Chapter Text
Lancer huffs impatiently and glances to his watch, tucking his hands deeper into his coat. He’s been standing out in the cold for a good ten minutes now, and there’s been no sign of the Fentons. He knocks yet again, unsurprised yet still annoyed when nobody comes to open the door.
He figures there must be a ghost attack somewhere in town, and he’ll have to just wait until the Fentons finish up and come back to the house. Lancer sighs and sits down on the front step, preparing himself for another twenty minutes of cold boredom.
He doesn’t really want to be here, anyway. He’s being incredibly accommodating to go all the way to the Fenton’s house for what should be a simple parent-teacher conference. But the Fenton’s schedule is about as weird as their work, and Danny admittedly requires more attention than others. Not that the kid particularly seems to want it.
In truth, Lancer thinks his grades are decent. They’d dropped drastically a few months back, but then again, there was an adjustment period for everyone after the town became ghost infested. Besides, since then, they’d made a slow rise and now sit in the stable C range. However, his behavior is something else. Danny has always been quiet and shy, but lately it seems worse. He’s exhausted and sullen, and Lancer swears that sometimes the kid walks with a limp or favors one arm over the other. He’s not exactly sure what’s going on, but years as a teacher makes it difficult to keep from jumping to conclusions after what he’s seen.
And waiting for half an hour in the cold on the Fenton’s front step isn’t doing any favors for his opinion on them.
Lancer stands, ready to brush the meeting off completely and reschedule. He slips his hand into his pocket and fumbles for his keys-
Green streaks across the sky, and Lancer gasps as the distinct sound of a window shattering echoes through the Fenton’s home. There’s a scream, and then a loud thud, followed by the crashing sound of furniture, accompanied with one last thump. Lancer’s eyes widen, and he tries the doorknob to find it, strangely, unlocked.
Lancer moves deeper into the house, concern stealing any time he has to dwell on it. He’s almost immediately blinded by green light, harsh and bright against the pitch black of the house. Lancer freezes, watering eyes glued to the person just ahead.
Gleaming white hair, black latex suit, piercing green eyes. Phantom. Lancer has never seen him this close up before.
What in the world is he doing at the Fenton’s house?
Before Lancer can voice his question, the silence of the house is broken by a low moan, then a soft thump as Phantom slides down against the wall, hand pressed to his side.
In his surprise, Lancer hadn’t noticed the ghost’s injuries. His side is dripping ectoplasm all over his suit and the floor. The kid groans when he notices the green sinking into the carpet, shifting in a way to keep the blood off the carpet in a gesture that is so strangely familiar that it makes Lancer’s heart twist.
Suddenly, Jasmine comes sprinting out of the hall, skidding to a stop on her knees right in front of Phantom. She looks more disheveled than Lancer has ever seen her. Her red hair is tied back messily, loose strands escaping to stick to her cheeks. Dirt is smeared across her t-shirt, and through the rips in her jeans Lancer can see blood. There’s a sharp red line right beneath her eye, but she wipes the blood away, irritated, her focus entirely pinned on Phantom.
Lancer suddenly feels like he’s intruding when Jasmine gently brushes the hair off Phantom’s forehead, thumbs green liquid off his cheek. For a moment Lancer wonders if they’re dating-it would explain what Phantom was doing in the house.
But something about that doesn’t seem quite right. The way Jasmine’s lips purse seems more motherly than anything. He’s seen her give the same look to Danny a thousand times.
Lancer is brought out of his thoughts when a choked sob escapes Phantom.
Now he definitely feels like he’s intruding.
Part of him tells him to get out while he still can, that this is private, bigger than he could even hope to understand. The other part, though, reminds him that these are kids and one of them is bleeding all over the carpet.
Well, Jasmine is definitely a kid. Lancer isn’t positive how age and ghosts work, but the snarkiness he’s seen in Phantom is a perfect match to half the teenagers in his class.
He quietly backs further into the blackness of the house, hesitant to stay, hesitant to go.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got some pain meds right here.” Jasmine soothes, quickly taking six little white pills into her palm.
That seems like a lot. Ghosts need pain medication?
Phantom shakes his head, shoulders trembling from how hard he’s keeping his tears back.
“N-no, s’not that. It hurts, but…” Phantom trails off, face falling.
“Jazz, I c-can’t do this anymore. She keeps saying I’m an imitation, a monster. That my feelings aren’t real, that I-I’m not real. I can’t- I can’t, Jazz, I-”
Jasmine wraps her arms around Phantom, and he buries his face in her neck. His hiccuping sobs echo throughout the house, the only reprieve being the undercurrent of Jasmine’s hushed reassurances.
