Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Invisibility is a hell of a thing. Some may say that it’s bad sportsmanship when it comes to games like hide-n-seek, but he prefers to think of it as resourcefulness. Danny allows intangibility to wash over him as he holds his breath, floats, slinks through the nearest wall, and curls into the fetal position.

“Danny? Danny sweetie, are you home? I could’ve sworn.

Could’ve sworn I heard someone opening our front door.” There are sounds of them fiddling with something in the lab, sloppily putting it away. “The basement stairs creak. The Fenton-Ringer sounded and everything. Hmmm.”



All of us know to skip the stair two steps from last. We all know.
One of these days, it’s just gonna bust under somebody’s foot. And I’ll have to fix it. As if the ecto-filter isn’t enough.
But. Nnnooooo, please, pretty please pile on more responsibilities. I guess I had too much free time after going to school and fighting ghosts every waking moment. Which, awake, is most of my moments these days.

Unfortunately.

Why don’t they just leave (like they always do)? Why can’t they ever be absentee parents when I actually need them to be? Danny tries hard to shake the petulant squeaky wheel ever-present in the back of his mind.

His mom is so close. Danny can smell her perfume. Synthetic floral with a chaser of the acrid rot of terrified ectoplasm, that makes his belly ache. These days, she can’t manage to completely wash it off. Always a lingering malaise like bad heartburn.
He remembers before the accident. It was light and airy, smelled like summer—a comforting reassurance of her presence, but after the accident, oh—after it, it’s so sharp it leaves the taste of rubbing alcohol in my throat every time she’s home

Maybe if I called up Principal Ishiyama and received my diploma in the kitchen, then, then they’d leave. They would run out like somebody set their pants on fire. Well–jumpsuits on fire.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. No sirree. Not this guy. Not Danny, the eternal ray of fucking haunted sunshine.

“Do you think it could’ve been?” Jack pauses, tight as a coiled spring.
“GHOSTS?! I’LL GET YOU, YOU GHASTLY GHOSTS! No one messes with, Jack Fenton! Not under this roof!” He sounds like an off-brand radio announcer when he makes declarative statements about the family name.

“Now Jack dear, what did we have a talk about this morning?” What is it about her goopy-sweet ‘mothering’ voice that sends a chill down my spine not even Fright Night can aspire to?

“Yelling! We talked about yelling!!!” He abruptly deflates, “n’ how announcing our presence is not conducive to any good ambush attack.”

“Yes, very good dear,” she said.

“Speaking of…we should probably get lunch, because I think the ectoweinies started a food labor union.
Huh, huh? Ya get it! It's ‘cause they’re hotdogs.”

Maddie’s voice takes on a measured patronizing tone, like the one teachers’ have when everyone is too tired and it’s so close to summer break; “What do we say about personifying ecto-entities?”
“Not to?” The sound is small, shockingly small, coming from the normally boisterous man.

“Yes, exactly, not to. We wouldn’t want to tarnish our research with human anthropomorphizing now, would we?”
“Nope, we really wouldn’t. Been doin’ all this since we were in school with good’ole’ Vladdie.”
“Yep,” I can hear the face she’s making at the thought of Vlad, “let’s grab something to eat. Maybe we could get Danny his favorite? That boy is far too skinny. He's been looking a little peaked lately.”
“YEAH, want him to grow big and strong just like his pop, don’t we?!”

“Of course we do dear.”

 





Danny waits—waits until he feels the front door slam, waits for their contrast gaits have plodded off the porch, and the drone of the GAV engine fades as they go, terrorizing a different part of town—then slowly unwinds from his curled position.

It takes a few precious minutes for Danny to center himself enough that he can start his faltering float upstairs. That's where the heavy-duty med kits are.
Even in his daze, he knows the importance of not leaving any traces of ectoplasm, out lying around. Especially where it might draw the curiosity of the town’s resident mad scientists.
She’ll never hear it from me.

But.
I know Jazz was right.

Stashing towels and gauze in all my ‘oh shit’ hidey-holes, did, end up really pay off.

Maybe, just maybe. It might’ve been worth the paranoia, the lashing out, the interrogation, and subsequent research spiral we lost Mom and Dad to for a whole month after Dad discovered one of my staches. They chocked it up to a packrat ghost, so I have them to thank for that. My newest nickname, Packrat.

