Chapter 13

The next time Danny awoke, there was no room in his body for panic. His brain was a fuzzy blur and his limbs were heavy steel weights, pinning him down to whatever surface he was on. He heard a shifting sound to his right and tilted his head in that direction, a mumble of recognition falling through his lips once he recognized the man in the giant orange jumpsuit who sat beside him.

"How are you feeling, Danny-boy? You took a pretty rough hit back there."

It's fine, he thought automatically, 'M okay. But those words were simultaneously a lie and beyond his capacity for speech at the moment, so he settled for a reassuring mumble in his dad's direction. He was always okay, as far as his parents knew, though something felt different here. There was an odd feeling in his chest, a twisting, turning burn, the origin of which he could not place. It was a disturbing intrusion that chewed on his heart and kicked at his lungs.

Since he was seeing double and his neck was too stiff to be moved much, his survey of the room was not incredibly informative; it was not his room, it wasn't the lab, but it was a place he'd been before.

How strange, he thought absently.

"You're safe now," his dad reassured him, "Your mom just went upstairs to get some coffee, I'm sure she'll be back down soon."

"Mm," he groaned, too sleepy to really care what his father's words meant. It was comforting to him, for some reason, to have his father here. He felt like a small child who'd fallen asleep in the car, only to wake up as he is being placed in bed by a loving parent. The resulting cushion of security that this provided for him served to smother the strange burn in his chest just a bit.

"Don't worry, you should be back asleep in a minute, then you should be up and about soon, we think," his dad assured him, though Danny wasn't sure why he'd want to get up any time soon. That beautiful semi-paralysis of half-sleep made any movement sound like heresy; yes, he'd be perfectly content to just lie right there forever.

His weighted eyelids fell shut again and he continued to enjoy that slow slope into the unconsciousness he knew was coming. Soon he was no longer in the strange room at all; he was floating, and he was happy. A bed, a hammock, a cloud. It didn't matter if he was lying numbly on the surface of the sun; his exhausted bliss made up for it.

Then he felt a gentle kiss to his forehead, paired with a short burn.

"I love you, son. So much."

…..

The next time he awoke, it was considerably less pleasant. The weighty, tired feeling in his limbs abated too quickly, and a rough, continuous ache filled in to replace it. His throat more compliant this time, he groaned and hoped irritably that someone would be around to put him under again.

"Awake again, I see."

Momentarily alarmed, Danny shifted as much of his weight as he could onto his right elbow so that he could clearly see the man in the chair beside him.

"Plasmius," he snapped, though it came out as more of a grated wheeze than a threat.

There he was, Danny's worst enemy clad in a suit and tie at his bedside, or rather tableside, his cat on his lap and a book in his hands.

This time, memories of the situation came back way to fast. That night, the snow, the gun. Lying here, the pain. His parents.

He collapsed on his back again. Shit.

"Good to see you're aware of your surroundings again," Vlad commented, turning to the next page in his book, "You've been in and out for quite a while now. Was beginning to think I'd never have to hear your wretched voice again—pity."

"Asshole," he coughed, indignant.

"Ah, there's that harmonious hum I'd miss so much. That's a pretty abrasive attitude to show one of the only people who is trying to help you."

"Help me? That's rich."

Danny could practically hear Vlad stop reading. About two beats passed while Vlad presumedly looked at him, surprised, before following up his quip with an even more indignant, "Excuse me?"

"I know you're not trying to help me; you never help me. You want to hurt me, use me for one of your ridiculous, evil plots, well guess what! I'm pretty sure I can't be hurt much more, and I'm useless to boot. So whatever your plan is, feel free to give up."

He heard Vlad take a deep breath. "I'll have you know, young man, that I'm the one who saved you after your loving progenitors nearly fried you to death with their Fenton ray of ghost-doom, or whatever ridiculous name it was given by your fat, stupid father. I'm the one who kept you from destabilizing or bleeding to death on the spot, and I am the primary reason you're still alive at all."

Danny wasn't impressed. "Thanks so much!" he exclaimed with as much sarcastic vitriol as he could muster in his current state, "Not sure Hallmark makes cards for that, though; might have to come up with something homemade, get out that old construction paper…."

Vlad sighed, opening up the book again. "You're an idiot."

"Thanks, I know."

"We need to get our stories straight, Daniel."

Danny stared straight up at the ceiling and didn't say a word. He was done talking to Vlad, he wanted to go back to sleep. Stories didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. Stories had mattered; they'd mattered all those years he'd lied to his parents, they'd mattered in those brief, fleeting moments when he'd thought that he could escape what he'd done if only people knew it was an accident.

"Do you understand?"

