A/N: Hello. This is my first foray into the Danny Phantom fandom. I apologize for any important deviation from canon; I have not seen any Danny Phantom since its cancellation. Needless to say, my memory is a bit foggy. Assume that all of the discrepancies are intentional liberties that I have taken as a fanfiction author and that this is but a slight AU.

DISCLAIMER: I have already stated that I am a fanfiction author, posting a work of fanfiction on a fanfiction site. Incidentally, I do not own Danny Phantom and am merely a fan.

Danny Fenton was pissed.

He had the benefit of—he glanced at his clock; 3:17, it reported in glowing numerals—four hours of sleep before the chill of his ghost sense permeated his subconscious. This, in itself, may not have prompted much of an emotional response—it happened all the time—except for just that: Lately, it happened all the time. Danny could scarcely remember the last full night he had of uninterrupted sleep. By his count, it had been weeks.

Couldn't the ghosts give it a rest?

With an annoyed huff, a resigned "Going ghost" and a flash of light, Danny phased through his bedroom window and began to maneuver his way down the streets of Amity Park. He didn't bother gaining enough altitude to fly over the buildings; from what he could tell, the ghost he was pursuing was relatively weak, and besides, doing so could have exhausted the energy he needed to activate his Fenton Thermos.

Okay, perhaps he wasn't that tired. It certainly felt like it, though, and if this were just the Box Ghost again, he might have to test whether or not repeated ecto-blasts could cause the bringer-of-cardboard-doom to lose form.

The next morning—later that day, he reminded himself with a few half-hearted curses for all things box-like and square—Danny braved the school bus rather than fly to Casper High. He shot another glare at the blue Ford parked in the driveway of Fenton Works, but he once again imagined the psych-analysis he would undoubtedly receive and for which he really did not have the patience at the moment, and thence he duly strengthened his resolve. Moreover, if he waited around for Jazz to wake up, he might fall back asleep, and then he probably wouldn't wake again until at least four in the afternoon, alarm clocks and frantic sisters be darned.

He trudged his way to the bus-stop, and when he arrived, he pressed his face to the cool, metal post in front of him. Removing his phone from the un-torn pocket of his jeans, he cracked open an eye and studied the screen for several seconds. 6…6:29. He wracked his brains, groaning. When would the bus arrive? No earlier than 7:00, surely… That made sense, right? Well, he would find out… hard to miss a bus…

HONK.

Danny jerked awake, fist colliding with the sign post before stopping to survey—but ouch. What was with these stupid, metal—

"Rise and shine, Sonny Jim! I've got kids to drive!"

Couldn't they ever get his name right?

"I'm not—"

He blinked. I am talking to a pole, he realized. Wait, 'I've got kids to drive'? No world domination, no 'your pelt on my wall'…He turned, and, mortified, he recognized a bemused bus driver and a bus filled with teenagers who were laughing at the expense of That Fenton Kid.

Briefly, he wondered if it would seem suspicious if he were to turn invisible at that moment and ask Jazz for a ride, after all.

"Crud," he muttered as he stepped into the gutter and proceeded to discover his phone, along with several inches of mud.

This day was starting out great.

In first period, Danny was distracted from his study of how do get in some shut-eye while appearing to pay attention by a crumpled piece of paper hitting his desk. Catching a meaningful look from Sam, who quickly returned to the lesson, he slowly unfolded the note.

OK?

Dead on his feet or not (he refrained from snorting), he didn't need her look to recognize that particular handwriting. Still, he smiled weakly; she knew him too well.

Beware!, he penned, then drew a rectangle for good measure and, to some degree, out of spite. Checking for Lancer, Danny hoped to catch Sam's eye. Surely enough, she turned back around momentarily, and Danny flashed the note in her direction. He glared when she seemed torn between sympathy and amusement. Just as he prepared to silently defend himself from her stifled laughter, Sam's eyes widened, and a ruler descended upon his desk with a resounding crack.

"Mister Fenton, Miss Manson, would you care to share with the rest of the class?"

Danny obscured the note from view.

"Um, no, Sir," he squeaked.

Sam, thoroughly confident in their being cryptic enough that Mr. Lancer would divine nothing of Danny's ghostly activities, rolled her eyes at her best friend.

"No, Mister Lancer."

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Mr. Lancer reached out to seize the guilty sheet of paper, but then he faltered.

"Dubliners! Daniel…"

It was at that moment that Mr. Lancer fully noted the state of Danny's person: the mud that splattered his sneakers and the hem of his jeans; his unkempt hair and obvious lack of recent bathing; the minute cuts and bruises that were randomly distributed along every expanse of uncovered skin; the dark, tired circles beneath his eyes.

"…what's happened to you?"

Danny looked away. "Nothing," he mumbled, "Just tired, s'all."

For several tense seconds, Mr. Lancer watched him with an unreadable expression. "Very well," he finally conceded. Danny sagged with relief as Mr. Lancer returned to the front of the classroom.

"Oh, and Mister Fenton?" At the sudden address, Danny, who had resumed his attempts to get in a nap, nearly unbalanced his chair in his haste to sit up straight.

"Yes, Sir!"

"Please meet me after class."

Danny groaned.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. I have the second chapter written and will upload it shortly. I do have a plan for Instinctively, but even I had not expected Lancer to be involved, so who knows where this is headed?

On a side note, Tucker has not mysteriously disappeared. By the singular stroke of misfortune that is realism, Danny does not share every class with all of his friends in this story. No, this is not a particularly important detail... To be honest, I simply did not feel like writing a part for Tucker in this chapter. *shrug*