Jack had accidentally busted a hole in the wall in his enthusiasm. Just waving around that week’s cutting-edge research, delving into the ever-expanding field of...‘how else can we make my life (ha) a living (Ha HA) hell?!’

Okay so maybe the half ghost kid, killed by my own parent’s life’s work, is a little bitter. So, sue me.
Actually…don’t. Don’t do that. I'm broke....

Bite me.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Fenton?” Mr. Lancer says through gritted teeth. “Humor me for moment, with a word after class.”

Danny’s head lolls, still only half awake even after Mr. Lancer’s signature whisper-yell. But purposefully makes eye contact as he nods. Danny didn’t look over at Sam or Tucker; he doesn’t even glare at Dash as he obnoxiously hoots about ‘someone is in trouble.’ He was not saved by the bell. Or by a ghost.
He would take almost anyone at this point, Danny is getting close to the desperation levels of wishing (wishingin this economy???) for the likes of Skulker, maybe even Vlad.

Not that he’s in a state to be of any help in a ghost attack anyways. Danny is quick to shove that train of thought down. Though, ignoring it didn’t make his chest any less tight.

People are staring. These days, that’s all they seem to do.
Like, the high whine of a hovering mosquito, forever buzzing louder and closer, but never quite close enough to touch. The Fenton parents’ antics certainly don’t help their kids’ reputation. Daniel’s uncannily timed bathroom breaks, and premature classroom departures don’t do much to endear him to his peers.

Most of the stares are simply anxious.
Not hateful.
They look toward him, for his sixth sense in order to stay on their toes. Hypervigilance is really the only option Amity gives you.


It didn’t used to be like that.


Sure, things were always on the stranger side of the tracks here, but not like this. The Fentons shattered any chance at normalcy with the invention of their “ghost portal.”

Somedays I wonder if all this cortisol is sliding me ever closer to the inevitability of a pacemaker in my near future. But I am always warmed by the guilty comfort that I never grew up with a portal to hell in my basement. Try as I might, the city gave up on enforcing building safety regulations at Fentonworks.

The last bits of hope, for a semi-normal upbringing for Jasmine and Daniel, were dashed. When Mr. Masters took office, all those pesky fines and safety violations mysteriously blew away on the breeze.



Mr. Fenton catches a hell of a lot of flak better aimed toward his parents. I can only imagine what it must be like to have your parents punch a hole in the fabric of space, right under your nose.





Understandably, asking hundreds of teenagers to rectify a huge shift in their world view, while existing under threat of physical danger anywhere, anytime, results in some displaced aggression. No one expected ghosts. And even if they did, not like this.

I’ve long since stopped calling him out for using nicotine products in school. Logically, I know that can’t be the case. When the vapor is odorless, and suspiciously correlated with his flights from the classroom. I don’t understand the exact nature of his problems, but the picture they paint isn’t a pretty one. And that doesn’t deter me one iota. Not when my student is so clearly asking for help, in the only ways he knows how.

Students linger, as they always do. Mr. Lancer can’t quite recall if he was this nosy as a teenager; he doesn’t suppose so, but that’s probably what every grown person thinks.

“You really sure you don’t want us to stay back man?” Tucker has been more antsy than usual the past few months. He can’t help but feel like it’s the calm before the storm.

Something just feels like it’s been brewing. Tucker Foley has never been the anxious type, aside from his medical phobias he’s a pretty laid-back kind of guy. Sam tends more toward overthinking, with Danny being the winner of the clinical anxiety Olympics, but the trio has had an undercurrent of nerves growing in impact since the day of the accident.
As if electrocution is contagious.

“It’s really not a big deal Danny. We haven’t missed too much and it’s just gym anyways.” Sam says. She drags her feet on the way out as Lancer pretends to be ignorant of their plans of intentional tardiness, each minutia of reluctance only makes his concern grow.

“I’m fine guys, really.”

“Ahem.

Yes, I assure you that I’ll send him on his way shortly. But I think this is an AB conversation and you can C your way out of it.”

