Danny Phantom Fan Fiction ❯ Ghost of a Chance ❯ Chapter 3

“Phentom” was a play on “Fenton” and “Phantom.” I didn't just want to come right out and say either, mostly for the insecurity of our main characters.

 

Ghost of a Chance

Chapter Three: Repressing (Depressing) Memories

 

Sam had expected the usual routine that morning, despite her run in with the not-so-spooky spook, and her spirits were unusually high.

 

(Damn her parents. To the ninth circle of hell, or maybe the VIP room. If they couldn't buy their way into heaven, they'd certainly try for that.)

 

It surprised her, though, when Tucker did not immediately answer her poundings with obnoxious rants about how early it was and that she needed something else to occupy her time than getting him up in the morning. After a few minutes she pulled the cheapest trick in the book and got out her key.

 

(Tucker would not be happy with her. He always threatened to take the key back, because she liked to use it at the most inconvenient of times. She also liked to hide his key under a rock and blackmail him with her spare.)

 

The door opened, and she stepped inside. The usual smell of coffee was there, but it was different than she would have liked. There was food spread out across the kitchen counter, and ten cups lined up, each rimmed with decaying caffeine, and she knew. Tuck had pulled an all-nighter.

 

It was not his usual thing, but Molly had been pressing them pretty tight. She would have to mutter dirty things behind her back and hope she heard them. (That usually did absolutely nothing, but it made her feel better.)

 

Tucker himself was actually nowhere to be seen. She peered into the bedroom, saw absolutely nothing, and went back into the kitchen.

 

Well, it wouldn't hurt to have a new batch of coffee ready when he decided to crawl out of whatever decomposed pile of magazines he was hiding under. She glanced around the apartment, searching for any sign of him.

 

Her eyes caught his computer.

 

From the looks of things, definitely an all-nighter. He had been doing research on something—probably his newest column (he wrote the gadget column on Wednesdays: Technology for Techno Savvy (and Not So Savvy).)

 

Sam leaned towards the computer, trying to see what he'd been looking at. He usually never left things out for her to look at, mostly because of her ability to turn every statement into an insult, and because he was paranoid about things. Why, she had no idea. (Well, she had some idea—a lot of ideas, actually, but she didn't share them on the fact that it was mostly her making fun of him. She did that a lot. She wondered if she should tone it down a bit.)

 

(But then where would all the fun be?)

 

She lifted the screen of the laptop back a few centimeters to read it better, when the door slammed shut, and she jumped back, falling down into her chair. Tucker was standing there, fumbling over some plastic bags (early morning grocery shopping? Not his usual style.) He caught her eyes and tried not to drop the extra bag he couldn't quite carry. A bag of chips was clenched between his teeth and he threw the bags onto the counter.

 

“Are you early or am I late?” he asked.

 

“You're late,” she answered, peeking into the bags. “What've you been up to all night?”

 

His eyes widened then narrowed, and he reached over to slam close the laptop. “Research on… something.”

 

She raised an eyebrow and leaned back. “Something? Is it something I should know about?”

 

It was a teasing kind of scolding, but he turned on her with a very serious eye, and suddenly she didn't want to tease him so much about it. For some reason, she very much did not want to know.

 

Then a quirky grin broke over his face (it was forced, but she didn't question it), and he gave a knowing shrug.

 

“I'll tell you later.”

 

---

 

“What just happened?”

 

“I don't—“ A fit of coughing. “I don't know. Where's—“

 

The doors slid open. It was all really a blur.

 

“Oh my god…”

 

“What is it? What's—“

 

Screams.

 

Sam jumped as she heard the thwack of papers hitting desk. She opened an eye to see Molly leering over her, her face a battle between rage and annoyance or a cool, calm, collective way to handle the problem.

 

Molly, as it was her nature, took rage and annoyance.

 

“What is this crap?” she said, holding up the article Sam had turned in just yesterday.

 

Sam didn't bother reading the words. They seemed jumbled before her eyes. What had she been doing? When did she take a nap?

 

“Honestly, Sam,” Molly continued. “I know I ride you constantly, but this—I don't even know what it is. It's certainly not a story. Is this payback for me yelling at you everyday?”

 

Who had screamed? Sam was uncertain. Her head felt muddled and she felt sweat beads at her hairline.

 

“Look, I'll let it slide this once, because most of the time I get some good insight from you. But—Sam?”

 

That was when Sam threw up over Molly's two hundred dollar shoes.

 

---

 

Tucker had stopped over, bringing gifts of movies and food for her sickness. Sam was lying listless on the couch, a cold washcloth over her forehead.

 

“I'm proud of you, Sam,” he said, displaying the things he brought before her. “You felt the need to puke, and you aimed for the perfect place. None of us could have done much better.”

 

“Tucker,” she said quietly. “Do you remember Danny?”

 

The question was too sudden, and Tucker froze. He sat down beside her, picking at the edge of the blanket she had wrapped around herself.

 

“…Yeah,” he answered. “Why do you bring it up?”

 

He didn't meet her eyes.

 

“You don't…” She struggled to prop herself up, kicking off the blanket. “You don't remember when—“

 

“It was an accident,” he whispered, clutching the fallen blanket tight. She blinked for a minute, then uncurled his fist.

 

“I know. I didn't mean to bring him up. I thought—Today, I was thinking about when it happened.”

 

“Someone signed on the IM last night,” he said, and she thought that meant to drop it.

 

It didn't.

 

“It was Danny.”

 

Her eyes went wide, and she clung onto his arm to keep herself steady. “What?! That's not possible.”

 

“I didn't think so either. And I'm probably completely delusional, but it was his name, and I almost started talking to him, but he signed off too fast.”

 

“Tuck…” Her voice was soft. “Danny's dead. He can't be online.”

 

“I know. But I was thinking about it. It could be that…”

 

The rest of his words slipped away as Sam felt bile rise in her throat.

 

It was the best way, she decided, to end the conversation.

 

---

 

Thoughts raced through Sam's mind as she found herself unable to sleep. The day had been so utterly confusing, and she just wanted to close her eyes, but they refused to. It was like a bad dream, and when you squeezed your eyes shut to block it all out, it did no good, because it was there in the dark.

 

It had been an accident, of course. She'd always managed to repress that memory so perfectly, only rising up in dreams that she quelled quickly. There had been weeks—months—maybe years—where she and Tuck had felt responsible for it all, but everyone told them it wasn't their fault. But for a long time, they stood by their conviction, no matter how it made them feel.

 

Daniel Fenton had died, and they had killed him.

 

No matter how many times they went over it, no matter how many therapy sessions they'd gone too, and (in her case) no matter how far her parents moved her away, there was always that deep sense of blame that Sam had finally managed to put behind her.

 

There would be nightmares tonight.

 

Notes:

I'm sure most of you can figure out what “the accident” was. I like giving my characters shocking revelations, but they never turn out that shocking.

A rather depressing ending. I miss my witty banter.

Next Chapter: Sometimes you apologize, sometimes you ignore it.