"—I'm just saying Danny, marry, kiss, murder: Kwan, Dash, and Dale." Tucker leaned against the cool metal bleachers, spreading his legs out and slouching. He dug his hand into the paper bag sitting between both of them, scavenging for abandoned french fries.

Danny gave his friend a side glance before taking a bite out of his double meaty, fatty bacon melt from the Nasty Burger, "Okay, but why are my choices all sharing one brain cell, and they're all suspiciously on the football team?"

Tuck shrugged, gesturing his head towards the field, "Because we've already exhausted this game with all possible cheerleader combinations."

"Can I judge them based on how hard they punch?" Facetiously the ghost boy raised his eyebrows.

"I mean, you aren't positively falling for Kwan's passivity?" Tucker said while lacing his fingers together in a mock swoon before rolling his eyes.

"Honestly, I wouldn't laugh, Tucker," Danny snorted, "You've become a lot more flexible with your sexuality after that spat with Hotep Ra."

"Puh-lease, Daniel," in an attempt to defend himself, Tucker admitted, "You wouldn't understand if you had a— a big muscular dude at your beck and call."

"Who looked like a missing member of the Village People," Fenton quipped while tonguing a piece of onion trapped between his molars.

It had been a while that Danny could live through those highly fantasized idyllic teen years that he always saw glorified in John Hughes' movies. It wasn't like he was missing out on any adventures of his own- he just wanted something of the less life-threatening variety. The mundane drama that most fresh-man experienced, like winter-formal jitters- or homecoming games... prom court- he craved any moment of normalcy he could achieve.

When Danny was younger, he was waiting for his life to begin; it was just a shame that it was over before it really started. Like a radio edit of your favorite song, they always seem to cut it at the best part.

The sun at his back, the spring wind that was quietly turning to stagnant summer heat. It was something he wanted to feel again. Where he didn't act like being half-dead was anything to fear. Their voices multiplied in the echo, traveling down the stadium entwined with their laughter. Making the empty stadium a little less isolated.

Much like the astroturf on the field, his body more served as a symbol that he was indeed still here but no longer really... organic. Moments that didn't feel like they could be snatched away. It wasn't those big keg ragers that he saw in Animal House that he was looking forward to anymore. It was these moments- when the world stopped burning and began turning once again, where he could just let the air fully extend his lungs despite not needing to breathe, where he could just be Danny Fenton.

"Hush," Tucker shot back, "Pick your man meat."

Choking both on his burger and his laughter, grease partially trailing down his chin, "Why are you like this? Do you need me to explain to you just how wrong that sounds?"

"You're stalling."

"Oh my god, you're impossible," The ghost took a sip of his large soda that he had been sharing with his friend; he cleared his throat, "Uh jeez, none of them are real winners..."

Tucker quirked an eyebrow, drumming his fingernails to the jeopardy theme to ante anticipation.

"Okay... okay, gun to my head: I would murder Dale without question," Fenton pointed him out of the flock of football players wearing the Casper high Crow uniforms. He was the lanky tight-end.

Folding in on himself with abrupt laughter, Tucker was either cracking up at the way Danny phrased it or the fact that Dale seemed so innocuous compared to the other choices. The lack of restraint or mercy was hysterical, "Why- wh-what did Dale ever do to you?"

"Oh nothing," Danny confessed, resting his back into the seats above them. Polishing his nails off on his shirt, he elaborated, "but I think I could kill him and get away with it. I mean, think about it- does anyone ever really notice when Dale is or isn't around?"

Dale really committed the worst crime of them all; being boring and basic.

"You got a sick mind Fenton," Sitting up, Foley balled his fists excitedly, hitting his thighs, "but I love it. Now… let's see, is it going to be Mr. Kwan Fenton or Mr. Dash Fenton?"

"God." Exclaiming, Danny's mind generated a horrifying reality of Kwan or Dash in a white tux paired with a shimmery sheer veil. He shuddered, "If I'm lucky, I'll be a widower and a nice healthy life insurance policy off of one of their hides to invest in your future start-up company."

"Aw, I'm flattered you include me in your hypothetical murder plots." He meant that genuinely. Tucker was honestly happy to be included in anything.

"Hey, hey, I didn't say it was murder- more than likely it would be an unfortunate accident like uh..." Danny paused in thought,"... a totally legit lawnmower malfunction."