This has the desired effect when they both groan in teenage horror. Miss Manson draws her eyebrows and exhales sharply, in an exaggerated scoff.
Sam lets out a grumbled string of curses in a few languages she assumes Lancer can’t follow, begrudgingly impressed, he graciously allows her to leave with her assumptions intact.

“Yeah, it’s all cool. Just tell Ms. Tetslaff that I’ll be a little late.”

“Fine, we’ll relay the message.” Never underestimate Sam’s ability to hold a grudge. Lancer is lucky Danny didn’t let Sam send her log of Dash’s harassment and assaults to her (speed dial) lawyer.
“Well o-kaaay then, on that note. Thank you Mr. Lancer, we’ll…

just get going now. Wouldn’t want to be late!”

”What the fuck was that all about Sam?!

Mr. Foley attempts to whisper on his way down the hall. Far enough he apparently thinks is out of earshot. Part of me wonders if students quite understand that your hearing doesn’t just half every year you live past 50.

Lancer can’t however, ignore the ones in English. ”Language!”

“S-sssorry Lancer!” Tucker yells as the duo pick up speed on their way down the hallway.

“And should a problem come up, let me know! I’ll send Mr. Fenton off with a teacher’s excuse after a…quick word.

“I don’t believe they heard all of that, but I’m sure you can catch them up later.”

Mr. Fenton looks as if he’s got his head on the chopping block. I don’t want to scare the boy, but with his penchant for slipping out of class, Daniel leaves me with little option.

Danny’s throat is tight as he turns away from the door.

He really hopes he’s not getting a cold. Being a ghost kinda complicates those types of things.

If Mr. Lancer doesn’t start talking soon, Danny will, and he probably won’t ever stop. Awkward silence has never really been my thing. It makes everything too damn loud.

The swish of khakis and jingle of a pocket full of keys is loud as Lancer gives an old small grunt and reedy sigh as he settles in his creaky chair.

“You’re not in any kind of trouble Mr. Fenton.”

“Oh, well…” Danny’s words are windier than he meant them to be, “that’s good.” His lilt at the end makes it more question than statement.

“I asked you here to—"

“--that’s a relief. W--"

”…a--"

“--no, sorry--I-“

”Apologies.”

Lancer clears his throat. “You were s--”

“--I-I was just…
Just uhhh.
um. Sorry, I got nothin”

”Ah. Well.
No worries, as the kids say.”

Danny begins to think that he is in trouble, and this is actually the punishment. Before he can come up with a half decent excuse to bail, Mr. Lancer pipes up. “Okay I’ll cut to the chase Mr. Fenton.
I asked you to stay after class, because…
I am concerned.”

Mr. Lancer’s eyebrows draw up as if surprised by his own words, while he watches Danny go from fidgeting with his fingers to closing his fists in the fabric of his pants. Maybe afraid of what they’d do if left unattended.
He opens his mouth to, no doubt, sass his way out of this and into a different sort of trouble, before Lancer forges ahead in a rush.

“Now. I understand that this is a delicate issue, so before you go getting defensive, I would like you to hear me out. Can you put your feelings aside for the moment? Consider my intention, and the way things appear from the outside? From my perspective? Before you make any hasty remarks?”

Danny thinks he knows what people mean when they say the silence is deafening now. I know we haven’t always gotten along, but have I ever led you astray Mr. Fenton?”

It takes a considerable amount of energy to rein himself in. But when he answers, Danny’s voice is for the most part level. “No sir. You’re the only one who wasted any time trying to get me back on track.” The words are heavy, rough stone scraping against tongue, rocks piling up on his lap. This is reaching dangerous territories; feels like something he can’t take back.
No do overs this time.

“I can see that you are struggling, and I—"

“--Mr. Lancer, I’ve pulled my grades up! I’ve been trying so hard to—"

“I know you have Mr. Fenton.”

--and I’ve been doing the homework [that might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but Lancer didn’t call him out on it] and I haven’t been able to sleep--

“-Sorry Daniel

Mr. Lancer closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a focused breath before continuing. While he’s reticent to admit it, Jazz had a point with those breathing exercises and teacher learning modules.


“We will discuss the sleeping issues at a later date, but that is not what I asked you here to speak with me about.

