okay so this is the first danny phantom fic ive written to completion and the first dp writing ive posted anywhere since 2007. this was based off of a tumblr post ( post/157896376376/) and it was supposed to be under 1000 words. it's over 7000. rip me. (fun fact: this account originally ONLY had dp stuff. but it was all garbage so i deleted it lol)
special shoutout to my gf ashe (hikareh) for volunteering her time and energy to beta for me. couldnt have done it without you babe
[edit 6-16-17] another shoutout to chintastic for the cover art! it's really great!

Danny's only been fourteen for a week and he's already dead. He's not sure what constitutes alive anymore, considering how he still thinks he's human, but there's something about him that's different, changed. There's a coldness set in him that no amount of huddling under blankets can fix, but the worst part is that it doesn't bother him as much as he knows it should.

He didn't see himself after he practically fell out of the portal—tearing, stinging, biting pain—doesn't remember Sam or Tucker's reactions—cold, creeping, aching pain—doesn't remember what happened after he lost his voice—his screams rattled his own head, throat ripped apart from the force of his pain—but he can remember that it hurt.

He never imagined that dying would be so painful.

He should have expected it. From what he can remember his parents telling him and Jazz about how the portal worked, he'd apparently been horribly electrocuted by at least enough power to kill a full grown person. He can't remember more than the burning, screaming pain, but he'd looked it up. With enough electricity, enough amps, the heart would completely stop and the person would be dead. End of story.

So why was he…?

After he collapsed from the portal, he'd apparently tried to speak. His voice had left him, probably from his screaming, probably because there was no more air in his lungs, so all he could do was make terrifying faces as he tried to say something, anything. Sam had tried to help him up but he'd fallen straight through her grasp like he was made of cold fog. He'd crumpled onto the floor like a wet paper towel and scratched at his neck, his arms, his hands, and he doesn't remember any of that.

Sam hadn't been able to tell him any of this, past the sensation he'd left behind as he dissolved in her grasp. She'd cried as soon as he'd stopped screaming and had been inconsolable for hours. Tucker had seemed to be in a state of shock and robotically told him what happened when he finally woke up, gasping, wheezing, frantically alive.

You looked… different, Tucker had said, eyes not looking directly at him. You looked dead.

Dead. He'd looked dead with hair as white as snow when the sun shines off of it and eyes as toxic green as the swirling mass that's taken up residence in the now active portal. He'd looked dead, he'd looked dead, he looked dead, he looks dead dead dead deaddeaddeaddeadde—

Danny sucks in another wheezing breath so hard he chokes. He's on the verge of hyperventilating, something he'd become all too familiar with in the past few years—anxiety can take its panic attacks and fuck right off—so he forces himself to sit up from where he's lying in bed puts his hand on his chest, below his diaphragm, and focuses on breathing slowly through his nose. In for five seconds, out for five.

His panic subsides slowly, though it doesn't completely leave him. He can feel it hovering just under his skin waiting for the right moment to strike—

The next thing he knows, he's flat on his back, staring straight up at the bottom of his bed. He doesn't know how he got here, but the panic sends another wave of ice through his veins and he has to firmly tell himself, "I am alive."

It's become his mantra. The "accident," as he had taken to calling it, happened several hours ago, sometime around midday. After he'd collapsed, he was out for almost two hours. Sam and Tucker had dragged him upstairs to his room, too scared to do anything else, and they'd waited for him to wake up. They'd waited for him to wake up, explained what had happened as best they could, and then they'd left.

He could speak again when he woke up, and he almost hadn't believed that the accident had actually happened had it not been for the stuffed cotton feeling in his ears, the dryness of his mouth, the jittery pain in every muscle, and the wide-eyed terror he'd seen in the faces of his only two friends.

Are you okay? he'd managed to ask them as soon as he could process words. It had felt like there was a crusty film in his throat, like a new scab. He refused to think of what that would mean.

"You-you looked… d-dead. But now you… But you don't—not anymore."

He'd still had the jumpsuit on when he woke up.

He strains his neck to look blearily up at the tiny red numbers of his alarm clock. The glow tells him it's nearly two in the morning and he lets out a very soft, very tired groan.

His night vision is a lot better now. He'd never noticed how terrible it was before but now that he's here and it's dark and he can still make out the lines on the ceiling—I'maliveI'maliveI'malive—he can't help but think about it.

