Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last place Timothy Drake-Wayne expected to be on a random Wednesday night was at an art gallery in a tiny little building on the corner of a random street in Gotham, but here he was. The small building boasted of a massive art gallery, filled with different artists' work from across the city. Not quite an art collective, but a group, of some sorts.

And, well, Tim actually liked art.

It wasn't something he was usually that knowledgeable about. He knew some aspects of it, technically-- but only if those aspects ever lined up with a case he was working on. He'd gone on a research binge after art from the Gotham Art Museum had been stolen by Black Mask, which led him with a strange uncanny ability to prattle off the history of the creation of oil paints to anyone who wanted to hear (usually: nobody).

And, of course, he understands photography very well, not that he's done much of it in recent years, due to the Red Robin persona; crime-fighting by night and the CEO Timothy Drake-Wayne persona; running reports and making strategic planning decisions by day. Whenever he does get free time, most of it is used on catching up on his missed sleep. Maybe one day things will be better in Gotham (a hopeless idea, honestly) and then he can get back into photography. He misses holding the camera, pointing the lens, and capturing a piece of the world around him.

So, the art gallery opening wasn't an unexpected decision for him. He'd heard through the grapevine at a recent Wayne Enterprises dinner that the CFO's daughter's son was going to have a few of his own watercolors present in the gallery, and Tim miraculously had nothing to do on this random Wednesday night. Well, he did, Joker's still on the loose after an Arkham breakout earlier that month, but Tim wasn't getting anywhere tracking his location. And Tim figured that Timothy Drake-Wayne needed a bit more time in the public again. Crafting these personas and balancing them is an art of their own-- an art that Bruce taught him well, even if Bruce's persona was a little more unconventional.

He stepped further into the gallery. There's a soft hum of polite conversation around him, and soft music plays around him. It's some sort of soft, instrumental math rock that plays with the unconventionality of the gallery. The building itself was restored from what looked like was an old general store in downtown Gotham, and they had taken their time to expose the old bricks and leave the industrial piping out to emphasize the rough look of the building, with small plaster walls set up to hold the pieces on. A small bar is in the back, and it's tempting to order something. Tim's only nineteen, but nobody has ever said no to him before.

The artwork in the gallery was incredibly diverse. He saw the watercolors of his CFO's daughter's son right at the front. Very natural designs, of snapshots from the Rockies to beaches in what looks like Spain and anything else that a rich boy with all the time in the world to travel and paint would make. There's also bold, chaotic, abstract pieces. A sculpture made from wire, that changed shape and design depending on where you stood around it was in the middle.

Each piece had a little story to it; a fragment of the artist's soul. It was refreshing to see so much humanity for once, even in such a pretentious place as this.

He found himself drawn to one painting. It was an acrylic painting of Gotham at nighttime, in the rain. The details were muddied and impressionistic, but the shapes were still there. Hues of crimson and gold were mixed in with the buildings, and it painted Gotham in a chaotic, colorful light that Tim doesn't think he's ever seen Gotham depicted in... Ever.

His eyes trail down to the small index card. Nothing more than a "Gotham's Night, Danny Nightingale".

He looked back up at the painting, mesmerized by the use of color. Something about it was so fascinating. Despite the city's darkness, the artist had managed to capture it in a unique-- maybe even hopeful-- light.

"You like it?" A voice broke through Tim's thoughts, pulling him away from the hypnotic lure of the painting. He turned his head and found a young man standing beside him.

He'd seen the man before, when he first walked in. Noted his appearance, because among the rich folk who had traversed the gallery (Tim included), he stood out of place. A mop of black hair fell over his pale skin in what Tim could only describe as a grown out wolf cut. He's in a maroon colored hoodie and dark jeans, with sneakers, standing out against the suits and casual dresses of the room around him. He felt very out of place in the gallery.

"Yeah, it's different." Tim said. He glanced back to the painting. "Most of the time people make Gotham so bleak and gritty. I've never seen it so... alive."

The young man gave a cheeky smile, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his hoodie. "That's what I was hoping for." He said, grinning widely. "Most people focus on the gloom because it's the thing Gotham is known for. It's more than that. It's chaotic, but there's color there. You know?"

