#dp crossover... kinda

No one else seemed to notice, not their friends or teachers, not Sam, not even Danny’s family. Though every once in a while, Jazz would look at it in a way that made Tucker hopeful- in a way that made him long for her to say something. Please, he’d think, straining as if to project his thoughts directly into hers, Please notice it too. But every time, without fail, whatever it was that passed over her face, left as quickly as it came. Like a bad dream that faded after you woke up, the acknowledgement that there was something else there- something else wrong- it was all gone from her face in an instant.

And Tucker was left feeling just as crazy as ever.

They walked home together, every day, and sometimes, they’d take a detour through the woods. The trees made Tucker’s skin itch with the reminder of what was, and he watched it with an uneasy element of energy coursing through his veins.

It breathed in the cold winter air, and when it breathed out, the air didn’t billow. No one ever noticed this either, but Tucker did, Tucker always did. Just like he noticed a million other little things. It wore no jacket, having taken it off the moment they were out of sight of Sam’s house. Its skin was exposed to the frosty air, and Tucker knew, as he did every time, that when he touched its arm, it would be bitter cold- far, far colder than anyone should be.

“You’re doing it again,” Tucker said, watching with an expression that did a lot to hide his discontent. Or at least, a lot aside from the way his mouth turned down just enough at the corners to be a tell- a tell no one ever seemed to comment on.

“Hmm?” It said, its stolen blue eyes cutting through Tucker like shards of ice. It seemed so innocent. It seemed so happy. It did what it was supposed to when it was supposed to, every time, without fail. And yet, Tucker could never shake the feeling that something was wrong- that what he was looking at was further from human than anything Tucker had ever seen before.

It turned, cocking its head to the side in an overly animated, sarcastic sort of way that reminded Tucker of Danny.

“What’s wrong, Tuck?” It said, jokingly, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He had.

Tucker knew he had, because Danny Fenton was dead. He had been for the better part of a year, ever since he went missing in the woods last December. No one had been able to find him, and the weather had left everyone to assume the worst, but he and Sam had never stopped. They looked even when everyone told them it was too dangerous. They looked when it got so cold their hands almost went purple- and then they kept looking.

Even when Sam got sick and couldn’t get out of bed, Tucker kept looking.

And that was when he found it: Danny’s corpse at the base of a gully, his blood frozen to his hair, frost cresting over his cheeks, his eyes- cold and vacant- stared upright to the cold expanse of darkening sky.

Tucker remembered staring at it- at his friend- for far too long, he remembered reaching out and touching the stiff, frozen face of his dead friend, holding it in his hands as he knelt over the body and stared down.

And then, Tucker remembered walking through the door to his home- weary, empty, without any memory of how he’d gotten there, and unable to speak even a simple sentence. He was unable to even utter the words: My friend is dead.

Two days later, they found it. They all breathed a sigh of relief, they cried, they whooped with joy- all of them celebrating the miraculous return of one, miraculously unharmed Danny Fenton. Or at least… all of them except for Tucker.

Danny had died, and Tucker was the only one who knew, so all he had been able to do was stare- stare at the living corpse of his best friend.

And he continued to stare. He stared as it acted like Danny, as it smiled at Tucker, as it laughed with Sam, and through it all, all he could think, was that he was right. He had to be. He had to be. He’d seen Danny’s body, he knew he had.

So when Tucker opened his mouth, and told it the truth, he wasn’t surprised, not really. Not in the ways you might expect.

“Humans get cold,” Tucker said, his voice hollow, “You always seem to forget that bit, you know.”

Whatever had possessed him to say the words, whatever had taken hold of Tucker and allowed the accusation to slip out, he regretted not fighting it the moment the face of the creature in front of him slipped.

The mischievous smile, the childish glee- in seconds it all evaporated. And left behind was a shell that only resembled the boy Tucker had called a friend.

“What?” It asked, and its voice felt wrong in a way Tucker couldn’t pin down. It spoke in an uneasy cadence: “I’m human. You know that, don’t you, Tucker?”

Tucker couldn’t speak. He tried, but when his lips parted, nothing came out. Something felt like it was clawing its way up his esophagus. Sweat broke out on his neck. The expression on its face burrowed into his chest and expanded.

