Chapter Text
It’s the middle of December and the air is bitingly cold.
Danny pulls his hood further down on his face and stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. You’d think he’d be immune it, with his core of ice, but no. No, if anything it just makes his human form feel it more.
A shiver races up his spine, making him wince in pain. Hopefully he hasn’t opened his wound again. He’s running out of gauze.
He tucks his chin into his chest and keeps pacing, backwards and forwards, refusing to look at the wrought iron gates beside him.
Not for the first time, he stops, squares his shoulders, and marches towards the intercom on the red brick column.
He’s only half-way there, just three steps away, when he falters.
You chicken-shit, he curses himself. You absolute coward. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
This time, the trembles that wrack his frame aren’t from the cold. His fists are clenched so tight that he’s sure his fingernails have broken the skin. His face twists in a snarl. Do it.
He turns on his heel and begins pacing again.
The intercom crackles into life on his third length, the static freezing him in his spot. A red light blinks on.
“Can I help you, young man?” the voice of an older man asks, not unkindly.
Danny turns tail and runs.
“If you ever find yourself in danger, go to Bruce Wayne. He will help you.”
His mother had loved him, in her own way. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have helped him escape. If she hadn’t, she would have dragged him back to the League of Assassins, to Grandfather. If she hadn’t, he’d be dead.
She loved him, but she loved the League more.
Once, when he was 14 and a freshly made halfa, he had woken up thrashing and crying from a nightmare.
Jazz had found him curled up under his blankets and when he told her what it was about, stuttering before every word, she cried tears of her own and held him until he felt safe enough to fall asleep again. She stayed with him for the rest of the night.
Jack and Maddie Fenton loved him, they did, but they loved their work more.
They loved their work more.
He sleeps on the streets that night.
Not his best idea, it’s Gotham City after all—and all of these damn Christmas lights don’t do much to help his mood—but he wakes up unscathed and with all of his possessions intact so he counts it as a win.
Besides, it’s either that or ask Bruce Wayne for help, and the thought of having to explain himself to someone makes his stomach roll.
The thought of having to hide his secret again does just the same.
So here he is in Gotham.
He sits himself up on the bench that had been his bed for the night and hangs his head in his hands, digging his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. The fresh lungful of air he swallows down somewhat clears his mind and he stretches to wake up the rest of him. His muscles groan and his joints pop, stiff from the cold.
The city is waking up around him, too. Car horns are blaring in the morning rush and people are beginning to give him strange looks as they walk through the park on their way to work.
He pulls his phone out and presses the power button. Dead.
Of course, why wouldn’t it be? That’s just the way his life has been going lately.
He dumps his backpack onto his lap and roots around to see if he managed to pack his charger in his haste to leave.
Nothing.
Because, again, of course.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
That’s fine. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten before releasing it.
Jazz must be going crazy.
He wonders what their parents have told her—if they’ve told her anything at all—before he pushes it from his mind.
Don’t think about them. He’s here now, he should think about that. He’s in a strange, new, dangerous city. What is he going to do?
His stomach rumbles in answer.
Looks like he’s getting breakfast.
Things feel better with his stomach full. Less hopeless.
He’s in a new city, so what? He’s been in new places before.
It seems like Gotham’s in the news every other week or so because of some strange new villain rocking up to take on the Bats, but so what? He’s faced plenty of his own strange villains, thank you very much, he can get along just fine.
The thought of having to use his ghost powers on humans still makes him queasy… but if it’s between saving people and not saving them, he knows what he’d choose to do.
Still, it’s probably better to leave the Joker and whoever up to the Bats. It wouldn’t pay to advertise his presence here, after all.
He spends most of the morning just wandering around, getting the lay of the land, the feel of the city, and it’s only when the sun has begun to lower that he realises where his feet have taken him again.
He stands again outside the tall iron gates of Wayne Manor, the sun now in just the right position to cast long, thick black shadows across him.
If he were to press the button on the intercom, if he were to speak to someone, if the gates were to swing open… He tries to imagine the feeling of them closing behind him. Would it be welcoming, a warm hug, a promise of help? Or would it be as cold as the iron they’re made of, locking him inside like twisting the cap on a Fenton Thermos?
