Don't read if you're eating! Unless you have a stomach of steel. (:
AU — OOC
TW: Graphic Content — Strong Language — Emotional Distress
At the curtain's call, it's the last of all
When the lights fade out, all the sinners crawl
So they dug your grave, and the masquerade
Will come calling out at the mess you've made
- Imagine Dragons
"Wh… d… hap…?"
"Danny… it… b… day… saw… m."
The voices were muffled, distant, like they were coming from underwater. Nothing made sense. His head spun with a dizziness so intense it felt like the world was tilting. Disoriented, he couldn't piece anything together. His head pounded, every throb sharper than the last, and a dull ache radiated through his body. Pain was everywhere—sharp, relentless, impossible to pinpoint.
His chest felt heavy, like something was pressing him down, holding him in place. His limbs felt numb, disconnected. He tried to move, but his body didn't respond.
Was he still on the table?
What the fuck happened?
Where was he? Should he open his eyes? Was it safe? Was he safe? Or was it all some cruel illusion? A dream? Or was he still trapped? Was he in the GiW facility? The sterile walls, the suffocating lights, the relentless experiments—was he here, there?
Where?
The questions raced through his mind, each one tangling with the next, leaving him frozen in uncertainty. Instinctively, his right hand moved to his head, fingers pressing against his temple. The pain was unbearable, his skull throbbing like it might split open.
He wasn't restrained.
That was good. No?
A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat, surprising even him.
What the fuck was that?
It was raw, animalistic, and completely unintentional. Why the fuck had he made that sound? As if things weren't already strange enough. His chest tightened with a flicker of panic.
Nothing felt real, yet the pain was all too vivid.
Carefully, he tried to open his eyes, bracing himself for whatever was waiting for him. The faintest sliver of light burned against his eyelids, and his vision swam in blurry, indistinct shapes. Everything felt distant, like a dream he couldn't wake from.
He shivered, a chill creeping over him. Was he cold? He couldn't tell—his body felt so detached, so numb. Something soft brushed against his skin. His bare skin? The sensation sent a flicker of unease through him.
He blinked slowly, forcing his eyes to focus. A white ceiling came into view, hazy and glaring under bright fluorescent light. His breath hitched.
A white ceiling… the GiW?
No. Yes? He wasn't sure.
He hoped it was.
God, let it be. He'd welcome it.
The sterile walls, the clinical silence—if it meant the pain would return, he'd take it. The pain he craved. The sting of cuts, the sharp burn of needles pressing into his skin, making him feel something.
Anything.
"Danny!" A woman's voice cut through the fog, distant and distorted, buzzing in his ears like static. The sound sent a sharp jolt of pain through his head, making it throb harder.
Another voice cut blurry through his hearing—lower, steadier, male.
Danny turned his head to the left, his movements were slow and clumsy. Two shadowy figures hovered there, their outlines flickering against the blinding light.
The shadows shifted, becoming more distinct with each blink. The bright light above them still burned his eyes, but he could make out faces now—concerned, panicked, and impossibly real, maybe.
Oh.
He wasn't at the GiW.
It wasn't Mom. Or Dad.
Disappointment clawed at his chest. Instead of sterile walls and cold restraints, it was Sam and Tucker standing there. Of course it was.
He blinked again, their faces coming into sharper focus, but his mind refused to settle. He kissed her, didn't he? Or… was that just a dream too? Did it actually happen? Was any of this even real? Was he even really here—wherever here was?
Wait.
Why had he kissed her?
What was he thinking?
But then, the memory came back in fragments—the rain, the way she didn't pull away. She hadn't pushed him back. She didn't seem to mind at all.
And yet, it didn't make sense.
Sure, they had a history. Once upon a time, they'd tried to be something more. They'd dated. But that ended as quickly as it began. It hadn't worked. It wasn't right. They were better off as friends—always had been. Being lovers felt… wrong, like they were trying to force something that wasn't there.
So why now? Why had he crossed that line again? And why did it feel so confusingly, terrifyingly real?
"S—Sam?" Danny stammered, barely managing to get her name out. His voice was hoarse, weak, as if even that one word had drained him.
He tried to push himself up, planting his hands on the warm surface beneath him, but his arms trembled violently under his weight. He felt like he was made of glass, fragile and ready to shatter. His muscles screamed in protest, and the world spun, a dizzying blur that forced him to squeeze his eyes shut.
The effort was too much. He let out a shaky breath, slumping slightly, his chest heaving as he fought to stay conscious.
Then, he felt it—a warm hand resting firmly on his left shoulder. Steadying. Grounding.
"It's okay, Danny," Sam said softly, her voice calm but laced with worry. "We're here for you now."
