#day25

But with a little learning.

With a little guidance. 

With support. 

And with a little love. 

In the shape of you.

You, whose laughter had made the stars sparkle in the sky. Had dazzled him. Heart, body and soul. 

You had caught him off guard in all the ways he never expected. 

Swift. 

Sudden. 

You had captured his love. 

He had begun to notice the little details about you. The small things. 

One of his favourite things. 

Being your laugh. 

Well. 

To be exact, your different kinds of laughs. 

To the little chortle you’d let out at the sight of something that really shouldn’t have made you laugh. 

Or the way your laughter would spill out, so vibrant and unabashed, flooding his senses, as its melody filled the air. 

The giggle you’d let out, soft and bouncy. Cheeks wide with a smile. 

Even the times where your laugh would morph into little snorts peppered between. 

Jack craved it. Craved your joy. Your happiness. 

Going out of his way to make you laugh. 

It nearly broke his heart when you had admitted not liking the way you laughed.,,so he spent the entire time sharing with you all the reasons he loved your laughter. 

How it soothed him. How it brought a smile to his own face. 

And slowly, by looking through Jack’s perspective. You began to learn how to love your laughter. 

You began to see its beauty. Its charm.

If Jack could love it. Then so could you…

And just as Jack had shown you how to give yourself a little grace. 

You had done the same for him.

Gently guiding him to be kinder towards himself. 

Through your support, he was starting to accept help when he needed it. 

He was starting to learn the benefit from having others help. And the strength that came from accepting it. 

That asking for help didn’t make him any weaker. 

Only made him stronger for it. 

But by god. 

He could still be fucking stubborn at times. 

Leading to this moment now. 

In your shared home.

You had just moved in together. Boxes strewn about, waiting to be unpacked. 

Slowly and steadily.  

Whilst he balances upon his crutches, fumbling slightly with a box. 

Adamant he could carry it. Adamant that he didn’t need help. 

That he could do it alone. 

That he should be able to do it alone. 

From your spot on the floor as you unpack another box your eyes lift to see him, raising a brow with a small chuckle as you comment.  

“You walk like it’s heavy,” a quirk at your lips, not overly mocking just a light tease. 

A small laugh slips from your lips. One that settles in Jack's chest. 

Warm and fuzzy. 

He huffs, concentration breaking slightly as he glances up at you, “Baby, I walk like that cause I have one leg” 

You simply twist your lips into a pout, “You never let me have any fun.” 

A chortle slips from his lips, small, as though he were trying to stifle it. 

Bubbling out from his chest, deep and velvety. 

It sends a shiver down your spine as you scrunch your nose in amusement. 

Standing from your spot on the floor, walking over, you slip the box from his arms. 

He tries to grasp at it, reluctant in having you help. "I can carry it-"

"Tough luck, love," you twist it out of reach, one of your own arms reaching out to steady and support him. "I'm here to help, whether you want it or not."

Adding in a softer tone, “Just cause you’re so strong, doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone," sincerity laces your words. 

Hand holding him. Steadying. 

Not making him feel weaker. 

Just sharing the load. Making it easier to bear.

You place the box to the side as you plant yourself before him, hand caressing his cheek softly.

Admiring him and how much you loved him.

He mutters out, “I’m tough” 

“I know you are,” you nod. 

“I can take care of myself,” he replies softer, cupping a hand to your cheek.

Faces moving closer and closer.

The warmth of his breath caresses your skin. 

“You have,” the words fall from your mouth, admiration pooling in your eyes, tracing the features of his face.

“You still do. You always will. I’ve just joined in, too. Now we take care of each other”

His eyes flutter close as he leans his forehead against yours. 

Sighing. 

Relishing the moment.

Simply bliss.

Sure his leg, or lack thereof, could be a pain in the ass at times. 

Sure he couldn’t do everything he used to do.

Like, carry a box around the home unless he puts his prosthetic back on. 

But what he could still do.

All he really wanted to do.

Was love you.

Embrace your support.

And cherish being with you.

In the end. 

That was all either of you wanted.

A life of love together.

Times spent in laughter, tears, or whatever.

So long as it was together.

You’d be happy.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little fic for domaystic. Just a little sweetness of Jack loving you and vice versa. Could totally see him try to be super independent, despite needing help at times. (Also please let me know if there are any parts that aren't GN!) Let me know what you think ✨ Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕

For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below! Such as my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here💖 Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧 Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series Otherwise feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

You don’t expect the jar to fight back.

It’s just a jar—an ordinary jar—and yet here you are, standing in the kitchen with both hands wrapped around the lid, twisting with increasing force while it refuses to budge.

“Are you serious?” you mutter. You adjust your grip and try again. Nothing. Fine. Maybe you just need leverage. You plant the jar on the counter and twist harder. Still nothing. You feel your eye twitch. “Open,” you say slowly. “Open. The. Jar.”