He has to squirm out from under the bed frame—it wasn't made to fit people under it, even if said people were scrawny fourteen year olds—but he makes it out okay. He sways on his feet, arms and legs still a little twitchy, and nearly collapses onto his bed, dragging himself to lay on it the right way even if he isn't under the covers. He shoves his face into his pillows—these are his favorite sheets because they look like galaxies—and listens for his heartbeat.

I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm—there. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Had he been holding it? How long?

I'm alive. I'm alive.

The white and black jumpsuit is a pile in the corner of the room and if he ever sees it again, it'll be too soon. Tucker had told him that when he'd fallen towards them, he'd been wearing a different jumpsuit—or at least it looked different too—with black where the white should be and white where the black should be. He tries to picture it in his head, but he can't see it. The only part he can imagine is the white gloves.

He doesn't notice when he finally falls asleep.

Six hours later, he's jerking awake, shoving his hands against his bed to prop himself up. Moments later, he's crashing back down, arms completely gone. He wants to freak out, he really does, but his mind blanks out and he's gone again, lost to a metallic buzzing that rings in his ears.

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

It's noon when he finally drags himself downstairs and everything is entirely too loud. The living room is deserted, as well as the kitchen, and he stops because his stomach is growling and he hasn't eaten in over twenty-four hours. His fingers aren't working like fingers should so the best he can do is pour himself a bowl of cereal and hope that he can eat it all before it gets too soggy.

His knees give out as he sits down, so he resigns himself to his meal even if he isn't sure he can actually eat right now. He's still feeling residual aftershocks, he thinks, and blames the jumbled mess that's become of his thoughts and his lack of fine motor skills on that instead of the dull panic that's made its home deep in his bones.

The whirlwind in his head dies down for a moment and he can finally hear signs of life in his otherwise dead house. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. His parents must be down in the lab, no doubt ogling their newly functioning ghost portal, and he can't help but be grateful that they haven't yet cornered him and asked him how he'd gotten it to work.

He doesn't want to tell them about how he'd been able to make out the ON button under his fingers before he died.

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

He tries to focus on eating, he really does, but suddenly he can make out the words his parents are saying and he subconsciously focuses on them, eyes staring into middle ground as he concentrates.

"—t do you wanna do with our first ghost, Mads?" His father's voice is quiet, a testament to how strong his newfound hearing is. The lab is soundproof, but the door is open. The only way the sound can escape is through the opening.

"I was hoping we could run some tests to learn more about the properties of live ectoplasm versus synthesized." His mother's voice is calm and analytical and so completely unlike anything he's ever heard and he almost doesn't recognize it.

He doesn't notice that he's moved closer to the open lab door until his shoulder is knocking against the wall. He shakes himself out of his stupor and leans near the door, gaze boring into the tile floor as his dad speaks again.

"Great idea! This fake crap that we'd had to make can't be near as good as the real deal!" There's a light scraping sound followed by some footsteps. "What're we waiting for!?"

"Jack," his mom sighs affectionately, "you know that we aren't quite ready to catch a ghost yet. We don't even have a way of trapping them!"

"Aww… Who cares about trapping them though? When I finally get my hands on a ghost, I plan on ripping it apart molecule by molecule!"

Danny doesn't notice when he moves away from the wall, but he does know when he jabs his hip into the counter on the other side of the room. The pain—biting, stinging, burning, tearing —jolts him back into awareness. He's gasping for breath, hands circling his own neck, and his eyes are wide, unseeing, finally, finally, realizing the situation he's in.

I'm alive I'm a ghost I'm alive I'm a ghost I'm alive I'm a ghost I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive—

He's a ghost now. He's gotta be. He's a ghost and his parents hunt ghosts, they destroy ghosts, and why would they care if he's still their son, he's a ghost, they catch ghosts, they kill ghosts—

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

He's not so sure of that anymore.

Ghosts aren't alive. That's something that everyone knows, something he's been taught since he's been old enough to talk. Ghosts aren't alive, sweetie. They're putrid manifestations of post-human consciousness. They don't think, they don't feel, and they're all completely evil.

