It's not unusual for Tucker and Sam to have to carry Danny home. It has become very normal, especially over the last few months. Still, Danny doesn't like it.

This time, he is awake, but just barely. He can't move, and it takes effort to breathe – partly due to the very possibly broken ribs, partly due to the pure exhaustion. This time, he is almost grateful for Sam and Tucker's supporting arms.

He can't breathe deeply; it hurts his ribs. Quick, shallow pants will have to do for now. When they get home, then he can get fixed up. For now, there's nothing they can do.

Even so, he's not sure he wants to go home. Home is where Maddie and Jack will be. They will be acting normal. As if they haven't just been out ghost hunting. He'll have to face them, remembering the pain they inflicted trying to kill him, and he doesn't want to do that.

He's … Afraid. There's something fundamentally wrong with being mortally afraid of your own parents, but even thinking about them right now sends a spike of fear through his heart. He tries not to dwell, because that hurts too.

For Danny, things are odd today. Some things he looks at waver, shimmer, like mirages. Some seem to fade in and out of sight. He doesn't like that, either.

He tries to open his mouth, to let his friends know, but he can't get the words out. He can feel something warm running down his cheek, like tears, only he knows he's not crying. The young teen can't quite figure out what's going on.

Sam, Tucker? I think there's something wrong. He tries again to speak, but still nothing emerges. He can't force his mouth to open. He is silent.

Tucker trips over a crack in the sidewalk, sending both himself and Sam off balance. It sends a spasm of pain through Danny's abused body; he gasps, pushing his broken ribs into a further bout of agony. He tries not to agitate anything, but in trying to get his breath back, he is hurting his ribs. It feels like someone is sawing his ribcage apart with a scalpel, one inch at a time, slowly cutting him apart.

The only parts of his body he seems to have control over are his eyes. He looks around, watching the scenery crawl by, then looking up at Sam's face. She looks at his eyes, locking her gaze with his. She smiles at him.

"Bet you're tired. We're almost back to your place. You can sleep there."

Thanks. He can't even nod, though. His mouth is glued shut, his body bound tight with invisible cords. He blinks instead, because that's all he can do.

Sam bends her head closer, looking at him. Then she shifts her grip on him so that she can worm one hand down the back of his shirt. Her hand rests against his bare skin, and if he could, he would protest. But she merely lays the back of her hand against his upper back, then withdraws it again.

"He's got a fever," she says, worriedly.

"Yeah? How? Was he sick before?"

"I don't know." Sam's voice is icy.

"Dude, did you have a fever before?"

No. I was fine before. He still can't speak. I wonder if Mom and Dad brought some invention that did something to me I didn't know about.

"Maybe one of his cuts is infected," Sam says, sounding unconvinced. "I don't know. He's hot, though."

Even now, Tucker is on his toes. "Oh! Is that a confession, Sam?"

"No, you idiot! Keep walking. I think something's wrong with him. I want to get him help."

Maybe it is a confession, Tucker, Danny thinks idly. He feels detached – interested in what's going on, but as if it's someone else's life. It doesn't embarrass him, Tucker's needling; nor does Sam's answer. He's viewing it all with a curious detachment.

All of his thoughts have become like inner monologues, each its own. It feels like the walk has already taken infinity and is not even halfway done, and the pain is intense. His head hurts now, too, the pain throbbing in time with a pulsing in his ears, thump, thump, thump. The pain seems concentrated on the right side of his head more than the left – one concentrated area of pain. He wants to roll his head, to try and stop it, but he can't. Unconsciously, his breathing quickens as he tries to distract himself.

As if the headache has triggered them, the plethora of aches and pains intensifies, rises up, pushes to the forefront of his thoughts. Ribs, arms, back, head, everything hurts.

And now he's sure that yes, Sam was right, he does have a fever. His skin aches where it comes into contact with anything, even his clothes. That, too, is painful. It sits on top of all the other pains, ever-present, annoying, distracting.

Things blend together for Danny. He registers Sam's and Tucker's voices, and he registers that warm wetness trickling down his right cheek, and he registers how every bit of his body hurts.