"You've been hanging around Sam too much."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Still, either way, you have to exchange vows with one of those dim bulbs." Tucker removed a digital camera from his fanny pack and a fancy telephoto lens from his tech bag. The lens brought to mind a knight arming himself a lance. A really long ridiculous-looking lance. Shockingly, for once, Tucker was not being a creep. It was his responsibility to the yearbook and school newspaper to take photos around campus. Two clubs he took up after being coerced into it after getting caught editing photos for an unofficial Phantom Phansite of Sam's making in class. Turns out he had quite an eye for layout and composition. Though Danny wouldn't say, Tucker was totally reluctant to take the job. It combined his two favorite hobbies, handling expensive technology and staring at girls.

If anything, it provided more excuses for Tucker to be in close proximity to the Phantom. It was like something out of a comic book. Indeed they've come full circle from reading the adventures of caped crusaders and brooding vigilantes to being…on the school newspaper.

Baby steps.

The ghost boy poked him, "Lens cap."

"Thanks, dude," Tucker said, unscrewing the plastic covering. Using the view-finder, Foley held his camera vertically. His jaw was slightly open, one eye shut tight, waiting for his moment. Paulina waved her pom-poms before throwing her leg clear over her head, leading into a backflip and handstand. With a twist, she then plunged into the splits, winking coyly. Wow… she was flexible. It was an obvious ploy for attention as none of the squad was doing anything aside from getting water or practicing their tumbles. It was working. Danny was certainly paying attention.

"But, you're right." Rolling his eyes once again, the ghost boy exhaled wearily, "I can see myself falling in love with Kwan, then entering into a boring marriage and then putting arsenic in his jello."

The sharp sound of crumpling his burger wrapper punctuated his thought. Fenton still wondered if this technically qualified as kiss, marry, murder if he wanted to murder all of his options. It wasn't that all jocks were universally despicable. They all had unique traits which made them all distinctly detestable. Danny rested his chin on his hand, "Kwan's sweet like a kitten; he wouldn't know what hit him."

"Okay, no," Foley elbowed the ghost in the chest while lowering his camera, "That is, straight up, your mom talking."

"I was brought up around a lot of violent women; what can I say?" It wasn't a lie. It felt he was definitely the more passive one of his relationships. He mainly was non-confrontational until it couldn't be avoided.

Tucker scratched his hair through his beret, then his smile twisted into his cheek. He looked out to the field to see if he could spot the quarterback in question, "Ouch, that just leaves you tongue wrestling with Dash Baxter."

"It would be one kiss, and then I'd put his corpse next to Dale and Kwan's in my mansion's suspiciously spacious backyard," Danny said, chest deflating at the thought. He still thought his choices were well made.

"Wow, I didn't know Vlad was in vogue, or would it be called Vlannel?"

"Dude shut up," Danny chuckled but pondered the portmanteau, "and it would be Vladdel, I'm pretty sure."

Still reeling from the simple round, Tucker had trouble articulating, "I-I just can't b-believe you would kiss Dash Baxter out of all of them, your arch-nemesis!"

"Well, firstly, like you said, it's by total default. There's not any romantic connotation to it." Fenton made an x motion with his fingers, almost disgusted with the thought, "Second, I definitely couldn't imagine myself in a prolonged conversation, let alone marriage with him."

"Thirdly 'arch-nemesis' is a bit of a stretch, that would imply that I think about him a regular basis— honestly, he's tied with the Box Ghost in terms of relevance— and lastly, I think the whole orbit of the school would be thrown off kilter if anything were to happen to star quarterback: Dash Baxter."

"Yet somehow, with all that logic, you're still a C student." Concluding with a few clicks of his camera, Tucker mumbled.

"Mostly because I have the responsibility of keeping the freeloading ghost population down, and I blow off studying to play stupid games with you and watch the cheerleaders practice."

"Okay, I guess I would kill Dash-" Tucker scoffed while turning his head down the field towards the football practice, "Obviously."

"Seeing as you were sweet-talking about Kwan earlier-"

Foley interrupted, "Marry Kwan, and I guess that leaves Dale to mack with."

"Really, Dale? Out of all our bullies, he's certainly lacking a... what do you call it— oh yeah! A personality."

