Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom.

Resuscitate

Chapter Two

Returning to consciousness was a novel experience for Phantom. For one, he didn't think he'd actually ever fallen unconscious or even asleep since dying. Two, the only time he could recall a similar thing was when he found himself a denizen of the Ghost Zone for the first time.

Only this wasn't the Ghost Zone, he could tell at once. There was no excitable buzz of energy nor was there the burbling of ectoplasm as it languidly drifted in currents or churned and frothed in whorls. Phantom couldn't even hear any maudlin moans or shrieks, nor smell the cloying perfume of dead flowers barely masking the sharp, metallic bite of ectoplasm that was ubiquitous to the Ghost Zone.

Instead, an incessant hum of electricity, one that he could almost feel in his teeth and fingertips, pervaded his location; far-off footsteps; and the rattle of something wheeled and metallic—perhaps a gurney—driven over linoleum tiles. None of these ambient sounds could soothe the uneasy feeling the ghost had from the perturbing lack of substance to the air, the heavy spectral element that Phantom's aching core strained to take into itself. Perhaps the worst thing though was the smell; sterile, a harsh chemical taste that stung his nostrils.

The unsettling thought occurred to the displaced ghost that perhaps this was the Fenton lab and he was to be made into an experiment. Phantom's stomach knotted at the thought, and he carefully bit down on the inner walls of his cheeks to keep his expression from distorting; he didn't want to be seen as weak. But he, and indeed all ghosts that dared make the mortal plane of existence their business, had heard horror tales about the cruelty of the hunters—ones of gore, intolerable environments, and being treated as scum at best and fascinating at worst.

It was perhaps that last point that got to Phantom the most.

Right, he had to get out of here.

He opened his eyes, wincing at the light that flooded into his vision. Squinting, he waited for his eyes to adjust before opening them wider, blinking away purple spots.

The room was fairly small and mostly white, with minimal furnishings. Phantom had not expected the Fenton couple to have a room like this in their lab—nor had ever seen it in his excursions—and a small seed of doubt niggled in the back of his head that this was off. It was only further exacerbated upon realizing that not only were his limbs free of any restraints, but that what he rested upon was not an experimenting table but a bed, even though it was a small one that had a hard mattress and starchy sheets.

Taken aback by this—it was certainly better than his expectations, but not being prepared for this unsettled him—Phantom dazedly sat up and started sliding out of the bed. He was stopped by a tug on one of his arms. Turning his head he saw a tube leading into his elbow, his arm thin and much paler than he recalled, and followed its path to discover that it was an IV drip. Brows furrowing, he yanked it out with no hesitation.

The red blood that beaded in the crook of his elbow with its loss made him scream. Blood, red as a human's!

No, no, no, this wasn't right!

Realizing that he was breathing hard—scratch that, he was breathing despite the fact that no, he does not breathe (as much as he doesn't bleed blood)—Phantom put a hand to his chest, shaking with the realization that he could feel a beating heart.

He could bleed. Lungs drew in oxygen, a heart thumped, and blood coursed through his body.

He could bleed. Like a human.

This couldn't be real.

Phantom scrambled out of the bed as if a fire had been lit beneath him, landing awkwardly on his feet only for his now-twiggy legs to buckle and send him crashing to the floor with an oomph and bruising pain blossoming over him. The IV pole fell to the linoleum-tiled floor with a metallic clatter, its contents oozing out.

The ghost—human?—heard rushing footsteps and urgent voices before the door to the room opened and a few figures hastened towards him. Strong hands grabbed at Phantom, who squirmed in an attempt to wrest himself free, but they were too firm and next thing he knew he was being hauled up by a confusing mass of persons before being laid down on the bed.

"Easy there, kid! You gave us quite a fright," a fatherly voice said soothingly, and Phantom directed his attention to its source, a smiling middle-aged human man with streaks of grey shot through his brown hair and crow's feet at the corners of his blue eyes. The nurses that had accompanied him were just exiting the room.

Phantom narrowed his eyes, unwittingly tensing as he took in this man with wariness.

"Who're you?" he ventured with suspicion.

