AU—OOC

TW: Emotional Distress — Strong language — Physical Neglect

~ I Don't Know How To Feel ~

I used to float, now I just fall down, I used to know but I'm not sure now

What was I made for?

Takin' a drive, I was an ideal, looked so alive, turns out I'm not real

- Billie Eilish

Before Danny knew it, he was out of the facility, sitting silently in the RV, the hum of the engine filling the awkward emptiness. It was just him and Sir—alone. Ma'am had stayed behind, refusing to come along.

He remembered the argument before they left, their voices rising in sharp tones, words thrown back and forth like weapons. They argued like adults do, each determined to prove the other wrong. Sir had insisted that Danny come home with him, while Ma'am remained resolute in her belief that Danny—Phantom—didn't belong with them... anymore.

The memory lingered, unsettling, as the RV rolled down the desolate road. Danny stared out the window, his reflection faint against the glass. The scenery passed in a blur, but his thoughts stayed rooted in that moment, in the sound of his parents arguing over him like he was a broken object neither of them knew how to handle.

If they were riding in a vehicle, it meant the facility wasn't as far away as he had imagined. It wasn't hidden in some forbidden desert like Area 51. The realization twisted something in his gut. All this time, he was closer to home than he thought.

Danny shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the fabric around his body felt uncomfortable and strange. After seven months of nothing but the bare cold against his skin, wearing clothes again was suffocating. The red baggy sweatshirt with the white FentonWorks logo on his chest hung loosely on his thin frame, its oversized shape a stark reminder of how much weight he must have lost. The black sweatpants were no better—baggy and ill-fitting, but functional enough. He had no socks, no shoes, but that didn't bother him. Bare feet are okay.

The itchiness of the fabric against his skin was a constant irritant—scratching against scars and bruises that hadn't healed completely yet. He tugged at the neckline of the sweatshirt, trying to loosen it, but it didn't help. It's fine, he told himself. I'm okay with this. I'm okay.

But was he?

He thought about how he looked—how he must look. He hadn't seen his own reflection in seven months, except for distorted glimpses in reflective surfaces in the facility. Even the two-way mirror glass wasn't enough to give him a clear reflection of himself. Did he even want to know? What would he see if he looked now? His hands rested on his lap, trembling slightly as the question lingered in his mind. Does he even want to recognize himself anymore?

The thought was fleeting but heavy, sitting in the pit of his stomach as the vehicle rolled on, closer to a home that didn't feel like home anymore.

He was still in his ghost form—Phantom. Snow-white hair framed his face, and his glowing green eyes stared back at the faint reflection in the RV window. At least, one of them still glowed bright, while the other seemed dim, fractured. His aura, which had been faint and barely visible for months, now shimmered faintly around him, stronger than before but still fragile.

He didn't dare switch into his human form. The thought alone made his chest tighten. Is his human part even still there? he wondered. What if it wasn't? What if it had been fractured, torn apart during those months in the facility?

No, he told himself, shaking his head slightly. Human isn't there—it can't be. He was a ghost. Just Phantom. Nothing more. Nothing less. That's all he was now… wasn't it? Or was he Danny, too? Was he both? Or neither?

The questions clawed at his mind, spiraling into an unbearable loop. Danny pinched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, his brows furrowing deeply as the turmoil churned inside him. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his brain, making him wince. But as quickly as it came, it vanished again, leaving only a hollow ache in its place.

Words echoed in Danny's mind, unbidden and raw, mirroring the hollow ache in his chest.

He used to float, now he just fall down.

He once felt weightless, free, untethered from the world's constraints. But now? Now he felt heavy, dragged down by invisible chains, his powers nothing more than a shadow of what they used to be.

He used to know, but he's not sure now.

There was a time when he thought he understood himself—who he was, what he was fighting for. But now he wasn't sure if he was anything at all. Phantom? Danny? Something in between? The lines were blurred beyond recognition, leaving him questioning everything.

What was he made for?

That question lingered, sharp and unrelenting. Was he meant to protect? To suffer? To exist at all? Every purpose he once clung to felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

Takin' a drive, he was an ideal. Looked so alive, turns out he's not real.

Danny's eyes fell to his hands, glowing faintly white in the dim light of the RV. He felt like a construct, something stitched together and expected to function. He looked alive, but inside? Inside, he felt fractured, hollow. A ghost pretending to be human, or a human pretending to be a ghost.

He leaned back in his seat, his chest tightening as the words circled in his mind like a haunting melody, pulling him deeper into the questions he wasn't ready to answer.