"So now you're saying you'd make out with Dash because of his charm?" Tucker couldn't really follow that thought; that would be like subjecting himself to getting a chip clip to the nipple. Yeah, at first, you're curious, but you know how nerve endings work.

Attempting to argue his position, Danny pushed back on Tucker's choice, pointing once again at Dale, "I mean, I'd rather kiss Dash than Dale. I imagine kissing Dale, and I would have to do all the work, y'know? I just feel like I should take the one I know has some idea what he's doing."

"Now who's the gay one?" Tucker joked while lining up the frame to see if he could get a big candid group shot for the school's paper.

"Yeah, you got me, Tucker. Danny Fenton, 'the Phantom' of Amity Park, is actually a closeted homosexual." Danny sighed from his nose, sarcastically remarking, "I think I heard that in the inquirer?"

As Fenton gathered his garbage, he heard the distinct sound of cleat spikes on concrete departing from the stadium. The ghost boy turned his head upward towards the closed snack bar. At the best of times, Danny Fenton was something of a paranoiac. The littlest noises caused his thoughts to spiral to the depths of the earth. Hunching over his knees, he hastily climbed the stairs. The hairs on his arms on edge like he had seen a ghost.

"What're you doin'?"

Startling, Danny nearly dropped the trash he was holding. Tucker stared at his friend awkwardly, stretching his legs across the stairs two at a time like he was one of those cartoon bad guys with the striped robber shirts. Gawky limbs tangled in the metal handrail of the bleacher stairs.

Glaring over his shoulder at Tucker— he excused himself, "I-I thought… I thought I heard something."

Posing his finger over the capture button, the shutter clicked rapidly— Tucker dismissed, "I didn't hear anything."

Of course, you didn't, Fenton scoffed. He stalked forward, thinking only it was his imagination. He said, "I'll be right back."

"Famous last words…" Tucker had his mouth open trying to line up his shot. Returning to his state of intense focus.

Ha. Ha.

Danny was going to sprain a muscle in his eyes if his friends kept thinking they were funny.

When he reached the structure at the top of the stadium seating, he glanced around for the trash can. It was usually around the top somewhere. His hand against the snack bar, he rounded the corner. Finding a rogue football player instead. More accurately, Danny turned face-first into the shoulder of a football player. He bounced off the upperclassmen and barked, "Watch where you're going— nitwit!"

What Danny expected was some lackluster insult thrown towards him in return. But it seemed like he found the one mute jock in the bunch as the faceless drone looked down at him and said nothing. His body language communicated fright—even genuine terror that Danny— yes, that scrawny, puny Danny Fenton was there. The ghost boy wiped his now ketchup-stained shirt, "Dammit!"

Danny leaned on one of his elbows and sat up, once again castigating the student in the helmet, "Thanks a lot! "

The jock flinched at his tone, and weirder still, the guy ran away.

That's right. A football player built like an ox and just as clumsy— ran away from a fight—a fight with ninety-pounds-when-wet Danny Fenton.

There was something that didn't sit right about that. Why was he so scared?

Why did he look at Danny like that?

It was almost like he was a…

No. No. No.

Did that guy really think he was the—

No.

He was just kidding. Freaky Fenton just making bad jokes, and no one laughs.

Obviously, that was a joke. That's all.

That sound— that sound of the metal teeth on the soles of his shoes, scraping against the cement. That awful sound.

Something unusual happened. Something that hadn't happened since the fall of freshman year. Danny's control slipped. He had phased through the ground and found himself landing face first under the bleachers in the dirt. He has enough sense to resolidify before falling through to the core of the earth. Disoriented— Danny shook his head from the impact.

"Danny— oh my god! Are you okay?" Tucker must've seen the fall, he hypothesized. The geek's silhouette could be made out between the slats of wood that made up the bleachers.

Fenton snapped, "Tucker!"

"Sorry! It's a standard question— what happened?!"

"Gee! I don't know! I think I fell about thirty-forty feet— what do you think happened!?"

"You're— you're— you— ghosted!" Foley said— the worry raising his voice a few octaves.

What?

Sure enough, when Danny glanced down at his hands, he saw the inverted leather work gloves. They were glowing white. His hair was too…

It seemed his fight and flight had merged into one response now. He had instinctively turned into his ghost half.

In an attempt to explain Danny, took deep even breaths, "I-I think… someone—" his mouth refused to even say it, "Someone… saw!"

