Chapter Text
Danny Fenton had faced some weird things in his life—he once fought a lunch-themed ghost in a flying meatball sub—but being turned into a toddler in the middle of Gotham? That ranked top five. Easily.
The witch hadn’t even been that threatening at first. More eccentric than evil, really. She had a bubbling cauldron, spoke in riddles, and seemed to enjoy being dramatic. He’d made the fatal mistake of rolling his eyes when she monologued about “emotional maturity.”
"Immature child, may as well look as young as you act!" she'd snapped.
The flash of green light was the last thing he remembered before waking up in a grimy alley. Short. Wobbly. Wearing a toddler-sized NASA hoodie and shoes with light-up soles.
“This is fine,” Danny had muttered. Or tried to. What actually came out was, “Dis fuh.”
Which was not ideal.
Since then, he’d trekked through downtown Gotham like a pint-sized Terminator with a mission. The mission: Find Batman. Thankfully, his friends Sam and Tucker were obsessed with Gotham gossip—Sam out of curiosity, Tucker for tech—and they’d loaded him with knowledge before he came.
He knew where Wayne Enterprises was. He also knew Bruce Wayne was Batman, because come on. Every time a new Robin showed up, a new “Wayne child” appeared. It didn’t take a genius—or a ghost boy with powers—to make that connection.
Still, it was harder than expected.
For one, his legs were like three inches long now. Secondly, running was a hellish experience—his balance was all over the place, his pants kept slipping down, and everyone he passed either tried to help him or gawked at the seemingly parent-less baby toddling through Gotham traffic.
He nearly caused a cab driver to crash by stumbling into a crosswalk.
But he made it. Finally. Huffing, red-faced, sweating into his hoodie, Danny reached the block where Wayne Enterprises loomed like a shining beacon of adult problem-solving.
He was about to enter when panic hit.
What if Batman wasn’t here? What if it was past five? He had no clue how to reach Wayne Manor. What if he passed out on the steps and got adopted by a TikTok influencer??
Danny whimpered.
And that’s when he saw him.
Not Jack Fenton—though it made his stomach clench for a second—but Bruce Wayne. In the glass window of a nearby café. Tall, sharp-suited, sipping coffee and talking on a phone.
Danny’s vision tunneled.
“Baba!” he cried triumphantly and barrelled toward the door with all the momentum of a 25-pound cannonball.
He hit Bruce in the shin at toddler-speed.
Bruce blinked down, startled. “What the—?”
Danny clutched his leg. “Baba! Ba-BABA!”
It was like his mouth betrayed him. He knew what he wanted to say. "Mr. Wayne! I am a cursed teenager and need your Bat-assistance immediately!" But what came out was an increasingly shrill stream of babble. “Baba ba-Bah buh!!”
And Bruce—stoic, serious Bruce Wayne—tilted his head in quiet horror.
Because the kid looked exactly like him. Or worse: like Damian.
“…Hold on,” Bruce muttered into his Bluetooth. “A child just attacked me.”
“Again?” came Dick’s voice.
Bruce crouched. “Hey, hey, buddy. Are you lost?”
“Baba,” Danny whined, tugging at his sleeve. “Help! Ghost! Teen me! Witch—bahhh!!”
Bruce carefully picked him up. Danny immediately threw his arms around Bruce’s neck, more from exhaustion than affection. He buried his face in the man’s shirt and groaned in toddler defeat.
Phones were out. People were filming. Several were whispering “Is Bruce Wayne adopting again??”
“Great,” Bruce muttered.
Bruce wasn’t an idiot. Not after raising half a dozen vigilantes. This kid had the stubborn determination of a Robin and the weird timing of a cosmic joke. But still—he wasn’t about to hand a child over to strangers just because the kid thought he was his dad.
So, like any responsible billionaire vigilante would, Bruce took him home.
The Batcave was not meant for toddlers.
That became evident when Danny made a break for the Batmobile and almost fell flat on his face. Alfred caught him with lightning reflexes.
“I see we have acquired another,” Alfred said, straightening the toddler.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Bruce muttered.
Danny, now full of second wind and a mouthful of stolen gummy snacks, babbled fiercely at a whiteboard where he tried to draw a ghost. It came out looking more like a jellybean with fangs.
“You think he’s one of ours?” Bruce asked.
“Master Wayne,” Alfred said solemnly. “This child looks more like you than Master Tim does.”
Danny stomped his foot. “Buh! Fah—Fantum!”
“Yes, yes,” Alfred said, patting his head. “Clearly a genius.”
The next hour was a mess.
Bruce called Gordon—no reports of missing toddlers matching Danny. Oracle ran facial recognition—no hits. Even a DNA scan came up weirdly scrambled, like something was interfering with the sample.
“He’s clean,” Oracle confirmed. “But definitely not normal.”
Danny, meanwhile, passed out in Bruce’s lap mid-file search, drooling onto a WayneTech tablet.
