A/N: Hello! This is the longest chapter so far! :D Remember: lots of reviews keep me writing! More of the A/N at the end, for spoilers. As usual, read/review/fav/follow and ENJOY!

Chapter #7: Twenty Years Ago

"…blaming yourself again, aren't you?"

Jeremy strains his ears, trying to hear more of the conversation.

"…useless things that are not your fault!"

"I…" the boy begins to argue.

"Tuck and I help you because we want to, Danny. Yeah, the long nights…patch you up through my tears...wouldn't trade them for anything, Danny," she continues on softly.

"…hate seeing you hurt…wish we could just be normal teenagers for once. …vacation without worrying…enemies trying to kill us…explain our scars."

"…sounds a little boring, don't you think?"

He laughs.

"...satisfy your obsession."

"…really long trip."

They speak a little more, and Jeremy slips around another corner, listening intently as they pass by, unaware that he'd been listening in.

"…flying later…" he hears Sam whisper as they pass, hand-in-hand.

"…up for that…have a coat…?" Danny replies with a smile.

"Always…"

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

Flying? Jeremy wonders, how…?

"…ghost has to keep some secrets, doesn't he?"

Ghost?

"…learn the answer…" she glares.

"…make sure to write it down…if I die before…"

"…at least sixty years…ghost-boy…" she growls.

The young man laughs, his eyes not matching his jovial smile. Sam's expression matches his, and her hand tightens on his. They finally vanish around a corner, their voices fading away completely as they stroll towards the cafeteria.

Jeremy moves from his hiding place, making for his own room. Suddenly, Sam's outburst earlier makes much more sense. He holds back tears as he thinks of her expression when Danny hadn't replied to her 'sixty years' comment. Death isn't a joke to them; it's a reality that hangs over their heads on a regular basis. Not her death, however. It's his.

From what he's been able to gather, Danny is the main fighter of the trio, with Tucker providing technical support and Sam providing cover fire. He'd seen the boy at the pool yesterday; including the scars that arc across his skin; particularly the one that slices across his collarbone to rest over his heart. He'd wondered what had could have caused such a thing. He's not sure if he wants to know.

"You have no right to look down on him. He's the strongest, most courageous man I know, and I love him."

"My little girl," he whispers to the emptiness of his room, "She's…really fallen in love."

It'd hurt, hearing her say what she did. Jeremy kicks off his shoes and lays back. A father is supposed to be the protector of his daughter's life, isn't he? Yet…here's Danny Fenton, the young man he thought was a clumsy, goofy, normal teenage boy.

He's not normal at all.

He can be goofy, and clumsy at times…but beneath his innocent blue gaze is a steel-hard and ice-cold glare that can freeze even ectoplasm. He conducts himself with grace in hardship, hardly blinking at their situation, only making a calm assessment and a plan with it. Throughout the day, he's helped to inspect the ship while Sam's assisted in the hospital, bandaging and bracing with efficiency. Neither teen seems particularly panicked about being adrift at sea, instead focusing on what needs to be done.

He's seen it in his daughter, now that he thinks about it. The way she walks, her eyes scanning the sky. Conversations at dinner, where she's casually mentioned something unusual, such as proper treatment for an injury or a firm firing stance. The constant supply of new clothing to replace torn, worn, and otherwise ruined clothes. They'd thought nothing of it; the frequent ghost attacks in Amity make ruined clothes a regular occurrence.

He thinks again to their actions in the ballroom. The chandelier had hit the ground before he noticed it had broken loose. Danny had nearly been crushed, pushing a woman out of the way; but he'd reached her in time, even from all the way at the buffet table. Similarly, he hadn't hesitated to put himself in harm's way to shield he and Pamela from a table.

"No wonder Sammy's worried," he whispers, "he never thinks of himself."

But he doesn't think that's the full extent of her worry.

"There's something I'm missing," he whispers.

"Like what?" Pam asks from the doorway, startling him.

"Something about Danny and the ghost-hunting," he replies honestly.

"You too, huh?" she whispers, setting herself on the edge of the bed.

He sits up and wraps his arms around her shoulders, "You want to talk?"

It's a code, between the two of them. She sighs and nods, slouching back against him, "Ignoring his…eccentric family and social standing…"

"I overheard some of a conversation between the two of them," he begins, leaning back against the wall, "Those kids, Pam…" he shakes his head, "I wish she just had a…typical teen problem. They have programs for those, but…you heard her."

"It's as though they grew up too fast," she frowns.

"Sammy's always worried that one day he'll disappear on her," he explains, "that one day, he's going to end up bleeding out on the pavement. You should have seen their faces, Pam," he pulls her closer, and tells her everything he heard.

"I told you she's doomed," she snorts, tears stinging her eyes.

"Doomed to have her heart broken when his stops," he whispers.

"…what about the flying comment?" she begins to pace the room, "do you think it's code for…something else?"