It does not open. You sigh, letting go of it for a second before picking it right back up. You refuse to let this stupid inanimate object win. 

“Listen, you fucker,” you say, pointing at it now like you’re scolding a child. “Either we do this the easy way, or the hard way. I’ll break you open if I have to.”

Behind you, you hear footsteps. It’s definitely Levi, watching you without comment. He’d better not say anything. Not one word.

“I bought you,” you go on, glaring at the jar. “I own you. Stop defying me, you bastard.”

Levi leans against the walls, crossing his arms slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He’s enjoying this, the smug asshole. You twist again, putting your entire upper body into it this time. Nothing.

“Are you—” you cut yourself off, groaning. Then you try again, your voice rising. “Are you kidding me? What do you think you are? A vault?”

You close your eyes briefly, recalling the methods your therapist taught you so you won’t blow the top of your head off over a jar. Levi clears his throat. You don’t glare at him, even though you want to.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

You freeze. “No,” you snap immediately, not even turning around. “I’ve got it.”

You definitely don’t have it. 

Levi doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel his stare on you, the weight of his attention pressing into your back. You give it one last attempt, your hands slipping slightly, and then with a deeply offended sound, you shove the jar into his chest.

“Fine,” you huff. “You try.”

He takes it, barely glancing at it. He lightly throws the jar and catches it, then wraps his hand around the lid. He twists. Pop. The lid comes off effortlessly.

You stare at the open jar in his hand, then at him, then back at the jar, your brain struggling to process what you just witnessed. There’s no way. There’s no way he just opened it after you struggled for almost half an hour.

Levi blinks once, and then he laughs. Not the quiet huff you’re used to, or the dry, almost reluctant sound he sometimes lets slip. He laughs loudly. Completely unrestrained, catching even him off guard as it tears out of it, shoulders shaking, head thrown back slightly as he tries—and fails—to contain it.

You just stare. You’ve never seen him like this. For a second, you’re too stunned to even react, caught between awe and absolute offense. You would be laughing with him if he weren’t laughing at you.

“You—” you scoff. “You opened it immediately.”

That only makes it worse. He laughs harder, a hand coming up to his face, trying to hold back his joy. “Why were you talking shit to it?” he manages between breaths.

“It was being difficult,” you shoot back, but your voice wobbles, your anger cracking under the sheer ridiculousness of it. He’s laughing at you, and yet, you can’t stop staring, because he’s really laughing. You feel a certain warmth in your chest that slips past the embarrassment and mild outrage, until it tips and suddenly you’re laughing too.

It starts small, disbelieving, but it builds quickly, matching his, the two of you cackling in the kitchen, swatting at each other as you struggle to catch your breaths. Finally, both of you calm down enough to speak.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, still laughing.

“I’m not the one who argued with a jar.”

“I’ll start arguing with you right now if you don’t stop laughing at me.”

He shakes his head and pulls you into a hug, one hand stroking your hair. His shoulders still shake with laughter. “You’re an idiot, but you’re my little idiot.”

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Phantom. Danny. Phantom. Her son. Phantom. Danny.

Her mind split those truths apart like incompatible compounds. She had dissected it—cut it open with practiced confidence, peeling back skin and muscle the same way she always imagined she would if she ever captured Phantom. She sliced, took samples—pieces of it—him she thought belonged to a monster.

The ghost boy.

Danny Phantom.

Only… this wasn’t…

It was Danny. Her Danny. Her son.

“Dammit…” she cursed under her breath as she pressed a thick pad of gauze against what was left of his arm. “Why—why didn’t you tell us?” she hissed through tight teeth, pressing her hands harder to slow the bleeding. “Why did you make us believe Phantom was a threat? That he was hurting us? Hurting you? We could have—“

Danny didn’t respond.

Bone gleamed through shredded muscle—raw and exposed. His left forearm, the one she had sliced off only minutes ago to study, now hung by only a few thin strands of tissue. A mistake she could fix. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Jazz!” Maddie barked, eyes darting to the stainless steel instrument tray. “Give me those forceps! The vascular clamps, right there—now!”

But Jazz didn’t move.

She just stood there, rooted to the spot, eyes huge and black with terror. Her arms hung stiff and useless at her sides, trembling like her bones were trying to escape her skin. She looked like a child again—shocked and helpless and afraid.

If Maddie had even a second to spare, she would have grabbed her, told her to breathe, told her it would be okay. She would have been the mother Jazz needed.

But she couldn’t.

Not while Danny lay broken and bleeding right in front of her. Not while every second counted.

And all Maddie could see was the small opening she’d left in its chest—stitches half done, pulled apart, useless—because she’d been too focused on studying the strange mix of human and ghost inside it—him.