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By the time they reached Wayne Manor, Danny was clinging to Bruce’s shirt like a barnacle. Exhaustion seeped into his tiny limbs, the babble now reduced to the occasional grunt or sigh as he blinked blearily at the cavernous mansion. Big. Fancy. Batcave below.
He was winning. Kind of.
Bruce was used to noise. Gotham never slept, and neither did his family. But the sudden quiet that fell when he entered the manor with a mystery child in his arms had an almost comedic effect. Every Wayne under the roof peeked their head out of a room like prairie dogs.
Tim was first. “Bruce. You didn’t.”
Bruce sighed. “No, I did not adopt another child. He ran into me screaming ‘baba’ and hasn’t let go since.”
Damian appeared next. His eyes narrowed instantly.
“He looks like you,” he said with immediate suspicion. “Is this some clone I was not informed of?”
“Technically,” said Tim, peering closer, “he looks more like Jack Fenton.”
Danny perked up, finally. “DA!!”
Tim blinked. “What was that?”
“Daaa! Ba—ba—tuh! Boo! Guh—guh—GHOST!”
It was like trying to squeeze words through a plastic straw. Danny grabbed Tim’s hoodie, babbling insistently. “PHAA! PHAN-TUM!”
“…Okay. He’s possessed,” Damian announced flatly.
“He’s not possessed,” Bruce muttered. “Just… overexcited. Possibly traumatized. Definitely cursed.”
Danny let out a noise that somehow sounded like an offended toddler squawk.
Cass popped up behind them silently and crouched next to Danny. “Hi,” she said softly, signing it too. “You safe?”
Danny stared, then mimicked her movement—his pudgy hands almost getting it right. That earned him a proud smile from Cass, which made Danny’s chest warm.
Stephanie popped her head out next. “So are we naming this one or what?”
“No names,” Bruce said. “He’s not staying.”
Danny scowled and immediately grabbed a crayon from Stephanie’s utility belt (why did she have crayons?) and began to draw furiously on the hardwood floor.
“What are you—oh my god,” Steph gasped, watching the vague outline of a figure with a tail and glowing eyes.
Cass leaned over. “That’s a ghost.”
“Ghost!” Danny cheered.
“Okay,” Tim muttered, “either this is the most artistically gifted toddler I’ve ever seen or something weird is happening.”
“Weirder than usual?” Steph asked.
Bruce sighed and rubbed his temples. “We’ll observe him overnight. Then call in magical help tomorrow.”
Danny beamed at that. Progress. Sort of.
Dinner was chaos.
Alfred had made mashed potatoes, green beans, and grilled chicken.
Danny was horrified.
“What is this,” he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Baah-buh bleck,” is what actually came out.
He sniffed the chicken, then poked it like it had personally offended him. Then he launched a spoonful of mashed potatoes across the table at Damian.
Damian caught it midair.
“You test my patience, gremlin.”
Danny blew a raspberry at him.
Tim laughed so hard he choked on his water.
Later that night, as Bruce read over reports in the study, Danny toddled in dragging a large blanket like a cape. He stood in front of Bruce’s desk, planted his feet, and raised one determined little hand.
“Fah—FANN-tum,” he insisted. “Guh-guh-GHOST.”
Bruce glanced up, raising an eyebrow.
“Okay. Phantom. Ghost. Got it,” he said gently. “You want to be a little detective like the others, huh?”
Danny groaned, dropping dramatically to the floor. “Nooooo…”
But Bruce was already moving, kneeling beside him.
“You want to help solve mysteries?” Bruce offered, mistaking the gesture. “You’re pretty clever.”
Danny’s eye twitched.
“Buh,” he muttered, slapping his forehead.
Then, without another word, he grabbed a pen and scurried under Bruce’s desk. Five minutes later, Bruce heard soft banging. Then a quiet “Yes!”
Then something that sounded like duct tape.
He leaned down.
Danny had constructed… something. A trap, of sorts, made from a paperclip, rubber bands, and Bruce’s stapler.
“What is this?” Bruce asked, genuinely confused.
Danny stood proudly beside it, arms crossed.
Bruce blinked at the odd contraption. “You made a ghost trap?”
Danny’s jaw dropped. YES. YES FINALLY!
He nodded so hard his head nearly came off.
Bruce’s brows furrowed.
“…Where did you learn how to build something like this?”
Danny beamed.
But before he could celebrate, he sneezed so hard he fell backward into his own trap.
Later that night, Bruce sat reviewing security footage. He paused on one frame — Danny curled up on the couch, a juice box in hand, a scribbled symbol on the wall behind him.
Red circle. Green ghost. FENTON.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
“…Fenton?”
He pulled up a new file. Ghost technology. Jack and Maddie Fenton. Amity Park.
And their teenage son, Daniel.
Bruce turned slowly to look at the footage again — toddler Danny chewing a crayon, swinging his feet, and scrawling “PHAN” on the side of a juice box.
“Oh,” Bruce muttered.