Time jump!
AU — OOC
TW: Emotional Distress — Strong Language
~ Lust Is A Burden ~
There's darkness in the distance, from the way that I've been livin'
But I know I can't resist it
- David Kushner
Three months. Three long months since he had come back home, and still, he didn't know what to do.
It was February now. Winter still lingered, the cold settling over everything like a silent blanket. He loved the cold—always had. It gave him comfort, wrapping him like a familiar embrace. Not warm, but cold, soothing in a way that felt like it belonged to him.
He had healed himself, somehow, though he wasn't entirely sure how. His body had mended, piece by piece, yet his core still felt fractured—purring faintly, but never quite whole.
The scars on his skin had faded, some more than others. The faint Y-shaped line across his torso was still there, a pale ghost of what it once was. But his eye… his eye remained fractured. Splintered. He didn't know how to fix that, didn't know if it was even possible.
And the memories…
Those awful, painful memories haunted him every day. They came without warning, dragging him back into the hell he had barely escaped. The sharp sting of the scalpel, the suffocating grip of the collar, the voices, the endless tests—it was all too vivid, too real.
He stayed home, or rather, he only returned home to sleep. The bed was the only thing that brought him solace, the one place where he could pretend, for just a moment, that he was safe. But even that was fleeting.
He couldn't bear to be in that house for long, under the same roof as them. His parents. The people who were supposed to protect him, love him. Instead, they had hurt him in ways he couldn't even begin to unravel. Physically, emotionally—every part of him had been touched by their actions.
And worse, they had brainwashed him, breaking him down in every way possible.
His dad… Poor Dad. Jack tried, in his own way, to fix what was broken. He tried so hard, repeating over and over that Danny was their son—not just a ghost. His words carried a desperate hope, twisting and turning everything Danny had been told before. Each attempt felt like another layer of confusion, another fracture in Danny's already fragile mind.
Danny's thoughts were a mess. Fucked up, in every way. He had managed, somehow, to separate imagination from reality. He could see the line between what was real and what wasn't—most of the time. But every now and then, they merged together again, like watercolors bleeding into one another. It didn't happen as often now, but when it did, it left him disoriented and lost all over again.
Maddie, his so-called mother… He couldn't. He just couldn't. Being in the same room as her was impossible. She was still cold, distant—an unyielding wall of ice. No apologies, no attempts at reconciliation. Just the same detached presence she always carried, like he was still just a specimen, a subject, a ghost. Not her son.
When it came to family dinners, Danny couldn't bear to sit with them. The weight of their presence at the table made his stomach twist. Instead, he would quietly take his plate and fly up to his room without a word. He'd eat alone, staring at the walls of his bedroom that felt safer than their faces. And when he knew they were asleep, he'd slip back down to the kitchen and leave his plate in the sink, silently returning it as if nothing had happened.
It was his way of surviving, of keeping himself together. He didn't know if it was healthy, but it was the only way he could cope. The house didn't feel like a home anymore, just a place where he tried to exist without falling apart.
Of course, he had fought ghosts again. They came out of nowhere, drawn to the familiar energy they thought they'd lost. And they had questions—so many questions.
They missed him. The halfa.
At first, he had hesitated, his body still weak, his powers not fully recovered. But as the fights began, he felt something he hadn't in months—a smile tugging at his lips, a flicker of purpose igniting in his core. Fighting ghosts reminded him of who he was, of what he could do. It gave him a reason to keep moving forward, even when everything else felt broken.
It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't easy. He wasn't as strong as he used to be, and every battle left him more drained than he wanted to admit. But it was something.
Two months. Just two more months, and he would turn eighteen. Finally, an adult.
But the thought didn't bring him excitement. It brought him emptiness. What purpose does he has as an adult? He had nothing. His dreams—once so vibrant—were now fractured, scattered into pieces he couldn't put back together.
He didn't go to school anymore. He just couldn't.
The thought of it filled him with a deep, suffocating anxiety. He had missed too much, fallen too far behind. The idea of walking into a classroom again, sitting among his peers as if nothing had happened, was impossible. Just thinking about it made his chest tighten, a heavy weight pressing down on him until he couldn't breathe.
How could he catch up? How could he, when everything else in his life felt so far out of reach? His education, his dreams, his very sense of self—all shattered, scattered into pieces he didn't know how to pick up.
So he stayed away, retreating further from the life he once knew. He avoided the school, the students, the teachers who had once encouraged him. All of it felt like another lifetime. Another version of him—Danny Fenton—had belonged to that world.
Now, the only part of himself that still felt real, that still made sense, was Phantom. He clung to that identity desperately, the only thing that gave him a purpose, even if it was fractured and incomplete. At least Phantom knows what to do, even if he wasn't entirely sure who Phantom was anymore.