The words were simple, but they cut through the haze, offering a fragile sense of comfort. For a brief moment, the panic subsided, replaced by a flicker of something else—something he couldn't quite name.
He snapped his eyes open, his pupils dilating as the world spun violently around him. The bright light above pierced his vision like shards of glass, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut again. The nausea hit him like a punch to the gut—raw, relentless, twisting his stomach into impossible knots.
It was too much.
Everything. All of it.
"Wh—what happened? Wh—where am I?" he croaked, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears. He tried to breathe, but every inhale felt shallow and wrong, like his lungs refused to expand. Then the nausea grew sharper, climbing up his throat like a burning, acidic tide.
"Tuck, get the bucket! Now!" Sam's voice broke through the fog, but it sounded too loud, like it had been amplified and sharpened just to slice through his skull. He winced, his hands twitching as if trying to block out the sound.
He didn't want to throw up.
God, please, no.
Nope. No.
The very thought made his chest tighten in dread. He tried to swallow it down, but his stomach churned violently, rebelling against him. A sour heat crawled up his throat, and he instinctively brought a trembling hand to his mouth.
Too late.
He doubled over, his body convulsing as the bile surged upward. His breath hitched, and he gagged hard, the first wave forcing its way out. Tucker appeared, shoving a bucket between Danny's legs just in time. Danny clutched its sides with shaky hands, his knuckles white, and leaned forward as his body betrayed him.
The first heave brought up hot, acidic bile that burned his throat and left a vile sourness coating his tongue. He coughed, his body trembling as more followed, wave after wave of stomach acid and remnants of whatever had been left in his system. His shoulders jerked violently with each retch, and his forehead slicked with sweat as he struggled for air between fits.
He gasped, his breaths coming in short, labored bursts, but the nausea wasn't done.
Of course not.
A second round hit him, his body convulsing again as he threw up into the bucket. Tears stung his eyes as he coughed and gagged, spitting the remnants of bile into the bottom of the bucket.
"What… the… fuck…" he rasped, his voice hoarse, his throat raw from the effort. He shuddered, his entire body trembling as he leaned weakly over the bucket, unable to pull himself upright.
"Why the fuck am I even throwing up?"
Again.
The stench hit him then, a little mingling of bile and whatever else had made its way up, making him gag again, though his stomach had nothing left to give. He groaned, letting his forehead fall against the rim of the bucket, exhausted and humiliated.
"God damn it," he whispered, his voice echoing in the bucket.
He hated this—hated the loss of control, the burning in his throat, the way his stomach still churned like it wasn't done torturing him. His entire body ached, his muscles tense and quivering as he sat there, clinging to the bucket like it was his last lifeline.
"Oh, Danny," Sam said, her voice carrying a hint of forced lightness, like she was trying to make a joke out of it. "Next time, don't wait so long to turn human again."
With trembling fingers, he let his left hand fall away from the bucket, his arm shaking as he weakly lifted one finger, signaling her to wait.
Danny glared weakly up at her, his eyes bloodshot and his face probably pale. He didn't have the energy to respond with anything witty. Instead, he managed to croak, "Just… give me a second."
His breaths were shallow, ragged, as if just speaking had sapped what little strength he had left.
But then it hit again, the all-too-familiar tightening in his throat, the sharp gag that left him choking on nothing. His shoulders jerked violently as he bent forward, clutching the bucket once more. This time, there was nothing left but dry, painful heaves, his body straining against itself.
"Ugh," he groaned between gasps, spitting weakly into the bucket as his stomach continued to rebel, even though there was nothing left to give. His entire body shook with the effort.
Sam crouched beside him, her hand hovering awkwardly over his back, unsure whether to comfort him or give him space.
"You're a real mess right now, Danny," she murmured, softer this time, her teasing tone fading into concern as she watched him struggle.
He was a real mess, wasn't he?
Her words struck him harder than he expected, like a cold slap of reality.
"Like, I don't know that, Sam," he snapped, his voice sharp and brittle, echoing hollowly inside the bucket again as he let his head rest against its rim. The cool metal pressed against his forehead, grounding him, but it did little to ease the burning frustration bubbling just beneath his exhaustion.
His breaths slowed, ragged but steady, as the relentless nausea finally began to fade, receding like a cruel tide leaving him drained. The tightness in his stomach loosened, and he cautiously exhaled through his nose, testing the waters.
Was it safe to get up now?
He wasn't sure. He hoped so.
Danny shifted slightly, his muscles trembled as he tested his balance, and he wiped his clammy hands against the white blanket, the bitter taste of bile still lingering in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to convince himself that the worst was over.
