A beeping sound rings out filling the previously quiet bedroom, light footsteps echo down the hall, and a woman wearing a bright blue hazmat suit and red goggles walks through the doorway and into her son's room. Making her way swiftly over to the bed that is cradling her ailing son, she sweeps his dark hair off of his sweat dampened forehead and smooths it back. Reaching toward his mouth, she gently removes the thermometer from the teen's mouth and tsks at what she sees displayed on the small, digital screen.

The boy in the bed looks up at her with glazed blue eyes, he opens his mouth to speak "What's the damage, doc?" He croaks out.

"Ninety nine degrees," she replies, "you definitely have a fever."

The distinct thudding sound of heavy footfalls were heard briefly coming down the hallway before a large man with graying, dark hair in an orange hazmat suit appears in the room and joins his wife beside his son "How is he Mads?" His voice is booming, the boy winces slightly.

"Not good Jack, he's got a fever."

"What, Danny-boy has a fever?! Who did it? Was it a ghost?" He demands suspiciously, yelling, the boy's wince is slightly more pronounced this time.

"Dad," Danny says wheezing slightly, "I'm sick, nobody did anything. It happens."

"No ghost is going to make my boy sick and get away with it, to the lab!" Obviously, Danny's statement has been completely ignored, as the man in orange has already sprinted out of the room, and crashing can be heard from downstairs. Jack Fenton is a man with ghosts on the brain after all, once he starts thinking about them he just can't seem to stop. His wife, Maddie Fenton, on the other hand is the more sensible of the two of them. She makes a feeble attempt at stopping him, already knowing it's futile, and turns to her son once her husband has left.

"I'd better go keep him out of trouble," she sighs out, "we'll probably be out for a while, sweetie. There's cold medicine downstairs, I'll send Jazz up here with some before she leaves for school today."

"Already on it, mom." Comes a voice from the doorway, the other occupants of the room glance over to see a tall, slim, redhead standing at the threshold of the room with a tray resting in her hands. On the tray among other medicines and remedies are some apple slices, a cup of steaming tea, a bottle of cough syrup, and cough drops.

"Oh good! Can you take care of your brother before you go? I need to catch up to your father, he is about to go on a wild goose chase and I need to stay with him to make sure he doesn't shoot at something he shouldn't."

"No problem," Jazz starts, but is cut off by her panicked mother.

"Thank you, sweetie! I've got to run, see you both later!" She shouts out, practically down the hall already.

Jasmine Fenton, or Jazz as she preferred to be called, pushes herself away from her flattened position against the wall. Her mom nearly knocked the tray from her hands and onto the floor in her haste to get out of the room. Luckily, Jazz reacted quickly enough and got out of the way before she was covered with scalding tea and cold medicine.

"I can't believe them, being so irresponsible when their son is sick in bed with a fever." She shakes her head as she walks across the room. "It's like they don't even care!" She sets the tray down on the bedside table.

"C'mon Jazz, you know mom and dad, that is their way of caring. Even if it's a little backward." Danny says, defending his parents.

"A little backward? More like completely backward! They should be here, with you, caring for you, not out hunting the ghost responsible for getting you sick. Who, by the way, doesn't even exist. You have been showing symptoms of being sick for days, and they never even noticed." Danny stays as quiet as he possibly can, in hopes he won't be dragged into his sister's tirade, "and you," too late, "you should have listened to me when I told you to ease up on the late night ghost fighting!" She points her finger at him in her frustration.

"I can't just not fight ghosts, Jazz," he coughs out her name, "Amity Park would be in ruins if I didn't, it's my job. There have been six ghost attacks just in the past three days. What was I supposed to do, sit around and let them terrorize the city?"

"Yes," Danny raises an eyebrow at that statement, "Tucker, Sam, and I could have handled the ghost attacks while you fought off your oncoming fever."

"You know how I feel about you guys fighting ghosts without me."

"Of course I do but, sometimes you need to worry about yourself, little brother, not everyone else." Her tone is almost motherly.