He shivers and pulls his jacket around him, tucking his chin into his chest and hunching into himself. He’s not a threat, he’s just plain old Danny Fenton. No assassin training, no ghost powers, no nothing. Just an ordinary 16 year old runaway that’s heard Bruce Wayne has a penchant for adopting kids. If he says it enough times, it might be true.
The sun dips further down in the sky until there’s more shadow than light.
The intercom crackles into life and he jumps. The red light glares at him from underneath the grilled speaker. “Is everything alright, young man? Are you in need of help?”
It's the same voice as before, British, Danny realises. Posh, too. He lets out a quiet exhalation of laughter when he realises, because of course Bruce Wayne would have a British… Servant? Butler? Waiter? What’s the polite way to phrase it?
It definitely seems very Old Money of him. Vlad could never.
He snorts again at the thought and before he knows what he’s doing, Danny’s taken two steps closer to the intercom.
“I’m…” He licks his lips, unsure of what to say next. I’m one of Talia al Ghul’s sons, she said to come here if I needed help. Oh, you’ve never heard of me? That’s because I’m meant to be dead… Except, I am dead, ha-ha, funny story. Yeah, right.
What’s the League of Assassins got on Bruce Wayne anyway that this can be a safehouse for him? More to the point, should he really be going to someone associated with the League? Wouldn’t that just be inviting more people to hunt him down and kill him again?
“I’m…”
There’s a buzz, a click, and suddenly the gates in front of him are whirring open and he’s flooded with the certainty that this is a very, very bad idea.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, before darting back the way he came.
He doesn’t stop running until he’s back in Robinson Park.
It’s raining.
He wakes up and it’s absolutely pissing it down, already soaked to the skin without any hope of drying off if those clouds are anything to go by.
To think, if he had just said yes to that fancy British man he could be tucked up warm in Wayne Manor right now.
Or he could be kidnapped by the League, or Bruce Wayne could have called his parents and he’d be turned over to them instead.
It’s a testament to his uniquely shitty situation that he can’t decide which option is worse.
A lump forms in his throat at the thought of his parents. There’s a part of him that hopes they’ll just forget about him—he came into their lives so suddenly, it stands to reason that his leaving them would be sudden too—but he knows that it’s just a fool’s dream. If they catch wind of where he is, they’ll be on him. The chance to study a halfa like him would be irresistible. Was irresistible.
A clash of thunder overhead makes him jump, knocking him out of his memories.
He has to get out of the rain.
He shrugs his backpack on and stifles a yawn. Of course, even a month ago, if he had been caught out in the rain like this he’d just… phase it off him.
His skin tingles at the thought of it.
Since his mad rush flying here, he hasn’t gone ghost at all. It’s only been three days, but compared to what he’s used to, it feels like a lifetime.
At first, it was to keep his stitches in place. Going ghost with wounds is a hassle anyway, but with stitches… It hurts just thinking about it. Then, when he had picked clear all of the bits of ecto-treated surgical thread holding him together, it was the scabs that he didn’t want to trouble.
With his accelerated healing, he hadn’t had to worry about it for too long, though.
But still, the thought of transforming… His hands tighten around on the straps of his backpack, the fabric biting into his hands.
He can handle one wet night.
He realises he’s being stupid three hours into the downpour.
Phantom is part of who he is, like it or not. If the last two years have taught him anything, it’s that divorcing his two halves was a very bad idea and he should just accept it.
He is what he is and denying himself the ability to get dry and comfortable when he has the means to do so is just plain stupid.
So he finds himself a nice bush just outside the Wayne Botanical Gardens and scoots underneath it.
Perfect.
He realises he’s being stupid again about 10 minutes after getting in the bush.
Now, not only is he wet, but he’s covered in mud, too.
Perfect.
It takes another five minutes before he can’t stand it any more.
He really is stupid if this is how long it takes him to understand what a phenomenally bad idea this is. He’s shivering now, his teeth rattling in his skull, his fingers clenched so tightly under his armpits that they ache.
