Disclaimer: I do not own 'Danny Phantom' or any of the characters, concepts etc. Those are owned by Butch Hartman/Nickelodeon, I believe. I make no claim to anything in this story, it is a perspective with hypothetical scenarios added in.


Knife's Edge

Ch2: Acceptance


Sam didn't even have to knock before Maddie called out to tell her that Danny was up in his room. Her combat boots clomped loudly as she bounded up the stairs two at a time, steeling herself to make the usually recalcitrant halfa talk to her about what was going on in his head, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight she found as she entered his room.

He was sitting hunched over on the side of his bed, staring blankly at a reflection of himself in a nearby mirror, his body a horrifying patchwork of bruises, gashes, burns and infected tissue. Most notably, that gash across his chest that she had noticed earlier had was now glaringly obvious and still leaking crimson blood over the congealed mass of ragged flesh that lined the cut. It was a shallow injury, not even reaching the bone of the sternum, but the pain from it must have been overwhelming.

Normally his few significant scars and fresh wounds were artfully concealed beneath long, baggy items of clothing, but sitting on his bed, shirt off and with no evidence of even the most rudimentary attempt at first aid anywhere on his mutilated body, the true degree of his concealment was revealed to her.

Sam couldn't believe her eyes; even after his fight with Pariah Dark he hadn't looked this bad. Skulker had been the most powerful ghost he had had to fight this week and normally Danny could beat him with little more than a couple of scratches and an occasional bruise for his trouble (ever since his fight with Dan and subsequent discovery of the Ghostly Wail, his strength had grown exponentially; to the point where even Vlad seemed to be much more cautious when engaging the younger halfa).

"Oh my God! Danny…what...?" Sam choked out, hand over her mouth in shock as the full severity of her crush/best friend's situation sunk in.

As if only just noticing her presence, Danny's head shot up to meet her gaze before hastily standing up.

"Can't talk, have to go on patrol. I'll see you at school tomorrow," he said over his shoulder as he turned towards the far wall and futilely attempted to trigger his transformation, "…maybe."

He added the last part under his breath but Sam still heard, and there was no way she was letting him go anywhere in his current shape.

"You aren't in any condition to be walking, let alone fighting ghosts! What are you thinking?!" She hissed at the clearly injured teen.

"I have to do this Sam, the Town needs me to protect it," he responded through gritted teeth as he tried to summon the energy and focus to trigger his transformation.

"Look at yourself Danny! You're so badly hurt you can't even control your ghost form. You can't protect the town if you're dead!" Sam nearly shouted, almost forgetting about the need to keep her voice down due to his parent's proximity.

Danny froze in place, before collapsing in on himself with a sigh, unwilling or unable to meet her pleading gaze.

"That's the only way I can protect it..." he said quietly as he stared blankly out the window, not even bothering to try and transform anymore.

That stopped Sam cold. She had thought this was just another case of Danny pushing himself too hard because of his damn Hero Complex again, but this was something else all together more serious.

She knew Danny had to deal with more than any person should, what with school, bullying, defending the town from ghost attacks, avoiding various human ghost hunters, his parent included, and balancing the two separate lives he led, but he had always been so irrepressible and so ready to give everything he could that the concept of him falling into self-loathing and despair had never occurred to her.

Had she really been such a terrible friend to him that she hadn't noticed such a fundamental and significant shift in his behaviour?

"What-What do you mean, Danny?" Was all she managed to choke out as she stood frozen to the spot by the thoughts racing around her head.

"The Observants were right, Clockwork was wrong. The only way to make sure that Dan never happens is for me to die," said a dead, resigned, not-Danny voice, coming from the lips of the dead, resigned, not-Danny standing before her, a sight more strange and terrifying than when he had first stumbled out of the Ghost Portal after his accident.

She just couldn't respond to that. He was seriously saying that he thought it would be best if he were to… to die. And knowing him, he would fight until his own exertion killed him or Skulker finally had a new pelt for his wall.

Danny continued, oblivious to or uncaring of Sam's lack of response.

"I became Dan because I lost everyone I cared about and I thought 'Hey, I just need to protect you guys, and then it'll never happen!', but I didn't realise just how fragile your lives really are, how so many things that happen every day could hurt you, even kill you, and I can't always be there to protect you."

Sam was about to jump in and say that it wasn't his fault, or that he didn't need to protect them, or any one of a half-dozen other clichéd platitudes, but she stopped herself, knowing that none of them were actually true in this situation. Besides, Danny just kept on rambling, getting everything of his burdened, broken chest.

"And just think about what would happen to the number of Ghost attacks if I wasn't here. I thought I was protecting the town, but all I'm doing is making it a target for my enemies; Skulker and Walker would never have a reason to come back here if it weren't for me, Vlad wouldn't have to bother with his crazy schemes any more and most of the others Valerie can take care of by now. Besides, who would actually care if I were to disappear tomorrow? Sure, Dash might miss his favourite punching bag and Mom and Dad might wonder about it for bit, but as soon as they realised Phantom was gone too, they'd completely forget about me; heck, the whole town would probably declare a Public Holiday in celebration! And I'm sure Mr Lancer would be glad he didn't have to keep giving me detention for showing up late to class or grading my half-finished homework, plus your parents would be thrilled learn that their daughter wasn't hanging out with a Fenton anymore. It's a win-win situation for everyone!" Danny continued, false enthusiasm dripping from every word and mixing with the underlying tone of loathing and fear in a way that sent a chill up Sam's spine.

Danny had always had a penchant for sarcasm, but the way he was describing his own self-worth now… once again Sam was struck mute by the overwhelming mix of emotions flooding through her.

Part of her wanted to storm out of the room, to yell and scream at him that she cared and that Tucker and Jazz and so many others cared about him and that he had no right to accuse them otherwise. But Danny knew that, and Sam knew that Danny knew that; it was just buried beneath the weight of his own fear, stress and the personal hell that was his life.

So she couldn't hate him, because this wasn't Danny; this was a hollow shell of her best friend.

And she hadn't noticed it until it was almost too late.

So she did the one thing she never thought she would do; she cried.

It wasn't a spectacular display of bawling waterworks like you might see on TV; her eyes watered slightly and a couple of thin, glistening streaks ran down to her chin leaving a faint trail of dark mascara in their wake.

That was it.

But the meaning was huge; Samantha Manson, fiercely independent Gothic aficionado, was crying.

It was a reaction brought on by sheer emotional overload and the need to release it in some way other than righteous fury. It was a response to the pure anguish in the eyes of her oldest and closest friend and the fact that she had been so oblivious to his downwards spiral that she hadn't been there to help him.

"I'm sorry Danny, I am so, so sorry…" she whispered, her voice cracking ever so slightly as she said it and eyes still glistening with yet-to-be-shed tears.