He rasps out a hum in response, Jazz glances at the digital clock on the bedside table and sighs "I need to get going. Take your medicine, Danny, and don't even think about getting out of this bed. Do you hear me?"

A reluctant nod is her response and is apparently enough to satisfy her, because she turns to leave throwing a glance over her shoulder. Moments later the front door is opened and shut with a quiet click; Danny is now all alone in the big house. What will he do? He coughs violently, taking his medicine sounds like a good idea right about now. Reaching over to the tray beside him, he grabs the cough syrup and spoon, pops off the cap, and takes a spoonful of the horrid, purple liquid. Grape, my ass, he thinks to himself, looking at the bottle through his grimace, do the people who make this stuff even know what fruit tastes like? He shudders at the after taste. Obviously not.

He sits up in his bed and leans back on the headboard, and grabs the mug of tea from the tray. Blowing on the rising steam, he sips on the tea, attempting to get the remains of the awful flavor out of his mouth. It's peppermint, he notes idly. Danny's eyes meet the wall, and stare at it dazedly, he gets the feeling like he's forgetting something. A mouthful of tea is half way down his throat when he remembers, Tucker and Sam! I need to tell them I won't be coming to school today! For a reason entirely unrelated to his sore throat a whole new fit of coughing to bursts from his mouth. He whacks a fist against his chest while trying to take deep breaths. Swallowing hot tea down the wrong way tends to burn quite a bit.

The coughing stops after several long moments, and while wiping a tear from his eye Danny reaches for his cell phone on the table nearby. After unplugging it, and checking for any messages or missed calls, he dials Sam's number. It hardly rings once before she picks up "Danny! Where the hell are you? You're an hour late for school, we thought you were dead!" Okay, so maybe it wasn't Sam.

"Tucker, give me my damn phone!" He hears being yelled from the background, followed by some muffled scratching noises, and crackling screeches. Danny holds the phone away from his ear, while he waits for their scuffle to end. This goes on for several minutes, until there is a sound that is eerily similar to dying dolphin, followed by whimpering and panting breaths.

"Danny? Are you still there?" Sam huffs out, as Danny presses the phone back to his ear again.

"I think I am," he chuckles, and then breaks out into light coughs, "ah sorry about that."

"What's he saying?" Tucker moans out in pain.

"Shut up Tucker." Sam snaps.

"Put it on speaker, Sam?" Tucker nearly begs.

"Fine." She sighs.

"Can both of you hear me?" Danny clears his throat.

"Yeah." They both chime.

"Where have you been, Danny?" Tucker asks with more than a little concern in his voice.

"Home, I'm sick."

"Sick?! Can you even get sick? You're half ghost!" Tucker squawks.

"I don't know Tuck, I guess I can. I was just calling to let you guys know that I'm not dead in an alley somewhere. Or, uh, more dead than I already am."

"Are you feeling okay?" Sam asks worriedly.

"I'll let you know when my brain isn't trying to escape my head. I will definitely not be leaving the house today, though. Hell, I might not leave tomorrow either."

"Geez dude, are you that sick?"

"Yeah Tucker, I have a ninety nine degree fever. I haven't felt this warm since before my ice core activated. It's weird and... Sweaty."

"Gross man."

"I don't even want to know how this fever might affect my powers." Danny says getting caught in the thought.

"That could be bad... What about your parents?" Sam asks.

"They're nothing to worry about, I'll be home alone all day. My dad got it into his head that I'm sick because of some ghost and ran out of the house, and my mom followed him to keep him out of trouble."

"That's really irresponsible of them."

"You sound like my sister, Sam." Danny chuckles.

"Well she wouldn't be wrong." Sam counters.

Danny sighs, "I think it goes without saying that I won't be on ghost duty for a couple of days. Would you guys mind-"

"You don't even have to ask, man." Tucker cuts him off.

"Yeah, we're on it Danny, you just focus on getting better."

"Okay, Sam."

"And if I catch you out fighting ghosts, I will trap you in a Fenton Thermos and drag you back to bed myself. Got it?"

"Yes, Sam." Danny's voice shakes slightly.

"Good. Tucker and I will take notes for you."