The white blinking lights of the Christmas display amongst the ferns taunt him even under his bush. Great, can’t even escape the ridiculousness that is the holidays.
Just go ghost. Just do it. Go ghost and fly to a shop, a building, anything and get dry and warm. Fuck it, at this point, just go to Wayne Manor. He doesn’t even have to see Bruce Wayne! He’s a ghost!
It’s simple. Easy, even!
He’s a fucking ghost, for god’s sake, no one’s going to see him do it.
Batman won’t know, none of the Robins will know—hell, none of the villains will know—because he’s a ghost and ghosts can turn invisible and intangible and even if he was spotted, he’d be able to fly away fast enough that they wouldn’t be able to catch him.
His core stutters in his throat.
Tucking his knees into his chest, he curls in on himself, because that’s not true, is it? They caught him, didn’t they? Didn’t even take that much, did it?
“You wouldn’t come help us down in the lab for a second, would you?”
“There you are, boy-o, just hold this for us, that’s it… And press that button in three, two, one—”
In hindsight, he should have known something was up when they were pulling on their gas masks.
Stupid.
He’s always been stupid.
Weak.
He wonders what Clockwork would think of him. What any of the ghosts would think, to see him curled under a bush like this.
He wonders what Dami would—
“Shut up,” he growls out, through clenched teeth. “Just go ghost, you stupid fucking asshole.”
So he does.
There’s a flash of blinding white light and he feels so much lighter. Relief instantly floods his system. Whatever he expected to feel—the pain of old wounds, the pull of torn skin, the agony of his core wrenching free—he doesn’t feel it at all and a little voice in his head whispers that if he wasn’t a coward, he would have done this way sooner. He ignores it in favour of going intangible and floating up through the shrubbery.
This is fucked. This whole cursed city is fucked.
He sighs and takes off. Flying pulls him out of his mood, as it always does.
It’s freedom; he’s not tied down anywhere and he can go anywhere he wants. This whole cursed city is his oyster.
It doesn’t take him too long to find a shelter, a closed Batburger (ridiculous), that looks warm and, more importantly, dry. Sneaking into Wayne Manor feels like a violation, but trespassing in this incredibly terribly named burger joint is fine.
He curls up in the basement next to the boiler and falls asleep almost instantly, the warmth soothing his aching muscles.
Thankfully, he wakes up alone, as Phantom, and exactly where he left himself.
His limbs feel all toasty and warm; a pleasant change from the last couple of days.
From upstairs comes the sounds of a kitchen opening up, heavy footfalls and muted voices going about their normal routines, and his stomach rumbles in response.
Half of him wants to just float up there, slip a burger into his pocket and be off scott-free with a full belly. He’s only got $17.53 left, after all, he’s got to conserve his limited funds and eat.
But he knows he can’t do that. On a list of sins, stealing a burger has to be higher up than cheating on a test. Unleashing another Dan in the world doesn’t seem particularly fair.
He sighs and floats through the floor, invisible, and changes back behind the Batburger before using the front doors to return to the restaurant. Orders the Robin, the cheapest breakfast meal on the menu, and sits down to have breakfast.
It’s not as good as Nasty Burger.
The rain seems to have passed for now, but the sky is still clouded over and the wind has changed directions, blowing bitterly cold. He looks out the window with a scowl. At least he’s dry.
Well… He’s transformed and nothing terrible happened—no-one had grabbed him in his sleep, his insides stayed in and his outsides weren’t damaged in anyway, so really it went far better than he could have hoped—and while sleeping on the floor of the Batburger isn’t the worst place he’s been this week, a bed would be heaven sent. Hell, he’d settle for a couch, anything to get out of the cold.
So he should go find Bruce Wayne, League be damned. Really, if you think about it, Mother wouldn’t have spent all these years keeping his existence a secret if the one lifeline she gave him led straight to his death. He really just needs to get over himself and ask for some help.
And besides, if the last few days (weeks, months, years) have taught him anything, it’s that he’s not an easy person to kill.
