Author's notes:
Before you read this, there are a few things to keep in mind: I own nothing but the story idea that beat it's way into my mind; Danny Phantom is copyright of Butch Hartman.
This story deserves it's T rating, there are mentions of mental issues and violence. Because, honestly, how in the world would they come out of that without being a little messed up? If there's anyone who has trouble with mentions of blood or flashbacks, it may be a good idea to avoid reading.
Finally, this story is written primarily in stream of consciousness, so it will be a bit rough sounding, and there will be grammar errors. After all, the human mind doesn't normally run with perfect grammar, especially when you're a teenager.
Sam Manson was a perfectly normal human being. Sure, she wasn't average; why in the world would she want to just be another complacent drone following the status quo. She was an individual, one who wouldn't just be dressed up like a doll and ordered what to do. Her views mattered to her, and wasn't afraid to let the world know. Even if she was being honest, and some of what she did was just to be a rebellious teenager and drive her parents insane, it was something to be enjoyed. Finding things that fit her–living as a goth, learning about supernatural, saving frogs and just being herself. It was just a different form of normal.
Well, not exactly normal if the ghost attacks that seemed to take place every day were taken into account. However, that was par for the course in Amity Park, even if the three of them took a far more active role in the attacks than everyone else. Even if they pulled weapons out at the slightest hint of supernatural danger, running towards the ghost instead of away from it, throwing their lives on the line to make sure one more person made it to safety. They were still friends; they hung out together, laughed over dumb things, joked at the worst times, acted like idiots and got in trouble together. Even if the trouble was far more dangerous than most adults would ever get into, they handled it together.
And even when they couldn't handle it together; when someone was forced to stay on the sidelines, they were still friends. Not even the fights, the protests over carnivore and vegetarian, over whether or not they were strong enough to handle helping fight ghosts, over where to go get lunch or when the next time was to play Doomed. It didn't even matter if any of them accidentally made a stupid wish that left the entire town in shambles, they still had each other's backs. Even when he did something dumb and went chasing off after a girl that couldn't see anything that made him wonderful–not that she could name any one of a dozen things off the top of her head, not at all, don't think about that–she would still be there for him. Through thick and thin, they were all there for each other.
Even when thick green/red soaked her hands–hold them steady, don't slip–as a needle slipped precisely in and out of a blood/ectoplasm soaked leg or arm or side or back or chest of the boy she absolutely couldn't like because they had known each other since preschool; they were still there for each other. It didn't matter what, there was no way she wouldn't help; first aid and sutures and stitches and surgery all running together in red and green as she mopped up wounds. Wounds from throwing himself in the way of another attack that his stupid hero complex just wouldn't let him avoid, as her heart was wrenched out of her throat, she would be there despite the heartbreak because he never deserved this.
They all did their own part, Danny cracking jokes hiding the terror caught in a ghostly echo so they'd think he was alright; Tucker keeping meticulous track of life so that there was one less thing threatening to crack the fragile peace; each did whatever it took to keep everyone running. A silent promise they made to make it through no matter what; spoken in tiny gestures so long ingrained she had to pay attention to notice.
When it all got to be too much, she could get away into the greenhouse and work. Flee from the sadness hiding behind overly sweet smiles over a daughter who just wanted something else from her life. Escape from the haunting memory of the latest time; watching as he was thrown through another building and she couldn't do anything about it. Here she could just work; prune and water and fertilize and talk and let her worries be carried away in the many leaves and stems that just needed nothing more than her to take care of them. They wouldn't judge her and she could get away from all the stress in her life. It had been a retreat for years, somewhere to stay safe and sane.
Except she couldn't do that anymore, all it took was one wrong loving stroke of her plants then they would be talking back, telling her how wonderful to them she was, as one plant after another reached out to her, grasping on to her. Then she would be trembling as they asked if she was alright because the vines were reaching and he would be back, promising that part of her that hated the cruelty of the human race it was alright, they would make it better. Even as he spoke of duty to kill off all those who threatened the growth she would sob as thorns tightened into her trembling body, holding the rest of her mind in place, trapped as another took her place. Holding her kicking and screaming as the other part, the part that was his puppet, hurt her Danny and tried to destroy the town using the children he had given to her, perversions of who those plants should be.
And those that were her children now, pure and untwisted by rage and anger, would find her trapped in an endless ocean of thorns, pulling towards safety. Soft tendrils reached out, blooming over the places that thorns had dug into her, reminding of the here and now and it was safe. They would reach out, comfort her as she became they and they became us; until they could comfort themselves with the knowledge that they were safe and far out of his reach. Cry and drop petals in a display of sadness and comfort, knowledge that they would never let go, their hands and vines entwined.
Until some small broken part of us would remember that humans weren't supposed to be they, then they–no she–would recoil back into herself as her children cried out to her, leaving her running away. Left with naught but a trail of petal and memories she desperately tried to avoid; a temptation just to reach out and let them tell her it was okay. Hiding in her room, barely touching any food because she wouldn't even eat meat and she couldn't eat parts of her children even if they said it was okay. Just fruits and fungus because the former they grew for her and others to eat and spread the seeds to grow elsewhere and the latter because they were silent and not really her children. The others had her back even then, pulling her aside to force food of some sort into her as the world rocked side to side.
They understood that they needed to look after each other; there were nights, more frequently then she'd ever dare admit, when she could only find sleep next to a softly purring/whispering Danny as he held her close. Next to him on the nights after another attack, just held close and knowing that the other understood what it was like to have something else lurking in your mind, something not human. Because when he held her, just wrapped in his arms and doing nothing else the entire night, and for a brief time his strength would reach out and bring hers out of hiding. Those nights she would be able to dream about her children without HIM dragging her into darkness and thorns again, just barely reaching out to brush against them, let them know she was alright. Know that in some way, she was better, because human or ghost or an impossible mixture of both he made her feel safe; black white and gently glowing green reminding her it was okay to feel fear, snuggled in cool arms and a protective embrace.
Even if Sam Manson wasn't in any way normal, it was okay, because she had him.
A/N:
Thank you all for taking the time to read this story. I hope you enjoyed it, and don't be afraid to review.
As I said before, this story is written in stream of consciousness, a bit of a difficult writing style to get used to writing or reading. It blurs the edges of what is actually happening quite a bit, making it wonderful for works like this, at least in my opinion. It's meant to give you an idea of what it would be like in her head, especially in the weeks following Urban Jungle, or at least my version thereof.
This is currently planned to be a one-shot, though if inspiration steamrolls me over a new idea more may appear.