"Doctor Matthews. You're at the hospital in Amity Park. Do you know where that is?"

A hospital. Of course, he should have figured. Phantom nodded in response to the doctor's question.

"Why?"

"Malnutrition, a dangerously low body temperature, and a depressed rate of breathing were the primary concerns, though while not fully recovered you have certainly exceeded our expectations for improvement in such a short amount of time. You weren't doing well when you were brought here. So, kid, who are you and where are you from? We couldn't find anything identifying you. What's your name?" Doctor Matthews asked with genuine worry to his tone.

Phantom frowned. How was he supposed to respond? That he was Phantom, scourge of Amity Park who had somehow returned to life and in a feeble condition?

Yeah, right.

Danny . . .

Phantom didn't know where it came from, but he could swear his body was speaking to him. It felt right somehow, like it clicked. Not quite the same as Phantom, but similar.

". . . Danny," this he said with hesitation.

"Just Danny? No last name?"

Refusing to say anymore, Phantom—or rather, the newly dubbed Danny—shook his head in confirmation to the doctor's inquiry.

"So, Danny," 'Danny' was sure that the doctor didn't entirely believe this is his name, "where are you from? Do you know why you're here?" Doctor Matthews was still smiling, and it made the confused ghost (not a human, never again) want to punch him in the face. Damn perky bastards, every last one of them; what did they have to smile about so much like idiots?

Sitting up, Phantom folded his (not his) hands in his lap and looked down at them, black hair (he had white flames, not hair) falling into his vision like a curtain. On reconsideration, it was probably better not to punch the man. The human man appeared to have a solid build, and the boniness of these hands that had somehow become his was accentuated all the more by the prominent knuckles and tendons, and how disproportioned they seemed coming off of skinny wrists.

If nothing else, he needed to figure out what had happened and get out of here.

What had happened . . .?

Another incursion, and then there was a fight . . . Phantom's skin crawled as he remembered the results of that, and unconsciously he curled into himself, arms clutched his drawn-up knees into a hug, fingernails hooking into his skin and scoring angry red lines as he dragged them up and down.

He had fled, he recalled—strategically retreated, he amended—and after that he had . . .

Like ectoplasm charged for an attack, the nonhuman had an epiphany that shed light to everything, and he could have laughed in relief. He was just overshadowing a human! Typically a ghost would lose their control over a body if their human host was knocked out, which was no easy feat when they were lent a good fraction of a ghost's durability, but exceptions such as these weren't uncommon depending on the situation.

Phantom had never quite heard of a situation where a ghost was so compatible with a body that it felt like being alive, but he had always had a noteworthy talent at overshadowing; maybe he had just reached a new degree of skill in it.

Hope thrilled through him at the thought. It was perfectly reasonable.

Alright, time to ditch this joint. With that thought, Phantom searched inside for the human consciousness that the flesh sack belonged to, so that he may relinquish his suppression of the owner's personality and free himself of the mortal form.

Only minutes passed and Phantom couldn't find anything. The body was empty save for him, and now that he was paying close attention, he couldn't distinguish himself from it at all. It wasn't merely a meat suit; somehow or another, it was himself!

But that wasn't possible, couldn't be possible.

Regardless, attempts to free himself proved futile, he didn't even know where to begin. Phantom distantly felt the fingernails dig deeper into his arms, shredding bloody furrows along their length until strong hands clamped down onto his bony wrists, broad fingers wrapping utterly around them, and tore them away to prevent further damage. He noticed none of this and could do nothing about his shattering expression, eyes growing wide and chapped lips parting.

"I don't know . . . I don't know . . ." His voice shook, and he stared dead ahead, not seeing the alarm growing on the face of the alarmed Doctor Matthews.

Line Break

A/N: To be honest, I finished most of this around a day after the first chapter. I just meant to add more to this chapter and never got around to it because I am lazy. I'm trying to end my hiatus and get back into writing fanfiction, so I thought I'd (minimally) edit this and upload it so that I can just move onto the next chapter.

On that note . . . ew, my old writing. How did you readers not chase me out of this site by pelting me with rotten fruit?