This is not about academia. I know you have been putting an extraordinary amount of effort into your work. That much is abundantly clear.”
He takes this pause to look at Daniel. Desperately trying to communicate through eyes alone, the depth of meaning behind his words.
“But, Paradise Lost Mr. Fenton, I’m trying to understand what else you are putting the power of your considerable intellect into. Where you go when you pull your disappearing act. What you do in your freetime.” Mr. Lancer takes notice of the violent recoil at the word disappear.

“Did you just call me smart? Actually…Don’t answer that….” Lancer’s lips move, he inhales sharply but doesn’t say anything else.
So, Danny just sort of.
Deflates. I don’t understand the look he’s giving me. I really don’t know what he wants, and my leg is starting to sting somethin’ fierce. Frost Bite’s pain meds started wearing off first period and I should’ve known better than to come to school today.

“When you are determined to do something, Mr. Fenton. You are one of the most capable students I have ever taught. And I’ve been knocking around here for a minute or two.” That merits a halfhearted chuckle.

“My job as a teacher is to ensure the safety of all of my students.” Danny’s gaze flits around like a caffeinated hummingbird. Everywhere except Lancer’s face.

At the word safety, they lock eyes briefly, before Danny grimaces and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Hands subconsciously tucking closer to the torso. Left hand curling close to the heart, while he smooths his fingers across the desk with the other.

“But that is the bare minimum. I’m at least partially responsible for ensuring that my students become productive members of society. And I take that responsibility very seriously, Mr. Fenton.”

The sunlight coming in casts half his face in deep shadow. Like this, Danny looks more unwell than usual. Mr. Fenton looks almost alien like this. The face is thin, sallow. Daniel’s posture resembling a crumpled piece of paper.

He’d really thought that Danny Fenton had been changing things for the better. He’d shown such good progress toward the end of freshman year, ended it with his chin up, standing tall. The start of sophomore year was rough, but plateaued.
The sharp downward spiral wasn’t totally unexpected, but nonetheless appalling. Not in grades, no.

And it runs deeper than simple self-esteem issues; he doesn’t add.

While I can never undo the impact of my negligence regarding Mr. Baxter, I have been doing everything in my power to ensure Daniel has a bright future regardless of the constant failure of the adults in his life. The severity of my past sins.

“So, taking that into account, I want-
I’m asking you to think carefully about my next question.”

Holding the gaze of those unsettlingly blue eyes, Mr. Lancer knows he’s gained Danny’s undivided attention. Though with the increasingly uncomfortable empathy of the ant hill under the magnifying glass, William isn’t sure of the virtue in that.

With the clouds casting shadows over the windows, Danny looks up at Lancer from underneath bangs. The blue looks as if it coalesces into a palpable weight.

He has gotten noticeably taller in these past few years. It’s almost as if he’s gotten lankier to compensate, really ante up the creep factor Danny has been building since, probably, middle school. Lancer knows from experience, firsthand or otherwise that there is a certain wiry strength in those limbs, but he looks as if he could be tipped head over tail by the slightest breeze.
The list of things that don’t add up about one Daniel Fenton is as long as it is ever growing.

“You don’t have to answer now. I will give you a week to think about it, but I will not let this subject drop until I get a response.”
The weight of Danny’s gaze is shocking. Never in all of their years together, has Mr. Lancer ever been on the receiving end of this particular look. Something niggles at the back of his mind at that thought.

The question sits heavy in the air.
“I know I’m old.”
That startles a laugh out of Danny.

“I know I’m not privy to every untoward experience students have in this school. But.
I do know what it looks like, when a young person’s needs aren’t being met. Outside of school. You need to know that if there is one person who will always offer you a helping hand, that would be me. And if no on does that is because I’m d-…” The flinch, at this particular turn of phrase that he probably didn’t even notice himself executing, is disheartening but underlines the importance of the conversation at hand. “…not available.”

I’ve never seen Mr. Lancer so serious. Hands meeting, elbows on the table, he leans forward to really drive the point home. It’s hard to look at him like this.
Sterner than Jack ever w-

…those are dangerous waters he can’t afford to drift in.

“I haven’t been a reliable adult for you in the past. I’m deeply ashamed of my actions, and sincerely sorry. I can’t change that, but
I can be, I will…and I am here for you now Daniel.”

