Chapter Text
It was a cold night in Gotham City. September was usually pretty cold, but with the wind in his face, Damian still couldn’t help but shiver in his insulated Robin uniform. He crept silently along the thin edge of the windowsill he was balanced on, several stories high, crouching to slide the unlocked window open. Fools. For such prestigious “ghost hunters” with all their advanced technology and high-tech weapons, their personal security was severely lacking.
Damian slipped into the shadows and melded into the darkness behind the curtains, greeted by the timeless, still air of a freezing hotel room. Damian scowled, realizing it was so cold he could see his breath when he exhaled. Who doesn’t turn on the heat in their room in September? In Gotham?
If Damian was totally honest, he much preferred his task to those of his brothers. The Ghost Eradication Convention they’d attended earlier had been unlawful at best, and cruel and downright psychotic at worst. From what the Bats had gathered from Barbara’s research and the Justice League Dark’s intel, the Infinite Realms was a dimension that connected all other universes and dimensions as well as being home to a whole other range of species. The foolish convention was promoting the capture, torture, dissection, and eradication of these ecto-entities. According to the Justice League Dark, they were practically begging for interdimensional war—one that Earth wouldn’t win.
Damian hated it there. He acted unbothered, but Richard could always read him like a book. Once they’d gotten to the “live dissection” events, they’d watched in horror as more than one ecto-animal was pinned or restrained and treated like a science experiment.
The Fentons had led the event. Father had tasked him, Robin, to search the Fentons’ hotel room that night during the weapons unveiling show. Red Robin and Black Bat were placed to watch the exits of the convention and take names and faces of those who arrived or left, with easy transport nearby in case Robin needed backup. Batman, Red Hood, and Nightwing were attending the showcase in their hero identities under the guise of looking for defense against ghosts.
So yes, Damian much preferred his job to theirs.
The room was quiet. There was nothing particularly odd about the room itself—bland art on the walls, a brown and beige color scheme, and ever-so-slightly sticky carpet, Damian noted with distaste—but when he took a good look around, it became incredibly apparent that the Fentons were not known for their subtly. They’d hidden nothing, leaving bulky guns with cheesy branding out on the drawers and counters. Their packed bags sat at the end of the queen bed, overflowing with unfolded clothes. Damian’s nose scrunched in disgust. He quickly rifled through the drawers and closet, finding them empty, and was digging through one of the luggage bags when he first heard the noise.
Damian froze and ducked behind the bed, scanning the room with the night vision in his mask lenses. He saw no motion near the door or windows. Nothing.
So where did—
There.
A quiet scuffle, a soft hitched breath. Someone else was in the room with him.
Damian crept out of his hiding place, a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, and rechecked the room properly. This time he saw something he’d originally missed. In the corner of the room, there was what looked like a large box covered in some kind of blanket or sheet. Through an uneven fold near the bottom, Damian catches a wisp of what looks like white fur. Not a box beneath that drape after all, then.
He swelled with righteous fury. The convention started early in the morning and the Fentons hadn’t left once. Did those sick scientist freaks leave a caged animal in their freezing hotel room all day?
His hands left his katana as he rushed towards the cage. Damian pulled back the blanket cover slowly, conscious in his efforts to soothe whatever creature was inside, no doubt afraid.
That is not a cat, nor a dog.
That is a boy.
A meta of some kind, from the looks of it. Damian was immediately drawn to bright, Lazarus-green eyes, staring up at him like he was the enemy and filled with terror and uncertainty. Damian’s instinctual reaction to the sight is to tense and reach for a weapon—eyes of that color have never been a good sign. But the boy doesn’t seem angry at all.
Richard’s soothing voice comes back to him in memory, reminding him to take a step back and reevaluate. The meta boy was curled up with a soft, quivering, fluffy white tail wrapped around him and white ears pressed flat against his head of messy white hair. There was a leather muzzle locked on his face, hiding his mouth and preventing all sound from escaping. He looked like he was wearing some kind of modified hazmat suit, and the logo on the front would’ve been easier to see if the outfit wasn’t torn and burned in random places, revealing cuts and wounds with dried green blood surrounding them.
The cage was too small for the meta, even malnourished, and a kid looking around Damian’s age already shouldn’t be that small. His cheeks and nose were flushed green, likely from the chill in the room, making a spattering of white freckles in the shapes of constellations stand out more.
“Hello,” Damian said, softening his voice the best he was able. “Do you recognize me?”
The cat boy didn’t respond, only ducking his head a little more. He was shaking, and Damian was sure it was not entirely from the cold.
“That’s alright. My name is Robin, and I am a vigilante hero of the city of Gotham. I am here to rescue you.”
The boy pressed further against the bars, a visible shudder running through his small frame and frail limbs. He tilted his head, letting Damian see the metal collar around his neck and the chain connected to it.
Burying his anger momentarily, Damian slipped a pair of lockpicks from his gloves and slowly reached forward. Even then, the meta flinched back violently with wide eyes, tail pressing harder against his cowering body. A small whine came from behind the muzzle. Damian tutted gently at him, more akin to his interactions with Alfred the Cat than any person he was close to.
Perhaps he was looking at this wrong. Damian might have the list of questions to ask victims memorized and studied tips for comforting those in distress, but his abilities to study did not exactly speak for his social aptitude. He had a long way to go in his people skills. But animals? He knew animals.
So Damian sat back on his heels and kept his hands on the floor, stretched out in offering to the animal meta, and prepared to wait as long as necessary. The others would inform him should the Fentons decide to head home early.
The boy didn’t move for the first two or three minutes, warily curled up and watching him for any sign of a threat. When he decidedly found none, he shifted uncomfortably in the little cage, inching forward. Damian maintained patience, and finally, the boy got close enough to nudge Damian’s hand lightly and retreat. Robin forced away his smile and extended his hand, letting the meta move his head beneath it, and he took that as a sign that it was alright to gently stroke the soft fur of one of his twitching ears.
His comms sprang to life.
“Rob? It’s been radio silence from you, everything okay?" Richard’s worried voice filtered in.
“That is a subjective inquiry,” Damian replied, keeping his voice low and steady to not spook the cat boy.
“Why are you talking like someone might hear you? Robin, what’s your status?” Drake asked, the rest of the chatter on comms quieting at the urgency in his tone.
“Tt. Relax, Drake. I am fine, but there has been a new development. I’m requesting backup.”
“Robin. Report,” Batman’s firm, gravelly voice demanded. The lack of a rebuke against using real names in the field speaks to how concerned he actually was.
Damian watched the scared half-cat (half-boy, too, but Damian’s mostly ignoring that part) tremble under his hand, tail swishing uncertainly, ears still plastered back and anxious eyes darting back and forth, and decided that he didn’t mind having inherited Father’s adoption instincts.
“Have Agent A prepare the infirmary, and a new room in the manor, preferably near me.”
The comms exploded with noise as his whole family spoke at once, and Damian let the sound of their voices wash over him as he worked at the collar of his new brother friend acquaintance and plans his revenge on the Fentons.
Chapter 2
Notes:
yall, when i say fluffy tail, im talkin duchess from aristocats fluffy.
enjoy! happy april fools :P
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tim gaped at the sight before him. “Robin…”
“He is coming home with us,” Damian snarled defensively, hackles raising as Red Robin dropped into the room from the windowsill. Tim walked over and crouched beside his younger brother, peeking over his shoulder at the bundle of white fur and trembling limbs curled into the back corner of the cage.
“Well, fuck,” the older boy said softly, wincing at the boy’s flinch back against the bars. “Guess we can arrest those psychopaths now, huh?”
“You scared him with your disruptive entrance, Drake,” Damian said in disdain, puffing up adorably.
“Code names,” he rebuked instinctively. Tim frowned when his eyes caught on a glimpse of metal. “You didn’t take off the muzzle or the collar?”
Damian scowled. “Obviously, I tried. Unfortunately, they are secured with technology that will have to be addressed in the Cave. We need transport.”
Tim sighed. “I’ll call the Batmobile.” He paused. “And Nightwing.”
Dick’s little brothers weren’t responding on comms and it was starting to freak him out. He turned to Jason, who was still focused on examining several of the bazooka-sized guns on the table. “Hood? Have you heard anything from Red Robin since he went to provide backup for Robin?”
Jason sighed and shook his head. “For the millionth time, no. We’re connected to the same comms, Wing. Everything you hear, I hear.”
“We should go,” Dick said anxiously, ignoring the comments. “They could be hurt.”
“Or Robin just found another hurt kitten and wanted to make it sound serious so that B wouldn’t suspect him of anything,” Jason countered, fidgeting with an odd device that looked a bit like a dreamcatcher in one hand.
“And he requested a whole room be made up at the manor?” Dick said skeptically.
Jason set down a gun and actually looked at him this time. At least, Dick thought he did, but it was hard to tell with the whiteout lenses of Hood’s helmet. “Okay, fine. Let’s go, then, dammit.”
“Thank you.” Dick exhaled, smiling, but the smile dropped as soon as he caught Jason staring over his shoulder. He spun around, catching a flash of blue and orange leaving out the back, and groaned. “You only said that because the Fentons are on their way back, didn’t you?”
Jason shrugged. “Same goal, isn’t it?”
Dick rolled his eyes at his brother’s antics and the two jogged toward a back exit. Dick reported over comms that the Fentons were on their way out, heading most likely to the hotel, and to wrap up whatever it was going on. He barely got an acknowledgment from Tim, which concerned him even more because Tim almost always gives a full report back. Whatever’s got Damian wound up clearly had distracted Tim as well.
Dick and Jason each climbed onto their motorcycles, unafraid to go over the speed limit and drive recklessly in the city they know by heart. And if Dick was fearing for his baby brothers’ lives, well, no one had to know.
The wind whipped his black hair around, and Dick cursed himself for forgetting to put on his helmet. Oh, well. At the speeds they traveled, Dick knew they’d be there before the Fentons could return to their room, but he was still worried.