But no. Stories didn't matter, not anymore. Results did. Words didn't matter, actions did. Danny didn't speak.

"Daniel, please," Vlad implored impatiently, "Giving me the silent treatment isn't helping anyone, most of all yourself. You're lucky I convinced your parents to go get some sleep while I looked after you personally. If I hadn't they'd have started asking you a couple of delightful questions, questions you don't have the right answers to. And your wrong answers would have contradicted my answers, then we would have had a pickle." He paused for a beat. "Do you understand, Daniel?"

Stop using my name! he wanted to yell. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. It felt wrong, it felt bad. He, himself, he felt wrong, he felt bad. Those must have been some pretty strong meds they had be under.

After a longer bout of silence, Vlad sighed again. "Fine. If you don't speak then you can more easily listen. You snuck out at night to go to your friend Tucker's house. As you were walking you saw Skulker—or, as you should call him when your parents ask, that robot ghost—flying through the sky. You had an ectogun on you, and, being the imbecilic adolescent that you are, you decided to follow him and confront him. He shot you with some new weapon of his, then it is implied that Phantom, in an attempt to save you, attacked the robot ghost and chased him down the street until he in turn was confronted by your parents. You have no idea what happened to the weapon, and the whole event is a bit fuzzy to you. Do you understand?"

Silence, stony silence. At some point during Vlad's little explanation Danny had closed his eyes, and he could think of no reason not to keep them that way. If he was committed to ignoring Vlad he figured he should at least do it thoroughly.

"Have it your way, boy. I found a rather interesting novel in one of your little friend's bookbags."

Danny heard some pages rustle as he assumed the old man gestured with the thing. Before he could think clearly, he opened his eyes and whipped his head around as rapidly as his neck would allow to look at the object in question. In Vlad's right hand was a copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, identical to the one he knew was sitting in his bag at home.

"You went through my friends' stuff?"

"Ah, he speaks," Vlad remarked relaxing in his , "And yes, yes I did."

So much for ignoring him.

"That's—that's insane, you know that right?"

Vlad merely turned another page.

"You aren't even reading it, are you?" The man turned another page.

Something about that offended Danny deeply. This was one of the first books ever he'd actually wanted to and been able to study for Mr. Lancer. He'd been quite enjoying it before...the incident, and even though the title still made no sense (the Western front was anything but quiet), he loved a good war story.

"Have you reached the ending yet, Daniel? It's a good one, very succinct."

"What? No, and don't you dare spoil it for me, I actually really want to read this one."

"This is my second go-through, I admit, and I may be skimming a little."

The hopelessly beaten teen shoved the disturbing image of Vlad going through his friends' things to the back of his mind; it certainly wasn't the creepiest thing he'd ever done in his life. For several minutes Danny merely took stock of himself, taking advantage of the opportunity since he didn't know when he would find that sweet spot between too drugged to care and in too much pain to know again. What he could see of his skin was reddened and rough, and though he did not move a hand to touch it he could feel that his head was bald.

This struck another blow to his morale, and whatever animation he had received from his exchange with Vlad vanished. The world was once again a bleak, hopeless abyss for him. He was a monster, he had always been a monster, and now he looked like one too. It was fitting, too fitting. He pictured a cruel, capricious god in the heavens above laughing at his transformation from not-so-bad-on-the-eyes vigilante hero to a hideous, crippled murderer.

"Why is it that you like this book so much, Daniel?"

Stop using my name like that.

Silence. Stony, sullen silence.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that Remarque waxes a little too philosophical for your tiny mind to comprehend. Wouldn't you agree?"

Continued quiet. Danny wondered whether Vlad would put him under again if he asked. He could say he was in too much pain, and though the raw aching was currently under control he knew that after all he'd just been through he should be able to effectively fake pain.

"So you enjoy my monologuing, hm? Well, let's see if I can get this right. An excited young boy decides he wants to fight a war, then he realizes being a fighter isn't all it's cracked up to be. Starts to regret it, but can't stop. Has his friends, but sees them suffer. Makes mistakes, has no choice but to push them away…."

Vlad was being Vlad, coming up with some psycho story to make Danny think he was crazy, trick him into opening up or something. Plus, this analogy didn't even make any sense. Paul was a soldier, fighting for his country, even though the Germans were the bad guys. He didn't know that, of course, he was just doing what he felt like he needed to do, but—it was WWI, for crying out loud! It didn't translate to his life at all. Except, maybe….

Danny thought of the very last scene he'd read, the scene he'd read aloud in English class. No, Vlad's crazy. He doesn't know anything, he just wants to get inside your head. Don't let him.

