Author's note: After reading a review for "Disparaged" that expressed confusion about how it factors in to "The End of Danny," I realize that I never clarified here in this fic how the two stories are related. I wrote the first third of "Disparaged" over a decade ago, and then when I reread that first bit a few months ago, I was so intrigued and even impressed by what I had written that I decided to finish it, but I changed the original plot I had conceived for it so that it could be just a one-shot instead. As I was writing it, the idea for "The End of Danny" came as I was thinking about the interaction I was writing between Maddie and Danny, as I was considering not only how it was affecting Danny but what was going on in Maddie's head.

Essentially, "Disparaged" is meant to be an elaboration of a specific event that greatly disturbed Danny's perception of his mother and her growing obsession with him. Indeed, as those of you who have been reading "Disparaged" have likely noticed, the event mentioned in part five in which Maddie talks about having Phantom "on his knees and completely cornered" is the exact incident fully detailed in "Disparaged." The two fics utilize different viewpoints and have different emotional arcs going on, but they work together as one story. "Disparaged" spans a relatively short amount of time (I'm thinking a couple weeks? But I haven't finished writing it, so I can't say for sure) while "The End of Danny" spans a whole decade (remember that Maddie has already stated that Danny reached adulthood before his death).

If you are interested in seeing Maddie's obsession with Phantom from a third person perspective, I encourage you to check out "Disparaged." The next chapter I will be uploading for that fic will detail the initial incident where Maddie holds Phantom at gunpoint entirely from her perspective, so that should really give you an idea of what I'm trying to establish in this fic.


The End of Danny

.:·:.:

Prison. A visitor. Jack?

No. Never Jack. Jack has written me off. Last I heard, he moved to be close to Jazz and her family. I know that he has been working on our divorce, but it's been a difficult process under these circumstances. I don't blame him for wanting nothing more to do with me. I haven't even tried to fight it.

But I wish I wish I wish that he would come see me just one last time.

Vlad is looking at me. Smiling. He always seems so genuinely happy to see me. Possessively happy.

I don't want to see him anymore.

"Vlad," I say. "Stop coming to see me."

He blinks. "I thought you liked my visits."

"No."

"Then why do you keep accepting them?"

"I keep hoping that you'll be someone else."

"Don't they tell you it's me?"

I shrug.

Vlad clasps his hands. "Why do you want me to stop coming? Don't you get lonely here?"

I look down at the floor. "Vlad, you know that I don't blame you."

He waits.

"I know that I have only myself to blame for what I did to him." I look up at him. "But I still hate you for what you did to him."

He leans back. "What I did to him? All I ever did was talk to him."

I glare. I could retort, list all of the poisonous thoughts he planted in my son's head. But he already knows what he did.

"I never even touched him," Vlad continues.

I know what he wants to say next, but he only smiles.

A tightness, a stab, a lurch inside me. My stomach is twisting again.

"Maddie, please, accept my offer." Vlad's eyes are soft now. "Let me take you away from here. Stay with me."

I almost want to accept. I can't kill him if I'm stuck in here, after all.

...

I left him alone. In my own room, I collapsed on my bed and let go of everything, soaking my pillow with my anguish.

I wonder now what he was doing at the same time. But I never asked, so I'll never know.

I couldn't sleep. Tossed, turned, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't relax. When the sky started to lighten, I sat up in bed. Exhausted. Drained. Empty. I no longer felt anything. Everything in me had been absorbed and swallowed by my pillow and my sheets.

I was still in my normal teal jumpsuit. I didn't bother changing. Didn't shower. Didn't brush my hair. Didn't wash my face. Didn't care. In a fog, I somehow made it downstairs to the kitchen. I sat at the table there for a long time. Or perhaps it was only a short time. I don't remember. All I remember is that I felt as if I had been sucked dry. So dry. Nothing but pain in my head and a void in my chest.

Danny appeared and stood outside the kitchen for a moment, as if reading me to see if I was okay with him being there. I saw him, but he was blurry, my eyes not fully focused. Too tired to focus them. Still dressed in his street clothes, he looked as worn out and disheveled as I did, probably more so because he already looked so weary even before all this.

He walked into the kitchen, then stopped again. He studied me, as if testing the waters. Was I okay with him being this close? Could he come closer? Would I yell at him again?

I only looked back at him with unfocused eyes.

At last, he took a seat at the table. His black hair was a striking contrast against the blanched color of his face. He was monochrome except for his bright blue eyes, eyes that were bleary and forlorn.

"What now?" His quiet voice trembled.

