A/N: Second update in a row! Told you I'd try to update as often as possible; with AT LEAST every other day. Part of the reason for this is because I'm not planning on updating on Saturday (though, you guys know I'm addicted to writing…right?) so this makes up for it. Today's chapter?

ANGST…a little bit…sort-of…I'm not Cordria, alright? (If you love angst, look her up…it's legendary!) Anyway, another reason I'm updating so soon is because character introspection is my forte. Definitely better than my action scenes. :D Anyway, as usual; read/review/fav/follow and ENJOY!

Chapter #6: Promises

The passengers are gathering in the cafeteria, eating carefully rationed meals. The ship has water purifiers on board, so that isn't an issue, but the food is limited. Danny watches them file into the warm light inside before he phases through the wall into his room. He opens his duffel bag, digging under his clothes until he finds it. Reassured of its safety, he places it back where it was and flops back onto his bed. He knows he should go get food, but he wants to wait until it's cleared out a bit; he's already had to deal with curious passengers who want to interrogate him about his ghost-hunting, and Sam's face is going to get stuck in a permanent glare from frightening off 'The Barbies'.

It never ends, does it?

"I'm sorry," he whispers, careful to keep the wall between their minds in place. He sits up, meeting his gaze in the mirror across the room. His hair is tussled, and dark circles lurk under his eyes; they've become a permanent fixture over the past four years. He's pale, too. Ghostly, even, he realizes with a smirk.

He looks haunted.

In many ways, so does she. In a way, she is haunted.

"What was I thinking?" he whispers, "Who…who does this to the woman they love?"

His haunted expression stares back.

"But it's too late now," he continues, "she's here – she always has been. I should've just…" he sighs, running his hands through his hair, "…there's nothing I could've done, right? She…she's as tied to my death as I am. As tied to Danny Phantom as I am."

Green eyes stare back.

"Is that just an excuse? Can there be an excuse for subjecting her to…to this?"

-BREAK-

Pain flares again in his back, and he can feel the melted suit pull at his skin as he shifts his body. He alights by her window, tapping lightly on the glass. She appears in her ragged charcoal nightgown, her amethyst eyes wide with worry. She opens the pane, and he stumbles in, keeping himself in Phantom form. He can hear her asking what happened, but he can't answer, doing his best to keep quiet.

They rush to the bathroom, and she gasps as she turns the light on. She runs for the first-aid kit under her bed, and he can hear her stifling a sob in the other room.

I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry…she returns to the room, and her cool, shaking fingers dance around the burn.

::Danny…this…I…this is g-going…to hurt…it…:: her voice is tight, even through her mind.

::I know,:: he manages to reply, ::Just…do it.::

They take a deep breath together, and she begins to pull the suit. He clamps his hand over his mouth, shoving a wall between their thoughts so she can't hear his mental scream. He kneels in front of the bathtub, and grips the edge, his knuckles popping with the effort to keep silent. He can hear her crack, a gentle sniff at first. A sideways glance reveals the tears that stream down her cheeks.

He looks away – she wouldn't want him to see. His hand tightens on the edge of the porcelain tub, and he tries to blink away his own tears.

Let Undergrowth slice me to pieces, let Skulker blow me up, let someone skin me alive...but please don't make me watch her cry…

She starts scrubbing as gently as she can afford, and he begins to shake with the effort to remain quiet and still. Sweat courses down his face as she washes asphalt and pieces of his suit from the burn. Finally, she applies the antibiotics and a loose bandage. He finally removes his hand, taking deep breaths, and waits for the tremors to subside. Her arms wrap gingerly around his waist, and she leans her head against his undamaged shoulder. Warm tears flow against his skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm so sorry, Sam."

"Just…promise me you won't die," she whispers.

"I…" his mouth goes dry, "I…I'll be fine, Sam."

"That's not a promise, Danny."

"I…" he chokes up, "I can't promise that, Sam."