Most ghosts she had ever studied didn’t even have organs. They were all just… swirling ectoplasmic goo with a core sitting roughly where a heart might be.

She should have known better the moment she started cutting. Phantom wasn’t like any other ghost she’d ever seen. It had real organs—living, working, human organs—and it was extraordinary. It thrilled her. It fascinated her.

And now…

Danny’s real human heart was paying for her fascination.

But when she severed his arm, everything changed. Right there on the table—no warning, no transition she could measure—two brilliant rings of ectoplasmic light surged from his middle. One shot upward, the other downward, passing through flesh and bone with a crackling hum of unstable molecules snapping back into a human configuration.

Pearl white hair bled into pitch black. The glow of ectoplasmic green drained into human crimson red. And just like that, Phantom dissolved—leaving her boy beneath her hands.

Danny.

Her scalpel had stripped away the ghost and exposed the son she had been dissecting—no, vivisecting alive.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. If she knew, she wouldn’t…

No. She would’ve done this anyway. Wouldn’t she? The truth didn’t matter when curiosity already carved its path. Phantom was extraordinary—unlike anything she had ever seen. And knowing it was Danny beneath that form… it didn’t stop her anyway.

If anything…

It even made the study more fascinating now. More… irresistible.

But it was her son. Her sweet, stubborn, star-bright little boy—her Danny. The child she once swore she’d protect with everything she had… and the same one she had just torn apart with her own hands.

Her gaze flicked across the lab.

How… how was she supposed to put him back together? How could she save him when parts of him were floating in jars across the room—preserved in formaldehyde, labeled like trophies and scattered without a thought?

A single toe she had cut off clean, to map ectoplasmic flow in nerve endings. Three teeth she had pried out one by one, roots intact—she needed to know why ghost dentin could still decay. A piece of his tongue, to decode how he spoke with those dual-resonant frequencies. Sections of intestine, liver, lung lobe, all suspended in stabilizing ecto-gel. A floating green iris—Phantom’s—no, Danny’s right eye, harvested to examine spectral retinal cells. A crystalline shard of shimmering core tissue, still vibrating faintly in its vial, as if it didn’t know it had been taken from it—him.

Each sample was progress. Each sample was a revelation.

Each sample was a piece of Danny.

Her stomach lurched upward into her ribs. Her vision oscillated. But her hands—her scientific hands—didn’t stop. They pressed hard against what was left of his arm, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, trying to do something, anything, to keep him alive.

“This isn’t supposed to be happening… not like—like this,” she whispered, voice shrinking, dissolving into a tremor. Blood soaked through the gauze and pooled warm against her palm.

Danny was her son. Phantom was the enemy. That was the story she always told herself. That was the lie she believed.

She was wrong.

Utterly, painfully wrong.

But she felt his pulse weaken beneath her fingers anyway.

“Don’t you fade on me, sweetie,” Maddie choked out, voice rising with panic. “Danny, please—stay with me. Stay with me so I can—“

So she could fix this? Undo the violence she had created? Prove she was right all along?

Her gloves slipped on blood as she leaned closer, her forehead almost touching his.

“—so I can save my sweet little boy.”

But he had to stay alive. She needed him alive. So she could fix him and could understand him and could keep studying the impossible miracle she’d carved open.

How did this happen? How did her son become both a human and a ghost? Why didn’t he trust her enough to tell her? Why did she have to find out like this—through blood and screams and bones?

Ghosts weren’t supposed to die. Ghosts weren’t supposed to feel anything—not pain, not fear, not sorrow.

So maybe this was Phantom’s trick. Maybe the creature lying here just wanted her to think he was Danny. Maybe he only wore her son’s face to make her stop.

Yes. That made sense. It had to.

Because the alternative—that she had tortured her own child—was too unbearable to survive.

⟢ I originally wanted to write this from Jazz’s POV (y’all know, those vibes from that one art piece where she’s standing at the top of the stairs, watching her parents dissect her little brother in the basement lab? I have no idea who the artist is, butthét was some good angst there). But realistically… Jazz would be catatonic. Dissociated. Her brain would tap out completely rather than let her process that her own mother was cutting her brother apart like a lab specimen. So, I went for Maddie’s POV instead.

⟢ My headcanon for Maddie is that she’s a scientist first (after her children. Or maybe… not)—always fascinated with ghost anatomy and psychology. Phantom would be her ultimate prize. Her golden discovery. And if she ever realized it was actually Danny—a half ghost—oh boy… that fascination would skyrocket. He’d become the anomaly of a lifetime. The one she’d die to study.

⟢ Anyway, I’m really hoping Ectoberweek helps kick my writers’s block because… yeah. I definitely am in need for a motivation boost.

⟢ Oh, right! This is my first time participating to this event! :D