Knowledge of "Cradle and All" and "Masters Disasters" is recommended but not required.

Trigger Warning: The topic of dead babies is prominent, but the baby in question is already a ghost.

When the Bough Breaks!

Chapter One: Daddy's Little Spirit

"All things truly wicked start from innocence." - Ernest Hemingway

Danny

Danny Fenton is grounded for sneaking out in the middle of the night and bringing a captured ghost with him.

Danny Phantom conjured a duplicate to sit around the house and look bored so he could play with his son.

I met Bub, formerly known as Anthony Pierce, several months ago. Eventually, I discovered that he'd imprinted on me, meaning that his core took a good, long look at me and said, "You're my dad now." Imprinting is essentially a role-swapped adoption, and both sides feel the connection.

In other words, I would turn the planet inside-out for my little man.

Every Sunday, more often if I can, I visit the lair he spends most of his time in, which also happens to be the lair of someone I myself imprinted on. Since I'm grounded for a few more days and my duplicate won't hold up if I leave it in the human realm - I've tested this, and it doesn't work - there's been a change of plans.

Since his death, Bub has been to Earth only a handful of times that I know of. He's nine months old, died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome at three months, and has little to no recollection of his tragically short time as a human. I want him to know where he came from, so I promised myself that I would bring him to Earth sometimes. Which is easier now that not only can I open portals on my own, but word got out that I have a son; the townsfolk know they have nothing to fear from him.

Bub has light gray skin, red eyes with vertical pupils, and a mop of hair the same snow-white as my ghost-form's. Ghosts age at the same rate as humans until they hit twenty-five years, and Bub is growing like a weed. He no longer fits in the purple onesie he died in, but he still fits comfortably in the baby carrier strapped to my chest. Sam and Tucker got me the turquoise carrier for my birthday as a joke. I was more amused than anything until I strapped Bub into the thing for a picture and…yeah.

"Anything in particular you wanna see, Bub?" I ask him as I fly over the town. He could easily fly with me, but he likes his carrier. Okay, we both like it. Sue me.

Bub had been sucking on his hand when I asked, and how he does that safely with fangs is anybody's guess. "Um… Somewhere with humans."

Have I mentioned that the kid is precocious as hell? "You're gonna have to be more specific." I halt my flight path and throw my hands toward the ground. "There are humans all over the place."

Bub hums in thought. Then he tilts his head all the way back to look at me. "Can I watch you fight a bad guy?"

"If one shows up," I reply. "Fights don't happen every day, Bub. My job doesn't always involve fighting bad guys. Sometimes I have to save people from other things."

"Like what?"

I count things off on my fingers. "Car accidents, fires, the occasional cat stuck in a tree. Really anything that causes fear or pain. It's my responsibility to make sure everyone in Amity Park is safe and sound."

Bub gazes down at the cars driving on the road and the people going about their days. "Am I gonna have a responsibility when I'm a grown-up?"

The image of us fighting evil together brings a grin to my face. "You will. Maybe not the same one, but you will be responsible for something."

Bub wiggles against me. "Can I fly around with you?"

Ah, to have the attention span of an infant. I unstrap him and watch with mounting pride as he spins out of the carrier and morphs his legs into a tiny white wisp of a tail, a contrast to my long dark gray one.

My hand swallows his as we continue our flight over the town. Imprint and imprint. Father and son. A lot's been happening lately, so it's nice to simply hold my baby boy's hand and enjoy some quality time with him.

We fly lower until we're about two stories up. People point at us and wave and call out greetings. I wave back, and Bub takes his hand out of mine to wave both of his arms and says hi to everyone he sees, spurring giggles from me, some civilians, and himself.

Oh, yeah. This is what I needed.

Maddie

A while back, Jack and I promised our kids we'd stop chasing down ghosts who weren't already causing trouble. We were pretty lax about it for some time, but after…recent events…we've reinstated it.

Especially me.

Jack has always been more open-minded than me. He doesn't understand why our kids care so much about ghosts anymore than I do, but he's willing to go along with it. As for me, well, let's just say that it's my fault we almost lost our son a few nights ago. I have to be extra careful so that doesn't happen again.

