I refuse to respond to you with smut. Here's a bit of the prequel where Siren is still going by Danny and hasn't figured out pronouns yet.
it's that easy. Somehow, it's that easy to lay it all down and leave the heavy things behind.
Which is why is feels a little like an injustice when a familiar chill shoots down Danny's spine, or that he gasps out a puff of mist. Because hasn't he done enough, hasn't he run far enough, bleed enough, hurt enough? Because even when there's only a wisp of Phantom left beneath his skin, the world still asks it of him.
Tucker and Sam are finely conditioned to sounds of Danny's distress. The gasp might as well be Pavlov's bell with the way they turn, hackles already raised. Tucker shifts his hold on Danny's hand to something firmer, tightly grasping Danny's fingers and pulling him close. Sam's hand dips into her bag and Danny suspects she's been carrying an ecto-blaster this entire time, even though there hasn't been a need.
With all his effort, Danny tries to grow roots to the spot. Despite that, Tucker and Sam keep him moving. Heads on a swivel, they bodily shepherd Danny. Danny looses his hold on the umbrella in the shuffle as a shiver wracks through him again and his knees go weak.
"It's ok, it's ok," Tucker chants, mouth set and eyes hard, his grip turning painful where he's still holding Danny's hand.
Cold fogs in Danny's lungs and his breath hitches. It feels like he's back in the lab with his ghost sense going off constantly and vision haloed in shadows, shivering and wondering if he'll ever feel warm again. But the feeling of Tucker's arm clamping around his shoulders, the solid warmth of his best friend keeps Danny's mind in the present.
There's a ghost — or rather a shade, just the wisp of a life lingering. From the corner of his eye, Danny watches numbly as Sam draws an ecto-blaster. Mindless of the threat, the wisp stutters forward and back, bobbing like a guttering flame.
Danny's throat feels tight. There's something wrong and he can't pin point it, he can't lay a name on it. It's like his body knows something his mind doesn't. The wisp waivers again, drawing itself deeper into the shadows and ducking out of the anemic afternoon sun hidden behind the misty clouds. Danny steps after it without thinking and pulls Tucker with him.
"Wait —," he starts, confused why he feels so sad. "Wait, it's ok."
And not unlike a feral cat, the wisp pauses as if considering it's options — to run, or cower, or lash out with claws. But it's so misty and incorporeal, the weakest ghost Danny's ever seen, he's hardly worried at all.