As if reading his mind, Tim finally spoke over the comms. “Call the Batmobile. We need an extraction,” Tim said. Dick hears the little beep in his earpiece signaling that Bruce is either in the Batmobile or has called it to Tim’s location.
“Is anyone hurt?” Jason asked gruffly.
“Well yes, but no,” Tim replied, clearing his throat. “Bring the victim aid packs and, uh, B? You might want to grab the adoption papers.”
“Boys. We are not adopting anyone,” Bruce said, sounding weary enough that Dick almost audibly laughed. He wondered if this new kid had black hair and blue eyes, too. Wouldn’t that just be perfect?
“That’s what you always say, B,” he said happily. “So, wait. Let me get this clear. Robin’s on board with this?”
“If anything, it’s Robin’s idea,” Tim responded. “Surprising, I know, but it’ll make more sense when you get here.”
Dick’s not sure what exactly could convince Damian to want Bruce to adopt a whole new sibling, but he still speeds up, mind coming up with a dozen different scenarios, none of them good.
Oh.
Yeah, that’d do it.
The first thing Dick had noticed in the room was the freezing temperature, and then the boy in the cage. The child didn’t have black hair or blue eyes, but he had cat ears and a tail and the cutest little baby kitten fangs Dick had ever seen, so he figured that made up for it.
“I’m going to kill those scientist fucks,” Jason growled through his modulated helmet, reminding Dick that his brother was behind him and now likely under the influence of the Pits, as he often was when faced with hurt children. Certainly not the worst thing to get riled up about, but the timing was horrible.
“Listen, I share the sentiment,” Dick told his brother, holding his hands up, “but not right now. You don’t want to scare the kid.”
Jason looked like he didn’t want to wait, but hesitantly stood down and backed away to give them more space. He clearly didn’t like it, but even Jason knew how his large, intimidating frame could come off to frightened children.
“Red Robin, go wait for the Batmobile to arrive and grab some bandages when it does. Hood, guard the door,” Dick directed calmly, kneeling on Damian’s other side. Both obeyed without protest or complaint and Dick was grateful for it.
He peered into the cage, meeting those big, frantic green eyes, and tried not to react to how familiar that color was. “Robin, report,” he said firmly but quietly, mindful of the victim.
Damian straightened up at Nightwing's command, once his Batman. “The Victim’s presumed age is between twelve and fifteen. Abrasions on both wrists, likely from some sort of restraints, in addition to potential wounds beneath the…collar and muzzle. I cannot get the collar off.” Damian’s voice quieted near the end, and his brows furrowed. Frustration? Or guilt?
Dick hummed, nodding for him to continue as he cataloged each injury. He’d learned a long time ago that the best way not to be overwhelmed by emotions on a difficult mission was to focus on the facts.
“Cuts scattered across the body, shallow, based on the bleeding pattern. The presence of burn damage on the clothes without burnt flesh beneath suggests an accelerated healing factor, since the clothes must’ve been worn at the time of infliction,” Damian finished.
“Good, Robin.” Dick watched the cat’s eyes dart between the two of them, uncomprehending but afraid. Dick moved out of a kneel and sat criss-cross on the floor instead, making himself smaller as he leaned forward. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, unsure of how much the kid understood. For all they knew, this could be another Cass situation. Dehumanization was cruel, and leaving the victim with no language to communicate with was not unheard of. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”
Suddenly, he was met with Hood’s sharp voice, urgency clear in his tone. “The Fentons are by the elevators at the end of the hall. Wrap it up fast.”
The kitten gave a full-body flinch, eyes widening even more. It seemed he did understand a little, or at least knew the sound of his captors’ names. Dick could almost feel the panic set into Damian when his youngest brother tensed.
He quickly turned to Damian. “Robin. Disconnect the chain from the collar.”
Damian nodded and slipped forward, lockpick in hand. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly as he ducked into the cage. “I’m going to remove that nasty chain. Can you tilt your head for me?”
Dick’s heart was pounding in his chest. They had seconds, now. “Breathe, kiddo,” he soothed the cat boy, who had pressed himself against the cage floor as Damian worked.
“Ten seconds and I’m pulling out a gun,” Hood said across the room.
“Got it,” Damian declared, the lock on the chain audibly clicking as it opened.
Dick scooped the hurt kitten into his arms, ignoring the scared yip. The boy’s body was like ice. “Everyone out, now.” The white tail curled around one of his arms.
Damian was already halfway out the window, grapple out, Hood right behind Dick. Dick climbed onto the windowsill and looked down at the boy he was cradling in his arms. He could see a pattering of freckles from this close up. “Can you hold on real tight for me, bud? We’re almost out,” he requested as kindly as possible.
One of the kitten’s ears twitched, but he nodded, the first response Dick had seen from him yet. Then he buried his face in Dick’s chest, eyes squeezed shut as he clung to the tight fabric of the Nightwing suit. He heard the door open in the room behind him—then shouting. Angry yelling. A gunshot.
Dick leapt.
He touched ground a few buildings away, dropping into an alley where he knew the Batmobile to be waiting.
Damian was already eagerly sitting in the back, arms out to help the boy in as Dick opened the door. The meta curled into a ball in the middle seat, knees pulled to his chest as he shivered. Dick got in beside them, the air significantly warmer in the car than outside.
“Bandages?” Tim asked from the passenger seat, passing them back, and Damian snatched them up before Dick could.
Bruce grunted, putting the Batmobile on autopilot, and Dick rolled his eyes at the silent question. “The Drs. Fenton were holding this little one captive in their room,” he reported bitterly. “Hood stayed behind to deal with it. Cass’ll back him up when she gets there.”
“Hospital?” Bruce asked, hand hovering above the location on the map, ready to change course.
Dick opened his mouth to answer, but the meta shot up at the word like a trigger, startling both Damian and Dick. His eyes were wide, the fur on his tail standing up as his ears went back, and his chest fluttered in panicked breaths. The muzzle kept him from speaking, but the message was clear: NO.
“Absolutely not,” Damian countered. “The Cave, Father.”
“…Just this once, Robin.”
“Naturally. This is a special case, Father—don’t go getting any ideas about adopting anyone else,” said Damian. The kitten visibly calmed at that, settling down again, and didn’t flinch away this time when Damian fretted over his wounds. “Besides, your judgment is clearly impaired if you could not see Drake for the parasite he is.”
“Hey!” Tim scowled, but Dick snorted, only allowing himself to do so because of the lack of heat in Damian’s words. They’ve come a long way to get from vicious insults to (mostly) brotherly teasing.
The car fell into a comfortable silence, and Damian leaned forward to check the bandages he had applied earlier. They’d been jostled when the meta jumped in his seat. “You should be careful,” he scolded gently, and Dick resisted the urge to coo, “or else you’ll make your injuries worse.”
The youngest hesitantly laid his hand atop the boy’s head, and when he didn’t move away, started petting down his cat ears. The meta didn’t respond to the rebuke except to close his eyes in delight at the gentle treatment.
An idea struck the eldest. Dick reached under the seats for the aid kit, pulling out an old, folded, light blue blanket. There were a few other blankets, too, but this one was special. He, along with nearly all his siblings, had fond memories of this particular blanket. He remembered back when he was Robin, climbing into the passenger seat after a long, exhausting stakeout or fight, resting his head against the window as Bruce tucked him in for the ride.
This blanket had been burritoed around young Jason the night Bruce found him jacking the tires, and held the smell of Batburger for days after. There was even a small black line on one side where the fluff had been charred; Tim, aged fourteen, accidentally set it on fire after trying to hotwire the vehicle (to no avail). Stray cat fur was still stuck in the threads after Damian used the blanket to cocoon an abandoned kitten in an alley when they took it to the shelter.
Dick supposed the cat fur wouldn’t be going away any time soon.
He wrapped it around his newest brother (screw Bruce, Dick had already decided for him). “There you go,” Dick said gently, sealing the kitten into the warmth, and tucked the extra blankets between him and the back of the seat. Those big green eyes opened with awe and Dick grinned. “Does that feel better, kiddo?”
He got a nod in response, and the boy hesitantly stuck a hand out to clutch the blanket. Damian and Dick watched bemusedly as the cat took the extra blankets and unraveled them, making little walls and placing them strategically. He circled once before laying down in the whole mess.
Dick’s heart filled with so much excitement it felt like it was about to burst, and he could barely keep the beam off his face. The meta boy had built a little nest in the backseat of the Batmobile, and it had to be the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. Once glance at Damian, who had gone back to his gentle pets, told him his brother was hiding a smile, too.
He looked over and caught Tim sneaking a picture from the front seat.
Yep. This one wasn’t going anywhere. He was theirs.
Notes:
yay! chapter 2 is out. tell me what you think and what you like! i thrive off your feedback. next up: danny's pov! (and a lot more trauma. enjoy the fluff while you've got it)
come say hi on tumblr! it's hollowgast1 (idk how to add links)
Chapter 3
Summary:
Our angry cat-ghost-boy gets used to a new environment and everyone makes a few mistakes.
Notes:
tw: non-explicit, very brief fear of noncon near the end. nothing happens or will happen
:P enjoy!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The day Danny died was the same day his recessive meta gene activated. It developed over the span of about two weeks, in which time Phantom was quickly becoming a known hero. At first, the trio had thought it was just a funny quirk of his ghost side that Sam and Tucker could tease him for. A bona fide catboy, Tucker called him. Sam jokingly told him to watch out for anime girls.
His white cat ears and tail came first, and when he hissed or purred or growled, his normally-round pupils would narrow into cat slits. His canines sharpened slightly, just enough to be called fangs, and all his senses doubled. Danny’s gloved hands shifted into ghostly white claws, but the shifting process mimicked a cat’s retracting claws.
All of a sudden he was battling new instincts—he was territorial, which he was pretty sure was more of a ghostly thing than a cat thing, protective over his Obsession, and wary of new people in a way he had never been before. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.
Phantom being a catboy was funny until it wasn’t.
