Schroedinger's Anniversary

by Bluemoonalto

This story has been lurking in the back of my mind for about four months, ever since I finished my first Danny Phantom fic, "A Thermos for Valerie." For most of that time it has simmered on the back burner, waiting for that final kick of creativity that would bring it to completion.

That kick of creativity is happening right now. The story is not finished, but it is close—and I believe I will be able to post its six chapters at fairly regular intervals between now and the end of the year.

WARNING: Nothing happens in this fic! It is 100 plot-free. Also, the story features the Danny/Sam pairing, but (like all of my stories) it is not a romance.

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It was the handcuffs that gave it away. Until I saw the handcuffs, I didn't have a clue.

I mean, Sam and I hadn't eaten at the Nasty Burger since we graduated from high school. She hates the place, and as my tastes matured I gradually figured out why: the food was cheap, heavily salted and loaded with grease. It's primarily a teen hangout (probably because the food was cheap, heavily salted and loaded with grease) and the students from Casper High are looking younger and younger every year—a fact that is starting to bother me as much as the fact that the kid behind the counter just called me "sir."

So, what the heck were we doing here on a Friday night? I'd offered to cook whatever Sam wanted for dinner, but she wasn't interested in my feeble efforts in the kitchen. "Let's go out to eat," she said, and I figured she meant Tara Thai, or Addis Ababa, or the Cantina Café. One of our usual places. She's been craving the oddest kinds of foods lately, so we eat out quite a lot. But no: tonight it had to be the Nasty Burger.

Jazz and Tucker both met us there. That's when I knew something was up, because the four of us haven't been together in one room since. . . last Christmas, I guess. Jazz is serving her psychiatric residency on one coast and Tucker is working on his Master's degree in computer engineering on the other coast, and between holiday gatherings we mostly stay in touch by video mail. But here we were, on a Friday evening in the middle of April, squeezed into in our old booth at the Nasty Burger, the table loaded down with plastic trays of cheap food, heavily salted and loaded with grease. A Team Phantom Reunion.

And I didn't get it.

We spent most of an hour just catching up. Sam had endless stories to tell about the joys of morning sickness, mood swings and bloat, and Jazz produced a stethoscope from her bag and listened gravely to the baby's heartbeat, which she pronounced to be strong and steady. Tucker regaled us with tales of his latest programming triumph, none of which made a whit of sense to me—but he seemed immensely proud, and I was glad for him. He also passed around a hologram of his latest girlfriend, a winsome blonde doctoral candidate in library sciences. I listened with pleasure to their stories and savored the rare moment of camaraderie. I didn't have much to say about my life, at least, not much that I could talk about in public with so many strangers around, but I was mildly buzzed on junk food and caffeine, warm and comfortable and happy. And puzzled.

As Tucker mopped up the last of the Nasty Sauce with a cold french fry, Sam lifted her cup of cherry cola in a solemn toast, and we all raised our own drinks in ritual response. "Well, here's to the tenth anniversary," she said.

"We're still here!" Jazz answered; at the same time Tuck added, "You can't keep the good guys down!"

Anniversary? Oh, no! How could I forg—wait a minute. Our anniversary is in October. Uh. . . I proposed to her in June. The anniversary of our first real date was in January, first kiss (not the fake-out kind) in February, started going steady in March. What the. . . ?

"Are you okay?" Jazz must have been watching me like a hawk. She's always done that, ever since I was nine and she made me lie down on the living room sofa and tell her all about my fear of multiplication tables. Sam and I manage to misunderstand each other's non-verbal cues all the time, but Dr. Jasmine Fenton never misses a twitch.

"Come on, Danny," Tucker interjected around a mouthful of pie. "This should be a happy occasion, don't you dare get all maudlin about it."

"Sam, did you tell him what tonight was all about? Because. . . I don't think he gets it." Jazz continued to gaze at me, clinically, as though I were one of her research subjects. (Which, for all I know, I may be.)

Desperate, I turned to Sam. She was sitting beside me, her face showing deep concern. "I just assumed he'd remember. . . . Danny—don't you tell me you've forgotten what happened here, ten years ago today?"

"Oh, he remembers!" Jazz exclaimed. "He just didn't realize that it's been exactly ten years."

Okay, there's a clue: Ten years ago, today. Um. . . I was fourteen. That was the year of the accident, but the accident was way back in August. By April we were about three-quarters finished with the 9th grade. That year was full of so many firsts, how could I remember which one. . . .

"Great Expectations!"

I was so wrapped up in searching my memories, I almost thought the voice was in my imagination. But it really was Mr. Lancer, a little bit paunchier and just a little bit stooped, approaching our booth and clearly astonished to see us here. For no good reason at all, I immediately broke out into a nervous sweat.

"Miss Manson, Miss Fenton, Mr. Foley. . . Mr. Fenton," he acknowledged each of us in turn. Was there a little hesitation, a bit of frost in his voice when he came to my name? I'd been a thorn in his side from the first day of high school until the day he put the diploma in my hand.

Sam raised her left hand slightly to show her rings and corrected him with a smile: "Mrs. Fenton." At the exact same moment, Tucker jerked a thumb at Jazz and said, "Doctor Fenton."

"Ah, of course. My mistake. Congratulations, Jasmine, Daniel, Samantha." His attention was suddenly diverted by a commotion on the other side of the restaurant. A noisy herd of young teens had just thundered in, laughing and jostling each other over some private joke. "Excuse me, will you?" he said quickly, then without waiting for an answer he was off. "Mr. Lewis! Ms. Howard! Mr. Owolabi! I'm rather surprised to find you here tonight. Do you plan to spend the rest of your lives flipping burgers?"

And that's when I saw the plain, brown briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist.

The weird thing is, I have a bit of a blank spot in my memory about what happened next. I'm pretty sure I disappeared, but I'm not sure if I excused myself and made a run for the bathroom first or just phased straight down into the floor.

oooo0oooo

End Chapter One