"I know you can't…"

"I'm sorry," he turns, pulling her into his chest and stroking her hair, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

-BREAK-

Sam stares into her reflection in the mirror of her own room, which sandwiches her parents' room between hers and Danny's. Her black hair is smooth and sleek due to the obsessive combing she's performed for the past ten minutes. Her skin has always been pale, and only the slightest of shadows can be seen beneath her bloodshot eyes.

Something's bothering Danny, and he refuses to let her know what it is. Even now, the wall is shoved firmly down. She's lived for a little over a year now in his mind, and this sudden distancing leaves an ache in her chest.

She knows something, of course.

She knows, for instance, that there's nearly always a sharp pang of guilt before he cuts her off. She sighs, "Of course…"

It never ends, does it?

…I'm sorry.

She buries her face in her hands, "You're an idiot, Danny. I didn't mean–" she groans. He thinks it's his fault, that she deserves better. That her parents are right. She frowns and leaps to her feet, storming to his door, and knocks.

"…Sam?" he asks, answering. He looks like a mess; in a way, he has for years now. The pale skin and dark circles beneath his eyes have become a constant. His hair is a bit more ruffled than usual – he's definitely been running his hands through it nervously.

She swings in, taking his face in her hands, and kisses him. His lips feel desperate against hers, and his arms wrap around her waist. They pull away, and she looks up into his eyes.

"You're an idiot."

"What?" he blinks.

"You're blaming yourself again, aren't you? For stupid, useless things that are not your fault!" she growls angrily.

"I…" he tenses briefly.

"Tuck and I help you because we want to Danny. Yeah, the long nights, the nights I have to patch you up through my tears, the scars…they suck, but…I wouldn't trade them for anything, Danny. You have to remember that. Tuck feels the same way."

He pulls her closer, tucking his face into her hair, "I just…I hate seeing you hurt," he whispers, "I…I wish we could just be normal teenagers for once. Go on a vacation without worrying about my enemies trying to kill us, to go swimming without wondering how to explain our scars."

"I don't know…" she smirks, slowly stroking his hair into a less disheveled state, "…that sounds a little boring, don't you think?"

He laughs, his breath cool on her ear, "Maybe."

"And we'd still have to satisfy your obsession," she adds.

"If it were a really long trip," he admits.

"And my aim could deteriorate. That would be awful."

He laughs again, "I don't know…you have pretty good aim…"

"It could happen," she defends, "…feeling better?"

He kisses her forehead, "Yeah. You don't even have to be in my head to know when I'm being an idiot."

"It's not difficult to tell when you're going into guilt mode," she retorts, poking his forehead, "…have you gotten something to eat yet?"

"No," he replies.

"Let's go."

"I was going to wait until more people cleared out. They've already started interrogating me…" he rubs the back of his neck.

"Ignore them," she waves dismissively, "I'll scare them off."

He stares at her for a moment before relenting, taking her hand in his, and exiting his cabin.

"…we should go flying later," she whispers, "see if we can see anything."

"I'm up for that," he smiles, squeezing her hand, "You have a coat, right? It'll be cold up there."

"Always have one," she smiles back.

"Then after we eat, when everyone's cleared out," he laughs.

"You've never answered my question though," she frowns.

"What question?" he stops in his tracks, appearing panicked.

"Why can I snuggle with you and get warmer despite the fact that your body temperature is lower than mine?"

"I told you the answer," he smirks, kissing the tip of her nose, "a ghost has to keep some secrets, doesn't he?"

She glares back, "I will learn the answer some day."

"Oh, maybe," he chuckles in return, pulling her to the cafeteria, "I'll make sure to write it down somewhere you can find it if I die before I can tell you."

"You're talking at least sixty years here, ghost-boy," she growls.

He laughs, but doesn't reply. She feels the fear pierce her chest like a knife, and grasps his hand tighter. She knows why he doesn't respond; he won't promise something like that.

The fear that squeezes her heart is the price she pays for loving a hero.