After these new developments appeared, he changed back into a human for the first time, and the ears and tail didn’t go away. They changed with him, his fur going from white to black.
Danny was able to hide it for about a week. His parents, despite being neglectful, weren’t morons. It was only a matter of time before they wondered why he was suddenly wearing a beanie every day and extra-long hoodies in the summer.
First, they kept him in the lab. He woke one morning strapped to a metal table and screamed until his parents came downstairs. They tried to put a muzzle on him, and it was almost too late, but he finally managed to get out that he wasn’t a ghost—he was a meta. The ghost portal had contaminated him with ectoplasm that found a meta gene they didn’t know about.
His parents listened.
Danny was relieved for about five minutes. They moved him from the dissection table to a ghost-proofed cell in the lab. Apparently, they couldn’t risk ghosts overshadowing him when he was already a freak. They tried to keep him docile with the muzzle, but he was angry and scared and that was a horrific combination for someone only one-third human.
Eventually, it blew up in their faces. Danny went feral. He wailed, destroying half the lab, and transformed into Phantom, giving himself away.
The Fentons sent him to the GIW for “training.”
Vicious animals do not speak. Vicious animals do not have wants or opinions. Vicious animals are nothing. Danny is not a person. Vicious animals do not speak. Vicious animals do not have wants or opinions. Vicious animals are nothing. Danny is not a person. Vicious animals do no—
The GIW sent him back to the hunters, this time with a power-suppressing collar and a supply of extra-strong chains. The hunters kept him in his cell and treated him like a lab rat—less than a pet.
It’s not enough for the hunters. With Jazz unaware, off at college, they pack into the GAV and hit the road. Now they have a prize to show off at conventions, proof that they are the greatest ghost hunters and ectobiologists of their time, having mastered control over a ghost. No one had ever done such a thing before.
The hunters threatened dissection many times, but Danny knew they never would. They had too much fun with their little plaything. It wasn’t like they never hurt him—they still took him out of his cage to beat him or torture him in front of an audience to show how well-behaved he could be.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, they’d toss him their scraps and take off the muzzle for a few minutes. It wasn’t enough, of course, but his ghost side wouldn’t let him die of starvation. He needed both ecto and food to live, but he could survive off only ecto for as long as four or five months. Each time he got even a bite of real food, the timer started over.
He was so tired. He was tired of conventions, even ones like these, where he wasn’t the main focus. Let them show off their weapons. Danny would just curl up here in his cage, cold to the bone. His ghost side and his cat side did not often fight each other, but his ghostliness kept his body temperature cold, and the rest of him just wanted to be warm.
He hated the hunters, but Ancients, when they paid any attention to him at all, it was the warmest he would ever feel.
The routine exploded all in one night.
Danny’s world was…soft, for a while.
Someone was holding him. Red-green-yellow-black. A foreign feeling wrapped around him, pressing from all sides, but in a comforting way—not like the restraints. A strong scent brought words to Danny’s head unwittingly: leather, chamomile, earth. Loud noises. Bang. Someone spoke to him, the chain on his collar was off, he wasn’t in his cage anymore, FEAR FEAR FEAR until he realized that this wasn’t so bad. Usually being out of the cage meant bad things.
This was okay.
His order of events might be a little mixed up. The surface below him rumbled. It felt nice, like– like purring. Except purring is bad, so maybe the rumbling wasn’t nice? He’s not really sure. There were nice hands in his hair. Nice hands didn’t hurt.
And then he was closing his eyes, letting the gentle ministrations take over as all other sensations faded away, and darkness.
He woke up to white. White everywhere. Terrifying, horrifying white.
Fluorescent lights. Screaming. Metal tools on trays nearby. “Hold it down!” Beep. Beep. Beep.
Danny thrashed, trying to cry behind the muzzle and the painful metal bit keeping his tongue pressed to the bottom of his mouth. His eyes were blurry with tears, but he saw the fuzzy shapes of humans reaching for him, their mouths moving and making indistinguishable sounds.
Pain. It hurt, it hurt, why were they hurting him? He didn’t do anything wrong this time!
Danny’s core buzzed in his chest, trying to go on the defense. He lashed out at the first figure that leaned over him, claws catching on skin. Someone yelped in pain, and Danny’s heart sank. He’d be punished for that later.
Voices got louder and louder, layering on top of one another until one crisp command made it through the fog:
“Move.”
The hands went away, but the pain didn’t. Danny’s tail whipped around his body and he swiped his claws at the new form. Hands, smaller hands than before, gently latched onto his wrist. Within seconds, before Danny could even realize what had happened, both of his wrists were twisted up in a soft fabric he couldn’t get out of. His claws flexed uselessly and he curled up on the table (not a table, it’s too soft to be a table), the tip of his tail swishing against his leg. He didn’t like it, but the pain was gone. That wasn’t…awful.
“Give me the neutralizer,” the same voice said, young but firm. Danny closed his eyes and braced for pain.
Something cold touched his neck, but nothing hurt. The pressure of his collar released and Danny slumped against the cot, the murkiness in his head clearing up for the first time in what felt like months. He blearily blinked at the human, lightly scenting the olive-toned hand as it approached. Leather, chamomile, earth.
“There you go,” the boy murmured. The boy was red-green-yellow-black. “Better?”
Danny didn’t respond, but his calmness was evidently answer enough to the boy, who nodded and waved over another blurry figure. Danny tensed, remembering hands that hurt, but after another wave of reassurances from the boy, he hesitantly began to relax again.
This human was red-black. He had an odd device in his hand as he approached, and Danny went to lurch his claws up to protect himself, but they just tugged uselessly against his soft restraints. He let out a petulant little growl, and someone let out an amused huff. That was just how humans were, he knew—always quick to laugh. He was never let in on the joke.
The straps over his head yanked, making Danny flinch. The tension was gone all at once as the straps were eased over his head. He whimpered as the bit came out with the muzzle, scraping the roof of his mouth, and he felt his ears flick in distress.
“I know, I’m sorry,” someone said sympathetically, voice warm and familiar. Blue-black. “That probably hurt you, huh? It’ll feel better soon. Are you hungry?”
Danny’s head spun, reeling with the odd sensation of the missing muzzle and trying to keep up with the human’s quick tongue before he got punished for his lack of response. It was a game the hunters liked to play with him. He wasn’t allowed to speak; he was dangerous and wild, he would bite without a muzzle, and animals don’t need to talk anyway. But it was rude to ignore them.
“Are you hungry?” Maddie asked him with a sneer. She was holding a bag of takeout. Nasty Burger. The greasy spots on the paper bag glistened in the eerie green light of the ghost portal.
The muzzle pinched his face as he nodded frantically, pleading eyes staring out between the bars of his cage. Behind his mother, the dissection table sat innocently, an unspoken threat forever waiting for him. He had to remind himself this was better. Things could always be worse.
Maddie tutted, giving him a mocking pout. “I can’t understand you if you don’t use your words.” The warm scent rolling off the bag was torture to his enhanced sense of smell, and his stomach rumbled longingly. He prowled along the front of the cage, eyeing the bag, and whined desperately. His mother frowned. “So you’re ignoring me now?”
Danny shook his head, but it meant nothing. He watched Maddie sigh in disappointment and return up the stairs, leaving him to cry alone in the basement's darkness. The disappointment was fake, but it still hurt. She was never really going to give him a real shot, but every time he held out a little hope that this time would be it, this would be when they finally—
He knew better now.
Except the game was different this time. The muzzle was gone.
Would they let him…?
“P-please,” Danny whispered, but the sound was so hushed that he could barely hear himself. The instant the word left him, his whole body jerked, shrinking into a ball and burrowing into the pillow. His fear of speaking overrides any joy he would’ve felt at realizing he had a real pillow.
“Please what, buddy?” someone prodded, voice oddly kind.
They were going to make him spell it out, weren’t they? Make him speak to get what he wants, then punish him for using words so that the food won’t even be worth it. Just to make sure he won’t ever ask for things again. Well, joke’s on them. Danny could be good and quiet, and even if they yell at him to dare to speak again, he’s keeping his mouth clamped shut. No matter how hungry.
Damian frowned. The boy was balled up and shivering, eyes shut tight, refusing to focus on anything in the room. They all knew he could talk now, at least some, although he refused to speak again after responding to Drake.
“Pennyworth?” he asked.
The old man had stepped back, leaving the boy to wrap a bandage around Richard’s arm where he’d been clawed. “I imagine it will be difficult to attempt bandaging when the boy is so clearly wary of his new location. Give him some time to calm down.”
He was calm at the moment. Damian’s blanket-twist around the wrists had worked surprisingly well. It was unobtrusive and nearly impossible to injure oneself with, and he used it on Alfred the cat more than once to avoid being scratched.
“We should move him,” Damian concluded. “A sterile, uncomfortable environment will likely increase stress levels and delay setting the groundwork for trust. Cats are, as well, infamously known to dislike doctors.”
“He’s not a pet,” Richard scolded lightly from where he was picking at his fresh wrappings.
“I’m not trying to treat him like one,” Damian responded testily. He wasn’t. He was only stating the facts, and any moron with eyes could see the effect the medbay was having on the boy. “Bring him to a bedroom. We can try tending to his injuries there.”
Drake got up from his seat and reached for something on a tray. “Or we can let him sleep and treat him while he’s out to avoid a repeat of Dick’s arm.” Let him sleep was just code for sedating him. Damian’s frown deepened—they weren’t listening.
Richard pouted. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Tt. That’s what you get for being careless,” Damian said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I strongly suggest relocating the boy to a less hostile environment. Drake. Are you even listening—”
“No! No, no, no more, please don’t!” the boy screamed as Drake, the fool, approached with a needle. Everyone jumped back and Drake had the gall to look surprised.
