Author: loosedefense
Title: Weak
Pairing: Danny/Dash
Disclaimer: Danny Phantom is the property of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon. This story implies nothing about the characters nor does the plot of the story have any effect on the show itself. This story is pure fiction and fantasy.
"He's probably lying, you know."
Danny Fenton raised his head to look at his friend Sam Manson. She was leaning against the wall of his bedroom, looking down at the small black device in Danny's hand with a mix of skepticism and bored interest. Tucker Foley, who sat next to Danny on his bed, raised his eyebrow.
"Why would he be lying?" Danny sighed. It had been two days since the Fentons' had been visited by Vlad Masters, and two days since Vlad had handed over the device sitting in Danny's hand right now, claiming that it bore the spirit of the ghost he had harbored inside him for over twenty years and no longer wished to keep; Danny had just gotten through relaying the whole story to his two friends a few minutes ago and had been waiting to hear their thoughts on it.
Sam rolled her eyes and raised her hands in exasperation. "Duh! It could easily be one of his traps in order to capture you while you're off-guard."
"But that doesn't make any sense," Danny argued. "Even if Vlad wanted to throw me off-guard, there is absolutely no way for him to get around my ghost sense." He had arrived to this conclusion quickly because, even though he wouldn't admit it to Sam, that had been one of the first thoughts that entered his head as he contemplated this new twist of being the guardian of the spirit of his nemesis.
"Maybe it's meant to suck out your ghost sense," Tucker suggested, looking at the device closer. His eyes widened. "Maybe it's meant to suck your ghost half in!"
Danny promptly dropped the machine on the mattress, eyeing it suspiciously.
"Well, even if he is telling the truth," Sam said, "what does he expect you do, put it in your closet?"
"He wants me to safeguard it," Danny shrugged. "I guess it makes sense. I mean, without being a ghost, Vlad is just an aging man. He can't trust a ghost with it; I guess I'm the only one around who can do it."
"That's going to be one hell of a burden," Tucker commented, picking up the device again.
"I don't really think so," Danny replied, unconsciously moving slightly further away from Tucker and the mechanism. "I can't imagine a ghost going after a spirit or whatever Plasmius is now. Anyway, I doubt many ghosts would know he's given up his power."
"So what are you going to do with it?" Tucker asked.
Danny shrugged. "I haven't really thought about it. All I know is that I can't have anyone find it."
"Maybe you should open it," Tucker told him. "I mean, Vlad said that it would give an extra dose of power, right? You could always use it to heighten your powers."
"That's not a bad idea," Sam added, nodding. "You could get stronger. That's always a plus."
Danny opened his mouth to snap at them about what a terrible idea it was, but then remembered that they did not know the dangers of mixing his ghost self with Vlad Plasmius; he could still remember the chilling story of how Vlad's evil alter ego had taken over his own and created the Phantom, too strong to be beaten, and who killed as though it were the most natural act in the world.
"Or it could overshadow me and take over," Danny said reproachfully, changing his argument at the last moment. There was no need to go into the gory details of the origin of the Phantom, not when they did not have to know it. Clcokwork, the master of time, had made it so that his friends thought Danny had destroyed the Phantom, and as far as Danny was concerned, that's how the story went … unless proven otherwise.
Tucker and Sam seemed to concede to this explanation and left the subject alone.
------------------------------------------
As the final bell rang, Danny trudged out of the Literature class he shared with Sam and Tucker listlessly. The two of them were busy having a conversation about the papers they were due to hand in for their History class on World War II and America's involvement as they walked behind him, neither paying attention to him and Danny in turn hardly focusing on anything aside from getting to his locker and heading home. All he wanted to do was collapse on the couch and not move for six hours.
Reaching his locker, Danny's hand reached up to enter the combination, but he still had the presence of mind to pause and look around to make sure that the area was clear of jocks or any other potential bullies who would once again attempt to see if it was possible for a "scrawny loser freak" to survive in close environments, which a locker just so happened to conveniently provide.
Satisfied that no one was around, Danny began to turn the lock.
"Incoming!"
The next thing he knew, Danny had let out an "Oof!" and was lying dazed on the linoleum. Shaking his head as if to clear it, his blue eyes traveled up and rested upon the smirking face of Dash Baxter.
Of course, Danny sighed inwardly.
"Oops, sorry about that," Dash smirked, placing his hands on his slim hips, smirking wide and not looking very sorry at all. Before Danny could stand up to snap at the boy, he saw two more jocks, Kwan and someone whose name he never bothered to know, round behind Dash.
Letting out a little choke as Dash's hand firmly wrapped around the front of his white shirt, taking a little bit of Danny's skin with it, Danny felt himself rise from the ground and slammed against the cool metal of the row of lockers behind him.
Where the hell were the teachers? It had only been two minutes since the bell had rung.