Because if he said it… then in some small way, it was true.

Stunned, Tucker was sure he must've misheard, "What?!"

Danny couldn't explain what just happened other than he— he just panicked. His brain had stalled out how it usually did, and the Phantom took control.

Fist hitting the grass, Danny picked himself up and burst out of the shadows. From what he could hear, the cleats clicked along the exit staircase and back towards the main gym across the parking lot. He glided across the hood of Mr Lancer's car. No doubt Lancer was hard at work burning the teacher version of the midnight oil. The pale blue rings emerged from his chest, undoing the sudden transformation. He saw his reflection in the tinted windshield. Chasing after a lead he had no hope of catching.

So much for normal!

The walk home was a silent and bitter one. Danny and Tucker, as usual, were engaged in what psychologists (I.E Jasmine) would call parallel play. This was the social act of two parties being occupied with two separate tasks while still being involved with each other's space. This often gave Fenton some level of comfort when he was too exhausted to pretend to carry a conversation. This also allowed Tucker, who was generally poor at picking what words to say and when to say them, a little breathing room.

The walk home was backlit by the setting sun. The ochre clouds looked heavy in the sky as if the clear day was the sugar to swallow the bitter medicine of a nightly rainfall. The silence did nothing but allow thoughts to fester and thrive in Danny's brain stem like black mold.

Occasionally the road rumbled with the passing of trucks of mill workers just clocking off. The evening breeze rustled the thick green foliage in the trees.

Danny liked the branches better bare. It made him feel less alone. He was counting his breaths like how Jazz had taught him. He didn't want silence. He wanted anything. He wanted his ears to rupture with the noise— he wanted something to be actually wrong, so he didn't have to think about the possibility of it being so.

The brick buildings that line each side of the street had been there since before Fenton was born. Construction vehicles and cherry pickers came by often, doing the bare minimum of infrastructure management like making sure the road lights still worked. Every now and again, replacing the stop sign the neighborhood alcoholic kept uprooting with his luxury SUV he got from some kind of settlement from being injured on the job.

"I'm telling you, Danny, you are just overreacting. There is no way that dude thinks you're the Phantom." Tucker finally gave into the harsh glances he received from his friend.

Fenton more or less wanted to wallow a bit in his panic to marinate— he didn't wish to rationalize or to propose a solution. Begrudgingly Fenton pointed out, "I am so glad you helped, by the way."

"Dude, I just ate a double-triple bacon fat heart attack." He poked at his PDA, transferring his photos for the paper, "I wouldn't be any help in a food coma, would I?"

The only reply Danny could conjure up was a miffed sigh.

"You're really overreacting on this one— just saying," Foley mumbled, realizing a bit too late he was talking to the master of worst-case scenarios, "Considering everything, he probably thought we just really wanted to get our freak. On with some football players."

Tucker offered with a half-hearted shrug. He spun his stylus adeptly between his fingers.

The geek chuckled, "I mean, I'd run away from your fugly ass too."

Not taking the bait, Danny only managed to shake his head and wrung his hands, "—Just can't shake this feeling in my gut that he heard us the whole time. And saw me… vanish into the concrete."

Foley countered, "When have your gut feels been right, though? Like your instinct is a shoddy six-point-five-out-of-ten at best."

"You're so encouraging. You know that?"

"Just being real with you, dude." Once his file transfer was complete, Tucker glanced up from his screen, "When did we get into your neighborhood?"

Groaning, the ghost boy trudged ahead— towards his home. If Tucker wasn't even gonna listen to him, whatever! Then clearly Danny was suffering from his delusions of persecution. He didn't want to kill the vibe.

Catching Fenton by the shoulder, Tucker mutedly apologized, "I'm not… great with other people's feelings. You know this. You've been my best friend for ten years. You more than anyone would know this—"

"Tucker—" Danny issued a warning.

Letting go, Foley did his best to mollify whatever anxieties that lay in the stagnant air, "What I'm trying to say is that clearly this is bothering you, and you're not going to let this go until it blows up in your face— so the least I can do is help-slash-humor you."

The geek confirmed with a single confident nod, "I'll look into it if it gets out of hand. So… get some sleep. Okay?"

Danny glanced over his shoulder and fiddled with the buckle of his backpack strap.

A long pause followed. Tucker clapped a hand on Fenton's shoulder again. He gave a small reassuring smile.