"Thanks you guys."

"No problem, dude!" Tucker chimes.

"We'll stop by after school."

"Right, see you then." Danny ends the call.

Well that's taken care of, he deflates with a sigh of relief and ponders what he should do for the rest of the day. The thought of watching some TV in the living room downstairs crosses his mind, and he decides it's a good idea. After kicking his covers off, he tries to lift himself out of bed, the world tilts a bit and Danny wonders when his room got to be so blue. He falls back into bed having been struck with a brief, but intense, spell of lightheadedness. Scratch that, TV is a bad idea. Okay so, I can add moving to the list of things I won't be doing today. It seems as though, whether he wants to or not, Danny will do as his sister told him and not leave his bed. He buries his face into his pillow, and a groan of frustration wracks another coughing fit from his raw throat.

"I'm stuck in a spiraling vortex of boredom and suffering." His voice is muffled as he whines into his pillow. He turns over onto his back, "Like seriously! I can fight ghosts practically in my sleep, but I can't fight the damn sniffles!" Danny feels like he wants to scream, in fact he does, and then coughs right in the middle of it; the ceiling is met with a scathing glare.

"I'm cursed, that must be it. I am cursed," He laughs bitterly, "first I'm turned half ghost, then I have every hunter and my mother after me, now I have a fever. What next?" Abruptly, a shudder travels up his spine, and a wisp of frosty breath crawls out of his mouth.

"Are you shitting me."

The room drops in temperature, it isn't an obvious change if you aren't looking for it, but it's change enough to give one the feeling that something is amiss. It is a feeling Danny knows all too well. Cackling starts to ricochet off of the walls, and the sickly teen tenses in anticipation from his bed. In the center of the room a towering figure gradually fades into existence, leering down at the helpless boy in his bed; the being is assessing his prey.

"Ghost child," the faint sound of mechanical whirs follow his statement, "are you ready to become my newest trophy?"

The ghost child in question pinches the bridge of his nose, "Not today Skulker," he interrupts himself with yet another cough, "I'm sick. I can't even stand much less fight you right now."

"I wasn't aware a halfling like yourself could get sick."

"Well apparently I can. I have a fever," if Danny is sick of anything, it's explaining himself, "and your voice is making my head hurt worse than it already is."

Skulker examines the young halfa more closely, the room is quiet for a beat, "You must be ill if you look this awful."

"Thanks."

"How am I supposed to take your pelt with you looking this way?"

"I have an idea: don't."

"And why would I do that? I have you exactly where I want you."

"You've already answered your own question; because I wouldn't make very attractive décor right now. And what fun would you have attacking me today anyway? I'm completely defenseless."

The hunter considers his prey's statement with a long hum, "I suppose I can leave you be this once, however next time, there will be no mercy."

"Joy."

"Be ready, whelp." Skulker disappears just as quickly as he appeared.

"That was almost too easy." Danny mutters to himself, the room now vacant as it was before, he waits a moment before he lets his guard drop. Minutes pass and nothing of note happens, but knowing better than to drop his guard so quickly, he waits anxiously for something to go wrong. Danny sits up in his bed and gives the room a thorough twice over, holding his breath. The room regains its warmth and all remains quiet, as he leans back against his pillows. Thinking it to be safe he releases a sigh of relief, only for another puff of icy blue breath to escape from his mouth "Are. You. Shitting. Me." He tips his head back and groans with all of his might, resisting the coughs that tried to claw their way from his throat.

The room grows cold once more, while one spot toward the center of the room suspiciously clings to its heat. Yet, through it all Danny's face remains skyward with the remnants of a groan pouring from his mouth.

"Hey dipstick, I heard you were under the weather."

The aforementioned dipstick ignores the ghost in the middle of his bedroom in hopes that she might go away.

"Listen bub, you'd better not be ignoring me," she says irritably when she receives no response, "I was planning on paying you a peaceful visit, but I might have to give you a reason to pay attention to me if you don't quit it." She slowly reaches for the strap of the guitar she has on her back.

"What do you want, Ember?" Even with his eyes closed, he can easily place her slightly gravely voice.