Barely registering what Dash was saying, something about how nice it was to run into him, and how he had better hope that the football wasn't damaged – or contaminated – from touching him, Danny heard the familiar sound of a locker door being pulled open, and, closing his eyes, was surrounded by darkness.
Again.
Idiots.
Shoulders slumping, Danny considered changing into his ghost form and getting back at Dash, but then decided against it as he realized he was far too tired to put up with it right now. All he wanted was to get home.
However, unless he wanted to risk an ugly confrontation with Dash and his army of pig brethren regarding how he had gotten out of his locker so soon without their notice, Danny decided to stay in the locker a bit longer. He could still hear the jocks outside. He just wished that he could go intangible in order to get in a bit more comfortable position, but the locker door was still open, Danny knew, and he couldn't risk them opening it for possibly further torture to find it empty.
Finally, squished inside, seething over Sam and Tucker's strange disappearance – not that they would be willing to fight Dash and his friends for him anyway – and the all-too-familiar missing intervention from the teachers even though all of them had to still be in the building, Danny heard the jocks cut the laughter short outside as Dash announced that he had to go.
Hearing separate footsteps, Dash walking one way and the other two another, Danny closed his eyes once again as he had himself turn intangible. Taking a moment to stretch, his arms spreading through the walls of his locker to linger the ones next to it, Danny floated out the door and into the first empty classroom he found and popped back to his fully physical self.
Stepping out, feeling slightly better if only due to the fact that the jocks were done with him for the day, Danny was about to round the corner when he heard a sharp voice ring out, "Mister Fenton!"
Freezing, Danny turned around to look at the bald, pudgy, and slightly squinty-eyed teacher who had boomed out.
"Mister Lancer," Danny greeted nervously. He quickly scanned his mind to see what he had done wrong recently. He had no detentions to serve for the day, had managed to hand in almost all his assignments – and the one he didn't he had managed to get an extension of two days to complete, so that couldn't be the problem – and he didn't recall doing anything too wrong recently.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Mr. Lancer's raised his eyebrow, folding his arms around his chest.
"Um …" Danny stalled.
"As I recall, you are meant to have a meeting today with Mister Connor, are you not, Mister Fenton?" Lancer pressed, putting an emphasis on the word 'mister'. Danny hated it when he did that. It made him feel as though he didn't deserve the title, not that it didn't feel completely weird to be referred to as a 'mister' in the first place.
"Right!" Danny said, feeling any residue of his slightly good mood deflate at the reminder. "Uh, I was just about to head there right now, actually … sir."
Lancer raised his eyebrow again. "Mister Connor's office is this way, Fenton," he said, jutting his thumb over his shoulder in the completely opposite direction of where Danny had been heading when he found him.
"I know," Danny defended himself. "I was just," he stalled, "trying to find Sam and Tucker."
"You are five minutes late, Mister Fenton," Lancer barked. "I suggest you forget your friends and get a move on!"
"Yes, sir!" Danny jumped from the tone of the older man's voice, and rushed off to find Connor's office.
"And no running in the halls!" Lancer called after him.
Slowing down to a jogging pace and gradually to a walk, Danny arrived outside the office. Connor was the guidance counselor who had been hired a little over two years ago. He didn't remember the appointment, but Danny figured that it must have been the one he had with the seniors every year. The school year was already half-over, and Danny knew that it was about this time that the school had the counselor arrange meetings with the seniors to find out how they were getting on, whether they were on the right track with college applications and if they knew what they wanted to do after they had graduated.
Knocking on the door, he heard a friendly voice on the other side, "Come in!"
Mr. Connor was a little on the stocky side, but the man had an open face with a smile on it that was sometimes painfully obvious that it was forced. "Ah, Danny," he said as the boy walked in. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."
"Er, no," Danny said, feeling uncomfortable.
"Oh, sit, sit," Connor offered, gesturing to the chair that was in front of him. Danny plopped down and nervously wiped his hands on his jeans.
"Well, I suppose you know what you're here for," Connor started.
"College." Danny replied monotonously.
"Precisely," Connor said, his face breaking out into an even bigger grin. "'The Talk'"
At Danny's confused look, Connor shook his head. He really had to drop that joke; no one ever seemed to find it funny.
"So," Connor drew his chair close to the desk, placing his clasped arms on the table, "tell me, what are your plans for when you graduate?"
He waited for the blank look that met his question to pass. Many students gave him that look when presented with such bluntness.
"Um …" Danny began, trying to come up with something. Meeting Connor's eyes, he offered a meek shrug.
"No colleges lined up? No applications ready?" Connor pressed.
"Not really," Danny mumbled, looking at the ground as he ran his hand through the hair on the back of his head nervously.