Shaking his head once more in defeat. Daniel agreed.

He shook his head as it was the only thing he could control right now. Another repetitive motion that brought the briefest sensation of relief… of comfort. It was a hard reset of his nerves. The ghost boy exhaled, "Fine."

"Remember we're meeting up with Sam this weekend at the mall. Don't bail out."

"I won't."

"Later."

"Later, Tucker."

Slamming the door to Fentonworks, he announced, "I'm home!"

Then all too suddenly, he noticed that all the lights in the house were off. It wasn't like his parents to be out. They don't have friends. Jazz being gone was normal. It was a part of the routine. She'd be off doing anything else but trying to 'enable' their parents' prejudice on ghosts. Danny couldn't blame her. After all, he was doing the same thing. The folks, on the other hand, didn't seem to want to leave their industrial-styled home.

His parents, since they worked from home and had no identifiable traces of a social life, the only place Danny could picture his parents was at home. Their home, more specifically. Since Danny received his powers, this house was just a place that offered a brief eight-hour reprieve between getting his ass kicked and studying. Of course, there was food. When his dad managed to tear herself away from her work, Danny would then silently pick at a dry roast that had a one-in-eight chance of coming to life and seeking revenge.

It was such a routine. It was like the same actors returning production after production. At some point, the dialog became embedded in their DNA.

When his folks asked him how his day was, Danny would just nod, say some recycled excuse about how English was giving him difficulties. His dad would reply with how that makes sense since Danny had grown awfully quiet these days. His mom would ask about Sam; he'd say she's okay. Jazz would offer him softened understanding smiles from across the small table. It was encouragement for sticking it out. Some nights they were an almost average family. He was an almost normal son.

It was hard to go an hour without mention of ghosts. It was a reminder that acceptance wasn't an option. He couldn't let that jock— whoever he was— tell anyone.

Ghosts, Ghouls, and Poltergeists- Oh my...

Navigating the dark living room, Danny called once more, "Did Vlad kidnap you guys again or what?"

Silence. Calm as a cadaver.

Fenton threw off his bag, the near twenty pounds of books bouncing off the couch cushions and landing onto the floor with a slam. He couldn't help but chuckle tensely while pulling at the skin around his eyes. Half expecting a stern scolding for throwing his bookbag, Danny took a moment to scan the upstairs balcony. Nope. No annoying sister either.

Since he was still full from his lunch with Tucker, maybe he could just get a headstart on a nap, call the whole day a wash.

Aimlessly, he tossed himself onto the couch. Arms folded behind his head as a pillow. The homework could be put off. Right now, be surrendered to the couch.

Resting his eyes, he began walking the tight-rope between consciousness. He knew he wasn't going to sleep well when he was supposed to. Fenton would be tossing and turning around the worst-case scenarios. Eventually, he would jump out the window, conducting his detective work. Might as well.

Those awkward dinners were the only tether Danny had to his parents. It was odd. As much as he felt himself pulsing with anger at how they dismissed ghosts, Danny couldn't help but want his parents to like him. To like his alter ego. As if somehow love could be enough to conquer that divide. Danny sat through those dinners, despite how his skin crawled, because he loved his parents. He missed being what their kid felt like.

Occasionally, he wouldn't refuse his dad patting his back or his mom wiping a crumb of food from his cheek.

Danny knew his parents were opaque with love, bursting at the seams with it. Still, he couldn't take the risk of jeopardizing this hollow life. He wasn't sure when it ran out. Fenton couldn't let some random kid who went to his school endanger it.

Love was defined by obligations. No matter how strange they were.

Light darted across his closed lids. Danny didn't bother stirring, either because he was for once too relaxed to care or lost in his thoughts. Muttering between two people and finally-

BANG!

Startled, he nearly phased through the couch. With a yelp, Danny only found himself rolled onto the floor. Just a heap of bones loosely attached to muscles and nerves.

"Oh! Sorry sweetie, we didn't mean to scare you!" Mrs Fenton stooped down to make sure her son was okay.

Danny scrambled on the floor, still baffled and dazed from his brief lapse of unconsiousness.

Mr Fenton was holding a string pulled confetti popper still emitting steam from its opened top. Danny's Dad ribbed, "Well, you shouldn't be sleeping on the couch anyway. It'll throw off your circadian rhythm- but seeing as you're the birthday boy, I'll let it slide. Though remember, this couch is only reserved for me and my siestas."