Lost in the chaos of his thoughts, he didn't notice the RV slowing until it stopped abruptly, jerking him forward slightly in his seat.

"We—arrived home, Danno," Sir said, his voice breaking the silence.

Danny opened his eyes, his glowing gaze flickering to Sir. He stared at him for a moment, the word home sinking in like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples through his already fragile state. Home? He glanced out the window at the familiar sight, his stomach twisting as reality settled in.

"Danny!"

A sudden warmth enveloped him—arms wrapping tightly around his ghostly form, catching him off guard. His core vibrated harder, startled, causing his body to momentarily go intangible. The sensation overwhelmed him, his instincts recoiling even as the voice registered. Jazz.

He stood there in the middle of the living room, his shoulders hunched forward as if trying to make himself smaller, his gaze darting around the familiar yet distant space. His lips pressed into a thin line, his brows furrowed upward in a way that made him look lost, like he didn't belong. Was this his house? Or just a fragment of a memory from his human past?

Jazz stumbled slightly as she stepped back, looking startled by his sudden reaction. He turned to face her, his form solidifying once more, his voice weak and uncertain. "S—sorry," Danny muttered, his eyes meeting hers briefly before flicking away.

The girl—no, the young woman with red hair and teal eyes—faced him fully now. Her expression was soft, her pity and concern written clearly across her face. "Oh, Danny, what happened to you?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, as if she didn't already know.

Did she know? She didn't know? Danny's thoughts twisted uncomfortably. Her empathy felt too raw, too exposed, as if it could unravel him further.

Her hand reached for him, fingers brushing gently against the left side of his face. Her thumb caressed just beneath his fractured eye, the warmth of her touch felt alien against his cold, ectoplasmic skin. Danny froze for a moment, the sensation was too overwhelming, before flinching back sharply. His hand came up instinctively, pushing hers away from his face.

"Don't," he said hoarsely, his voice shaking. The contact felt like too much—too intimate, too human. His core clenched tightly, confusion and vulnerability swirling inside him. He took a step back, averting his gaze, unable to meet her eyes again.

She looked startled by his reaction, her hand lingering mid-air for a moment before she let it drop to her side. Danny swallowed hard, his core purring faintly as guilt crept in. He didn't mean to push her hand away so firmly—it just felt like too much.

Why did she even do that? What was the point of touching him? Did she think it would help? Did she really not know what had happened to him?

His mind spiraled, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Seven months. Seven fucking months. How could she not know? How could anyone not know? His absence wasn't subtle. He disappeared without a trace, ripped away from his life, locked in that suffocating hell. Did they really not notice? Or did they know—and just didn't care?

Or worse—did Jazz know everything? Did she know where he had been, what had been done to him, and still… still let it happen?

Danny's hands clenched at his sides, trembling slightly as the questions swirled in his mind, each one more painful than the last. He glanced at her, his green eyes narrowing slightly. "You didn't know?" he finally muttered, the words hanging heavily in the tense air between them.

"I—I knew, Danny," Jazz stammered, her voice trembling as she struggled to explain. "I just couldn't—I couldn't do anything. The new government laws, you know." Her words hit him like a cold slap, but she pressed on. "I knew, yes. And I am so sorry for what's happened to you. But I didn't—I don't know what happened to you."

Her teal eyes glistened, tears threatening to spill. "Seeing you like this, baby brother, it tears my heart apart," she added, her voice breaking.

Danny stared at her, his mind was racing. Did she know? Did she know that Dr. Fenton and Dr. Fenton—her parents—did this to him? His stomach churned at the thought. If she knew and still did nothing…

His eyes darted around the room as his thoughts trailed off, searching for Sir—Dr. Fenton. He had been here a moment ago, hadn't he? But now… he was gone. Danny hadn't noticed when or where the man had left, too overwhelmed by the moment when the young woman wrapped her arms around him.

But now, with Sir gone, Danny's thoughts shifted. Doesn't that mean… He can leave?

He clenched his fists, his green eyes darting back to Jazz for a moment. He's free, isn't he? Free to go, free to leave this house, this… nightmare. The idea was tempting, pulling at him like a lifeline. But fear gnawed at the edges of his mind, holding him back.

Could he leave? Should he leave? The thought of stepping outside was terrifying in some way. What waited for him beyond these walls? But at the same time, staying here—under this roof, with these people—felt suffocating in a different way.

He felt a strange duality tugging at him—fear and comfort. The weight of captivity seemed to lift slightly, something heavy falling from his shoulders. Yet, the uncertainty of what lay ahead froze him in place. Danny glanced toward Jazz again, her tearful gaze full of pity and regret, and he couldn't help but wonder: Does he stay? Or does he run?