"We're looking past your dislike of him, Pam," he frowns, "And beyond that, we both know he's a relatively strait-laced kid. Besides, why would she need a coat? We're in the Caribbean…or we were…either way, it's not exactly cold outside."

"He can't fly, Jeremy."

He smoothes his hair back, but a few errant strands have broken from the hairspray, falling forward, "I don't know…who knows what the Fentons have created?"

"He would've used it by now to help us out!" she huffs, "besides, I thought we were ignoring the eccentric family?"

"As a measure to judge Danny," he corrects, "figuring out what's going on is completely valid."

"Well, a lot more makes sense once you add in the ghost hunting," she summarizes, seating herself before the mirror and beginning to remove her earrings, "but there's still one question I have."

"What would that be?"

"Why haven't we seen them?" she frowns, "the only hunters we ever see besides the Fentons are the Red Huntress and Phantom."

"That's right…" he whispers, it can't be.

"What is?"

"That we haven't seen them," he replies smoothly, It can't be…right?

"Well, back to normal," she growls, "Either way you look at them as a couple, they're doomed to heartbreak and misery. Even if you exclude his freaky parents with their awful fashion sense as well as their…lesser social standing…Danny himself if a problem. He pretends to be normal, but he's as ghost-crazed as his parents, and he'll only get himself killed while running around out there. There's no future in that!"

Phantom…Danny Phantom…

"Jeremy?"

Fenton. Phantom. Fenton-Phantom…

"Jeremy?" she questions again, touching his shoulder.

"Y-yes?" he starts, all blood draining from his face.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, dear," he smiles, "Just thinking of…new ways to convince my mother you aren't a gold-digger."

"Honestly," she snorts, "doesn't she realize that if I were, I'd have divorced you and taken everything you have by now?"

"It didn't work like that when she got married," he shrugs.

"Or poisoned you?"

"Modern technology makes it too easy to get caught. Self-preservation. Trust me, Pam," he laughs, "I've heard her rants on the matter of the two of us."

"All these years, and I still don't get along with my mother-in-law," she sighs.

"She doesn't hate you," he assures, "She just…doesn't trust you. More importantly, she loves Sam. She was considered a bit of a rebel in her day too, and you represent the 'oppressive' party to them both."

"Because you're too soft to do it," she huffs.

"Because I'm too soft to do it," he agrees with a smile.

A little over twenty years ago, Jeremy Manson had met Pamela Breckenridge when she bumped into him, spilling her piping-hot coffee all over his designer shirt. He was working steadily towards a business degree at a private university. She was working as a secretary for a graphic design firm.

It had been hatred at first sight.

He demanded that she pay him back for the shirt. She told him it was his fault for not watching where he was going. He calmly pointed out that she'd been walking on the left side of the sidewalk, against foot traffic, with an uncovered cup of coffee. She started screaming at him for spilling her coffee before pouring the rest over his head.

Over all, the whole event ended in a shouting match. He'd never met anyone who could make him react like that.

Two weeks later, they found themselves crammed together on the subway. Someone bumped into her, almost spilling her coffee on him once again – though, this time, she'd had a lid. He smirked and pointed out the change, and she insisted that she always had one, but a tell-tale blush lit her cheeks.

More people jostled her, and he told them off for it, letting her take a seat the moment one became available. He told her it was because he's a gentleman, and he didn't want to risk the lid popping off and ruining another shirt. He lied. He just didn't like people shoving her around as they wanted. He didn't know why it struck a chord in him.

It was here that he learned her name; Pamela. The Greek interpretation roughly meaning 'honey', or 'all sweetness.' He found it horribly ironic.

A week after that, they met on the street again. He tried to engage her in their usual banter, but she ignored him. He chased her down and offered to buy her a cup of coffee, noticing her empty hands and distraught expression. They made for his favorite café, where she proceeded to inform him that she'd discovered that her best friend's boyfriend from high school was cheating on her and didn't know what to do. Was she supposed to expose him? If so, how? Was it none of her business?

He listened…somewhat…he was distracted by the way the morning mist had made her coppery locks curl at the tips, and the way the lights reflected on her bright blue eyes, and their almost Asian tilt. Her carefully manicured nails, decorating soft, slender hands.

She talked herself into a decision; he hardly had to say a word. She would tell her; surely she would want to know, right? She had a right to know. She asked him why men cheat. He shrugged, telling her he didn't know. She sneered at this, taking a pointed sip, and inquired if he thought he was any different.

For once, he wondered if he was. It was only a moment, but it was a moment.

He'd never cheated. To be fair, he'd almost never dated – not seriously, anyhow. He'd gone to parties, had the occasional one-night-stand when he got particularly drunk…but he'd never been in a committed relationship.

He told her so, much to her shock. He didn't know why it surprised her so much, but she proceeded to admit she'd never had a relationship that lasted more than three months.