“This is preposterous,” Damian snarled, storming from the room. He headed for the training mats, where he knew his other brother would be taking out his anger. As loath as he was to acknowledge any of Todd’s strengths, Damian knew the second eldest was good with kids. There weren’t any better options anyway—Cassandra was in the shower and Father was catching up Gordon on the Fentons’ arrest. Unfortunately, Todd’s bullet only landed in the behemoth of a man’s thigh, no casualties. A real pity. If it had been up to Damian, they both would’ve ended with a sword through their—
“How’s he doin’?” Todd asked, voice deep and raspy as he panted. His hands were on his knees, sweat beading on his forehead.
Damian crossed his arms, standing in the doorway of the training room. “The others are fools. I need you to help me stage an extraction from the medbay.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Richard got his arm sliced. Drake attempted to sedate the meta and only scared him further. Obviously, I am the only one competent enough to account for the animalistic traits the meta exhibits.”
Todd huffed and unwrapped his knuckles, swiping a rag across his forehead and neck before slinging it onto his shoulder. “Sure, brat. Move.”
Damian barely managed to jump out of the way before Todd could barrel him over with a confident stride. He jogged after the elder in a slightly undignified manner, cursing his short legs as he caught up. Voices in the medbay told him that Pennyworth was rebuking Drake for his foolish thinking, as he should.
Todd entered the medbay like a madman, but the sudden shift in demeanor was unmistakable—his large, intimidating figure softened to make himself look smaller; his eyes, which a minute ago were hard and determined, gentled at the sight of the scared child cowering away from them.
Richard had a gooey smile on his face, to no one’s surprise.
“Jason?” Drake asked, startled.
“Okay, time’s up. You guys had your chance—it’s my turn now,” Todd said gruffly, but not meanly. Everyone silently made room for him without question.
Damian puffed up in pride. He had chosen correctly.
Danny eyed the new presence. He recognized this one, too, but vaguely. This man was red-red-GREEN-red, frightening but not quite as much, and something about him felt like home. There was no silver needle in his hand, either, which sparked hope in Danny’s chest. Were they putting off his punishment?
“Jason?” someone said, presumably addressing the new person.
He was scooped up before he could even protest, suddenly finding himself moving away from all the white and metal and into a dark expanse of…cave? Where were they? He had thought for a moment that the GIW had stolen him or that it was some kind of complicated game where his parents the hunters tested him to see if he would escape given the chance, but every additional piece of evidence made him more confused.
A soft ding caught his notice. Danny’s ears perked up, twitching toward the sound, his green eyes wide open and attentive. Jason was entering an elevator, the small red-green-yellow-black boy following behind.
The elevator opened into a large room adorned with dark leather and dim lighting and warmth. His eyes fell closed as he bathed in the new sensations, trying to enjoy it as Jason took them to the exit, wanting it to last as long as possible. But, to his shock, the next hall wasn’t cold and bland like the corridors at the many ghost conventions he’d been to. Nor were they white like the GIW bases or slabs of concrete and metal like the lab. Danny squirmed in Jason’s arms as he tried to get a good look at everything they passed, the pretty wallpapers and tall potted plants and floors that went from tile to carpet to wood.
He missed this.
When they reached the stairs, Jason’s arms adjusted and held Danny more snugly against him. Danny obliged, ducking his head and hiding in the man’s jacket. He missed human warmth. He wanted to curl up by Tucker’s pillow while his friend thumb-jammed a controller, cursing at his Doomed avatar. Ancients, he was so homesick for a home that was never his. For one he never got to have.
“Damian, could you get the door?” The chest beside him rumbled as Jason spoke.
Danny peeked over just in time to see red-green-yellow-black, or Damian, push open the door to a bedroom. His heart rate leaped. No, no, he didn’t want to go back in a cage! He didn’t want to be some domestic house pet in a cage in the corner again, he wanted to get away! Danny started thrashing in Jason’s arms even as he brought him inside and Damian shut the door behind him.
It looked like a normal room, albeit fancy. Windows, not barred. Dresser, table, bookshelf, a bed in a corner. He didn’t see a cage.
“Relax, it’s okay,” Jason said gently, and then Danny was being lowered onto the bed big enough for more than two, and oh no no no he didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t want to consider it as a possibility, but he’d already been through just about every horror he could think of, what was another added to the list? Danny’s tail looped around him and he bared his dull, short fangs as soon as he hit the comforter. This was something he wouldn’t go down on without a fight.
“Hey. Breathe, kiddo,” Jason murmured, brows furrowed in concern. He looked like he was genuine, but Danny had been tricked by false sympathy one too many times to fall for it.
Danny hissed, hackles lowering when both the man and the boy took several steps back. He crept back, trying to put more space between him and them.
“Wait, kid—” Jason started, stepping forward and reaching out. Towards Danny.
“Todd—”
He glared, hissing again, but then the larger man’s eyes widened and he moved forward too quickly. Danny darted back, only to realize there was no more bed left behind him, and tumbled off—into Jason’s arms. Danny made a very kitten-like cry as they closed around him and reacted instinctively, biting down on flesh.
“Fuck!” the man said sharply, letting go.
Danny flinched and scrambled under the bed, slamming himself against the wall in the dark crevice. Blood rushed in his ears as he hyperventilated. He could taste the metallic taste of iron on his teeth (and the slightest hint of ectoplasm?) that came with blood. No, no, no, no. He just– he just bit someone. That was one of his very first lessons. He scratched one of his new captors and bit another. They had every right to beat him half to death, now. He couldn’t even plead not to be punished. He deserved what was coming to him.
After all, vicious animals wear a muzzle for a reason. Vicious animals do not bite. Vicious animals do not speak. Vicious animals do not have wants or opinions. Vicious animals are nothing. Danny is not a person.
Vicious animals do not speak. Vicious animals do not have wants or opinions. Vicious animals are nothing. Danny is not a person. Vicious animals do not speak. Vicious animals do not have wants or opinions. Vicious animals are nothing. Danny is . . . not a person . . .
Notes:
me when all the fics i write are about siblings, boys, and cats, three things i do not have any experience with :P
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Chapter 4
Summary:
Damian makes progress with Danny and the Bats investigate.
Notes:
im so sorry i havent updated in so long! i didnt have a direction for this story but now that i know what i want, the next chapters shouldnt take so long to update. enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Well?” Jason asked impatiently. Dick was stuck to his side, and Jason would never admit it, but he appreciated his brother’s unceasing source of comfort.
Tim was frowning, an expression mirrored on Bruce’s face as they stared at the results on the Batcomputer.
“I don’t get it,” Tim said. “The kid’s bite is clearly doing something to you, but this data shows nothing unusual.” It was true. After being unexpectedly bitten by the cat kid, the wound had been festering, the blood seeping out with an odd goopy black substance alongside it. The only thing even slightly different about his blood results was that the amount of Lazarus Pits in his system had decreased, but not enough to note. He hadn’t felt super angry in a while, but nothing had provoked him lately so it could be easily dismissed.
“The fuck do you mean, shows nothing unusual? I’m bleeding black slime. That seems pretty damn unusual,” Jason growled, jerking his inflicted arm up to show off said wound.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tim said, “did you want to go upstairs and ask the kid still hiding under the bed?”
Jason didn’t respond, glaring at him instead.
“We’ll monitor it closely to see if anything changes or gets worse,” Dick amended. “When the new baby settles, we can try asking questions, but not right now. Hopefully Dami is making progress with him.”
“‘New baby,’” Jason huffed, amused. “He’s probably a little older than the Demon Brat.”
Cass, sitting on the edge of the table below the Batcomputer and kicking her legs, nodded. “Baby,” she insisted, and Jason just sighed. No one argued with Cass.
“What I don’t understand is how this happened in the first place,” Tim said, brows furrowed as he stared absently at the readings on the screen. “Who is this kid? How did nobody notice the Fentons with an entire child, and if they did, why wasn’t anything reported?”
“Oracle, pull up the file on the Fenton family,” Bruce said.
“Did I hear a ‘please’?” Barbara’s voice came in over the intercom.
“Please,” Bruce grunted, unamused. Dick and Jason snickered. “Tim, check missing persons reports. White hair is distinct enough on its own, but no one would miss the feline meta-gene.” Tim immediately set to typing. “Oracle?”
“It’s all the same information as before—Jack and Madeline Fenton, both in their early forties, are the leading experts on so-called ‘ectobiology,’ however biased their research may be. Their daughter Jasmine Fenton is away at college and their younger son, Daniel, is reportedly staying with a family friend.”
Something about it rubbed Jason the wrong way. There was no way the children didn’t know what their parents did for a living; they had to be involved somehow.
“Check their call logs,” he said suddenly. Dick gave him an odd look, but Tim looked intrigued right away. If the kids were away, the parents had to keep in touch, especially with their dependent son living numerous states away.
After a momentary pause that had to be Barbara’s hacking, she spoke. “From the Fenton parents’ phones: one call to a pizza place, a few to and from other prominent members of the convention, three missed calls from a man called Vlad Masters, and sixteen ignored calls from a Jazz, whom I assume is Jasmine.”
The Bats exchanged wary glances. It was already incriminating that the Fentons had been experimenting on—or at least abusing—the meta child. The fact that they had ignored every call from their own daughter was suspicious, not to mention they hadn’t attempted to call their son once (and he hadn’t called them). It was all beginning to feel like a puzzle, like they were right on the edge of something much more sinister than a pair of crack scientists who got their hands on an unsuspecting meta.
“Vlad Masters,” Dick said thoughtfully. “I recognize that name.”
Bruce grunted in agreement. “I recall seeing it on a guest list at the last gala.”
“You invited him and you don’t know who he is?” Jason scoffed, crossing his arms. He hissed as the movement jostled the bite wound, black droplets welling up like tiny dots of blood. Dick frowned and went to grab disinfectant wound spray and a bandage.
“Lucius Fox arranges the guest lists based on potential business partners and other high-status members of society that can be persuaded into giving us money,” Tim explained, absently following Dick with his eyes. “It’s always good to have contacts, even if the galas themselves totally suck.”
Cass tapped her hand on the table, drawing their attention, and raised her hands to sign. “Check security tapes from gala.”