Neither option felt right. Staying or leaving—both seemed impossible. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to make the world make sense again.

Then, Jazz's voice pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts.

"Danny, you should… go to your room. Take a hot, long shower," she said softly, her tone gentle but firm. "You don't need to be Phantom anymore now, you know. You're in a safe environment."

Her right hand rested lightly on his left shoulder, and this time, he didn't flinch. Her touch was steady, warm, and oddly grounding.

A safe environment? Danny frowned, unsure of what that even meant anymore. How could this house be safe? The same place where they—the doctors—probably planned his dissection, were they planned to rip out his core? He couldn't trust that, couldn't trust them. But maybe… maybe Jazz was right about the shower.

He thought about it, the idea growing slightly less daunting. A cold shower sounded better than a hot one. Something to clear his mind, to wash away the grime of those seven endless months.

But the thought of turning into his human form sent a spike of fear through his chest. Could he even do it? What if… He stopped the thought before it could finish. He didn't want to imagine what his human form would look like now, didn't want to see how broken it might be.

Staying as Phantom felt safer—more detached, more powerful. Turning human meant being vulnerable, facing himself in the mirror, and confronting everything he had been through. He wasn't sure he could handle that. Not yet.

"I'll… think about it," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the floor as he tried to keep his voice steady. Jazz didn't push him, just squeezed his shoulder lightly before stepping back.

With the weight of the world still pressing on his shoulders, Danny found himself standing in a familiar bedroom. His back rested against the closed wooden door behind him. His bedroom. Or was it?

Was it his? Or was it theirs—their son's? No… he is their son, right? Or… is he?

The room looked unchanged, frozen in time. Everything was exactly as he remembered it—every detail, every object in its place. The only difference was the bed. It was freshly made, neatly tucked with clean blankets and pillows. A real bed. A soft bed with a plush mattress and warm covers.

As his gaze lingered on it, he felt a deep ache in his chest. Gee, he thought, how long has it been since he had a bed like that? The longing hit him all at once, the idea of sinking into the softness almost too much to bear. But first, he needed to shower.

Seven months. Seven months without a proper shower. The only cleaning he had endured was being hosed down with harsh, icy streams of water, sharp enough to sting his skin. As if he was contagious. The memory made him shiver, but at the same time, a strange numbness settled over him.

He'd liked it, hadn't he? Or at least he'd learned to. The sting of the water, the sharp pain—it had become normal. A part of him didn't bother resisting anymore. Pain didn't matter. Pain didn't exist. Not for him. Not really.

he doesn't feel pain. He can't. But the thought felt hollow, like a lie he repeated too often to believe anymore.

Danny pushed himself off the door, glancing at the bed one more time before turning toward the adjoining bathroom. The shower was waiting. A moment alone, away from the questions and confusion. But even that felt daunting. Would the water wash away anything at all? Of course it wouldn't. Or just remind him of how far he had fallen? Probably.

Should he turn human?

The thought loomed over him, gnawing at the edges of his resolve as he stood there, slowly peeling the oversized clothes from his body. The red sweatshirt slid off, followed by the loose black sweatpants pooling at his feet. The cold air touched his exposed skin, and for the first time in months, he felt… bare. It was comforting, being untouched by fabric. He was used to this now, the feeling of nothing against him.

The sound of the shower filled the small bathroom. The cold water cascaded down in a relentless stream, sharp and unyielding as it hit the tiles below with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap. A faint mist began to rise, swirling around him, and the room filled with the soft hiss of water striking porcelain. The scent of mineral-heavy water mixed with the sterile air.

But before he could step in, his gaze caught the mirror above the sink.

He froze.

His hands gripped the edge of the sink tightly, knuckles whitening as his fingers dug into the cold ceramic. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breaths shallow and unsteady. He tried to prepare himself, tried to build the courage to look. The mirror reflected everything from just above his navel upward—enough to show him what he had become.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The sight that greeted him made his breath hitch sharply in his throat.

Whoa! Who the fuck is that?

Danny stumbled back slightly, his bare feet sliding against the cool tiles as he flinched from his own reflection. The figure staring back at him barely looked alive. Of course, he was a ghost. His skin clung tightly to his bones, pale and stretched thin like paper over a fragile frame. His ribs jutted out prominently, and his collarbones were sharp enough to cast shadows under the harsh bathroom light.