It took a step towards him and it wasn’t until it opened its mouth that Tucker realized he’d incorrectly clocked the movement as a threat, when in reality it was an act of desperation.

“I said, don’t you, Tucker?” It asked, its eyes feeling far too dead and far too flat for the tone of voice it had. It moved like an animal going to nip at a plate of food left on the ground, like it would back away and consume and then leave forever as quickly as it had come.

Tucker tried to speak, he really did, but when he couldn’t force out another word, it grew restless. It closed the gap between them, lifting its ice cold hand to Tucker’s face. It looked so much like Danny, blue eyes and messy black hair that perfectly accentuated his face, the scar on the very tip of its nose. It all screamed Danny, all of it, except for the eyes.

Its eyes were the wrong color, Tucker realized.

His hearing grew into static at its touch, until he could hear it and it alone. Its voice bled out in a way that would have reminded Tucker this was not Danny anyway- all thick sludge and caustic static that made the flesh under Tucker’s skin squirm with vigorous glee.

“I thought I was doing so well,” it breathed, its cool breath kissing Tucker’s mouth in a way Danny never would, “I was working so hard to be perfect for you.”

Its eyes were the wrong color, Tucker thought again, though he couldn’t place why, not immediately, not until the irises wobbled and grew, expanding into a blob of green and swirling black, pooling out at the corners like water and smoke.

Tucker came to his senses, his head jerking back and away from its touch. But it just reached out again, taking Tucker’s face in both hands as it spoke.

“Give me another chance,” it said, the color of its eyes bleeding from the corner of its mouth as if it was the fog that should have come from its breath, “I don't want to kill you. So please, I can be perfect. I know I can.”

In an explosion of movement, the green of its eyes rushed outward, consuming the air around it with alarming speed. It closed around Tucker, smothering him as if its goal was to waterboard him with whatever was inside it.

But only if you give me another chance.

Tucker gasped at its touch, the cold, slimy feeling of the inner eye making him want to curl in on himself like a pill bug trying to escape danger. But no matter how hard he pulled away, there was no escaping the swirling cloud of green and black. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but the sound was smothered by the texture of its eyes against his teeth.

Tucker stumbled back, falling, and whatever it was came with him. He closed his eyes to shield against the enormity of the green and black swirling around him- and then he tried to scramble and think of anything he could do to stop this, of anything he could do to bring his friend back.

Tucker found himself reaching, feeling for anything that felt real and solid and there. His fingers found fabric, and he wrapped his arms around the body of his friend, gripping at the T-shirt Danny used to wear so often. His fingers twisted in the shirt and he shuddered in a sudden mixture of grief and terror, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes.

Danny had always aimed for perfection, even if people didn’t always think so. He struggled to make his grades perfect, he struggled to find the perfect girl, he struggled to wear the perfect outfit. But he had always tried, that was something that had never changed, right up until the end.

Tucker pressed his face into that shirt, hoping to find an air pocket- to gain some sort of respite from the thing that was spilling out from whatever was wearing Danny’s skin. And when he finally found it, he gasped, sucking in whatever air he could. His voice came out in a rickety shake.

“I don’t want you to be perfect,” he all but stammered, part of him forgetting who he was talking to at all, “I never did.”

Something about the inside of its eyes around Tucker became less oppressive, slowing down in its encroaching assault of textures and sounds against every inch of Tucker’s being. He jumped on the opportunity, the only one he had to save himself. To save himself and… maybe even…

“So just,” Tucker gasped, “Just try again. We’ll start over. Try again- and be you.”

Danny could never be himself again. He wouldn’t laugh, or cry, or smile, he would never dance or run or climb ever again. He would never look at Tucker with that same expression ever again- the one that made his insides flip and his throat feel stuck, the one that felt like there was a secret only they knew.

And, Tucker realized, terribly, horribly, selfishly, that he would rather have some small piece of Danny stay beside him, rather than choose to let him go.

Even if that small piece was no less real than a picture on a piece of paper.

The green and black cloud of roiling otherworldly terror retreated, slipping back into its eyes and nose and mouth, and it stared at Tucker, now with those uncanny blue eyes. Tucker stared back, and he could no more let go of its shirt than a drowning man could an unsuspecting swimmer.

“Okay,” it breathed.