"Nothin' much," she shrugs and lowers her hand, "I just wanted to see for myself if the great and mighty Phantom was really down with the sniffles."

"Well you've seen me," he rolls his head to look at her, "will that be all?"

"Maybe. I might just want to stay here and bug you all day. That's always a good time."

"A good time for me maybe, our encounters usually end with you trapped in a Fenton Thermos." He pauses, having just thought of something, "Can I ask why you and Skulker don't seem nearly as aggressive as usual today? I mean, here I am, weak and ripe for skinning or whatever it is your boyfriend wants to do to me, and neither of you have done a thing."

Her response is automatic, "Because it wouldn't be as fun. You're half the reason any of us attack this dumb town anymore."

"You're kidding right?"

"Nope. Watching you scramble around is extremely entertaining."

"So, you're telling me that you guys terrorize my town because you get a sick enjoyment from making me suffer?"

"Did I stutter?"

Danny had an inkling that might have been the case but, he never thought it was so deliberate. It occurs to him that he has gotten himself stuck in a vicious cycle. If he quits protecting the town to make the ghosts lose interest in it, the town will not only be without its first line of defense, but the ghosts will attack it more to draw him out. His life is a literal joke, and a bunch of ghosts are yucking it up at his expense. Absolutely wonderful, could this day get any better? Wait, no, I don't want an answer to that question.

"Don't look so down, baby pop," she soothes sardonically, "we're dead, practically anything is more amusing than floating around in the Ghost Zone. We've just got a special affection for you."

"That's just dandy."

"Isn't it though?"

Danny isn't the type to believe in past lives but, with becoming a halfa and dealing with ghosts on a regular basis, that belief easily came into question. Surely, such a thing is possible, because there's no way he could be condemned with such horrible luck without having done something terrible in a past life. What could I have possibly have done to deserve this? His train of thought barrels off course for several minutes, until he realizes something.

"Hold on a second, how did you hear I was sick so quickly?"

"Besides the fact that the ghost who found out was my boyfriend, there's the fact that the ghost who found out was my boyfriend. He can't keep his yap shut, the whole Ghost Zone knows, dipstick." Danny looks like he wants to scream again, "Like I said, we don't have a lot better to do, so news travels fast there."

Danny curses quietly, "Am I going to have to deal with ghosts popping in on me all day?"

"Probably." She shrugs, and tips back to float as if she were laying down on her back with her hands behind her head and her legs crossed. She looks as if she's on a hammock.

"Will all of them care as little as you and Skulker do about attacking me?"

"Who knows?"

"That's reassuring." He begins to panic when he realizes what a sick day really means for him and his town, "What about the town? And my friends? Will they be okay?"

"What do I look like to you, the gossip mill? I don't know, and I don't care."

"Aren't you helpful."

"I'm not here to be helpful," she shifts back up into an upright position with her hands on her hips, "just 'cause I called us even after the Pariah incident, doesn't mean we're best pals, and it doesn't mean I have to help you, either."

"Right, okay," he tries to placate her when he notices her hair had began to flare up, "Okay, I know."

She harrumphs, "Yeah, well, whatever. I'm gonna go, dipstick." Danny's ghost sense goes off again, "Looks like you have another guest to see to anyway." She smirks and phases through his wall, lazily waving as she leaves.

A small, green puppy appears in her place, Danny feels his shoulders slump in relief. "So you heard I was sick too, huh? Did you come to cheer me up?" He smiles.

The pup yaps and scrambles over to the bed, jumps up onto it, and settles himself on the young teen's chest, and begins to lick Danny's face liberally "Ah, Cujo!" Try as he might he could not deter the dog's excitement. "Cujo, down boy!" He manages to hug the squirming green ball of energy to his chest with one arm, and with the other he wipes his face, "Ew, ecto-slobber."

Danny's own excitement stirs up a new flurry of coughs, and the pup peers up at him. Cujo settles into anxiousness, and begins to paw at his friend's abdomen, whimpering in worry.