That being said, I don't think Danny would object to me speeding down the road in the Ghost Assault Vehicle right now.

I'd just finished grocery shopping when the Box Ghost phased into the store and came out with a crate of oranges. How do I know the crate is full of oranges? Because he keeps pelting them at the windshield. "Beware my citric acid of doom!" he shouted when I first went after him.

Juice and scattered bits of pulp and skin are making it hard to see. The windshield wipers aren't doing much; when one onslaught of fruit is gone, another appears instantly. Fortunately, though I'm a Fenton by marriage only, we're a family of expert drivers. (Jack tends to take that fact a little too far, but that's neither here nor there.)

Driving isn't an issue - no matter what the screaming civilians and drivers lurching out of the way will tell you - but aiming is another thing. Not to brag, but I like to think that I was a pro sniper in another life. Still, it's hard to lock on to a target when your vision is obscured by an endless barrage of fruit.

Even worse is that one orange landed so hard that one of the windshield wipers flew off, so now I really can't see.

"Taste my cubically contained fruity fury!" the Box Ghost shouts.

How many oranges are in that crate?

Another voice joins the party. "Hey, Boxy! Orange you glad it's not me shooting at you?"

I catch a glimpse of Danny Phantom as I pass by. Great. Just great. If he sees me struggling against the Box Ghost of all creatures, I'll never hear the end of it. It's not my fault all I can see is citrus fruit!

The Box Ghost doesn't stop to chat with his fellow specter. I better end this before I embarrass myself any further.

I aim the GAV's laser as well as I can and fire. A scream follows, but it's too high-pitched to have come from the ghost of a grown man. Oh god, tell me I didn't hit a pedestrian! Our weaponry isn't supposed to hurt humans, but there's always a chance. The few times my son was caught in the crossfire is proof of that.

I look through the open driver's side window and assess the situation. A baby is crying nearby, but the handful of bystanders are gathered around Phantom, who has his back to me and is crouched on the sidewalk. I must have hit him by mistake. I can live with that. The kids won't be happy if they find out, but I wouldn't be lying if I told them it was an accident.

The Box Ghost descends to Phantom's side and mimics concern while his crate hovers above him. I can't hear what's being said, but the Box Ghost flinches and flies back in the direction of the grocery store.

I decide to follow him. He must hear the engine revving because he turns around and shouts, "I'm putting the crate back! You can stop shooting at me now! And, uh, maybe watch where you're pointing that thing."

I mentally curse the guy for his volume and turn my head back to the scene. Those few bystanders are glaring daggers in my direction, but it's Phantom who catches my eye. He's hunched over even more as if shielding something. He is looking at me over his shoulder. Only one glowing - more than usual - neon green eye is visible, but it's enough to trigger a fight-or-flight response in me.

Phantom portrays himself as a friendly, easy-going young man, but even his biggest supporters know what happens when the mask slips. Even with all the weapons and defenses in the GAV, I'd be crazy to take on a pissed off Danny Phantom on my own. Besides, I need to make sure the Box Ghost really is returning what's left of the oranges.

That unseen baby is still crying. Maybe it's because I'm a mother, but that sound haunts me the most as I drive away.

Danny

"Hey, Boxy!" I taunt. "Orange you glad it's not me shooting at you?"

Box Ghost ignores me as he flies away from my parents' assault vehicle and pelts it with oranges from a crate he must have stolen. I should do something about this, but the scene is too funny. The sound of my son giggling and clapping tells me that he agrees. I'll intervene if this becomes too destructive, but my mom's the one at the wheel, so we should be fine for a while-

It happens in slow motion. Box Ghost flies too close for comfort. The giant ray gun on the roof of the Assault Vehicle fires a vibrant blue beam. There's a scream.

My son is no longer floating beside me.

A gasp escapes me. My heart pounds, my stomach knots, my core wails that the sight of my baby careening through the air. He's rapidly falling toward the hard, unforgiving concrete. I dive in and catch him in the nick of time.