"Huh?" The youngest Fenton scratched his throbbing head.

"Dear, did you forget that it was your birthday?" Maddie sounded distraught behind her crimson goggles.

Danny felt that maybe he slept for longer than he initially planned. Had he really slept through his birthday? No one had reminded him— He shrugged, "I- uh… I guess I've been working too hard. It totally just… slipped my mind."

He certainly didn't feel any older, just… tired. Perhaps they were synonyms

.

Mr Fenton extended his barrel of a forearm towards his son, "All the better, last I talked to that Mr Lancer fella he had the impression that we're an illiterate lot."

Lifting him rather fast, Jack placed a still, barely awake Danny back onto the floor. Armed with what looked to be an instant printing camera, Jack got a snapshot before his son could protest.

The flash was blinding— but it certainly woke Danny up.

"My son doesn't need English. He's a man of science! Shakespeare couldn't write a play where the leads communicated effectively for Pete's sake."

Daniel let slip a brag, "I did get the highest on the physics exam."

A hard playful punch landed on Danny's shoulder, Mr Fenton praised, "Now that's how you get to Nasa, tiger!"

Mrs. Fenton began eagerly shoving her son into the kitchen.

Rubbing the pit of his elbow, Danny grinned, "Aw, guys, you really didn't have to go through all the trouble."

Jasmine was over the cake, one finger in chocolate frosting while the other hand was still shaping words with a piping bag. She hovered an arm above the cake, "Hey, still decorating in here!"

"Decorating or eating my frosting?" Danny crossed his arms and cocked a brow.

"Hey, I came out of mom first; that means I get extra frosting. That's like- uh- an unspoken rule of sibling birthdays," the elder fenton blurred with a chuckle.

Maddie chuckled, "Well, that means we can take more photos for Dad's scrapbook. He loves those scalloping shears."

Danny rolled his eyes, "Honestly, it's a sickness."

Mrs Fenton then recalled how Jack almost got into a fistfight with the wedding photographer her father hired. He was so incompetent that the photographer didn't even bother to properly white balance and frame the shot. Jack had to do it all himself, and that's how he discovered a calling. This always prompted Danny to ask about the difference between a calling and a hobby. Jazz then chimed in how callings don't require talent.

They passed through the kitchen archway once more. Mrs Fenton placed Danny against the wall, "Let me get my measuring tape! Let's see how much you've grown! Don't move."

For a second, Danny analyzed the mark in the wood. He raised his hand to his head as steady as he could, he guided his hand toward the spot. Danny was still the same height. The result disheartened him. It wasn't so much he was looking forward to his 'changing body,' but he could be stuck permanently as the pint-sized wonder twinkie. Despite feeling middle-aged business accountant exhausted, Danny still looked green enough to be kicked out of a pg-13 movie.

"Hey, mom! I don't think I've gotten any taller."

Madeline returned with the tape measurer, "for my sake. I hope you haven't; I want you to stay in my pocket forever." She pinched his cheek while unfolding the ruler.

The metal ruler warbled as Mrs Fenton dropped it to the floor, pressing her foot to pin it in place. She tutted, "Five-foot-five…? Yeah, you're right! Well, your aunts were late bloomers. You probably get it from my side of the family. As well as your tolerance for alcohol made from toilet water."

"Uh, thanks, Mom?"

His mother dusted his hair of confetti, "We'll just flub it a little like I do with your father's scale. So you are now five-foot-seven! I declare it so!"

Retracting her tape measurer, she patted her son's head before gradually stopping, "When was the last time we cut your hair? It feels like it's been a while since we've visited the barber, huh?"

"I kind of like the way it is now," Danny shrugged.

Jack flapped the photo waiting for it to develop, "Don't be afraid of the clean-cut look; if you're anything like your aunt Alicia, butcher the better."

"I know you can't see it because my goggles are on, but I'm rolling my eyes, Jack." Mrs Fenton placed her hand on her hip.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing, she has a rattail, and I admire her for it. If my hair weren't thinning, I'd do it too." He got out his cartoonishly small container of rubber cement for the scrapbook.

"C'mon pop, can I see it before you stick in there with all the recital photos where I chipped my tooth?" Danny gestured to the setup, taking a seat next to his father, "Let us not forget when Jazz went through her Carl Jung phase."