Danny strokes the dog behind his ears, trying to offer him comfort, "Hey, I'm okay buddy." He smiles reassuringly, "How'd you get here? Huh?" He coos softly.

Danny's hand jostles Cujo's collar, and he hears a something crinkle. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, and he pats around the dog's neck to find the source of it. He feels something of a different texture beneath his fingers and hears that crinkling sound again. Pinching at what he found, Danny pulls it gently from Cujo's collar and examines it. A paper? Cujo uses his muzzle to nudge him, looking at the teen encouragingly, silently urging him to unfold the paper. If only to quell his own curiosity and to calm his furry friend down, he does. He reads the writing he finds on the sheet of folded, and somewhat chilled, paper with a furrowed brow.

Great One,

I hope this message finds you well and in a timely manner. We of Far Frozen have heard of your poor health, and send our wishes for your successful recovery. We send also, a companion in the form of this small specter. You had mentioned such a pup before had you not? Recover quickly Daniel, and visit us soon,

-Frostbite Of Far Frozen

A small smile creases his face as Danny scans over the sharp signature at the bottom of the message. He feels a warm sensation spill through his stomach at the thoughtfulness of his friend, surely he would be paying Frostbite a visit as soon as he is able to stand without the threat of fainting. The fuzzy bundle in his arms yaps quietly, nuzzling at his hand, Danny glances down at Cujo and smirks with obvious warmth. Cujo attempts to move Danny's stalled hand back into scratching at that spot behind his ear. Danny watches in amusement for a moment before he gives in and does what's desired of him. If a dog could purr Cujo would be absolutely shaking right about now.

He absentmindedly continues running his fingers through Cujo's short fur as he contemplates what he should do for the rest of the day – which isn't much – Danny glances over at the clock and finds to his surprise that it's already past eleven. Seconds later his stomach also notifies him of the time, and Cujo perks up slightly from his spot on Danny's abdomen having heard it loud and clear. Reaching for the tray beside him, Danny grabs the plate of apple slices and begins munching on his snack. It only takes a minute before he has scarfed down the chilled fruit, and he finds that he is still hungry.

"Well shit," Cujo's ear twitches at him, "looks like I'm gonna starve, buddy."

Cujo only cocks his head and yips at him, obviously not understanding. Danny is very stuck, being hungry and having learned his lesson about trying to stand leaves him out of options. I could call for takeout, he reaches for his phone before he realizes that he would still have to get up to answer the door and his hand stops short. Danny wracks his brain for ideas, nearly laughing at the idea of his parents actually picking up the phone during a ghost hunt, his friends wouldn't have time to drop by, and just thinking about standing again makes him cringe. He has no shortage of ideas, but executing them successfully is an entirely different story.

At that point, his stomach feels it should remind him of his dilemma again "Shut up, you." He scolds his rebellious gut, how dare it be hungry.

He figures he could try sleeping off his hunger, it's certainly better than starving for another three and a half hours until his sister got home. Deciding that this is the best course of action, Danny gently shifts a dozing Cujo off of his chest and turns over to face the wall his bed was pushed against, and shuts his eyes. Beneath his lowered eyelids with nothing to focus on but darkness, Danny's fever is more apparent than it was before. His muddled, feverish mind feels like it's sloshing around in his skull and it nearly makes him seasick with how much the room feels to be rocking. He struggles to keep his head above the waves of his nauseating mental tide of thoughts that threaten to drown him in their nonsensical magnitude. There is no doubt that his empty stomach is to blame for the queasy and unpleasant feeling that riddles his body.

Having given up completely on the thought of getting any rest, Danny cracks his eyes open and turns over to squint at the ceiling. With his stomach loud and his head heavy, he considers his options and decides to do what his hunger tells him is best; so begins attempt two of standing. The first thing his diseased brain comes up with to avoid the woozy sensation he'd be sure to feel is to roll himself off the bed. Being desperate and with only half of his wits about him, he does just that, landing with a wince. The cold, unforgiving wood floor of his room while not a good cushion does make a wonderful means of cooling his heated body. He touches his forehead to the cool surface, allowing himself a minute of rest.