While Dick wrapped up his arm, Jason echoed Cass’s suggestion to Oracle, who brought up four different camera angles from the ballroom. In the corner of the screen was the date of the gala and the time it was recorded.
She fast-forwarded through different segments, each of the bats watching as different people passed through different frames, identifying anyone they knew while Barbara ran facial recognition on those they didn’t.
Cass was the first to notice.
“There,” she said, pointing to the upper right camera frame. Oracle enlarged the recording, pausing the screen. In the video, a man with silver-streaked hair in a low ponytail was approaching the refreshment table.
“Hit play,” Tim said. They all watched as he swaggered over to the mini-sandwiches, observed them with a bored expression, and turned in the other direction. There was nothing particularly suspicious about anything he was doing, and being judgmental was fairly standard for anyone who attended those sorts of galas, but he still seemed…off.
“I’ve seen that guy,” Jason said, to which Tim nodded in agreement.
“Yeah. He’s been at a few galas, I think. He never stays the full length of the gala and he’s never brought a plus-one.”
“He’s not a suspect yet,” Bruce grunted, and Jason consciously didn’t point out that there wasn’t anything to suspect him of, “but he’s a lead in a potential investigation against the Fentons. Oracle, see if Bruce Wayne can’t set up a ‘business meeting’ at WE with him in person.”
There was silence on Barbara’s side.
Bruce paused. “Please.”
The decorative clock on the wall was driving Damian insane.
He was a highly trained individual. He could be patient, still, and quiet. That’s not the issue. The problem was that the boy’s room was pointedly not silent with the incessant tick-tick-tick droning on nonstop. Damian would equate the experience to Chinese water torture.
But the boy was more important, so he stayed crisscrossed on the floor several feet away from the bed, a bag of Goldfish in front of him.
There were three Goldfish on the floor in front of the space below the bed. The meta hadn’t taken any yet, but Damian swore he heard the boy shuffle closer. He was getting close.
He placed a fourth one next to the growing pile of snacks. “It’s alright,” Damian murmured. “I know you’re hungry. It comes at no cost, little one.”
Was the boy older than him? Probably. Did he care? Not particularly.
He waited a long, silent moment, so long that he figured this wouldn’t work either until a pale hand suddenly swiped a few of the crackers and disappeared back under the bed. And then, creating the first sound other than the clock, Damian heard soft munching. He’s eating. Finally.
Damian stayed back as the hand came out a few more times to retrieve the remaining snacks. When the cat boy’s hand came out a final time, pawing for more when nothing was left, Damian huffed in amusement.
“There’s no more,” he said calmly, ignoring the bag of them at his side. “However, there is more where that came from. Would you like to come to the kitchen with me?”
The real question was if the kid’s fear of them would overpower his hunger. If that was the case, they’d messed up worse than they thought. Either way, the situation was salvageable. Hope swelled in Damian’s chest when two glowing green eyes appeared in the shadows under the bed, meaning the other boy had come close enough to let himself be seen.
“You can have all the food you want. I’m sure there’s something you would enjoy,” Damian continued calmly.
“But,” came a tiny voice in response. The first thing he’d heard him say that wasn’t a plead or scream.
When he didn’t continue, Damian gently prodded. “But what?”
“I…bite,” was the soft response, and the green eyes disappeared as though he’d shrunk back in fear of Damian’s reaction. It would be wise to tread carefully—the nature of Todd’s bite wound was the very thing being investigated in the Cave at that moment. If the boy could explain what his bite does, they could help Todd.
Something told Damian they weren’t going to get any clear responses. This wasn’t the time for an interrogation, no matter how gentle.
“It’s alright,” Damian responded, just as softly. “Many of my friends do when they’re afraid. You will not be harmed.”
Tick-tick-tick.
“Okay.” It’s so quiet that Damian nearly didn’t hear. He blinked, stepping back to maintain distance as the boy crawled out from under the bed, wide eyes darting back and forth as he took in the rest of the room. “...Food?”
“Yes,” Damian said, slumping with relief. “The rest of the family is away in the Cave. We will have an unobstructed path to the kitchen, so there is no need to worry.” You’re safe with me.
The boy nodded, shakily getting to his feet. He was taller than Damian, but only barely, which was concerning. Medical care was still necessary, too, and the growing list of tasks was an almost physical presence at the back of his mind.
One thing at a time, he reminded himself. Food first, as he promised.
Damian squinted into the refrigerator, drumming his fingers on the handle, his other hand propped on his hip.
Cat food was out of the question, as far as he was concerned. He’ll need something with the proper nutrients that balances both halves of his form. Not too much, however, or Damian will hurt the kit’s stomach with a sudden influx of food after likely being starved. Every one of the boy’s ribs were visible.
He ended up collecting leftover chicken and setting it out on a plate, spreading it out a bit so that it isn’t clumped up in hard-to-chew bites. He heated it for thirty seconds. When he took it out, it was still a bit cold in the center, but the lightly warmed outside should help with consumption.
Damian turned around. The boy was sitting on the floor near a cabinet, legs straight out and feet wiggling back and forth as he looked around curiously. His fluffy white ears twitched, head snapping toward Damian when he stepped forward with the plate.
Damian pointedly ignored the meta’s tensing when he got close enough to set the plate between his legs on the floor.
“Meat,” Damian said, nodding at it. “Healthy and revitalizing. We will work on improving your strength over the course of the next several meals.”
The kitten didn’t hear. Small, bony hands scooped up bits of chicken and shoved them into his mouth, fangs tearing into them like scissors to paper.
With the boy occupied, Damian could finally focus on the real issue—the dried blood crusted over torn and frayed edges of the jumpsuit. The darker spots across the abdomen implied heavy bleeding of a larger or deeper potentially life-threatening injury.
He went to the sink to retrieve the first aid kit in the cabinet below it, then slowly reapproached. The boy glared at him suspiciously as he munched, subconsciously pulling the plate closer as if Damian would take it away.
“Is it alright if I clean a few of those lacerations?” Damian asked. The meta’s gaze fell to the aid kit and he shrank in on himself, tail wrapping fearfully around him. “You wouldn’t have to stop eating. It won’t take long.”
“Will…it hurt?”
“Perhaps a tiny bit. Just a little sting, if anything. It is a necessary pain during treatment that means you will recover.”
“Okay,” he said softly, looking down at the plate. There were some scraps of chicken left, but the boy didn’t reach for them. Just stared longingly, resignation in his green eyes.
Damian didn’t know how to reassure him any further without sounding like a liar. It would hurt, was the thing. There was no way to fix that unless the meta was willing to get an aesthetic injection, which he almost definitely wouldn’t. It would be better to just get it over with.
Sucking in a breath, Damian sat down beside him and pulled out a disinfectant.
“Take a deep breath,” Damian said. The boy did as he was told, trembling now. His eyes squeezed shut and his face scrunched up adorably.
Clean, disinfect, bandage, done.
He moved onto the next cut. Clean, disinfect, bandage, done.
There was always something else to treat. Another cut. Another bloody scratch. Another burn in the shape of a blast or a hot poker. Another bruise to put ice on. When he requested the meta shift so he could examine the wound across his abdomen, he found a shallow but long cut that could've come from a belt or other whip-like object. Not lethal, but they bled enough to seem that way.
The distrust never left the boy’s watchful gaze, but it did lessen.
Finally, Damian pulled away. There were awkwardly placed bandages both over the holes in his suit and under if the openings were large enough for him to work beneath, but either way there was a smaller chance of anything getting infected, so he counted it as a success. The boy was still filthy and hurt, but his fingers were greasy from chicken and his eyes less fearful and cornered.
He wasn’t shaking anymore, and it calmed something anxious in Damian he hadn’t realized was weighing him down. It was the same feeling after he rescued an animal on patrol and was able to save it and ensure the local shelter took care of it.
It was the promise that this living thing would have a better future, would go to a caring home that wouldn’t abuse or abandon it like its last family did, and that it would be loved. Yet this was different—this boy wasn’t a pet.
Damian hadn’t rescued a stray puppy from a dumpster in a Gotham alley. He’d found a whole person, one that would soon be his brother, and wasn’t it just astonishing that Damian got to be the one to rescue the kid instead of his father? He didn’t even care about the adoption-gene jokes his other brothers were sure to nag him with for months to come.
Even if he didn’t get to be the big brother, that didn’t mean he couldn’t act like one. His new brother was going to be so well protected. Damian nearly smiled at the thought.
“All done,” he said. “Do you feel a bit better?”
The boy nodded, shooting him a nervous look, although the gentle swaying of his tail told Damian that it was a lot better than he was letting on.
He really needed to call the boy something other than ‘the boy’ or ‘the meta,’ too, although he worried that asking for the kid’s name would be pushing too far too fast. He’d only just eaten in front of Damian for the first time since he arrived.
Still.
“Would you like to return to your room to get proper rest?” Damian asked.
Green eyes widened, followed by a much more eager nod.
“Shall I bring some more food up for you later?”
Another nod. His ears perked up, as well.
Damian cleared his throat and attempted to soften his voice again. “Is there a name you would like to be referred to as?”
The boy’s ears flattened, then, and he shrank slightly. Damian was prepared to let it go until the kitten made a quiet noise. “Danny,” said the boy, searching Damian’s gaze with his own. His trembling voice cracked as he whispered his next words. “My– my name is Danny.”
Notes:
next up: bathtime for danny!
dont forget to leave a comment :)
Chapter 5
Summary:
Bathtime with Brucie (and baby)!
Notes:
this was me trying to balance cat danny with ghost danny - and it all began with "what temperature water would he like best?" evidently, that's not an easy answer
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce went looking for his youngest sometime after the post-dinner meeting in the cave. He checked Damian’s room first, then considered knocking on the door of the one meant for the new child, but decided that wouldn’t go over well if his son truly were inside.
Just to be sure, he ducked his head into the rest of his children’s rooms in case Damian snuck in for a rare cuddle. They were all empty, as it was one of the few nights that all his kids went on patrol to make up for Batman and Robin’s absence.
