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Danny couldn't stop shaking. He was damn near vibrating in his seat, could feel sweat beading on his neck and back with the force he was exerting to suppress an outburst, to push down his transformation.
He was so, unbelievably, astronomically, pissed.
Jazz was doing her best to change the topic, to pull their parents from this particular line of ghost tirade but it was a losing cause, and her sad, sad eyes were starting to get to him. Tucker and Sam sat on either side of Danny, each with a hand on his leg to ground him. They were trying to be reassuring but their anger was obvious. It was in Tucker's scowl, unhidden, bold and unyielding but ever unseen by his parents. It was in the way Sam held her fork, gripped tightly in a fist on the table, looking, for once, ready to skewer meat.
His parents had realized ghosts could look and act just like humans, could pass as one for days or weeks at a time with no clear signals of their difference. A ghost had attacked without preamble and escaped, but only after causing lasting damage to the school, the students, and the town's faith.
And now... now, his parents were starting to point fingers. Point fingers at ghosts and people. Were trying to reason out who could be a ghost. And which ghosts could be masquerading as a human right under their noses. They wanted to know who was deceiving them, because there was no way there was just one.
Danny's hands were gripped tightly in his lap, but the moment the name Phantom crossed the table, he had to yank them apart, sharp pinpricks of pain bursting from his right palm as his left hand began to transform.
No way. Not now.
And when his parents turned to look at him, finally look at him, they noticed everything they had been missing.
"Are you okay Danny-boy? You're looking a little... green..."
He spared a glance down, under the table. His left hand, his left arm, was turning green.
He was angry, but he was also very, very scared.
It was an easy decision then, and he pushed his chair back with a screech and stood.
He hadn't spoken during dinner, for obvious reasons, but now, with his back turned and the last lingering bit of his self preservation, he managed to get out a "I think I'm gonna puke."
Danny bolted up the stairs, stumbling over each step, claws catching where he gripped the handrail and gouging marks so deep they stuck. His momentum nearly sent him tumbling back down the stairs before he caught himself, his other hand, his normal hand, landing right next to the first to catch the railing. He forced them up and out, wood splintering, and dashed up the remaining steps.
Heavy footsteps followed him, pounding on the stairs while his parents called after him, their words from dinner bouncing through his head, pushing him faster. Tears burned his eyes as he slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it behind him. He fell forward, heavy, hands gripping the edge of his sink, nails scraping uncomfortably on the porcelain, quick uneven breaths throwing him off balance. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, tight enough to hurt as he shook his head, tried to shake off his thoughts.
There’s no way, no way. No no no NO. NO! STOP stop it, change— change back!
A banging on the door broke him from his momentary spiral. His eyes flew open and he was greeted with his reflection staring back at him, teary eyed and shocked beyond belief.
Everything was wrong.
He was wrong.
He didn’t recognize the thing looking back at him.
It had his beanie, had his horns poking up from beneath it, growing, inching higher than ever as he watched, tearing twin holes into it, and he ripped the beanie off before it could be ruined completely. It had his hair, in some mismatched mockery of a black and white split dye. Had his eyes, one green and one blue, tearful and scared. It had his earrings and his nail polish, though the body parts they adorned now sported stark differences to each other. and ear ending in a high point, and one hand with sharp black claws. It had his freckles, and his sneakers. It had his core glowing brightly in its chest and his sweater that hung loosely from its bones.
His bones.
His literal skeleton.
He could see clavicles and a sternum, could see shoulder blades through his ribs. He had no heart and no stomach, had no lungs, which only served to confuse him because at this point he was starting to hyperventilate, could feel the air catching in a too tight throat he didn’t have, choking him of oxygen he didn't need, spiraling him further down into blind panic.
Shaky hands rose to touch, to test, but pulled back before they could make contact. No… no. It's not real. I'm, I'm okay. Instead they wrapped around his middle in a hug. And then he laughed. He laugher harder than he had in weeks. Maybe harder than he had in years.
Nothing. There was nothing to grab. His sweater gave way, collapsing beneath his hands and folding in his grip like paper mache. The only thing to grab onto was his spine, exposed like a nerve.
He wondered if he still had nerves.
He couldn’t stop laughing.
Danny contemplated pulling it out. Wanted to know if he would collapse into a pile of bones on his bathroom floor, wanted to know how he was still standing without muscles to support himself. He wondered if his friends and family would break down the door and find him there, if they’d blame another ghost for this tragedy.
He wondered if he would still be alive.
Or, well… you know.
A bit hysterical at this point, he threw his head back to laugh harder, and felt his jaw unhinge, mouth spread wider than should be possible, a spotlight of green from his core spilling up through a million teeth as tears poured down his face. He couldn't stop looking.
Nausea roiled in his gut and he thought he might actually throw up but how? With what? From where? He clamped a hand over his mouth just incase, flinching at the sharp scraping of nails claws on his cheek. He was green in the face, literally, skin faded, half in half out. An ever-shifting split that crawled across his skin, that seemed to be winning out because no matter how hard he tried to shove it down, to will himself back human, tan and alive and not some half baked nightmare creature, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it, it wasn’t working this time. He was stuck.
No, I can't be stuck like this, I can't– I can't, please no, they'll–
The banging never stopped, had only increased with his manic laughter. The door handle rattled behind him, shook like they intented to break it down. The noise bounced off the tile walls, reverberated in his chest, filled the space where his beating heart once was and he brought his other hand there, his human hand, dug his fingers into his chest and wished for a reassuring beat.
All he found was the frantic, frightened thrumming of his core.