"Well, it is a big decision," Connor comforted. "Have you perhaps tried to come up with a list of schools you might be interested in?"
"No?" it was more of a question than an answer.
"I see," Connor nodded slowly. "Of course there's still time … most colleges have a deadline as far as July, and it's only February."
There was a heavy silence in the room. Danny was still looking at the ground, hands on his lap, shoulders drooped.
"How about I look into your grades," Connor offered. "You have to remember, every student is an individual, and that's what colleges look for. You are special."
"You have no idea," Danny muttered darkly.
Connor found Danny's file in his cabinet and glanced through the papers.
A shocked silence descended upon them.
"Well …" Connor cleared his throat. Danny rolled his eyes.
"Your grades aren't spectacular," he announced. "Your exam scores – they could be better."
"Sorry," Danny offered.
"Periodic absenteeism, that won't do," Connor tutted, not taking his eyes off the papers in front of him. Finally he looked up and faced Danny in the eye. "Have you considered retaking your SAT exams?"
Danny shuffled his feet. "Do I need to?"
"They're not that bad," Connor quickly added. "You scored an 1830 out of 2400, it could be better. But your school record does leave a lot to be desired. I'm just worried that coupled with it, your SAT results might not hold up as much."
Danny slouched in his seat. "What if I do worse?" he asked. "It's too late to pull up the rest of my grades."
"Try being optimistic, Danny," Connor enthused. At the dirty look he got from the teen, he turned back towards the file. "I notice that you don't have any extra-curricular activities."
"I never really had time for any," Danny rubbed his forehead with his hand.
"Really? What do you do that keeps you so occupied?"
Danny hesitated. "Homework," he replied.
"Really." Connor drawled in a tone that told Danny that he didn't buy it. "Then why is it that I have received several reports from your teacher regarding your failure to hand in some of your assignments?"
"Why would they tell you that?" Danny frowned.
"I'm a guidance counselor," he replied breezily. "It's my job to know about the students."
Danny didn't say anything, but glanced to the clock hanging on the wall. Connor took the time to notice the dark circles under Danny's eyes, the defeated posture as he sat on the chair, his refusal to look him straight in the eye.
"Your grades were fine back when you were younger," Connor said gently. "In fact, according to this, you were a writer for the school newspaper back in junior high."
Danny stiffened. "Exactly how much of my school records do you have?"
"Every documentation dating back to kindergarten. Why?"
"No reason." Danny shook his head.
"It says here that your grades started slipping when you entered high school, well that's to be expected, high school is tougher than junior high, and the grade curve can be different," Connor continued. "I notice they started getting better, I expect that's when you got the hang of things and started catching up. But shortly after that, they started slipping again. Crashing, I would say."
Danny closed his eyes, begging for patience.
Connor tilted his head, looking at the student with increasing worry. "Is there something that happened at that point, Danny?"
"What do you mean?" Danny's eyes flew open, meeting the counselor's.
"Sometimes, when a student loses his focus, it's usually the result of a bigger problem," Connor said.
Danny shook his head, barely noticeable at first, but growing more insistent. "There's nothing wrong," he stated.
"Okay," Connor nodded. "So, tell me, why did you stop working for the school paper?"
Danny shrugged.
"It was the eighth grade," he said, by means of explanation. "The next semester, it was high school." He shrugged. "I went for a meeting when the school paper here started up for the year, and I wasn't interested anymore."
Connor nodded.
"I suggest that you try out for it," he recommended to Danny. "You don't have to be a staff writer. You don't even have to go for the paper, not if you can find another activity that piques your interest. But I believe with your grades, and these detentions and absences from classes … doing something a little extra wouldn't hurt."
Danny gave a small nod.
"Try being a freelance writer," Connor told him. "Work your way up from there. If you find that you still have an interest in it, approach the editor about sending in more articles or stories, or whatever you want to send in. Eventually, maybe, you'll want to start being a part of them."
"Yes, sir," Danny said. He pushed his chair back and stood up to leave.
"Danny," Mr. Connor called back. Danny turned around, clutching his backpack tightly in one of his hands. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like you to hold on for a minute and answer this small survey."
"Oh, um, okay," Danny stumbled back to his seat. He wondered if Connor needed him to fill out one of those teacher evaluation forms they sometimes handed out. He wasn't too bad, Danny decided. Sure, he was a little too blunt at times, but he seemed like he had good intentions, and he somehow managed to sugarcoat everything even while being blunt, it seemed to Danny.
The survey, however, wasn't an evaluation.
"What the hell is this?" Danny exclaimed, staring at the questionnaire he was given. "I have trouble sleeping? I find it harder to pay attention as of recently? I feel I have nothing to look forward to? I feel sad and depressed?" he glared at the counselor, rage evident in his eyes. "I am not depressed!"