His friends?
No. He didn't have friends anymore. Not Sam. Not Tucker. Not anyone, really—except maybe Jazz, his sister. She was still there, the only constant in the chaos. And maybe… his dad. But even that felt uncertain, like trying to grasp smoke.
He was alone.
Just a lonely ghost, wandering through the fragments of a life he barely recognized anymore.
He had tried, once, to contact Sam and Tucker. Reaching out had taken all the courage he had left, but it didn't matter. That friendship was long gone, frayed and broken by time and distance. Their replies—if there even were any—were distant, formal.
The realization had crushed him, though he wouldn't admit it. They had moved on. And deep down, he knew he couldn't blame them. How could they hold on when he was so far gone—when he wasn't even sure who he was anymore?
Now? He stopped trying. Stopped hoping. The hurt of losing them still lingered, a dull ache in his core that never quite went away. But he buried it deep, convincing himself it was better this way.
He's just a ghost, Ghosts don't have friends. Ghosts don't need anyone. But the hollow ache told him otherwise.
Speaking of, he still hadn't turned back into his human form.
Not once. Not yet.
He was still too scared to try. The thought alone made his core tremble with unease. What if that part of him isn't even there anymore? What if… he's just Phantom now?
The idea gnawed at him constantly, but he didn't have the courage to find out. It was easier to stay like this, to avoid the possibility that Danny Fenton was gone for good.
Yes, he still had those phantom spasms—those odd, uncontrollable twitches that rippled across his body every now and then. They always came without warning, jolting through him like echoes of his human self trying to reach the surface. They were kind of painful, disorienting.
He tried to ignore them, tried to push the thought of his human side as far away as possible. Is Danny still in there? Is he still him? Or is this all that's left?
He still wondered, even now, how it had happened—how he'd been captured by the GiW again.
It didn't make sense. No matter how much he replayed those fragmented memories in his mind, the beginning was always missing, like someone had ripped out the first page of a story.
Why was no one talking about that?
Not his dad. Not Jazz. Not even the whispers of ghosts who came and went, asking questions about his absence but never about how it all started. The silence was deafening, and it only made the hole in his mind feel deeper.
And why hadn't he asked?
The thought hit him hard, like a punch to the gut. He had been so consumed by everything else—the pain, the scars, the endless questions of who and what he was—that he never thought to ask the most basic question. How did it happen?
It was maddening, the not knowing. What had he done wrong? Had he been careless? Or was it something worse, something he didn't want to face?
Danny swirled gracefully through the night sky, his body bathed in the cool glow of the moonlight. The stars above seemed endless, scattered across the dark expanse, each one glimmering faintly like a distant dream.
A gentle breeze brushed against his skin, flowing through his snow-white hair, and for a brief moment, he felt free. Truly free.
He did enjoy these moments, here and there, when the weight of his fractured existence wasn't crushing him. The stillness of the night, the vastness of the sky—it was comforting in a way he couldn't quite describe. But no matter how far he flew, no matter how long he lingered under the moonlight, something was always missing.
He didn't feel home.
Some nights, the loneliness grew too heavy to bear, and he retreated into the Ghost Zone. There, he wandered aimlessly, floating through the strange, shifting landscapes, seeking solace among his own kind.
The ghosts welcomed him, many of them happy to see the halfa who had been absent for so long. He socialized, talked, and sometimes even laughed with them, pretending for a while that he belonged there.
And maybe he did.
In the Ghost Zone, he wasn't judged. He wasn't questioned. He wasn't Danny Fenton, the broken human with scars and nightmares. He was just Phantom—a ghost, like them.
He had changed his entire wardrobe, stripping away every trace of his old self. Now, everything he owned was black.
Even though he still couldn't stand the feel of fabric against his ghostly skin, he didn't have much of a choice. He couldn't just wander around naked, after all. So he settled for loose, baggy clothes—ones that didn't cling too tightly, didn't suffocate him more than he already felt.
His hazmat suit? Gone. That part of him was buried with the past, left behind with the person he used to be.
At this very moment, Danny was wearing a plain black sweatshirt with his white DP mark, that hung loosely over his thin frame, paired with baggy black cargo pants that added a slight edge to his look. The only splash of color came from his sneakers—white, high-tops that stood out starkly against the dark palette of his outfit.
Something had to stand out, he thought, glancing down at his feet with a faint smirk. The white matched his snow-white hair perfectly, a small reminder of the ghostly part of him he couldn't escape. It wasn't much, but it made him feel a little more like himself.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, buried beneath the layers of denial, he missed it. He missed that suffocating room in the GiW facility—the one that kept him trapped, restrained, and yet somehow… safe.
