breed! A hybrid!
A freak!
"Danny!"
No…
Danny stifled the sob that begged to be released from his very soul. He closed his eyes, and this time he didn't tell himself that it was the wind tickling his face, as the tears began to fall swiftly all over again. Rolling onto his side, he curled into a ball, his small form shaking in silent, agonized sobs.
He didn't want to leave!
"Daddy," he whispered, his voice almost too low for him to hear. He curled his hands into fists and held them close to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, as he cried and cried.
A soft breeze danced over him, ruffling his white hair. A sob escaped his jailhouse lips, as the sensation reminded him of when his father had run his large fingers through Danny's hair. He curled into a tighter ball, trying to fall away into himself. The wind came at him again, seeming to be mocking him with its tender brushing through the thick pale tresses. Danny resisted the urge to scream at the unfairness of it all. Couldn't he be left to his lonely misery in peace, for just once?
He raised his head to glare at the dark clouded sky, when he felt the wind through his hair again, only…
Only he felt no breeze on his face.
With a gasp, Danny spun, nearly knocking himself off of the roof in the process, to see a large man in a neon-orange jumpsuit sitting next to him on the roof. His hand was still outstretched, and it was obvious that he had just been running his fingers through Danny's thick white tresses.
Danny's mouth worked, but he had no words. His father… was her… and Danny…
Why am I so stupid? he berated himself. I should have left hours ago!
"Danny?"
Danny flinched at the sound of his own name, looking away from the inquiring gaze his father was giving him. He couldn't meet those eyes. He didn't want to watch hatred blossom in them like blood into deep waters. He didn't want to be here at all.
But he didn't want to leave.
"Danny."
Danny closed his eyes, the feeling of those cold fangs tearing through him yet again. He felt his form shaking, felt the burning behind his eyes, felt the hot liquid rolling down his face, dripping from his chin to patter down on his cold fingers. He lowered his head, staring down at the roof but not really seeing anything. He just sat there, falling into the darkness of his own shattered heart, trying to make himself small.
"Danny."
"I'm not your son," he managed, but his whisper was hoarse and broken from hours of crying, and the agony of his pathetic existence.
"Danny…"
"I'm not your son," he said again, trying a harsher tone but knowing that he only managed to sound nearly as miserable as he felt, "I'm a ghost."
He heard the rustling of thick cloth and knew that his father was moving, but he refused to look up. He prayed that the man was leaving, either getting the picture or somehow coming to the conclusion that his eyes had betrayed him in the park. Maybe he was pulling an ectogun out of his suit and was planning to shoot Danny. At least that would solve his problem of not being able to make himself leave.
He jerked in surprise when he felt huge arms wrap around him. He sucked in a breath, expected the man to squeeze him until he burst, or hold him tight so that his mother could appear and shoot him with their latest invention.
But the arms didn't hurt.
Danny looked down at the large hands he knew so well. He had stared so often as a child at those massive hands, wondering if his would ever look like those. He raised his own hand, staring at the glove that adorned it.
No. No, his hands would never be like his father's. They never could.
He was a ghost.
A massive hand clamped around his wrist, causing Danny to jerk in surprise, but the touch wasn't painful. The hand held his wrist still, the other reaching over and pulling off the white glove that adorned it, casting it to the side.
Danny was left staring a pale white hand.
One of those large hands reached up and pressed against his, warm flesh against cool skin; polar opposites.
Danny studied the hands. His father's hand was large, calloused with use, ragged on the edges, with considerable burn marks from exploding inventions.
His own hand was small in comparison, calloused from battle, rough on the edges and burnt from constant throwing ectoblasts.
Ghost hunting.
Those two hands… they both belonged to Ghost Hunters.
One to a man, one to a boy.
One to a human, one to a ghost.
One to a father, one to a son.
Something poked his hand, and he looked down to see his father's large index finger poking each of his fingers in turn. "Danny's thumb… Danny's index finger… Danny's middle finger… Danny's ring finger… Danny's pinky." The large, calloused index finger poked his pale palm. "This is Danny's hand."
Danny's hand.
This is my hand.
Danny studied his hand. It was his, he recognized it. It was paler when he was a ghost, but all of the lines were the same. The creases fit just right. The callous was large on his middle finger where his pencil rested against. There was the burn mark from his most recent ectoblast, visible even in human form. There was the scar he got when he was six and the neighbor's dog bit him for stealing his ball.
This was Danny Phantom's hand.
This was Danny Fenton's hand.
This is my hand.
And his father knew.
And he wasn't running.
He was holding him.
Hugging him.
Danny closed his eyes and leaned back against his father's chest, feeling the familiar heartbeat pounding against his back, listening to the deep inhalations of air into the man's vast lungs. Danny felt tears slip down his cheeks, warm and soothing. A hand reached up a brushed through his white hair tenderly.
"I love you, Daddy," Danny whispered softly.
"I love you, too, Danny," Jack whispered, hugging his son close to him, catching that soft apple scent, mixed with the sour, metallic taste of ectoplasm, "always and forever."