Cujo, who had been roused from his brief nap, peeks over the edge of the bed to peer down at the motionless body on the floor. The fur ball decides to make the only rational choice which is, of course, to follow his friend's example. A weight slams onto Danny's spine and knocks the wind out of him; if he hadn't felt lousy before he certainly does now. Cujo, on the other hand, is extremely pleased with his soft landing, and the squishy warmth beneath his paws. While the pup trots in place upon his back, Danny wills himself to stop seeing double, finding it extremely difficult to catch his breath with an excited puppy doing a jig on his spine. Strength isn't something Danny has much of, especially not in the position he's in at the moment, so Cujo continues to use his body as a dance mat for several painful moments while Danny regains his bearings.

Reaching around his shoulder he pats around for Cujo's collar and gives it a gentle tug, leading the dog off of his back. Danny huffs and puffs his way into a sitting position and leans back on his bed. Cujo runs around his feet, yapping away in a manner that could be considered urging, while pulling at his friend's pant leg. Danny chuckles breathily and braces himself up against his bed frame, slowly easing himself into a stand. So far so good, he thinks as he cautiously strides over to the open door of his room. He keeps his hand trailing along the wall while he walks wobbly toward the stairs at the end of the hallway. Cujo waddles a few steps behind him as quietly as a puppy can manage, focused as he is on being quiet, he bumps into the backs of Danny's calves when he comes to a stop at the top of the stairs. With his right hand firmly grasping the railing, Danny slowly descends to the first floor step by step.

When his feet touch the wood floor of his living room, Danny lets out a gushing breath of relief, "Well that ordeal's over," he turns to Cujo who is watching from one of the bottom few stairs, "we did it buddy!" The little specter catches his friend's excitement and wiggles around on his perch, "High five!" Danny offers his open palm to the pup, and receives an enthusiastic pat from a small, green padded paw in return.

He scoops his little friend up into his arms, and carries Cujo the rest of the way to the kitchen. All the while, Cujo licks at the hands cradling him and Danny does his best not to drop the squirming fur ball. Once the pair reach the kitchen the pup is gently placed on the floor and left to his own devices while Danny rummages through the cupboards. There is nothing behind a couple of half empty cereal boxes in one, and hardly anything but canned beans and seasoning in another. Things are looking grim for food choices; Danny's last hope lies, with any luck, in the fridge. With his fingers crossed and his eyes closed, he opens the fridge and feels a chill from the opened door. One eye squints open followed by the other, and Danny is greeted with the sight of mostly bare shelves. He blinks once, twice, not believing the mirage in front of him, he sticks his head into the chill of the fridge searching for some invisible corner filled with nonexistent food.

Several silent, baffled moments pass before, "What the hell?!" Danny bursts.

He knows without a doubt his mom got groceries a few days ago, and they had plenty of food just last night. So where did all of the food go? His body jostles slightly and he hears panting at his feet, he looks over his shoulder and finds Cujo nuzzling his legs. Danny tries to shoo him away so that he could solve this mystery without interruption, when it hits him: his parents are ghost hunting scientists. They must have contaminated the food with their experiments again. He curses his parents' profession, and his rotten luck with all of his breath. The idea of takeout begins to sound like his best option, and so he reaches to pull out his phone from his pocket... and finds nothing.

"Damn it all," he had left his phone in his room and retrieving in it in the state he's in does not sound like a good idea.

He sighs in defeat, drags himself over to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair and practically throws himself into it. The wood of the table feels cold on his forehead; Danny groans at it. Cujo weaves figure eights around and between his legs, yapping his encouragement at his friend. The longer he sits there, the more the room sways, and Danny becomes even more nauseated. He is so out of it, he doesn't even notice the icy breath that puffs from his mouth, and if he did notice, he wouldn't have had the energy to care. The distant sound of clattering reaches his ears, and he lifts his head when he hears a muffled thump from in front of him. What he sees could only be described as a vision of beauty, it must be real, it can't not be. Before him sits a bowl of chili and a slice of corn bread, accompanied by a tall glass of apple juice. The steam rising from the bowl washes his face with warmth and fills his nose with its delectable aroma, Danny can feel his mouth water. What merciful entity could have blessed him with such a glorious gift?