Daniel’s shoulders are at his ears and his eyebrows are practically touching his nostrils. “It’s okay. It’s fi-“ “Ah-“
“I must stop you right there.
Apologies for interrupting Mr. Fenton. But that ‘sorry’ was not for my own benefit. It is myjob to make peace with my mistakes. Through no fault of your own, I have failed you. I am the adult here, keeping your environment safe should never be a minor’s responsibility.”

“Danny.”

“Ah, ermmm…wh-”

Danny realizes that he’s crossed his arms. All of the lectures Jazz has given about body language echo around his skull. He opens his posture. Tries his best to look Lancer in the eye when he says, “It’s Danny. I go by Danny.”
“Oh, …yes! I’ll be sure to make note of that Danie-Danny.”

The pen and paper are revving chainsaws, in the empty room.
He hadn’t noticed the folder Lancer had been holding onto, that made him antsy. He also hadn’t thought he’d literally ‘note it down.’Well if that was all this is, maybe just maybe I’m off the hook chain-free this time? Danny’s hands are numb as he fumbles for his bag, slamming half healed bruised knuckles against the desk more than once in his haste.

“Sorry Dan-Danny, we’re not quite done yet. Just one more thing.”

“ffffuuu-.aaahhh“ the utterance goes up several octaves like a kid caught elbow deep in the cookie jar. The, “whaaa….” that follows slides meek off uncertain lips.

Mr. Lancer raises his eyebrows to their furthest extent.
The whole eyebrow number used to strike much more of a visual, when they disappeared into a strong hairline.
But that doesn’t soften the gruff facade. That was long before Danny’s time.

“sssssorry Mr. Lancer, my nerves are really shot today.
I meant to say…what’s up?”

William lets the discomfit simmer a moment more before gentling his features.
“One question.

Are you safe at home?”



The words come out fluidly, unlike the man sheltering behind them. The bubble pops.

Can’t a halfa catch half’a’fucking break? .

Danny’s leg throbs. It’s all hot and achy. Fresh wounds pulse with every lethargic heartbeat. I prob’ly shouldn’t’a come to school today.

Skulker didn’t take it easy on me when he showed off his newest suit upgrade.

Never does.

Because no one EVER HAS!



Stuck between rock and a hard place?
How about will and fate? How about the wellbeing of the entire universe being contingent on your infathomably painful demise? And one toe out of line means the genocide of the entire planet.



No cheating on tests.
No bad grades
No pranks
No fun
No concession
Yes you do have to go in there knowing you’ll get your ass kicked.

Yes you are the only line of defense between your small Midwestern town and your parents recreationally opening up & closing and opening & closing and opening & closing the literal gates of hell.

Yes you do have to get out of bed—running on three hours of sleep for the last week maybe week and a half(ha-!ha-harlarious), you’ve learned to stop counting after day 4 both because of difficulty as brain fog & sleep deprivation blur your branching timelines into a singularity of doom—when your death gifts you another biological push notification alerting your annoyingly short range species tracker.

Because it could be the box ghost fucking up Val’s night quite possibly ad infinitum, it could be Skulker trying to skin you half-alive. Hell! Variety is spice of life, might be some anthropomorphized god crafted from the culmination of the collective human psyche. Who has made it his personal business to riddle your afterlife with every waking nightmare your cocked up little brain has cooked up.
Maybe just maybe, it might be your parents. Torturing the embodiment of a human soul thrust off this mortal coil too soon.


There’s nothing like waking up to the smell of coffee and the rot of abject terror. What a momentous morning that was. Finding the filleted remains of your every sleep paralysis, night terror, just sitting under your floorboards. Waiting.
Or with the violent churning of your stomach, maybe don’t think about it. Maybe save that bit of existential dread for a later date.

Wonder if he’s only talking to me like this, shoving his pity where it don’t belong, just cause I look so much more shit than usual

The atmospheric change of the classroom is instantaneous.

Danny’s emotions are muddled. Too quick and clashing to counter, so he grabs onto the closest one with his both hands.

“So, you accusing my family of abuse?” I’m talking faster than I can think, and my mouth never leads me anywhere good when that happens. “You think some rando old guy who let school’s star football player beat up the local queer…FOR TWO WHOLE YEARS!”