But Vlad was good, and Danny was loopy still. He suddenly very desperately wanted to have his copy of the book. If his miserable existence continued long enough for him to go back to school, he had reading homework to do. And he had to know what happened to Paul and his buddies. If he asked Vlad would probably give him that copy, whether it was Sam's or Tucker's to begin with. This raised more questions in his head. Where were Sam and Tucker now, and why were they here? And here with their bookbags? What role had they played in getting him from doomed on the street to not quite dead under a sheet?

A wave of exhaustion hit Danny. Despite having spent an indefinite amount of time unconscious in the surely long period from street to now, he was tired. This felt like natural sleep, though, and that was a good sign.

Before he knew it, he'd drifted off to the sound of Vlad flipping pages.

…..

Jack couldn't help but notice that Danny kept tugging at his hat.

While Maddie was off retrieving the Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle from the gigantic garage Vlad had had volunteered for it, he'd been tasked with waiting with his son on the snowy curb.

"I knew you'd need something to keep you warm," Jack boasted eagerly for what must have been the third or fourth time, "So while I was waiting for you to wake up, I asked your mom to pick up my knitting supplies, and ouila! A new hat, just for you. It fits okay, right?"

The teen nodded absently. To tell the truth Jack would much rather have gotten the car than stand outside in the cold with his sullen adolescent son, but Maddie had insisted that their injured baby boy did not need to be jostled by Jack's driving, since he was fragile and fragile things need special care. As if Jack didn't know how to handle fragile things! He dealt with breakable stuff all of the time, and he hardly ever broke any of it. He had been about to argue, but then she'd given him fudge. So they said no more about it after that.

When does that amazing woman ever find the time to make so much fudge? he wondered reverently to himself. However he did suppose that he himself had found time to knit. Danny-boy had been out of it for a good long while, giving him plenty of time to work on the hat and giving Maddie plenty of time to bake when she wasn't stewing or harassing Jazz or Danny's little friends.

The beanie was Jack's favorite shade of orange, the vibrant, newly opened, fresh cheetoh kind. Painstakingly he'd knitted dozens of tiny green ghosts into the brightly colored yarn, floating around the brim of the cap and smiling ghoulish grins.

They'd known that poor Danny's skin would be very sensitive when he woke up, so Jack had made sure to use the softest, comfiest yarn in his possession. The hat was top priority given his newly bald head, but he would also need extra protection from the cold, hence Maddie's bundling him up in seven or so layers of sweaters, jackets, scarves, etc., even for the quick trip home and back to his own bed. He hadn't quite managed to eke out a matching set of mitten in time for the ride home.

Jack sighed and his voice dropped. "You do like the hat, don't you, kiddo?"

The boy in question inhaled slowly and began to nod again before searching his dad's face and realizing that wouldn't be enough. "Yeah, Dad. It's a great hat. Really snazzy."

Now the larger man knew that his son probably wasn't being totally sincere in his praise, but his chest swelled with pride anyway. "I knew you would. I used a new pattern this time actually, worked like a charm…." Several seconds into a detailed description of his creative process, even Jack began to tune out what he himself was saying.

The GAV pulled up not a moment too soon and arguable several minutes late. They heard Maddie put it in park and leap out of the driver's seat to open the door for her son. "Come on inside where it's warm, Danny, your poor skin can't handle a chill like this!" she exclaimed cheerily.

Sluggishly, he did as he was told, and as Jack trailed behind him into the vehicle he exchanged a worried look with his wife. Rather than sitting up front with Maddie, Jack elected to sit next to his son in the passenger area.

It had been so hard to connect with Danny lately. Not just lately, the last several years! It was like the boy got to high school and totally switched personalities or something.

"Looks like it's stopped snowing for a bit," Jack commented once they were in motion, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, "That's good to see."

There was a pause while the two adults gave Danny a chance to respond, and when he didn't Maddie jumped in. "Yeah, you're always dreaming of a white Christmas, but after a certain point it just seems a little excessive. Don't you think so, Danny?"

A noncommittal grunt was his only response.

An uncomfortable creeping feeling invaded Jack's core. He turned his head ever so slightly to keep an eye on Danny but not so much that it was obvious. With any luck the teenager thought he was just really engrossed in the houses they were passing out the window. "I totally agree with the excessive part," he commented quickly. If it were possible to stumble verbally, that was what Jack felt like he was doing. "Too much snow, too much white, too much fluff. It's wet and cold and gross and nobody likes it. Christmas is pretty great though! Man, I love Christmas. Just a couple more days and we'll be waking up to a tree surrounded by tons of presents!"