"Well don't just look at it, dearie," a voice warbles from across the table, "you're a growing boy, not to mention a sick one. You need to eat your meat."

Danny glances up and meets the eyes of the Lunch Lady, he takes a long moment to gather his wits, being thoroughly confused by her sudden appearance. Danny tenses instinctively but is taken off guard when she continues to smile encouragingly at him, and so he does the only sane thing he could think of doing in such a situation: he laughs.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" Danny gasps through his chuckles, "I must be, because there is absolutely no way this could ever happen in reality."

Through it all, the elderly woman specter shows no visible reaction but a raised eyebrow, "You aren't dead, dearie, or at least not yet. That is why you must eat!" Her voice and appearance flicker briefly from a sweet old woman, to the terror she is.

Leaning back in his chair, Danny takes a few gasping breaths to calm himself. The Lunch Lady watches in mild amusement, and finally the young halfa is able to meet her gaze. For a beat, they stare each other down; one questioningly, the other patiently.

"Wait, you're serious?" He gestures to the food.

She raises her eyebrow higher and her lips draw into a straight line; her expression portrays a resounding duh, "Your soup is getting cold."

The meal couldn't have looked more appealing, the smell alone is enough for Danny to almost instantly wipe away his doubts. Gulping visibly, he lifts a shaky hand to the spoon in front of him, dips it into the chili, and shuttles it to his mouth. He closes his eyes and moans in appreciation of the flavor and the feeling of his stomach becoming a little less empty. It's heavenly. Hardly five minutes pass before half of the bowl is gone, he's shoving corn bread into his mouth taking chomping bites of it. Danny doesn't even care that the chili is a little too hot; he chugs the glass of apple juice every other bite. There is absolutely no feeling quite like that of a full stomach.

Once he's done ravaging his food, Danny pushes his dishes away from him and gulps down the last of the apple juice. He lays his face onto the table top, slamming his cup down as he went. Stomach finally full, and completely contented Danny lets out a satisfied sigh. Lunch Lady is both mystified and entertained by the display, and she can't help but giggle softly to herself. The sound catches the attention of the boy slumped over the table and he straightens up quickly, having almost entirely forgotten about his guest.

Danny fumbles for a few seconds to successfully get some words out of his mouth, before finally managing something intelligible, "Ah, thanks Lunch Lady."

"It wasn't a problem, dear child," she says in a deceptively sweet tone, "I merely want you better so that I can fight you again soon. After all, you can't heal on an empty stomach."

Danny chuckles uncomfortably, but smiles nonetheless, he thanks her again awkwardly before she takes her leave. He is left alone again in the big house, or almost alone Danny mends to himself after receiving a tug on his pant leg by his over eager four legged friend.

With one of his major problems taken care of, he can finally deal with his second major issue: boredom. At this point that's a fairly easy fix, being downstairs meant that he could watch TV. Using his toes, Danny nudges Cujo away from his feet and tries to ease himself out of his chair. That, of course, causes the pup to think it's playtime and Danny finds his toes being nipped at while he makes a valiant attempt at not tripping. He barely manages to grip the table before he hit the floor; the table screeches at being pulled by his weight. Cujo stops short of tackling Danny's foot and backs away, dropping his head in apology after finding himself at the receiving end of a exasperated glare.

Righting himself, and pushing in his chair, Danny ambles his way into the living room. He swipes the remote off of the coffee table along the way, and plops onto the couch, flicking the TV on as he settles. The TV is blaringly loud. Danny physically leans away from the noise, fumbling with the remote, and turns the volume down from a blasting forty two to a more agreeable twenty one. Dad must have been watching a Packers' game recently, Danny rubs his aching ears in thought, really it's a miracle he hasn't gone deaf yet.