The thought made his stomach churn. How could he possibly long for that? He was disgusted with himself. How could he miss a place where he was being tortured?
But he did. He missed the pain, the sharp, biting sensations he had come to rely on. The pain that reminded him he was still alive. He—they told him over and over that he couldn't feel pain—that ghosts didn't feel anything—but it wasn't true. He felt it, and in some twisted way, he needed it.
The pain had been his anchor. Every jolt, every cut, every scar—it all grounded him, reassured him that he was real, that he wasn't just a figment of his own fractured imagination.
And the pain she gave him… Ma'am.
No. Dr. Fenton. Maddie.
His mother?
He clenched his fists at the thought, his breathing shallow as memories of her hands, her scalpel, her cold, clinical voice surfaced in his mind. She had hurt him more than anyone, physically and emotionally, yet somehow, he found himself longing for it—the twisted comfort of her cruelty.
Because at least then, he knew he existed. At least then, he wasn't invisible, he was very real, he wasn't forgotten himself.
And wasn't that the cruelest truth of all?
He stopped mid-air, his body hovering in the cold night sky as his thoughts spiraled out of control.
Is he alive? The question gnawing at the edges of his mind. Or is he dead?
No. He wasn't dead. He knew he wasn't dead—he was half dead, right? But still, nothing felt real at this very moment, and that terrified him.
His mind flashed back suddenly, unbidden and raw, like a wave crashing over him. Memories of the GiW facility flooded his consciousness—sharp, vivid, and strangely… comforting. It felt like homesickness, a longing for something he shouldn't want, yet couldn't deny.
Why? he asked himself in the back of his mind. Why does he feel like this?
He knew it was wrong, knew it was weird, but the feeling was there, undeniable and consuming. He couldn't hide it from himself, no matter how much he tried.
Reality began to blur, splitting away from him like it always did when the memories became too strong. He wasn't in the night sky anymore. He wasn't flying, wasn't free.
No, he was there, in his room, back at the GiW facility. The stark, sterile white walls closed in around him, the soft hum of machinery filling the air. He felt the hard, cold ground beneath him, the suffocating stillness of the space.
And yet… he felt so much comfort.
Yes, he did. He hated to admit it, but the weight of that room, the confinement, the structure—it was familiar. It was safe in a twisted way. His imagination took over completely, pulling him deeper into the false reality.
For a moment, he enjoyed it. Every second of it. He let himself be consumed, let himself feel like he belonged somewhere, even if it was only in his own fractured mind.
What he didn't realize was that he was falling.
Lost in his spiraling thoughts, he had drifted lower and lower until, all of a sudden, reality snapped back into focus. His green eyes widened as he saw the ground rushing up to meet him, barely a few feet away. Instinct kicked in, and he stopped himself mid-air, braking hard and hovering just above the ground.
"Whoa! I should be more careful with that," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his snow-white hair. Not that hitting the ground in his ghost form would hurt him. He'd done it plenty of times—been thrown against walls or slammed into the floor by enemies. The impact always came with a sharp, striking pain, but it disappeared as fast as it came.
With a soft sigh, Danny allowed his feet to touch the ground, landing gently on the sidewalk. The cool concrete felt solid beneath him, grounding him in the present. He shifted his shoulders, adjusting the black sweatshirt that hung loosely on his frame, and began walking.
The streets of Amity Park bustled around him, people going about their lives without a care. He passed through the crowd casually, his glowing green eyes briefly flicking to the faces around him. No one paid him much attention. Some couldn't even see him—just another ghost walking among the living. Or did they stare, and he didn't want to admit?
He shoved his hands into his pockets, his head down as he moved through the familiar city. Amity Park hadn't changed much, but it felt different. Or maybe he was the one who had changed. Either way, he kept walking, letting the rhythm of his steps drown out the noise in his head.
Coffee? Danny considered for a moment before shaking his head. No, it's early night. Not gonna do that. His mind wandered instead to something far more nostalgic, the Nasty Burger.
It had been so long since he'd had one of those greasy, overstuffed burgers. Just thinking about it made a faint smile tug at his lips. It reminded him of simpler times, of his childhood, of moments when everything wasn't so broken.
Without thinking much further, he floated just inches above the ground, letting himself drift through the streets. It was faster than walking and gave him a small sense of freedom. The glow of the city lights reflected off his white hair as he made his way toward his destination.
Soon, the big red sign came into view, standing tall against the dark sky like a beacon. The letters glowed brightly, and Danny felt a strange pang of familiarity as he approached.
He touched down gently, his feet meeting the pavement, and stepped forward, crossing the street with an unhurried pace.