I crouch there, holding my sweet boy in my arms. I barely register that the few people milling about have gathered around us. My mind is only on my child. I hear his loud, pained, frightened sobs. I see the near-blackened state of his gray skin. I see the way the front part of his clothes have burned off, leaving him more exposed than anyone - especially an infant - should be in public. I see ectoplasm leaking from his eyes as tears and from the gaping wound on his tummy where the worst of the blast got him.

I fight off sobs of my own as I gently shush him and whisper reassurances. It takes a moment to remember that I can use the Healing Touch. I press my hand over his wound as lightly as I can while he's flailing against me. A pleasant warmth starts in my aching core and spreads down my arm and into my finger tips. My hand glows with a soft yellow light as Bub's open wound begins to close and his burns start to disappear.

"Oh, man! Is he okay?" Box Ghost has appeared at my side. His crate is hovering directly above him. His teeth are gritted in genuine horror and guilt, but I still have the irrational desire to see that crate fall on top of him. "I'm sorry! I-I think this is my fault. She was aiming at me! I-I- Uh-"

"Lawrence," he flinches either at my use of his living name or at my low, dangerous tone, "I don't know what you're doing, but I am in no mood for it. Either you bring those oranges back to wherever you found them, or you will find out just how not in the mood I am."

He smartly flies away with the crate.

Bub's injuries being healed doesn't halt his cries. The poor thing is terrified, and who could blame him? The bystanders are asking how he is and if there's anything they can do. I don't answer. I hold my son and feel my heart shatter further as he clutches my jumpsuit and shrieks into my chest.

Box Ghost's next words catch my attention. Behind me, he shouts to someone, "I'm putting the crate back! You can stop shooting at me now! And, uh, maybe watch where you're pointing that thing."

Something primal awakens inside me. My ectoplasm boils as rage like I've never felt takes hold. I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with the attacker.

Mom looks away first and drives after Box Ghost.

I got Bub away from prying eyes and called Sam. She knows someone in delivery who can get her whatever she needs in the blink of an eye. Literally. I don't know how Tracey does it.

I told Sam the size Bub wears and that I don't care what the clothes look like. This resulted in a pair of black pants and maroon long-sleeved shirt. I'm glad the clothes cover so much skin. Bub's not old enough to be embarrassed, but I know I'd want as much cover as possible if it were me.

I do feel bad that Sam had to buy a whole box of diapers and refuses to accept payment from me. Being a ghost, Bub technically doesn't even need one diaper. But, ghost-form or human-form, I say it's better to go with underwear than without. Luckily, Sam said that she knows of a women's shelter she could donate the rest of the box to.

Bub hovers in front of me in Sam's bedroom while I remove the charred remains of his old clothes and put the new ones on. He's still scared, but Sam is able to distract him by waving around a stuffed bat and making it talk.

Thank the Ancients for a baby's naturally short attention span. Bub is now fully clothed and has calmed down significantly. Sam gives him the bat to play with so she can interrogate me.

"What the hell happened?" she whisper-shouts when we move to the other side of the room.

Anger slowly morphs into exhaustion. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "I think it was an accident. The Box Ghost was doing his thing. My mom was shooting at him and…" I place my hand over my face when realization hits. "And, I didn't pull Bub out of the way."

There's a pause before Sam grabs my wrist and lowers my hand. "Don't you go blaming yourself. What I'm hearing is that it's not your fault. It's your mom's. Or, the Box Ghost's. But, not yours."

Her words don't reassure me. I glance at my son, who is flying in circles with the bat and making bird noises like nothing happened. "I'm supposed to protect him."

"Danny, you can't protect him from everything. The best dad in the world couldn't do that. Hell, your kid's a ghost. You of all people should know that danger comes with the territory."

That's why I want to protect him. I died at fourteen and struggled to come to terms with my new life. Bub is a baby. Granted, that means he doesn't remember how things used to be for him, but I still want him to be safe.

I should send Bub back to the safety of Reaper's lair. Then I need to talk to Mom. She won't listen if I confront her as Phantom, but she promised Fenton that she'd ignore ghosts who weren't hurting people. And, Fenton has a lot to say about this.