Being that the couch facing the TV isn't very long, and Danny isn't as short as he used to be, most of the positions he can take to fit lying down on it usually involve him curled up in some way. Which, really, doesn't matter much to him; it's comfortable for him like that. He flicks through the channels, finding little less than game shows, sitcoms, soap operas, and children's programming. He checks his favorite channels again, and even flicks through every channel on their cable block for good measure, and comes up with hardly more than he did before.

"I had almost forgotten how uninteresting daytime TV is," he grumbles to himself, and finally settles on a rerun marathon of an 80's sitcom.

The story-line is a trite but true, family friendly sort of feel good fest, with morals and corny humor around every corner. Danny tunes in mid episode, when a small blonde girl had just made a right mess of the family room, surely hijinks shall ensue. Whimpering from across the room draws Danny's attention away from the screen. He glances over the arm of the couch and sees a very dejected looking Cujo, giving Danny his best puppy dog eyes as a means of an apology. Cujo's still down on himself about accidentally tripping him in the kitchen, and Danny feels a mild flutter of guilt in his gut for being a little hard on him moments ago. Giving Cujo a warm smile, Danny beckons him over with a wave of his hand. With a cock of the head and a few blinks, Cujo bounds across the room, tongue lolled out and cheerful, as if he wasn't upset seconds before.

Cujo puts his front paws on the edge of the couch near Danny's face and balances up onto his hind legs, with his head peeking over the couch, he gives a long, wet lick to his friend's cheek and yaps joyfully. Danny laughs and gently pats the pup on his head, wiping the dog slobber off of his face with his sleeve on his free hand. Cujo decides to join his friend on the couch, hopping up he settles down in the nook created by Danny's curled position on the couch between his thighs and his stomach. Circling several times and settling he lets out a grunting, groan of a sigh and nudges the warm abdomen he's leaned against. Danny similes fondly at Cujo and rests his hand on Cujo's back, absently rubbing the spot under his fingers as he turns his head back toward the cheesy sitcom in front of him. Looks like the wacky uncle is trying to smooth over an argument with awful jokes and meager advice, Maybe I could take his input a little more seriously if he didn't have his hand up a woodchuck puppet's butt.

From episode to episode, Danny can feel his eyes growing dryer and dryer, he blinks longer in attempt to wet them but to no avail, this only makes his eyelids heavier and he begins to nod off. He honestly can't remember how many episodes he's watched. What was he on now? His fourth or his sixth? His drowsy brain can't conjure a coherent thought at this point, much less try to count. The sounds around him grow muffled like he has his head under water, and everything his tired eyes see blurs together. He blinks again, trying to make the world come back into focus, but his eyes stay closed. Using every ounce of strength he has, Danny tries to force them open but he just can't; and besides, the picnic with his friends he sees behind his eyelids is far more appealing than the corny sitcom beyond them. He thinks he'll stay for a while, and share a lunch with his two best friends.

Boy and dog are fast asleep on the couch, the sitcom offering itself as white noise to the scene. Shuddering in his sleep, Danny breathes out a blue misty breath, but he's far too busy with his friends in the land of nod to wake up. A swirling vortex opens by the hands of a clock, and the serene presence that always follows Clockwork, ghost of time, trails behind him as he exits the portal. His face elderly, and his smile grandfatherly, as he gazes down at the young halfa and his small green charge. He notices a slight shivering tremble in the boy's shoulders, and his eyebrows knit together. A deep blue blanket is conjured from thin air, and spread over the boy's curled form. From beneath it, a furred head peeps out, the now round and chubby face of a child puts a finger to his mischievous smirk and winks. Cujo copies the wink as best as he can in return and cuddles back down under the fluffy blanket, snuggling back into Danny's stomach with a sigh. Grinning at his handy work, the child ancient exits from the same portal he had entered from, leaving the room otherwise unchanged.

The blanket covering him slips slightly over the next half an hour, and Danny clings to Cujo in search of it. In his sleep he dreams of wonderful things: he dreams of days with little ghost activity and a world without Plasmius. He dreams of his friends and family and lockers whose favorite meals are a certain blonde jock. His lips quirk in contentment; perhaps this sick day hadn't been as bad as he thought it would be.

edited: 8-7-16

edited: 9-25-16.