Again.
So, that’s his plan, then.
Find Bruce Wayne. Tell him the bare minimum (despite popular belief, he’s not an idiot). Borrow a charger, find out what’s happening back home—back in Amity Park—make sure everyone’s okay, and then… Well, he’ll figure that out when he gets there.
Maybe he could take a page out of Ellie’s book and go travelling.
An icy cold blooms in his chest, his core vibrating inside him. Perhaps not. Travelling sounds cool and all, but being so untethered seems strange to him.
For all the troubles it gave him, Danny had never wanted to leave Amity Park before. His friends were there, Jazz was there; even now, he can feel the tug of it in his core, urging him to go and make sure they're safe. Circumstances just forced his hand and he had to leave.
He heaves himself out of the booth with a sigh. No need to think about it now, he’s got plenty of time to decide where he’s going next, but his first stop is going to be Bruce Wayne.
His newfound bravado takes him all the way up to the iron gates of Wayne Manor and no further.
It’s got to be at least noon, but there’s no change in the sky so he can’t be sure. The thick blanket of clouds hanging over the city make it seem all the more oppressive and his walk had been a lot quicker than yesterday—but with this chill in the air, it was either walk fast or freeze.
The intercom is staring him down.
Alright, he can do this. He transformed last night and nothing dreadful happened. If needs be, he can transform again.
He can do this.
He’s not going to hide under another bush.
He takes a step forward when the intercom interrupts him.
“Please don’t run away again,” the old British man begins, “you look like you need help.”
He freezes. Yes, he does need help, thank you. But to be offered it, to not have to ask, it’s… It’s a trap, an insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind.
“You’re more than welcome to come in and we can fix you up with some warm clothes, something hot to eat, a bed if you need it. We could contact your parents—”
Danny takes a step back, his muscles tense and ready to bolt.
“—or alternative arrangements can be made, if you wish. It’s completely up to you.”
This is what he came for, isn’t it? So why is he hesitating? Every nerve in his body is screaming this is a trap, why, why would he offer help otherwise?
He stays rooted to the spot, his mouth dry.
A sigh breathes through the intercom, static and loud. “It is regrettable, but understandable, if you do not wish to enter. I can only assure you that Master Bruce is a trustworthy and kind individual and has helped many children out of… unfortunate situations. I have left a package tucked under the hedges to your left. Please help yourself to anything you may need. There will always be more for you in the Manor if you so need it.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but the light stays on.
Another few minutes tick by while he stares at the intercom, trying to discern the old man’s intentions, before he decides fuck it and makes his way to the package wedged firmly under the hedge.
The leaves tickle his back as he wrenches the black rucksack out. He almost snorts, thinking about earlier—not going under another bush, my ass.
It’s heavy, bulging with who knows what. Once it’s out, he glances back up to the intercom from under his hood, unsure of what to do now.
“Thank you,” he says softly. He licks his lips, trying to gain the courage to say more.
“It’s the least we can do. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, Master Bruce’s butler. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?” The words trail out, waiting for Danny to fill in the blank.
He doesn’t.
There’s a whisper of a sigh through the intercom, not as crackly as the last.
“Well,” he continues, “there’s some money in the outer left pocket. If you would rather not take a room here, I would urge you to find a hotel. It’s not safe on the streets at night, especially for—”
Whatever he was going to say is lost as a car pulls up to the gates. Absurdly, his first thought is that it’s the GAV. His second thought is that it’s the GIW. Panic floods through him and he doesn’t stick around to think about anything else.
He snags the rucksack as he sprints off, desperately hoping there’s no tracker or anything in there.
Distantly, he wonders when he became so paranoid.
A car door opens and he thinks he can hear someone shouting for him, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop. It’s at this point that he realises it’s probably either Bruce Wayne himself or one of his many wards, but he can’t force himself to stop. The rucksack bouncing on his back pushes him forward, each smack of it feeling like he’s breaking whatever tentative trust was building up between him and the old man.
He feels like he’s sprinting away from a burning bridge.
Fuck.