And he tries to look at Sam, but there's two of her now. As he watches, one wavers, shimmers, fades out. Then it returns again, clear and sharp.

Tucker, too, has multiplied; everything has. It sends Danny's world into a spin, everything so confusing – he's dizzy, and for a moment he feels like he's falling, then floating, and the world is spinning around him – even though he is simply lying in the grip of his friends.

Things distort and blur. The pain intensifies. Sounds become loud, so loud, coupling with the pulsing in his ears – Thump, thump –

"Tucker, be careful!"

Thump, thump –

"so-rry!"

Thump, thump.

And then they fade, muffle, distort until he can't understand them anymore.

He can't help a moan, and this sound is able to escape. Two Sams and two Tuckers look concernedly down at him. Faintly, he hears – "It's okay, Danny. You'll be okay."

He just wishes it would stop now, the confusing mess his world has suddenly become – confusing and painful and what did Maddie and Jack do to him, anyhow? He has never been this badly off.

And Sam's makeup is slightly smudged, and the splinters in that piece of wood to their right are suddenly so interesting. Tucker's mouthing something, and someone passes on the other side of – and if he can just move his head a little – and he thinks he recognizes – and isn't that – and –

And he can't tell which way is up anymore, and his focus and concentration have splintered, have disappeared. Too much – too many things he is noticing now, overloading him, adding to the confusion and pain and –

And Tucker's collar seems a little off-center, from where Danny's … Standing. Or … Is it lying? Or …

He blinks up at Sam – Sams – and their lips are moving. He cannot read lips. He does not know what she said. He just wishes everything would stop, let him be – just for a moment,

And there's a tangy, coppery taste on his tongue, and the warm wetness has reached the corner of his mouth. Coppery, like blood. Blood. That's what it must –

Leave him alone, just for a moment, let him organize –

Where is he bleeding from? He wants to check –

organize his thoughts, he just needs –

wants to know –

wants some relaxation time –

he lets his eyes drift closed, because there's nothing to see. And anyway, the lids were so heavy.

And everything goes quiet. Too quiet. Horribly, deafeningly quiet.

Well, murmurs a soft, sane part of his mind. You did ask for it.

--

They're delayed, Sam and Tucker, because they stop to tend to Danny. It is in vain. He has closed his eyes already; they nearly drop him when he tenses, arching his body, before going limp again.

They set him down on the grass, but there is nothing they can do for the young halfa. Sam knows enough to check vital signs. For a few minutes, they are there, quick and ragged – shallow breaths, racing pulse. And they jitter, falter, slow and fall still, finally ceasing entirely.

Neither teen speaks now. Neither can manage a word. They didn't think he was this badly off – they thought, with medical care –

He just needed some meds, some bandages, some painkillers –

--

and it is a sad little procession that makes its way into the Fenton home that day – Tucker and Sam, with Danny's rigid form between them. There is a trail of blood leading from the long, nasty gash in his right temple down to the corner of his mouth and beyond, snaking down his throat, nearly to his collar. It is dried now.

And nobody knows what to say, Tucker and Sam least of all. Neither of them can look at Danny's parents, because Sam is sure that if she does she'll leap at them and try and rip their throats out for what they've done; and Tucker is sure that if he looks at them, he will try and do the same. They keep their eyes glued to the floor, and the only person they can barely bare to look at is Jazz. Danny's family didn't know, didn't know who he was, what he was. Only Jazz knew.

And they say he had crossed paths with a ghost, that had taken him by surprise. They say that don't know where the culprit has gone; they don't say that his killers are standing right in front of them.

And the elder Fentons swear revenge on whoever killed their son, and Sam thinks it funny, because in essence they are swearing revenge upon themselves.

And Sam and Tucker leave the house, leave their friend with his grieving family, both still dry-eyed, both still in shock.

Somehow, ever since Danny had gained his powers, they have believed he is invincible.

Now, hard as it is, they know he is not. Was not. Could never have been.

The same thing nags them both as they head for their own homes, though they don't know the other is thinking the same thing.

It hurts them both – hurts them both even more than actually losing him – that the last thing they ever told him was a lie.