I heard him, understood him, but I had no answer for him. I truly didn't know what would happen next, what could happen next, what I even wanted to happen next. This moment felt surreal, as if there could be no resolution for it.

Danny's expression changed slightly. Contrition, desperation. "Please don't be mad at me anymore," he begged. He cradled his head, his fingers tangled in his tousled hair. He was shaking but otherwise made no sound.

My emptiness started to fill at the sight. I could see just how much pain he was in, and I knew that I had caused it. I had been feeling hurt myself, but I was the parent, the parent who was supposed to be wiser, more mature, more sympathetic. He was just a boy, a child who was afraid of how I would react if I knew his secret. He knew that capturing Phantom had been a fanatical aim of mine. He had heard me and his father discuss exactly what we wanted to do with Phantom once we did catch him, all of the graphic details.

I was the parent, and I needed to be more compassionate. I had almost hurt him, killed him, and yet I was taking no responsibility for that. As I watched him shudder in pain, my heart ached, broke. With a cry, I embraced him, wrapped my arms around him tightly. I kissed his hair, his forehead. It was my turn to beg, and I begged his forgiveness, assured him that it was okay, all okay, that everything would be okay now.

We stayed like that for some time, my arms locked around him, his head on my shoulder. He was my boy, my ocean, my sapphire. My Danny, Danny, Danny.

I broke away at last and studied his ashen complexion, his exhausted expression. I cupped his face in my hand and ran a thumb over his cheek. I told him that I loved him, that I was sorry I yelled at him, that I was just overwhelmed and scared and that I couldn't contain my emotions in that moment.

He smiled. A weak smile.

I realized just how sore and dehydrated I was from tensing my muscles and crying for so long. I downed a glass of water, then started going through the pantry for what to make for breakfast.

Danny began to leave the room. I called him back.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

He rubbed his head sleepily. "I'm kind of supposed to be at school in less than an hour."

I put my hands on his shoulders and directed him back to the table. "Sweetie, you're not going to school today."

"I'm not?" He seemed thoroughly befuddled, as if this was an unthinkable idea.

"Of course not. You're staying here with me today." I pulled out a skillet, a carton of eggs, spinach, ham. "I'm going to make us omelets, we'll shower, and then we're going to spend the day together."

Danny was quiet for a moment. "What exactly are we going to do?"

"We're going to talk," I said. "No yelling. Just talking. You and me." I cracked the eggs, watched them bubble and cook.

Everything was going to be okay. Danny and I were going to be close again. No more secrets. I would see to that.

...

Prison. Stabbing, nauseating. I feel it in my gut. I am not a doctor, didn't study medicine to a great extent. I was more concerned with the non-living, the spectral entities in our world.

I massage my ailing stomach hoping to extinguish the fire inside. It feels warm, swollen even. So real, too real to be imagined.

Baskova walks by my cell, her hair wet from a shower. I have a strange urge to call her in, to have her place her soaked head against my belly to cool it down. Instead, I opt to shower myself. Perhaps a cleansing rinse will relax my cramped insides.

The water runs over me, jets and spurts of hot water. With my eyes closed, I turn my face right into the blast.

The heat, the water pressure, the steam…

With a twist and a reel, my stomach rejects this attempt at placation. I am forced to bend over, to aspirate and splutter. Bile spills out like a fountain. I can feel its acidic consistency in my throat. I fall to my knees and gasp, gulp in air. The yellow expulsion rushes to the drain and disappears. I turn my head back to the water with an open mouth and drink it in, rinsing all of the sick out.

...

Danny coughed, retched, vomited. Nine years old and sick with the stomach flu. He lay on the couch so that he could watch TV. His legs were pulled up against him. I could see the pain in his face. The glass of water on the coffee table was still full.

"Sweetie, please drink this," I tell him. "You need to drink it all."

He shook his head with a soft moan. "I don't want to sit up. Hurts too much."

I stroked his feverish head. He moaned at my touch and clutched his middle. So ill, but I knew he'd get better. He'd be okay and happy and healthy again.

I was always there to nurse him back to health. No matter what ailed him, it was my obligation as his mother to take care of him.

And when recovery and remission were clearly impossible, that's when he needed me most.

...

This pain is buried deep inside of me. I cannot quell it.

I'll try to sleep it off. Surely, it will be gone by morning. I just need to allow my unconscious mind to take over and conceal the pain until it disappears.

Perhaps this is my end. Perhaps I am dying. If I die tonight, I will tell myself: This ending is too good for you.

But if I live? If I live, I don't know what I'll do.