He made his way through the den and the movie room and the game room and eventually, now speed walking, into the dining room. It wasn’t until he heard the opening and shutting of the refrigerator door that his shoulders lost their tension.
The boy was placing a plate in the sink to rinse it off when Bruce entered.
“Father,” Damian acknowledged without looking up or turning around. “I assume the others have left already?”
Bruce grunted in agreement. “Any luck with the meta?”
“Of course. He is fed and resting in his room.”
He’d made the right choice not to knock, then. Internally, he felt a rush of pride for his youngest boy. It felt like just yesterday that he had just been left at Bruce’s doorstep, plotting to kill Tim and walking around with his nose upturned to everyone around him. Damian had grown and matured so beautifully.
“Has Alfred checked his wounds?”
“The boy is skittish. I doubt he will allow Pennyworth to get that close. However, I have already cleaned and bandaged the worst of his injuries.” Damian paused, drying his hands on a towel hanging beside the sink. His brows were creased in thought.
Bruce walked over to him, awkwardly lying one hand on his son’s shoulder, an attempt to encourage him to speak his mind.
“I do have…concerns,” Damian said. “His reflexes are sharp and he is clearly aware, but he reacts the way a non-meta might while in shock. The trauma response may leave him vulnerable or unable to care for himself properly.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Bruce said, softening his voice. The symptoms sounded like a mild age-regression, or possibly just extreme need for dependence to cope with the loss of control. “Why don’t you go prepare for bed? I’ll see if I can talk to Alfred about getting him bathed.”
Damian nodded, leaning into his father’s hand for a quiet moment. Then he turned and exited the kitchen without protest.
Bruce made it down to the cave before remembering that Alfred wouldn’t be there—he went to bed earlier that night, since Bruce would be up to work comms instead.
Right. That meant this would be up to him. Stifling a sigh, he climbed the stairs for what felt like the twentieth time in the last hour, ignoring the creak in his knees. He really was getting old.
When he got to the family wing, he passed by his children’s rooms slowly, gathering the courage to navigate an inevitably emotional situation with the grace of his own surrogate father. Bruce stopped in front of his newest son’s door, taking a deep breath before lightly rapping the back of his knuckles against the wood.
“It’s Bruce,” he said, feeling immensely foolish when the words come out. He didn’t even know if the child knew his name. “Are you…doing okay?”
He listened with his ear against the door, holding his breath to strain for any little sound. But there was no response, and he felt stupid again.
“I’m going to open the door now, alright?”
Bruce gave it another second, hopefully waiting for any kind of reaction or sound at all, but internally sighed when he got nothing. He slowly pushed open the door, eyes immediately searching for the boy.
Jason and Damian had said that he preferred to hide beneath the bed, but Bruce’s gaze was drawn to the other side of the room instead. There were two bookshelves at the intersection of the walls, leaving only the corner open. And there, squeezed in the little diamond of space between the bookshelves, was the boy curled up and clutching a pillow the size of his torso. It covered the lower half of his face and the entirety of his middle, so only his legs and his face nose-upward were visible. His little hands were kneading at the pillow.
Bruce silently closed the door behind him and approached until he was halfway into the room. He was hyperaware of the bright green eyes watching him intently as he crouched with a low grunt.
“Hello there,” he said. “I’m Bruce.”
The boy’s unwavering eyes didn’t even blink. Of course—he already knew that. He’d introduced himself at the door.
He cleared his throat. “My son Damian treated your injuries earlier. I’m not sure what he told you, but we need to ensure you don’t get sick and nothing gets infected.”
The boy absently nuzzled his pillow, and Bruce tried to take a small step forward. It garnered an instant reaction, the young meta tensing and rising up on his forearms, fangs flashing.
“It’s alright,” Bruce murmured, shuffling forward a tiny bit more.
The child hesitated, his defensive posture pausing when he made a small unsure noise. Bruce could nearly see the conflict behind his eyes, fear and instinct warring with the desire to be clean and feel good for the first time since—Bruce didn’t even know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
He stopped when the boy’s eyes began to glow an even more noxious green, widening with fear as it began to win out.
“The door’s just on the other side of the room,” Bruce said, nodding toward the bathroom. “You’ll be safe. You can return to your hiding spot as soon as we’re done.”
The little one’s white-knuckled grip on the pillow eased. In a long moment of silence, they both wait for the other’s response and finally, finally, Bruce gets a nod for his efforts. He quietly lets out the breath he’d been holding.
“Do you want some help getting there, or are you—”
The boy hissed and his fluffy ears flattened as though he was offended by the question. Bruce held back the amused chuckle and stood, moving backward so the kitten could get around him without fear.
It took a few minutes, but the child uncurled and let go of his pillow, squeezing himself between the corners of the two shelves to get out. Crouched on all fours, he stared at Bruce as he slowly rose to his full height.
It was the first time Bruce had seen him so fully out in the open, and even then the boy was still ducking his head and shrinking in on himself. He was taller than Damian, but only barely, perhaps an inch or two at most. On his face still lingered baby fat and wide eyes that spoke of an odd mix of innocence and trauma, a conflicting combination that made Bruce’s heart ache.
He’d seen it on many of his children’s faces.
Bruce let him take his time, limping slowly over to the bathroom door while eyeing the man all the while. But when the boy reached for the knob, he froze, gaze darting to Bruce.
“Do you want my help?” Bruce asked awkwardly, the offer’s rejection from a few minutes ago still fresh on his mind, but unsure of any other way to help. He observed the scene with a careful eye, but the cause of the boy’s reluctance evaded him.
This time, he got a nod, and the boy skirted back as Bruce approached and opened the door. He almost frowned, but caught himself before he could frighten the child more. What was he afraid of?
He crossed the room and began filling the tub, turning around to the little boy in the doorway. Bruce cleared his throat. Why did he have to be so bad at this? Why did Alfred have to go to bed early tonight?
“Would you…like to get undressed?”
He heard it as soon as it left his mouth and almost smacked himself right then and there.
Before he could save the situation, the boy made a quiet noise and tugged at the zipper of his—coveralls? Jumpsuit? No, it looked more like a hazmat—at the back of his neck. He shuffled his feet, looking almost guilty.
“You can’t get it off?” Bruce asked, feeling accomplished when he finally found a problem he could solve, and a little relieved that his ill-thought comment hadn’t been taken the wrong way.
The boy’s tail swished back and forth in little motions between his legs, but he still inched closer, head bowed so Bruce could reach the zipper. The second it was unzipped halfway down his back, the meta darted backwards, doing the rest himself. Bruce waited, slightly stressed, as the boy ever so carefully peeled the suit down his body and the unclean surface stuck to scabs and pulled at Damian’s bandage dressings. Luckily, he was wearing boxers under his outfit, and the suit slid off his legs easily. His knobby knees turned inward with his uncertainty.
By then, the tub was nearing halfway full.
“Ready?” Bruce asked, offering his hand. The meta ignored it, timidly approaching the bath.
He looked at it, ears twitching, and then looked at Bruce. He made no move to get in.
Awkwardly, Bruce went to pick him up, and when the boy didn’t run, he lifted him into the air. He was concerningly light—fifty, maybe sixty pounds. Bruce could only hope it had something to do with his meta physiology, or else there was some other dangerous health factor in play.
The boy squeaked, legs curling up and tail waving, as he was lowered into the water.
“Too c-cold!” he cried, tail whipping around and splashing a wave of bathwater in Bruce’s face.
He turned the crystal knob to the warm side and reached for shampoo, but the boy tugged on his sleeve and pointed to a different bottle of soap on the lip of the tub.
“You want bubbles?” Bruce asked gently.
The boy looked at him nervously but nodded.
Bruce smiled. “Okay, chum. Let’s make some bubbles.”
He poured soap into the stream of now-warm water, both of them watching it spread across the filmy surface. The boy poked at the white froth, ears perked up and eyes big, and he seemed content to let Bruce slowly run a soapy cloth up and down his arms, shoulders, chest and back.
It wasn’t until the bath had warmed that the meta started to flag, an odd shift that made the happy boy suddenly depleted.
“What’s the matter?” Bruce rumbled, brows furrowed.
“Too warm.”
He was surprised to get such a direct answer, but it also concerned him. A few moments ago the water was too cold, making the cat meta frazzled, but the warmth also seemed to drain him.
“What temperature do you need to be comfortable?” he asked, but the boy only shrugged, mixing the water with his hand.
Bruce settled on lukewarm, the closest to the middle he could get, before turning off the water.
As he scrubbed the boy’s pale skin, layers of grime began to seep into the water, darkening it and revealing pinkened flesh and minor cuts that had been hidden the first time. The crusted blood came away a little less easily, and the boy flinched at the sting of soap in his wounds, but Bruce was sure to move quickly so that could be done with.
When he finished, he drained the tub of dirty, brownish water, then filled it again with even more bubbles. The boy seemed happy enough about it, pushing bubbles together to make little piles before clapping them and spraying water against Bruce’s shirt.
He knew this round would be trickier. He poured a dollop of shampoo on his palm and paused.
“I have to wash your hair now, chum,” he said. “I’m going to touch your head, and I may have to touch your ears as well. Is that okay?”
The meta boy froze, bubbles forgotten as his gaze flickered between Bruce’s hand and the door behind him. He stayed completely still as Bruce moved closer, ears lowering slowly against his head as the man massaged the shampoo into his scalp.
“Good,” he murmured, focusing on working out the tangles and clumps, and some of the tension seeped out of the child’s small frame. He was careful around the ears, gently using a brush to smooth out the fur and get out the dirt. The white of his fur and hair, which he was now realizing had previously been a grayish color, was now bright against the blue tile of the bathroom walls. Even his eyelashes were whiter than before.
The tail was harder to clean—the boy grew brave enough to growl, tail swishing beneath the water in a cloud of white, twisting away from Bruce’s hand whenever he got near.