Danny visibly shuddered, and Jack's spirits fell a bit lower. For no apparent reason, his only son had always hated Christmas. He thought it was an incredibly exciting time, full of songs, cookies, reanimated birds, colorful baubles, presents, and more cookies. He would gladly have eaten all of the cookies himself of course, if he didn't have to share with his family. And Santa, of course. He would never forget Santa.

"Have you made those Christmas tree shaped sugar cookies yet, Mads? Those are always delicious. I could eat them by the dozen! No, the gross!"

"I'm not there quite yet, honey. We've been pretty busy, you know." A hint of strain came through her tone despite the fact that they'd agreed not to talk about, refer to, or even think about work in the presence of Danny. He needed all of their attention, every ounce, and who knew what he would think about their actions towards Phantom after he had supposedly saved him from that robot ghost? Best just to not say anything about it.

But, then again, doesn't a growing boy need cookies? Lots and lots of cookies?

"Oh! And can you be sure to make the Santa-shaped ones too? Those are always so fun to decorate—they got tossed out the window last year before I could have one, so we should probably have twice as many this year." Last year had been a particularly bad year in the never-ending feud over the existence of a certain gift-giving superhuman saint.

His wife's exhale signalled that that request did not make her happy.

"Maybe you can ask Santa to bring you those cookies you like so much, hm?"

"Santa doesn't bring cookies, he eats the ones you lay out for him."

Maddie didn't respond to that, choosing to keep her eyes on the road like a good driver—it was winter after all. Danny, he noticed, was tenser than ever though.

"What's the matter, sweetie?" Maddie seemed to have noticed too, even from up front. "Do you have any special cookie picks you'd like us to whip up for you while you're resting?"

"No thanks."

They were silent for the rest of the ride home. It wasn't that long, really, but it felt like it in the moment. If Jack had been less familiar with the route to Vlad's house or more carefree (that's to say, not concerned about Danny), he would have inevitably popped the dreaded, "Are we there yet?" question. No one liked it when he asked that, because once he started asking he couldn't stop. Time seemed to accelerate onward and onward until each second took hours.

So it was best to stop that bit before it started.

They came to a slow stop in front of Fenton Works eventually, and once the key was out of the ignition Maddie turned back to look at her boys. Jack gave her the most beaming smile he could, but he knew that his eyes did not reflect the joyous sentiment he was trying to portray with his face.

It broke his heart, the dead look in Danny's eyes. Jack never spent much time looking into the eyes of ghosts (and maybe this was why they always looked a little off on his knitting projects—he really needed to pay attention next time he encountered one), but that was sort of how he had always imagined they would look. Empty, belonging to a mere imprint of life. Windows into a spectral projection of the remnants of what had once been a living being, maybe even a human being with hopes, dreams, and fears just like he and his family. But no more. No more did they have emotions, no more did they feel compassion, no more did they know right and wrong. They were merely shells, ghosts. Worse than shells, somehow, maybe holographs or poorly drawn stick figures of that which they could not replicate: life.

His son's eyes should not have looked that way.

As he lead Danny out of the GAV and into the house he continued to dwell on this. Had his eyes been like that for a long time? Certainly not, he would have noticed. He liked to think that he had a pretty good relationship with his son, despite the distance that had grown between them since he'd started high school. No, his eyes most certainly had not been looking like that for very long. This was new.

"Are you in pain, son?" he asked as they came to the stairwell.

The question seemed to jolt Danny out of his own contemplations. "What? No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Because, if you're not, we can give you another dose of your pain medication really soon," Maddie offered, pulling the little orange bottle out of her tool belt.

"I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me."

But how could they not?

"Do you need help getting up the stairs?"

"No, I'm fine," he repeated, maintaining a firm grip on the railing as he began to ascend the stairs.

As a child Danny had been such a vibrant little thing. Always running around, constantly in motion. Unless he was looking at the stars, oh how he would just stop and stare at the sky. Stargazing had kind of been his thing with Maddie, but Jack had always relished seeing that look of sheer awe on his son's face whenever they'd have one of their little roof sits. His eyes were always so full of life in those moments. No one could have doubted that that boy was alive, experiencing the world and all that it had to offer fully, joyously.

He was such a happy child. But he had changed once already. Now maybe he had changed again.

No, Jack couldn't let that happen. Last time Danny changed it lead to years of breaking curfews and slipping grades. Now he was barely on track to graduate and had no college prospects for if that even happened. What would happen if he changed again? No, that would be too awful. His future couldn't handle any more slipping, slacking, or stops.

You're being silly, he told himself internally as he watched his son climb up the stairs towards his bedroom, He's just sleepy, and he's in pain, I know it. He's just too brave to show it. He's not on the cusp of some personal transformation or downward spiral. He's just tired and hurt, hurt and tired is all.

Yet Jack didn't quite believe himself.