Who was the ‘she’ Phantom spoke of? His words had reminded Lancer of one of the Fenton’s many lectures on ghost safety.
they don’t have feelings. they’re like echoes, imitations. they’re selfish, and nothing they do is what it seems. there is always an ulterior motive. yes, even with phantom. next question?
Maddie Fenton’s words echo in Lancer’s head as he watches Phantom cry in Jasmine’s arms. It’s difficult to think this is just an act when Phantom’s sobs are so heart wrenching and genuine.
If Maddie Fenton was the ‘she’ he was referring to, why did her words affect him so? Before today, Lancer had assumed that the only interactions between the Fentons and Phantom were when they both happened to show up to fight a ghost, and the aftermath when one or both of the Fentons would attempt to capture Phantom. He knows they aren’t exactly enemies, per se, but they definitely aren’t friends. Why would the words of a woman who was constantly threatening to dissect him hurt him to the point of tears?
Lancer’s train of thought is broken when Jasmine shifts Phantom upwards, trying to get a look at the wound still sluggishly bleeding on his abdomen.
“Shit.” Phantom gasps, voice wet and broken.
He presses his hands harder to the wound, groaning at the green blood across the carpet.
“How are we gonna explain that?” he says.
“Don’t worry about the carpet, Danny. Let’s focus on fixing your side.”
Danny? Lancer momentarily wonders if it’s strange for her to call him her brother’s name. Come to think of it, up close, Phantom bears a passing resemblance to Danny Fenton.
He’s never really thought about it before, but it is a little strange that they share a first name.
Lancer shakes himself from his thoughts again, focusing on the two teens. Jasmine has cut some of Phantom’s suit away, and is cleaning out the cut with far too much expertise for someone so young. Phantom winces, but stays relatively still, always ready and compliant when Jasmine asks him to turn or hand her more gauze.
This feels familiar. Practiced, as if the pair have done it a thousand times. Lancer feels a little sick.
“I think this needs stitches.” Jasmine murmurs, brow furrowed.
Phantom’s jaw flexes.
“Okay.”
Phantom stares at the floor while Jasmine carefully threads a needle, pulls out a lighter to sterilize it. Her hands are frighteningly still and calm as she pushes it into Phantom’s skin. He winces, but he’s as still as she is as she quickly pulls the skin back together in neat, careful stitches.
Phantom lets his head fall back against the wall. He looks to Jasmine miserably, guilt and pain etched deep into his face.
“‘m sorry you have to do all of this for me.” he whispers, voice trembling.
Jasmine softens, takes his face in one hand. What she says next is so soft Lancer is sure he’s heard her wrong.
“You’re my brother. I”m always gonna help you, whether it’s with school or stitches.”
you’re my brother.
Unexplained injuries stretching across months, starting right about when Phantom appeared. Jasmine’s sudden, fierce defensiveness over Phantom, even when it means fighting her parents. The way Sam and Tucker are so much more secretive, now. So much more tightly knit with Danny. Apart from it all, as if they know something nobody else does.
They do.
Lancer can’t keep the gasp from escaping. Phantom-Danny-flinches, head snapping up, green eyes painful in their gleaming intensity.
“Fuck.” he swears emphatically, voice cracked with hysteria.
For a moment, Lancer’s only thought is to chide him about his language. He nearly laughs at the absurdity of such a thought, the absurdity of it all.
Danny. Danny is Phantom. Phantom, the ghost who Lancer has seen fight opponents more than three times his size. Phantom, who bleeds green blood and can go invisible at a moments notice. Phantom, the ghost who has inexplicably devoted every hour to protecting townspeople who often treat him worse than the dirt beneath their shoes.
Phantom. A teenage kid whose voice still cracks, who had been sobbing in his older sister’s arms only moments ago, who has only just had a growth spurt and now seems apologetic for every inch of extra space he takes up.
A kid who’s forced to put his safety on the line every day. Bones broken. Claws and teeth ripping open skin that Lancer now realizes is human.
He’s fifteen.
god.
These thoughts race through Lancer’s mind in ten seconds, new information clicking and he’s almost mad that he didn’t see it before, didn’t notice the parallels, didn’t notice this poor kid, he’s just a kid, having to face actual, horrible monsters all on his own.
“Fuck.” Lancer agrees.