Bruce held in a sigh, leaning his forearms against the lip of the bathtub. “Don’t you want your tail to be clean?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he lowered himself into the water like a cat ready to pounce, shoulder blades adjusting. Bruce tensed, ready to be leapt at by sixty pounds of sopping cat child, but all the boy did was move his tail back and forth like a shark fin.
Bruce exhaled quietly.
“May I touch?”
“Mm.”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he took it as an acceptance and made quick work of detangling matted fur and getting rid of dirt.
Finally, he got the boy out of the bath and wrapped in a fluffy light green towel.
“Stay right here, little one. I’m going to grab some clothes for you.”
Bruce slipped out of the room but didn’t need to go far. On the bed, he found a pile of folded clothes—a large, soft Nightwing hoodie and a matching pair of Nightwing-blue sweatpants. There were also white socks and a pair of freshly cleaned boxers that were probably Tim’s from a few years ago.
But Dick and Tim were on patrol. Bruce’s heart warmed—it seemed Damian hadn’t gone straight to bed.
He returned with the clothes and helped the boy dress, making sure to dry his hair and tail as best as he could so he didn’t get sick. They had to roll up the cuffs of the sweatpants, but the kitten liked that the hoodie sleeves draped over his hands, and he waved them around a bit to watch the ends flop.
Bruce frowned at the awkward fit of the bottoms. He’d need to get them tailored so that the tail at the bottom of the boy’s spine would have a proper place to go.
As soon as he was done dressing the meta, though, the boy shot off into the bedroom, disappearing back to his corner.
Bruce swallowed against his dry throat, head tired and shirt damp, exhausted from such a simple bath. He wondered if any of the progress from tonight would matter, or if the boy had just been desperate enough for a bath that he would let Bruce get close for that limited amount of time. It would be disheartening if it were true, but he couldn’t say he didn’t understand.
The little cat boy had been through a lot. Experimented on at the hands of adults, treated like less than an animal and caged as though he weren’t a child.
At least the bath had gone well. Bruce exhaled shakily and turned to leave.
“Th-thank you,” came a small voice from the corner.
“You’re welcome,” Bruce said, as comfortingly as he could. “I’m glad you feel better.”
He didn’t get another response, so Bruce did the only thing he could think of and went to bed.
The big man was scary, like– like Jack.
But he was nice. The bath didn’t hurt. Danny felt good for the first time since…well, a long time. The big clothes were warm.
He didn’t even get hit for growling.
“Hello, is this Vlad Masters speaking?”
The youthful voice was unfamiliar to the older man.
“Depends. Who wants to know?”
“Ah, my apologies. My name is Tim Drake-Wayne—Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Naturally! Allow me to congratulate you on your promotion to CEO of Wayne Enterprises.” That promotion had been quite a while ago, enough time passing for Timothy to have asserted his control amongst the company and become a clear threat to other businesses of a similar nature. Still, such elephants were perfect for polite, meaningless conversation. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to meet in person to discuss potential partnerships? I’d like to hear more about your programs at Dalv Co. I feel that your… abstract technology could go hand-in-hand with some of our advanced Wayne products.”
Dalv Co. didn’t produce or manufacture ghost weaponry anymore. At least, not for the public. And the cloning devices had never gone public to begin with. What abstract technology was the young CEO referring to?
Either way, this was an opportunity. A perfect opening.
“How fortuitous of you to ask! I was already planning on coming down to Gotham just next week. There are…many areas of interest for a man like myself in your city.”
“Sounds great. I’ll email you the details and we can arrange a meeting.”
“Delightful.”
“Good to hear from you, Mr. Masters.”
“Oh, call me Vlad. Mr. Masters was my father.”
“Of course.”
“Lovely conversing with you. Goodbye now, Mr. Drake-Wayne.”
The fake smile drops from his face the moment the call ends, false niceties from both parties poisoning the air. He hates businessmen.
Notes:
so, i may have already said this, but i've never had a pet, and certainly not a cat! if you guys ever want to teach me a little bit more about cats and cat behavior (without insulting my story choices for danny, please - he's still half boy), i'd love to hear it. if any of you guys have fun stories about certain things your cat has done, or some silly cat quirk, i may even include some fun scenes where i make danny do your silly cat things! once he's a little bit more recovered, of course. or just leave a heart if youre not feeling wordy!
p.s. go check out my other works if youre feeling bored :p (i have an original work that's a collab and crossposted on tumblr, so im trying to support us both on ao3! it's for whump fans, pls check tags)
Chapter 6
Summary:
Danny meets a cat - a real one.
Notes:
hey guys! its been a while. i ran out of ideas, so this chapter was the result of making stuff up as i went
make sure you guys read the end notes to help choose the path for the next chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Have a seat, Mr. Masters,” the Drake boy said, a sharp smile on his face. Vlad felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, the way it did when he was faced with a predator. Timothy wasn’t a ghost, but he held the same dangerous air about him.
Not just a businessman, then?
“I’m not late, am I?” he asked carelessly. Vlad took his time getting comfortable on the black leather couch. He was no prey to be trifled with, and he’d make sure Timothy knew it.
“Not at all,” Drake assured, although Vlad had shown up at least twenty minutes past their set meeting time. He supposed the game of back-and-forth was still going. “I am curious, though.”
“Yes?”
“You mentioned you were intending to come to Gotham already. Why’s that?”
Ah. Vlad had to tread carefully from here. What did they know of the Fentons’ convention?
“Lately, I’ve been invested in a niche traveling circuit, we’ll call it. Nothing worthy of your concern or attention, I assure you. Now, you wanted to discuss partnerships?”
“Right,” Drake said, but his eyes were keen, and Vlad could tell he was filing away the information for later. What he planned to do with it is the real question. “I heard from a business companion that your work was exclusively bought out by a government department. Lucky for me that you’ve expanded your horizons.”
He’s fishing for information. Vlad knew—like recognizes like. Still, the unsaid question made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, weighing what could be said without being incriminating. “Yes, well. That faction was recently defunded.”
“What for?” Drake tilted his head faux-innocently. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore, was he? He wanted Vlad to know that he was suspicious. It’s no wonder that the position of CEO had slipped from empty-headed Brucie Wayne’s grasp and into his adopted, cunning son’s. Vlad wouldn’t be surprised if that man didn’t even notice at first.
Alas, he really couldn’t be judging the billionaire. Vlad, too, had found particular interest in a clever pseudo-son figure.
“Unethical business practices,” Vlad said with a wave of his hand, purposefully vague. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to corruption in a field of greed. But let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? You know I don’t sell weapons anymore, so what is it that you really want from me?”
He met Drake’s gaze head-on, expression giving nothing away. The boy stared back at him, neither looking away. Vlad refused to be cowed.
“Do you know the name Fenton?” Drake said finally.
“I do,” Vlad said, because the best cover stories told were always imbued with truths. “I was mayor of Amity Park, Illinois for quite some time. I think you’ll find the Fentons were something unavoidable in a city like that.”
“Why is that?”
“They live there,” Vlad said dryly, absently running his hand down his tie to flatten out any wrinkles. “The city is overrun with…a pest unique to that area. The Fentons are the best exterminators of that pest, and equally as loud about it.”
“‘Pests,’” Timothy said in disbelief, eyebrows raising. “You’re aware that the doctors Fenton are renowned for their ectobiology? Study of living things supposedly classified by the existence of ectoplasm in the make-up of their cells?”
“You’ve done your research,” Vlad said, amused. It was clear that the Drake boy wasn’t entirely convinced by Jack and Maddie’s published data, and he would be right if his disbelief had been for different reasons. The science was certainly more complicated than if there was ecto in their cells. In fact, that finding must’ve been the result of an outlier. Only he and Daniel retained visible cells that resembled those in humans.
It was only by an iron will that Vlad didn’t let the sudden realization show on his face. If the Fentons had data based on halfa biology, he had been too late.
No.
Perhaps there was still time. No matter what had been done to Daniel, Vlad would ensure that it could not happen again.
“Anyone in my position should,” Drake-Wayne said cooly. “Tell me, Mr. Masters. What did you make weapons for?”
Vlad narrowed his eyes. He doesn’t make guns anymore. He doesn’t even associate with the Fentons. He’d stewed in his hatred for Jack for a long time, still unable to let go of Maddie, until recent events had forced him to come to terms with the fact that it was always both of them.
Maddie took part in his death just as much as Jack did. Neither of them visited him during his stint in the hospital.
Both led to Daniel’s demise. At fourteen, no less. Then Jasmine was moving to college, and they pulled Daniel from school. Something happened not long after the accident, and Vlad had been trying to determine what it was.
Something triggered the Fentons’ flight response, and suddenly they were going mobile, hopping from place to place to have their conventions with the growing crowd of legit ghost hunters and YouTube-channel wannabes. He’d tried going to one of them once, but realized it was too risky. Their ghost detectors had gotten better.
Daniel hadn’t been seen since, but Vlad had a bad feeling that the “malfunctioning equipment” wasn’t something they’d accept as an excuse anymore.
“I think you know,” Vlad said, standing. He adjusted the lapels of his suit. “I’m not interested in this conversation anymore. This is beginning to feel like an investigation for a crime that I refuse to be a part of. I will not sell you weapons, nor give you an insight on their abhorrent conventions.”
He made for the exit, not bothering to formally excuse himself.
“Mr. Masters,” Drake-Wayne said sharply, and it was only the edge in the young CEO’s voice that gave Vlad pause. “Perhaps I’ve misunderstood. We may be on the same side, after all.”
“Oh?” Vlad said, glancing over his shoulder.
Drake gave him a reappraising look. “How would you like to help me rid the Fentons of their credibility and funding? A full extermination of their studies, if you will.”
Vlad found himself walking back to his seat. “Maybe this partnership could work.”
The smile Drake gave him was all teeth.
It’s been quiet.
Danny crept across the bedroom, ears standing tall and swiveling as they strained for sound. Being so exposed, out in the open in this room as large as his old house’s living room and kitchen combined, made the hairs on his arm prickle.