"Dude, I don't know what's going on," Tucker said, his tone dripping with sass, "but you really need to get your shit together."
Danny shot him a glare. "I didn't… this wasn't meant to happen, Tuck," he muttered, his voice strained. "This is not what I had planned or had in mind. If you think I wanted this, you're dead wrong." Frustration edged into his tone, his fingers tightening around the bucket he still clung to.
"Danny," Sam interjected, her voice softer but no less firm, "Tuck's right. You're acting like you're in rehab or something. I don't know what's going on inside that head of yours, but whatever it is… it's not healthy. Not at all." Her concern was evident, the worry etched into her face despite her attempt to sound composed.
Danny's eyes flicked to her, his brows furrowing diagonally upward in confusion and defensiveness. He stayed silent, his grip tightening on the bucket like it was his last resort. He hugged it closer to his chest, his knuckles turned white, as if letting go would make everything fall apart even faster.
His gaze dropped, avoiding hers, but the weight of her words lingered, pressing heavily on his already fragile state. He didn't have the strength to argue anymore.
Not now.
Not when everything inside him felt like it was unraveling.
"I didn't want to go back into this... human. I didn't…" want to kiss her. The words hovered on the edge of his tongue, but he couldn't finish the sentence.
He couldn't bring himself to say it—not in front of Tucker.
Oh god, what kind of drama would that cause?
Before he could dwell on it, a wave of sadness crashed over him, sharp and suffocating. It hit without warning, like a sting burning behind his eyes. His chest tightened as tears began to well up, unbidden and unstoppable. He blinked hard, but it was no use—one single, warm tear slipped down his cheek.
Why was he crying?
"Danny, it's okay," Sam said softly, her voice warm and steady, breaking through the storm in his head. Her hand gently resting on his left shoulder again, grounding him. "You can let it all out. You don't have to hold back for us. You know that."
Her voice faltered slightly, as if she was searching for the right words.
"Even when it feels like…" she hesitated, "even when it feels like we haven't been there for you, we have. We always have. But, Danny…" her grip on his shoulder tightened just a little, "you were the one who pushed us away."
Danny's eyes flicked to her, his lips parting slightly as if to respond, but no words came.
He didn't know what to say.
The truth of her words struck him harder than he expected, like a crack spreading across the fragile wall he'd built around himself.
And then, like a ripple in still water, a thought surfaced.
A memory.
Vivid and sharp, as if it had been lying dormant, waiting for this moment.
How did he remember this? Why now, of all times?
His breath caught as the memory unfolded, dragging him back into a past he wasn't sure he wanted to revisit.
He shouldn't say it.
No, he shouldn't.
Couldn't say it.
"Well, how would you feel," Danny snapped, his voice shaking with anger and hurt, "if your two best friends were dating behind your back, huh?" His mood shifted violently, from sadness to a simmering rage. "How would you feel—getting betrayed by the two people you trusted most? When you loved one of them with whole your heart?" His voice cracked on the last word, but he pushed through. "Even when it didn't work out, you could've just… told me!"
The memory came crashing over him.
The heartache.
The jealousy.
The unbearable feeling of being left out, abandoned by the only people who mattered to him. He remembered it all. Every emotion from back then hit him with a pang in his chest—it was overwhelming.
More tears spilled from his eyes, unbidden and uncontrollable. They rolled down his cheeks, hot and salty. He felt… vulnerable. Raw and exposed in a way he hadn't felt in years.
Why was he so open-hearted all of a sudden? Why couldn't he just bury it like he always did?
His chest tightened, his breaths hitching painfully as he began to gasp, sniffling between shaky, uneven breaths. It felt like his lungs were collapsing again, like he couldn't pull in enough air no matter how hard he tried.
He glanced back and forth between Sam and Tucker, searching their faces for something—anything—that might make this moment easier.
But instead, he saw pity. Their smiles inverted into something faint and uncomfortable, like they didn't know what to say.
Their silence only made it worse.
Danny's heart pounded, his throat tightening with every second that passed without a word. He felt smaller, like he was shrinking under their gaze.
Vulnerable. Exposed.
The tears kept coming, his hands trembling as he hugged the bucket.
The silence stretched, suffocating, and Danny felt like he was crumbling.
"So, you don't have anything to say? Not a fucking single word?" Danny's voice was sharp, laced with bitterness. He didn't wait for an answer. "Fine," he spat, grabbing the bucket with one shaky hand.
Without a second thought, he swung the blanket off himself in one swift motion, letting the cold air hit his bare skin. He shifted, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet touched something soft—a carpet. That's when it hit him.