His fingers are digging into his skull. Does he still have a skull? Do ghosts have skulls? What are ghosts made out of? Ectoplasm, dumbass. Ghosts don't have bones because they're made of that goopy crap. That's why they can go all see-through.

His fingers go numb and he pulls his hands away from his head to examine them. He can see the ground through his hand and he's sure that he would scream if his throat wasn't still raw. He desperately waves his hand, hoping the pins and needles of sensation will return—my hand fell asleep, I'm not dead, I'm alive, I'm alive—and he gives a breathless sob when the burning feeling of life tears from the tips of his fingers all the way to his elbow.

He pulls himself to his feet—when did he slide to the floor?—and silently returns to his chair. He failed in his one task and now his food is gross but that doesn't matter so much anymore. If he eats, he can't be dead and if he's not dead then he's not a ghost because ghosts can't eat because they're not alive.

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

He forces himself to eat even though his stomach is twisting and turning and once he's done, he cleans up and goes back upstairs, pulling himself up along the railing slowly. He barely makes it inside his room, the door softly clicking behind him, when the cold in his bones threatens to drown him. He chokes on a gasp and clutches his chest, heart stuttering as the biting chill threatens to overwhelm him. His vision goes fuzzy, blackening around the edges and he squeezes them tightly shut.

A wave of terror washes over him and for a second it feels like he's dying again. The burning, stinging, static of pain assaults his senses almost lazily, accompanying a weird numbness that's starting to spread from his chest to the rest of him. There's a flash of something bright enough to see behind his eyelids, and the next thing he knows, the pain is gone without a trace.

All that's left is a coldness that he almost can't feel.

His eyes snap open and the first thing he sees is black. He forgets to panic in the face of the next thing he can make out—the fact that the black is where his knees should be, knees that were covered by jeans a second ago. He takes a slow, shallow breath and swallows nervously.

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

"You…you didn't look like yourself, dude. You looked… different. You looked dead. You-you looked… d-dead. But now you… But you don't—not anymore."

Tucker had told him he's stumbled out of the portal wearing a jumpsuit that was mostly black. He remembers white gloves. He holds up a hand and his eyes connect to his memory.

I'm a ghost I'm a ghost I'm a ghOS—

He doesn't scream because he thinks he can't, he jumps because what else can he do, he panics because the motion sends him up into the air far enough that his back slams into his ceiling, he cries because not even a second later his legs dissipate into some sort of black fog and what am I supposed to do without LEGS—

His legs are back and he's crashing to the ground. He scrambles to his feet fast enough to leave him light headed and he just stands there for a second, breathing rapid. He sees his dresser mirror out of the corner of his eye and he refuses to look. He doesn't want to see that he's dead. He doesn't want to see a ghost.

I guess Mom and Dad were right, he finds himself thinking, feet leaving the ground to float an inch above it. Ghosts are real.

"I'm a ghost."

His voice is still scratchy but it's there and he's grateful for that. He doesn't know what he'd do without a voice. He hums just to hear it again and he finds that his throat doesn't hurt anymore. He blinks as his hair falls into his face and stares at it for a minute, disbelieving. Tucker had told him what he'd looked like, but he didn't really believe him.

He turns to the mirror now, eyes still trained on his hair, and takes a deep breath—does he even need to breathe anymore?—before looking at his reflection.

"Your… your, uh, suit, I guess. It was. The colors were like. Reversed. The white was… all black and the black was all white. Your… All your hair was white and your eyes were this weird green color and you… You…you didn't look like yourself, dude."

Tucker didn't tell him that he glowed.

As terrified as he is, he can't look away. He can't stop staring at his own face and those alien features he's never seen before. He looks like a ghost, he really does, and he doesn't want to believe that he's looking at himself. The white hair that almost seemed to wisp off at the ends, the swirling green eyes that remind him of the portal—burning, sharp, stinging pain—the freckles that his mother's always loved stained green along a pale face that looks too human to be ghostly but too ghostly to be human…

He brings up a white gloved hand and presses it against the glass. His reflection does the same. He turns away without a sound and crumbles to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, hands locked around his own wrists to hold himself together.

You looked dead.

He cries himself back to sleep.

When his sister pokes her head it to grab him for dinner, he's back to normal.

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

part 2 will prolly be posted tomorrow maybe. please leave a review and tell me what you liked (or not :p)