Tim nodded. There was a truth to those words. "You're the artist? Danny Nightingale?"

The man-- Danny-- smirked, pulling a hand out of his hoodie to offer it. "That'd be me. And you are?"

"Timothy Drake-Wayne." He introduced, though he couldn't help but quirk his eyebrow, curiously, as he shook the hand stretched out. It's not often that someone doesn't outright recognize him, so it's a little refreshing. "Just call me Tim."

"Tim, huh?" Danny asked, the recognition hitting him now. "Didn't peg any of you Waynes for the gallery type."

Tim shrugged. He brought the small cup of water he'd been holding up to his lips, smiling into it. "You'd be surprised," he said, taking a sip. "You've got a... unique perspective. Chaos, color, and Gotham?"

Danny grinned. A waiter came by with a platter of drinks, and didn't hesitate to hold them out to Tim and Danny. They both took a small glass of what looked like champagne, and the waiter took Tim's cup of water. "Isn't that what art is for? To showcase new perspectives, new angles?" He asked, swirling the class in his hand.

"Good point. Most people only ever see what's on the surface. The basics. But you managed to dig deeper."

Danny's grin softened into a gentle, genuine smile. He brought the glass up to his lips, before hesitating. "Uh, thanks. Honestly, Gotham's always been this living, breathing thing to me-- sure, it sucks ass sometimes, but there's still good in it, you know? Kinda like people."

Tim tilted his head. He hadn't expected this-- philosophy?-- to come out of the night. But there's something about the way Danny speaks that he can't help but want to dig deeper. "Most people have given up on Gotham by now."

"I know." Danny took a sip. His voice dropped low, conspiratorial. "But I'm one stubborn motherfucker. I haven't been here for long, but I'm already ready to defend the city. It's, like-- I'm stuck here now, and I want to make the most of it."

"You weren't born here?"

Danny shook his head. "No, I moved here, what-- two years ago, I think, now. But Gotham's one of those cities that breaks you or makes you. And I guess I'm the latter."

"That's bold. Moving to Gotham, from out of the city? Most people just see the state of it and leave as soon as they can."

"Well, most people don't know how to look for beauty in the chaos." Danny shrugged, taking another sip of his drink. "If you're stuck in the storm, might as well learn to dance in the rain."

The conversation was going surprisingly well with Danny, so of course something interrupted it immediately. The doors were swung open with a loud *THUD, *and armed men stormed into the building. Shattering glass echoed through the gallery as people dropped their glasses and screamed.

And of course, all the armed men were wearing clown masks. Joker, Tim thought angrily. Of course, the minute Tim decided to take a break and unwind from helping his family try to hunt down the clown is the moment the clown shows his ugly little face. He swings his hand into his pocket, reaching for the tiny alarm looped on his apartment keys. It's disguised to look like another house key, an idea he’d come up with a few years ago when he’d moved out on his own. Tim presses the button carefully and quickly. Hopefully the message would be received just as swift.

His thoughts raced as none other than the Joker stepped into the room. He was dressed to the nines, in his velvety purple suit with a green ascot, and were it not for the pale makeup, the green dyed hair, and the crazed look in his eye, he might have perfectly blended in with the other eccentrics in the crowd.

“Well, well, well!” The Joker laughed, stepping into the gallery. His eyes darted across the room.

Tim stepped back, feeling his shoulders brush against Danny, who was also just as tense. The Joker's goons swept through the crowd, aiming their weapons haphazardly at the gallery attendees, who begged and pleaded for their lives. A perimeter was quickly made around the gallery. Nobody would be getting in or out anytime soon.

"Why the panic?" The Joker asked, grinning. He hadn't spotted Tim yet. Not that the Joker would recognize Tim past his identity as Timothy Drake-Wayne, at least. "I'm just a fellow lover of the arts, just like you all!"

Tim’s fingers tightened around the alarm in his pocket. Holding it harder wasn’t going to make any of the Bats arrive faster, but it helped keep the anger in check. He didn’t have any weapons, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be rash (or idiotic) enough to try and take the Joker on in just his civilian identity. That’d be ridiculous.

Danny shifted at Tim’s side. His presence is surprisingly cool—literally. Danny must be standing under a draft, or some sort of quiet AC vent, because goosebumps rise up on Tim’s arm when Danny moved. But something about it was comforting, too.