"He was a hot psychologist in middle school, alright?!" Jasmine called out from the kitchen.

Mr Fenton cracked open the dusty stuffed tome, flipping to an empty page. He sped past, moving into the building. Jazz's first steps; seemed to be a lot more thanksgiving photos, specifically thanksgiving pie photos.

Jack handed Danny the developing film, "I'll need your seal of approval on this before it goes in the Fenton-de-historia for all of time and even then longer."

Danny took his turn and began to air out the photo, "Chances are you got me while I was blinking."

"That's what makes it a candid, my boy."

Jasmine approached from the dining room displaying in her arms a dark chocolate frosted yellow sheet cake, clusters of crispy rice and marshmallows making meteors, with white fondant letters that spelled out 'Danny Fenton: Starbound' with a big fifteen next to it. Star-shaped sprinkles shined against the brown frosting. She announced triumphantly, "Be proud. I used all of my artistic skill on this."

"It looks beautiful, Jazzy!" Maddie squealed and applauded her daughter's work.

"Top notch, sweetie! Did you use the new baller spoon I put out?"

Jazz rolled her eyes, "Of course, Dad. So are we going to eat in the dining room like civil people or out here in the living room like animals?"

Putting on their best puppy dog eyes, Jack and Danny gave a pleading stare to Mrs Fenton.

"Alright- alright, let's be bad, let's have cake on the couch." Maddie said, elated, her hands up in surrender, "We can even watch that new Apollo Eleven documentary. I heard that they got that British guy to narrate."

The elder Fenton child followed to the table and set the cake down, pulling up the recliner, "So what should we sing?"

"Nothing, preferably," Danny not so subtly jabbed.

Mr Fenton shook his son proudly, "He probably got enough of that from his friends today, right?"

He bluffed and said yes. However, he wondered if Tucker did actually remember. Or Sam? Danny was never big on birthdays, but he never missed an opportunity to make himself the object of celebration. Tucker seemed preoccupied with taking photos for the paper, and Sam was protesting some tree being torn down. While Danny didn't get many opportunities to feel full of himself, his friends seemed to dig their heels in on letting him bask in adulation. Earned or not. He was unsure where that came from.

He found it very hypocritical that while he used his ghost powers for good, mainly because they would be wasted if he sat idly, his friends wouldn't allow him to celebrate. Or when he longed to be normal again, they'd meet him with rolled eyes.

'You don't mean that, Danny.'

Tucker and Sam seemed perfectly content to forget that they witnessed him… die. Something that continues to haunt his afterlife is some charming anecdote that they all share. It wasn't that he didn't like his friends, but sometimes he found them lacking compassion or even just—recognition that they were the ones who encouraged him to mess around with his parents' experiments. Especially Sam.

If he had anyone to talk to that wouldn't want to dissect him immediately or judge him for being selfish, he would. Wholeheartedly.

Maybe that could be what he wishes for this year.

Maddie, in her maternal command, said, "Since I let us eat on the couch, I think one round of jolly good fellow is in order."

Jack fumbled around his pockets, "Shoot; I left my lighter in the lab. Oh, wait-" Mr Fenton removed the back-up propane blowtorch from the coffee table.

Each family member cranked out an ear-bleeding verse of an off-brand birthday song. Jazz kept a watchful eye over her father as he handled the blowtorch. Their mother passed around the ceramic plates from a stack, the moldings scraping against the edges.

Probably less embarrassed than he should have been for someone his age, Danny blew out the candle.

Mrs Fenton kissed her growing boy on the top of his head. Mr Fenton gave the nape of his son's neck a comforting squeeze.

The room deflated. Another year had come and gone. Hardly anything even changed. It was enough to make Danny ask—

"So, how's your guys' day, huh?"

His parents reported some of their findings from the ghost portal— Something about a tax form that they needed to locate in the mess of papers in the lab: Jack says he's close to finally putting together that IKEA file cabinet. Upon Jazz mentioning that he really should be moving to digital— he said CyberGhosts are the real threat. Jazz dropped the names of some anti-virus software.

Danny ate forkfuls of cake, not caring that his parents talked over the documentary. Just happy to be thought of at all. He pushed the negative thoughts just far enough out of reach so as to not hurt himself with them.

Then the phone rang.