He looked hollow, his eyes sunken deep into his skull, surrounded by dark, bruised circles. His once-vibrant face was gaunt, cheeks hollowed as though his body had been drained of life itself. His arms hung limply by his sides, wiry and thin, his veins faintly visible beneath his pale skin.

He looked like someone teetering on the edge of survival—frail, brittle, as if a single touch might break him.

His snow-white hair was longer than he remembered—long enough to brush against the underside of his neck, soft strands trailing like a ghostly veil. The hair at the front framed his face, the strands reaching down to his cheeks and chin, uneven and disheveled from months of neglect.

It swayed slightly as he moved, a pale contrast to his hollowed features. He reached up hesitantly, his fingers brushing through the long strands.

When did it grow this long? It was another reminder of how much time had passed—seven long months, marked by changes he hadn't been able to control. His hair, like everything else about him, felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

His glowing green eyes flickered faintly in the reflection, a haunting contrast to the ghostly pallor of his body. It was the only part of him that seemed to hold any energy, and even that was dim.

This is him?This is what he looks like now? Damn.

His stomach twisted painfully.

Danny's hands came up instinctively, trembling as they ghosted over his ribs and collarbones. He couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. Turning human now wasn't an option—it couldn't be. The idea of seeing himself even more vulnerable, even more fragile, was too much to bear.

He saw every scar—every fucking scar etched into his body like a permanent reminder of the pain he endured.

The faint Y-shaped scar stretched across his torso, a haunting mark of what they had done to him. It had healed, but not completely, leaving behind a jagged trail that twisted his stomach just to look at. His arms bore smaller scars, faint lines from sharp stings and cuts, scattered here and there like a map of his suffering. His face—god, his face—was no exception. The scar on his left cheek stood out, tracing a path down his jaw to his neck, like lightning frozen in time.

His left eye—it was fractured, splintered, like a broken windowpane that could never be fully repaired.

The iris, once vibrant and whole, was now jagged, its patterns disrupted by cracks that spread outward like tiny lightning bolts. The pupil wasn't a perfect circle anymore, warped and uneven, as though the trauma had left its mark even there. The whites of his eye were marred by faint spiderweb-like lines, traces of damage that would never fade.

It wasn't just how it looked—it was how it felt. His left eye ached, a dull, persistent pain that pulsed every time he strained it. The light hit it differently, sending sharp, stabbing sensations through his skull when it was too bright. It wasn't fully blind, but his vision was distorted, fragmented, like trying to see through shattered glass.

The bruises from the collar were still there, too. His collarbones bore the evidence of that heavy, unforgiving collar, the skin discolored and raw, as if it had dug into him for so long it had become a part of him. Even the underside of his chin carried the faint stain of that torment.

He hoped—god, he hoped so hard that he could heal. That somehow, some way, his body could repair itself, that the scars on his skin, his mind, and his soul would fade. But deep down, he didn't know if that was possible.

Everything was a mess. His body was marked and broken, scarred for half a life. But it wasn't just the surface—it went deeper, into the very purring core of him. Everything felt as fractured as his left eye, splintered into pieces that didn't fit together anymore.

Every thought, every memory, every ghost of the pain he endured lingered, haunting him like shadows he couldn't shake. Would he ever truly heal? Could he? Or would he carry this with him forever, the weight of it pressing down on him, shaping him into something he didn't recognize?

He didn't know. And not knowing hurt almost as much as the scars themselves.

Danny turned away from the mirror sharply, his breath hitching in his throat. He couldn't look anymore.

No, he thought firmly, shaking his head. Not yet.

He couldn't turn human—not like this. Not when his body was broken and scarred, a living testament to his torment. He had to try to heal first, in some way, any way. His mind grasped at the faint hope that he could recover, but how? He didn't know. He couldn't think about it now.

The cold shower called to him, the steady stream of water a harsh but grounding presence in the room. It was the only thing he could face right now. He stepped toward it, his bare feet hesitant on the cold tiles, and finally let himself be consumed by the icy cascade.

It's hard to feel how you feel, what you've been through, but I feel how you feel. I know, I just know. And you know what? Eventually, in this very end, someday, in some time, doesn't matter when, everything will be alright. As long as you have a feeling of hope.

Hope letting you know, that you are alive. Even when you're broken—fractured like your left eye. Take your own time to heal. No matter how long it takes, it will be fine, Danny.

Never give up. Keep fighting your own strength, become more powerful, set down a goal and purpose in life again, even when it looks far away now, you'll be fine.

———

I've already written nine more chapters at this very moment, so stay tuned! I'm just revising them now to make sure they're ready to post ASAP.

Hoping there aren't any mistakes, I looked over, though. T.T