He was less than shocked, to be honest, but he played the game.

One thing he learned quickly about her was that she was very determined, and that she had a vision of how things should be. If you didn't fit into that vision, she'd get frustrated and try to reshape you to fit. He found her drive and energy a fitting balance to his laid-back and apathetic ways.

That was the day he got her number, and her his.

They proceeded to meet once a week, if their schedules would allow. He learned of her family, which had fallen from riches to the middle-class. It explained why she acted like an heiress. She learned of his; old money that had simply continued on thanks to the beauty of copyright and people who could get high-quality education, and therefore well-paying jobs that could reinforce the fortune.

He thought during these meetings that he might actually like her.

Two months of meetings later, he waited in the café as planned, and she didn't show. She didn't pick up her phone. He began to get worried. He didn't pass her on the street as usual. He began to search for various accidents in the news, wondering if something had happened to her.

Finally, after a week of worrying – talk about an awful way to spend the holidays – she called him. She was in tears, and asked to meet up at the park. He agreed, and rushed out the door as quickly as he could, his feet driving him through the icy streets, his breath fogging up from behind his scarf.

She was waiting in a more secluded corner of the park, on a bench. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the first thing she did when she saw him was leap from her seat and wrap her arms around his waist, sobbing into his chest.

He froze for a moment, surprised, before noticing her bare arms exposed to the winter air. He removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders without a second thought and suggested they get back to his warm apartment. She refused, and finally told him what was wrong.

Her friend had committed suicide last week. She'd taken a bunch of sleeping pills. Pam got home early from work to take a shower before meeting with him, and noticed the note and empty bottle. She called an ambulance, but her weak pulse disappeared just before they entered. The EMTs resuscitated the young woman on the ambulance, but the damage had been done. She waited at the hospital until the family came. They spent a few days trying to find hope, but she was brain-dead, and they decided to pull the plug on her life support.

She was sad, but she was angry more than anything. Angry at the boyfriend for breaking her friend's heart, and angry at herself for telling her, for not noticing what was coming. He simply held her, stroking her hair and whispering his condolences. Telling her it wasn't her fault.

It was a while before he noticed how cold he was. Pam thanked him for his time and coat before turning to march away, but he caught her hand. She was exhausted, it was late at night, it was freezing, and she was in no state to be walking the street herself. He insisted that she stay at his place – he'd take the couch. She didn't even have the energy to argue with him.

Her own clothes had been soaked by the snow, so he lent her a pair of sweatpants and an old, baggy t-shirt. He decided that he liked how his clothes looked on her.

That was the first morning he woke up to her face, and he thought to himself that he'd be fine if it wasn't the last.

She crouched in front of the couch, a plate in her hand, and asked if he liked omelets. She was an excellent cook, and they enjoyed their breakfast together. She was slowly returning to herself, and by the time her clothes emerged from the dryer, he knew he'd fallen in love.

They started dating officially shortly after, and got engaged on the anniversary of the day they met. His parents, while excited that he was getting married, were still wary of her. They didn't think it would last.

Over twenty years later, he still loves her as much as he realized he did that day. No, he decides, he loves her more. She may be pushy, driven, irritable, and overemotional, but he still loves her. He still enjoys waking to her face in the morning, still enjoys the food, still enjoys seeing the way she takes on her world.

Sam takes after her more than either of them would ever admit. It's probably why they argue so often.

Pam watches him as he falls asleep, still fully dressed, and remembers the blond-haired, blue-eyed young man she'd met years ago. She'd originally thought he was an over-privileged jerk, albeit an attractive one. But as he slips into his slumber, his hair tousled, she recalls the way he'd looked that night, when she'd called him to the park. His hair had been messy, his blue eyes underlined by shadows, and a shadow of stubble adorned his jaw. She knew, somehow, that she'd caused all of it, including the worry in his eyes.

She kisses his forehead, kicking off her own shoes to join him on the bed.

"I'm just worried," she whispers, "I'm just scared that she'll get her heart broken like Lizzie did."

Even though he's asleep, his arms wrap around her, pulling her against his chest. His fingers twine unconsciously into the strands at the base of her neck. She takes a deep breath and allows her to slip into sleep as well, hoping that she'll be able to tell her daughter the real reason for her fear someday.

A/N: Well, I'm waiting to see the reactions for this one. *Evil Laugh* This chapter has very little Amethyst Ocean, but I wanted to explain how Jeremy and Pam met and expand on them a little further. I hope you don't think Pam's too OOC. They're meant to balance each other out, and bring out traits you wouldn't normally see in them. Jeremy calms her down, while she drives him forward. This works because she feels a need to be in control.

Speaking of Jeremy…has he made the connection?! Dun-dun-DUUUNN!

See you next chapter! (Which I MAY upload tomorrow…we'll see. I promise nothing!)