"Then you shouldn't have any trouble with the survey," Mr. Connor smiled indulgently at him. "I'm afraid, however, I must insist that you complete the survey."
"You can't—" Danny sputtered "You can't do that!"
"Actually, I can," Connor replied. "As a counselor, I maintain the right to distribute this survey whenever I see fit, and as a student of this school, you are required to comply, just as you are required to sit for an test in class."
Danny clenched his teeth. "Fine." He slammed his hand down with the survey on to the wooden table surface before taking his seat and snatching the proffered pen from Mr. Connor's hand. He may have been forced to do this ridiculous, completely uncalled for survey, but that did not mean that he had to like it – and since Connor was so keen to know so much about him, Danny didn't see any reason why he should have to hide his anger over this injustice.
------------------------------------------
After Danny had stormed out of the room, Mr. Connor slid the completed questionnaire over to look at the results.
As expected, Danny had responded negatively to the major questions in the survey, as Connor had known he would have, given the boy's reaction to being subjected to a questionnaire about depression. Smiling grimly, he picked up the phone and, using the intercom feature, waited for Mr. Lancer to pick up.
"Yes, Abraham, what is it?" Mr. Lancer's tired voice came through.
"I just concluded my meeting with Mister Fenton, Lancer," Connor told him.
Lancer let out an uninterested grunt.
"I had him answer a questionnaire using a depression inventory," Connor informed.
"Why would you do that?"
"Well, when he was in here, I found Fenton to be tired, nervous, and most of all, uninterested in his future, I—"
"Yes, so?" Lancer asked, not sounding very impressed by Connor's deduction. "That doesn't sound like any particular cause for alarm. In fact, Fenton just sounds as if he's suffering from a severe case of being a lazy teenager who can't seem to grasp any sort of concept about the real world and what it will entail."
"I think you'll want to look at the results," Connor said.
"Fine. I'll be right over."
Moments later, the door swung open, and in walked Mister Lancer, fully equipped with an annoyed frown on his face. Wordlessly, Mr. Connor handed him Danny's results for Lancer to look over.
"He says he isn't suffering from depression," Lancer said.
"Well of course he's going to say that," Connor rolled his eyes. "You don't expect him to admit it do you?"
"Abraham, for Pete's sake," Lancer started, sitting down on the chair Danny had just been in a few minutes ago, "you cannot go around accusing students of suffering from depression; with Mister Fenton insisting that he does not, it basically closes the matter."
"Where would therapy be if psychologists only went by what their clients said in their initial questionnaires?" Connor demanded.
Lancer rolled his eyes. "You're a guidance counselor."
"Lancer, this school has set up a support group for such a case," Mr. Connor argued. "Fenton may not be suffering from depression as he claims – or he might be suffering from it and there is absolutely no reason for him to admit it to anyone just yet. What would you rather have us do, ignore it or put to use the system the school set up to avoid any fatal consequences?
"Read between the lines. Fenton answered no to many of the major questions in the survey – but he did respond to the minor ones. I find it difficult to relax. I sometimes find it hard to just get going. And it goes on."
"Very well," Lancer injected. "You'd better know what you're doing though – I don't want to find Fenton deciding to sue us over this."
"He won't," Connor promised.
"So what do you plan to do? Not therapy, I hope, you'll probably get us both kicked out."
"I wasn't planning on it," Connor said in a disgruntled tone. "It would make far more sense to have the support group handle it. Fenton would probably relate better to a peer than he would me."
"Fine," Lancer agreed.
The support group had been established years ago in attempt to help students as a hands-on approach from the school in order to help students who needed someone to talk to and get help from. It was the best choice, of course, as students did not appreciate being treated by the faculty. The procedure was simple: inform the student in question of your concerns, and your intent to get him or her help by having a student from the support program act as a person they could trust and confide in, similar to a sponsor in help program.
Reaching over and picking up the phone, Lancer paged the number for the room in which the support group met for meetings after school. After a moment, he heard a girl say, "Hello?"
"Hello, this is Mister Lancer," he greeted. "I would like you to send one of the students in the program over to Mister Connor's office now please. We may have a new case."
"Sure," the girl on the line agreed. "I'll send one over in a sec."
"Thank you," Lancer said and put down the phone. Seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and the two men turned as Dash Baxter sauntered in.
"Alyssa said you wanted me, sir," he said.
"Yes, Mister Baxter," Lancer smiled. "Sit down, please."
------------------------------------------
A/N: I subscribed a few days ago to Danny Phantom Slash Stories, and if anyone could tell me how I may be able to publish this in the community, I would be grateful.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing the previous chapter. Please feel free to review this as well. Anonymous reviews are allowed
The questionnaire used in this story is loosely based on the Depression Anxiety Stress Scale 42, Lovibond & Lovibond (1995). All credit goes to it.