I see him balk like I hit’em. And that might’a been kinder.

ta’ fling a fraction of a fraction
of a fraction
of everyone else’s garbage that’s come my way,
in any direction
away
from me



It feels good. I hate that it feels so good to hurt someone, anyone, back.

The words are acid in his throat. Like that first wave of ectoplasmic gunk brought on by a bad ghost bug last year. Danny doesn’t know what’s coming out of his mouth. He wants,
to have nothing to say.

I want to be quiet and leave. Literally ghost him. Sink through the floor, never to be heard from again, just another one of Amity’s mysteries.
I want to scream and fight. punch, burn, slash
Rend until I can’t move, then maybe I could finally fall to sleep for more than a couple hours.

“You think you can really do better than them? Huh!?
Than the people, who love me?” Danny’s voice breaks at the last bit. It burns on the way out. I hate how much the word love tastes like a lie; with ever nasty phrase they’ve ever uttered, ringing in my ears. ‘Molecule by molecule.’

Lancer’s heart rate skyrockets.
I haven’t been this close to Mr. F-Daniel. Haven’t been this close to Danny, being this disturbed, since his first year of high school.
Is it a trick of the lights?
Too consistent.

I don’t- think his eyes always glowed.

Did they?
Did they always? I banish the thought of possession, errr overshadowing I think the Fentons called it. This is very clearly Danny.

William don’t know what this has to do with his parents. Danny’s schoolwork or his…health.
“I didn’t bring up your parents; I didn’t use the word abuse.”

And just like that.

All the energy leeches out of the room, as if. It was never there to start with.

Danny Fenton looks like a marionette with the strings snapped off. He is…terrified and Mr. Lancer doesn’t know how to make it right. Just what is he so afraid of?
Who?
Could the people he sits across the table at every parent teacher conference really hurt their own child? And why Danny when Jazz is clearly so well taken care of?


Everything he had in him just seconds ago, just gone. “I’m not trying to accuse anyone of anything Danny.”

The word sorry is halfway out of Danny’s mouth before he remembers.

He stops. Before he can say something he’d really regret. “And it would be particularly hypocritical of any self-respecting queer man—out since the 80s—to shun any part of our community. I don’t want t-- I won’t watch another bright mind be snuffed out…by callousness.”

“And I’ll regret every day of my inaction.
Until I am placed in the grave.”

Danny flinches. Looking a little green around the gills.

“I’m not looking to elicit sympathy, only to convey how much I mean it. I understand the magnitude of what we’ve discussed today…. I’m sure I’ve given you a lot to think over. And if I were the praying type, I’d pray that you do. Danny, I will help you however you allow me to help you.”

“Oh, and Danny?”
“Yeah??-Yes Mr. Lancer”
“Know that, if need be, I will excuse you for the rest of the day. I want you to visit the nurse on your way out. You look…look tired.”

“I won’t listen to anyone badtalk my students. Not even yourselves. Have I made myself absolutely clear?”

“As mud, sir.” He spits before turning on his heel, slamming the door on his way out.

Mr. Lancer has never been more thankful for the years of practice he has in thinking on his feet. William’s hands shake as much as any autumn leaf in midst of a hailstorm. The bottle of beta blockers clack to the floor falling through unsteady hands.
There are fresh dents in the desk Danny was just seated at.
Lancer’s eyes scathe the room, searching for the blue biohazard gloves, not yet stable enough to stand.
To wipe away the thin layer of blood from the back of the seat. He practices the breathing techniques one of his therapists taught him.

All the local jurisdictions are a no-go.
Anything to do with anything-ectoplasm has the GIWs name written all over it. The over-run foster care programs won’t touch anyone who has food on the table with a ten-foot pole, law enforcement is nearly never the answer (most especially since they all fled for bluer waters).

Regarding any well, human, crime. Amity has been borrowing officers from neighboring cities since practically day 1. It only took a month for the police department to declare the area too hazardous to work in daily.
And the tiptop of the pyramid isn’t going to be particularly receptive either.

Actually, if William is being entirely honest with himself, the man has a concerning amount of involvement in young Danny’s life.

His vision blurs and Mr. Lancer swallows the anxiety making itself known as bile in the back of the throat.

He’s never been quite this afraid for one of his students.

Just what is happening behind those gaudy closed doors?