But as he drew closer, he noticed something unusual. There were people gathered outside the Nasty Burger—students, mostly—laughing, talking, leaning against the building as if it were some kind of hangout spot. That was kind of different, or wasn't it?
Danny hesitated, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the scene. A gathering? He didn't recognize anyone immediately, and the idea of weaving through a crowd like that made his chest tighten slightly.
Still, the craving for that nostalgic burger tugged at him. He clenched his fists briefly, steeling himself, and kept walking toward the familiar red doors.
Danny tilted his shoulders inward, shrinking into himself as if he could disappear completely, as if going invisible would solve everything. Sure, he could've go invisible, but he didn't. He could feel their gazes—sharp, heavy, burning into him like needles. Their eyes followed him, scrutinizing him as though he were some kind of strange animal on display.
They know.
They all knew. Who he was. What he was.
It had been plastered all over the news. The missing persons report for Danny Fenton. His face on every screen, the words kidnapped, and possessed, twisting the truth beyond recognition. And then there were his parents—his so-called parents—standing on live television, spinning their carefully crafted lie.
They told the world their son wasn't missing. No, their son had been taken, his body stolen by Phantom, the 'dangerous ghost entity'. They said Phantom wasn't just a ghost haunting Amity Park—he was something worse. A parasite.
Danny clenched his fists at that memory when Jazz told him that, his core purring with frustration. They had blackmailed him, ruined his life, and turned the world against him—all to protect their own narrative.
For what cost?
Why did he deserve this? All he'd ever done was try to help people, to protect them, to be the hero they needed. But now? Now it felt like they looked at him with fear, suspicion, and disgust.
Once, he was a hero in their eyes, in the eyes of the citizens of Amity Park. He was someone they cheered for, someone they believed in.
Now he didn't even know what he was anymore. Hero, villain, ghost, human—none of it made sense. None of it felt right.
Danny pushed forward, his head low, ignoring the murmurs and whispers that followed him as he approached the Nasty Burger doors. He didn't want to look back, didn't want to see the faces of the people who once looked up to him. All he wanted was that familiar taste of something real, something from before.
Danny waited in the queue, shuffling slightly as the line inched forward. His eyes flicked up to the menu boards above, trying to decide. A Nasty Cheeseburger with fries—that's for sure. Maybe even a cold, icy strawberry milkshake to go with it. The idea made him feel a tiny flicker of nostalgia, a reminder of simpler times.
The person in front of him stepped away, and suddenly, it was his turn.
"Next customer, please!" a familiar voice called out.
Danny froze for a second, blinking. He stepped forward, and as he did, his eyes met hers.
A dark-skinned girl stood on the other side of the register, her expression unreadable at first. But then her brow furrowed downward, her lips twisting into a sharp, inverted smile that was anything but friendly. She stood there casually, one hand resting on her hip, her fingers curled into a fist.
"Danny," she said coldly.
Danny's smile faltered, but he tried to recover quickly. "Val, hey," he said, forcing the corners of his mouth to lift. He stared at her awkwardly, unsure what else to say. At least, she said his real name, not Phantom.
"Can I get your order already?" Valerie sighed, clearly unimpressed. Her tone was clipped, and she tilted her head slightly as if to remind him there was a line behind him. "There are other people waiting, y'know."
"Oh, right. Sorry," Danny said quickly and chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced at the menu board one last time before giving his order. "I'll have, uh—a Cheeseburger, small fries, and a strawberry milkshake, to-go, please."
Valerie nodded briskly, tapping the order into the register without a word. Danny couldn't tell if she was annoyed, disinterested, or just trying to keep things professional. Either way, he felt a little smaller under her sharp gaze.
There was something oddly comforting about Valerie, though Danny couldn't quite put his finger on why.
Maybe it was the familiarity. Seeing her here, in a setting so mundane, felt strangely grounding—like a piece of his old life was still intact, even if it wasn't the same as before. Even if they weren't the same as before.
Or maybe it was the way she interacted with him. Her tone was cold, her words clipped, and she gave away nothing in her expression. No pity. No curiosity. No fear. She wasn't trying to unravel him, wasn't digging for answers or staring at him like he was a freak.
She treated him like just another person.
It wasn't warm, it wasn't kind, but it was normal. And in a life where everything else felt fractured and alien, that sliver of normalcy was oddly comforting.
Danny found himself drawn to the steadiness she exuded. It wasn't welcoming, but it wasn't pushing him away either.
He was just… someone standing in line, ordering food.
And for now, that was enough.
I don't know why, but I cried writing this chapter.
And Danny, just ignore them. Do not care about those people! I know how the staring feels, I know. But it doesn't matter!
"No worries, I'll be fine." Danny says with a smirk.
You did a good job. I'm very proud of you!