But he had the urge to be elsewhere, so he slipped out of the room—unlocked, he noticed with suspicion—and padded invisibly down the halls.
He walked past several squares of light on the floor from large, curtained windows, and longed to curl up in them. Yet anyone could appear at any time and tear him aware from the warmth. Who knew where these people would want to keep him during the day when they were away?
The Fentons liked the cage. They said dangerous animals belonged in a secure kennel. Whatever kennel the Bat people had waiting for him…Danny shuddered to think about it.
Well. Actually. Now that he was thinking about it, maybe if he looked for the cage now, he would know what to expect later.
He reached the end of the hallway, peering down at the long staircase. He took it two steps at a time, going down with little hops, tail swaying idly behind him. At the bottom was a large foyer-type room with a golden chandelier dangling above it, filling the area with warm light.
Danny tilted his head and sought again for sound.
To his right, there was the distant hum of music, so he turned and went left. Confident at the moment that there was little chance of being caught, he poked his head into rooms as he passed, finding nothing that grabbed his attention.
There were a lot of rooms he’d seen in movies—one full of uncomfortable-looking couches and pretentious paintings on the wall, which he could picture rich men standing around and smoking in; one with a pool table at the center, dotted with barstools and dartboards on the wall; a dozen varieties of boring-looking studies.
None looked lived in, like they were only there for appearances. Their lighting was dim and Danny could imagine hiding here and never being found.
But his curiosity was slowly giving way to boredom, so he turned and went in the direction he’d avoided. As long as he kept his ears attuned, there’s no way anyone would get the jump on him. Right?
He wrapped his arms around him nervously as the music got slightly louder.
This was fine.
He was just taking a look around, right? He’d be back in his room before any of them realized he’d escaped.
Something brushed his ankle and Danny squeaked, leaping into the air. He skittered backwards, breaths quickening. Until he looked down, and saw…
Well, a cat.
Danny froze. He hadn’t interacted with any cats since his gene was activated. He didn’t have one, and neither did any of his friends. His parents hadn’t wanted pets getting in the way of their studies or hurting themselves with chemicals or equipment—ironic that they put more consideration into the safety of animals than their own children.
The cat was sitting on its haunches, staring at him. It was black, with patches of white on its chest and muzzle. Like a tuxedo, he thought.
Danny lowered himself into a squat across from the cat, arms still wrapped around him. They were like a mirrored image, but Danny broke it to offer one hand out. He winced when the arm of the hoodie drooped past his fingertips. That wouldn’t be great for scent.
The cat walked silently forward, head dipping to sniff at his offered appendage. Apparently it—he, Danny checked—liked what he smelled, because he came easily into Danny’s space, head bumping him gently. It did make sense, now that he thought about it. The sweater was covered in a family member’s scent.
Danny gently stroked down the kitty’s back, hand coming up to check the little golden tag. Alfred the Cat, it read, and on the other side was a phone number. Beneath the number was the name Damian Wayne.
Wayne. Did Danny know that name? He felt like he should, but sometimes when he tried to think back to before, his memories got all foggy, and some other part of his brain would distract him with meaningless thoughts until he forgot what he was even trying to remember.
But it hurt to press on those old wounds, so Danny let himself easily be carried away, happy to leave whatever he was avoiding behind the giant wall in his head.
Alfred the Cat nibbled on one of Danny’s fingers, making him giggle quietly. Then he turned, tail up in the air as though he’d never deigned to give Danny his attention in the first place.
Danny blinked, and did the only thing that came to mind: follow.
Where are you taking me? he asked the little cat in his head. Alfred the Cat strolled leisurely along the baseboard, back arched, and then trotted quickly down the hall towards a cracked door.
He ran after the cat, his instincts thrilled at the prospect of a chase, even if it was one-sided. Alfred the Cat slipped effortlessly into the room, fur barely brushing the door as he twisted his body around the frame.
But Danny had to skid to a halt when he bumped into the door, sending it creaking open. He made a small sound of fear, darting around the corner and out of sight.
He kept still as possible and held his breath, waiting. Nothing but the music. This close, he could determine that the music was likely coming from inside here. Was there someone in there? Would he get in trouble?
Gathering his courage, Danny peeked around the door frame.
The floors were bright wood, two walls covered top-to-bottom in windows, while the one across from him was lit up with giant silk-draped windows. Against one of the mirror walls was a girl.
Danny flinched back, hiding again, but still nothing happened. Ears pressed back, he risked taking another glance.
She was tall—no, she was just standing on pointe, one hand on a bar and the other curled delicately in front of her. It looked like she hadn’t noticed he was there yet.
Alfred the Cat was walking toward the patch of sunlight the windows cast on the middle of the floor. Below the window was a small black speaker, playing a classical tune Danny was familiar with but didn’t know the name of.
He looked back at the girl. She had a soft, kind-looking face, with black hair cropped just above her shoulders. She was wearing a skin-tight black bodysuit with a see-through skirt and light pink pointe shoes, and was currently sweeping across the floor with an elegant grace Danny had never seen before.
He watched her with a wide-eyed awe as she leapt into the air and landed flawlessly on her toes, silhouetted by the window. He was so entranced that it took him a moment to realize she’d looked straight at him.
But the girl was already turning away by the time he had retrieved enough common sense to be afraid. Instead, she was falling silently into a criss-crossed position on the floor, hands extended to greet Alfred the Cat.
Danny swallowed as her hand moved down the animal’s sleek fur. She wouldn’t hurt the cat for interrupting her dance, would she? That would be ridiculous. Animal cruelty was something entirely else. Not even his parents had condoned that much.
Danny, on the other hand? He was supposed to be in his room. He wasn’t supposed to be eavesdropping, distracting people from their activities. And he’d led the cat here, so if anyone was in trouble, it had to be him.
So he should go offer himself to her best judgment.
He tried to enter like Alfred the Cat, but even with the door partially open, his stupid and clumsy body managed to awkwardly bump into his side. He grimaced as it rubbed up against one of his bandaged wounds, sending a twinge through his hip.
The girl hasn’t turned to him yet.
On trembling legs, he walked over and crouched slightly behind her and the cat. And waited. The sunlight brushing his skin felt so good, and it was a welcome distraction from his impending punishment.
Then she said something, something quick and short and confusing, and Danny didn’t understand. He didn’t understand, and panic chokes him swiftly as he tries to figure it out. Ignoring an order on top of his other offenses would be—
“Tchaikovsky,” she said again.
He slow-blinked, confusion interrupting his spiral.
She pointed at the speaker. “Do you like?”
Unsure of what else to do, he nodded. It was pretty, so he wasn’t lying, though he felt like he was. Then she stuck out her hand, and Danny scooted back an inch, expecting to be hit. No blow came. What was she trying to do? It wasn’t positioned like a handshake, so—oh. He blushed.
She was offering her hand like he was a cat. He’d done the very movement less than ten minutes ago. He did like scent, but he preferred it second-hand, from clothes and comfort items (which he never really had before, but he assumed he would like them). Hesitantly, he moved forward, planning to play along to appease her. But the hand was gone as quickly as it came. Had she sensed his discomfort? He wasn’t too obvious, was he? He didn’t have the authority to blatantly dislike or refuse things.
“Danny,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were so brown they were nearly black, and that was enough to startle him out of his staring. People don’t like it when he stares. They say it’s creepy.
Averting his eyes, he remained tense, preparing for an order. But then she pointed at herself. “Cass.”
Cass. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her yet. What was her relationship to the colorful vigilantes?
“You speak?”
Chest loosening, he shook his head. An easy test with an easy answer.
She brought her hands up and made fast movements with them. Sign language, he recognized, but shook his head again. All he knew was the alphabet. He and his friends were about to start learning more, but they never got the chance.
“I will teach,” she said firmly. She opened her mouth, presumably about to say more, but then tilted her head. “Someone is coming.”
Danny’s heart rate leapt with the rest of him. How had she known? She didn’t have the same accelerated hearing like he did, did she? He looked over his shoulder at her, preparing to plead for protection, but she was already stepping back to the bar. He took her silence as a promise, because truthfully, her softness was reflected in every part of her. Even with a raised hand poised toward him, he couldn’t bring himself to be as afraid of her as he should’ve been.
Trusting that she wasn’t looking, he went invisible, and fled from the room.
He ran until he was back in the hallway he never should’ve left, and with a dry throat, he had a terrible realization: he couldn’t remember which room was his. Every door looked the same, and he didn’t want to peek into each one. These rooms were lived in, and the more he checked, the more he would increase his risk of being caught.
But most of all, he was tired. His legs felt like Jell-O, his injuries were flaring up and sending pain throughout his entire body, and he just wanted to sleep and feel safe. So he picked a room, held his breath, and slunk inside.
Immediately, his instincts on both side preened. The curtains were pulled closed, only a lamp on a nightstand on, and the bed was covered in blankets. Too tired to take in the rest of the room, he crawled onto the bed, ears swiveling on constant alert.
His brain was telling him this was a stupid idea, that he didn’t trust anyone here enough to be doing this yet, but maybe even going in a cage for this would be worth the momentary comforts.
Danny circled, pulling blankets this way and that to make it a nice little nest, lining it with pillows. Then he curled into a ball in the middle and pulled one blanket over him, then two, and then the comforter over the entire thing.
Lost in a bubble of darkness, warmth, and a soothing scent he couldn’t currently put with a face, he finally risked closing his eyes.
Notes:
choice for next chapter: whose room is he in? yall let me know who you want!
ALSO- you guys left me such good tips and stories in the comments of last chapter! i had so much fun reading about yalls cats and i decided, since this story is very interactive, to give some of your cats cameos throughout the story! if you left a story about your cat and you specifically dont want me to use them, go reply to your comment letting me know not to. anyways, hoped you guys liked this mostly filler chapter <3 ive been really focused on my story Sacrificial Bat (which you should totally read if you havent!)
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