A bed. He was sitting on a bed. Tucker's room.
His eyes darted around briefly, taking in the familiar surroundings. The dark green carpet, the cluttered desk, the faint glow of electronics in the corner. He placed the bucket onto the floor next to the bed, the dull thud against the carpet barely registering as the anger continued to bubble inside him.
His gaze landed on the wooden chair in the corner, where his clothes hung draped over the back, his red sneakers tucked neatly underneath.
His legs trembled slightly as he stood, the lingering dizziness weighing on him, but he brushed it aside. Each step was slow as he approached the chair. He grabbed his pants first, pulling them on with care before zipping them up and fastening the button. Next, he reached for his T-shirt, slipping it over his head in one fluid motion. As he tugged it into place, he balanced on one foot, squeezing his feet into his sneakers one at a time.
He turned toward Tucker, who was lounging in the desk chair, lazily spinning it back and forth.
Danny stopped in front of him, his chest heaving as he tried to keep his emotions in check. But it was useless. His anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface, demanding release.
He leaned closer, looking Tucker directly in the eyes, his own gaze blazing with frustration and hurt.
"Do you even care about what you've done?" Danny said, his voice low and trembling, his fists clenching at his sides. He knew he shouldn't let it out like this, but he couldn't stop himself.
Not anymore.
It felt like flipping an Uno reverse card, the tension in the room turning on its head in an instant.
"Just so you know, I kissed her. That girl right over there," Danny blurted out, pointing his right finger towards Sam, his voice sharp and defiant. His eyes locked onto Tucker's, challenging him. "And man, it felt so fucking right. She didn't even push me away."
The words hung in the air like a bomb about to explode. The moment they left his mouth, regret clawed at his chest.
Why did he say that?
He didn't want to admit it, didn't want to feel it.
It wasn't the truth—it was the anger, the frustration, the storm brewing inside him that forced the words out. Or was it the truth?
His gaze snapped to Sam, standing awkwardly in the corner beside the bed. Her eyes widened slightly at his outburst, and he could see the flicker of hurt in them, but it wasn't enough to stop him.
"I don't need you," he said coldly, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. He turned back to Tucker, his expression hard and unreadable. "I don't need anybody."
"Danny…" Sam started, her voice hesitant, trembling like she wanted to say more but couldn't find the words.
"No." He cut her off sharply, his fists clenching at his sides. "Just don't."
His nails dug into his palms, and he could feel his entire body shaking from the effort of holding back everything he wanted to scream.
Tucker's gaze darted to Sam, his face was of course, a mixture of confusion and concern.
"Is that… true?" he asked, his voice quieter, less sure than before.
Sam's lips parted, but she didn't answer. She looked down, her hands wringing together as if trying to steady herself.
Danny rolled his eyes, the gesture sharp and dismissive.
"I'm so fucking done with this bullshit," he muttered, his voice dripping with exhaustion and bitterness.
Without another word, he stepped back, closed his eyes for a second and transformed. Two glowing white halos shimmered around his body, one moving up, the other down, wrapping him in light as he turned into Phantom. His ghostly form radiated with cold energy and he felt his eyes glowing brighter than usual—angrier.
But this was the thing that felt right.
"I'm out of here," he said flatly, his tone final. Without waiting for a response, he shot upward, phasing through the ceiling, leaving Sam and Tucker behind in stunned silence.
When you feel my heat, look into my eyes, it's where my demons hide
Don't get too close, it's dark inside, it's where my demons hide
- Imagine Dragons
I'm gunna end this chapter here, otherwise it's getting too long again.
So, wouldn't the throwing-up part make sense? I mean, if you've been in ghost form for so long, then suddenly change back to being human, feeling all the humanly things again—it's bound to mess with your system, right? So yeah, here it is. I'm sorry to anyone sensitive to that kind of stuff, but hey, I warned you! Hehe.
Honestly, I get it. I've been through it myself. I ate something bad once, and let me tell you—it was the WORST feeling ever. Endless hours spent hunched over the goddamn toilet. Or was it even more than hours? I don't even know. I didn't sleep that night. Or the next morning. Or the whole damn day. It was hell. Absolute hell.
"Why couldn't I just… hold myself back? Why did I say that?" Danny mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
Because, Danny, you couldn't hold your anger and built-up frustration inside any longer. That's why. At some point, it HAS to come out. It's like a dam breaking—no one can stop it.
And you know what? It wouldn't have been fair to keep that from Tucker forever. Even if it wasn't your call to say it, the truth NEEDED to be said. Sometimes, emotions don't wait for the perfect moment. They just spill out.
Beta read by @GhostlyGlimmer
