Inhuman
Danny needs to remind himself to breathe.
He hasn't needed to for a while, but it's good to keep up appearances. He doesn't want his classmates and teachers to notice. But more importantly, he doesn't want his family to notice. Or Sam and Tucker to notice.
And he likes the feeling of his diaphragm stretching, pulling air into his lungs. He likes the rush of air traveling through his nasal passages and down his throat and bronchial tubes to fill his lungs. He likes to breathe— so sue him.
But he doesn't always remember to breathe.
*~*~*
Danny rarely has a heartbeat.
He remembers when it would beat quickly when he was nervous, or angry, or anticipating the pain to come from another ghost fight.
He remembers when he would place his hand against his chest— reassure himself that he was still human, despite these powers telling him otherwise, despite the fact that he doesn't need to breathe.
Not anymore.
Danny's heart hasn't beaten in a while. He wonders dully if the last beat was the final beat, and he just didn't notice.
lub
dub
Nope. There it goes. 15 minutes between beats now, the beats slow and sluggish, almost painful in their lethargy. He instinctively puts a hand to his chest, but it's too late. The beat has gone.
He takes a breath, although he doesn't need to.
Then he puts on a smile and waves to Sam and Tucker, crossing the street to meet them.
*~*~*
Danny can't eat normal food.
It's bland, and it tastes like cardboard, and he vomits it up a half an hour later.
And afterwards, he is so hungry.
It takes him a week to figure it out— and only then because his parents left the lab door open. The smell wafts from the doorway, and he is entranced. He can't help himself as he drifts down the stairs— can't help himself as he floats to the nearest table, to the nearest beaker bubbling green.
He can't help himself when his hands reach out, shaking as they grasp the beaker, ectoplasm sloshing onto his fingers. It only stings a little, but not enough to break him from his trance.
It stings on the way down his throat, too, but he doesn't mind— for the first time in weeks, he feels the hunger abate. When the beaker's empty, he grabs a flask, and then a series of test tubes— and before he knows it, he's cleared the whole table, and he finally feels full.
*~*~*
Danny wonders how it got this way— how he became so... inhuman.
He holds a glowing ball of ectoplasm in his human hands. Once upon a time, the ectoplasm would have burned and blistered his fingers, his palms. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have been able to summon this much ectoplasm as a human in the first place.
He scoffs. Human. He doesn't need to breathe. His heart doesn't beat. He can't eat food unless it's infused with ectoplasm, and even then the food is half-tasteless— he may as well eat the ectoplasm directly. It's not like he hasn't done it before.
He isn't human. No matter how hard he tries to be.
He hasn't been human for a long time.