“Isn’t it amazing? Art! The perfect medium to explore life’s chaos! Or maybe even, to make a statement—” The Joker gestured wildly at the crowd, before pointing at a random woman. “What do you think?”

The woman, terrified out of her mind, nodded quietly, eyes wide.

“Good answer!” The Joker purred, smirking deviously. He turned back to the crowd. “I must commend the artists here tonight! There are many unique pieces here on display! But I must ask—am I too late to add one of my own?”

Tim felt a chill run down his spine. He glanced back, nervously, at Danny—but Danny was gone. His cold presence evaporated in an instance. What…? His heart skipped a beat and he glanced back through the crowd, not spotting Danny anywhere. Where…?

“You know, I do enjoy a good interactive exhibition. A bit of performance art, some would say.” The Joker continued to his captive crowd. “And now, I think it’s time for a little participation!” He pointed his hand out wildly to someone in the crowd.

It’s Danny. He’d somehow gotten through the crowd quickly and without Tim even noticing, but before Danny can try to escape, a few of the Joker’s goons are on him in an instant. They grabbed him by his arms and dragged him to the front of the crowd, not even flinching at Danny’s struggle.

Shit, shit, shit—Tim’s mind went into overdrive. He scanned the room for anything he could do—any ideas, really. Preferably ideas that did not involve the destruction of art, if possible. But human lives are more important here (at least Tim thinks so). There’s a fire alarm on the side of the room, but Tim can’t tell if it’s even hooked up to anything. Not to mention, a goon is standing right by it. And there would probably be very little, if no reaction to the fire alarm being pulled since it’s the Joker in the building.

Think Tim, think!

The Joker laughed as Danny was brought up to him. “Now, now! Who might you be?”

Danny struggled again in the grips of Joker’s goons. Tim is expecting him to say something—maybe just give his name—but there’s not any fear in Danny’s eyes. Not from where Tim can see, across the room. And his struggle? It looks odd. Something is off about it, something Tim can’t figure out. And then he finally said—“Fuck you,” to the Joker.

The Joker reeled back, surprised by Danny’s response. And then he laughed, again. “Oh! This little artist’s got a little bit of a mouth to him, doesn’t he?”

Nobody knew how to react in the crowd. There’s an echo of a few awkward laughs, by people who are just leaning into the Joker’s schtick and trying to appease him, so they don’t suffer any grievous harm or tortuous death. Others gasped at Danny’s audacity to say the thing everyone always thought about the self-proclaimed “Crown Prince of Crime” straight to his face.

Tim snuck through the crowd, planting himself closer. Most people were frozen in fear, but a few nudged out of his way as he passed through, getting a better angle at Danny’s face.

At first, it was indescribable. And then Tim saw something flicker in Danny’s eyes. Something stronger than fear. Not anger, not resentment, but something different. His limbs struggled again, but there was a fluidity to it, as if he was acting it out. Pretending to struggle.

“Fuck you.” Danny said again, a little louder, poking the bear. Getting the Joker’s attention away from the crowd, and back on him. There was a coldness, an ice, to that voice, that naturally got everyone’s attention.

Tim froze. Danny knew what he was doing. He was trying to control the situation, control the Joker. It isn’t something a normal civilian would know how to do, let alone be brave enough to even try. But here he was—Danny Nightingale, a young artist, trying to wrap the Joker around his little finger like a string toy. And it was somehow working.

How the hell does he know how to do that? It isn’t something that Tim has ever been able to do. Bruce can do it a few times, if he really knows how to get under the Joker’s skin, but nobody has ever been able to get the Joker’s attention so quickly and so abruptly, and change the tone of the situation like this.

The Joker paused before his head swung back to Danny. His eyes were wide with a wild glint. “Oh? You wanna play a game then, little artist?” He asked, digging into his pocket, and pulling out a switchblade. The metal of the knife reflected the low light from the gallery around them, and he spun it around. “How about… let’s see how long you last.” He said, pointing the knife directly at Danny, resting the sharpest part of the blade on Danny’s throat.

Even with the knife pointed at his throat, Danny remained calm and stoic. The bright eyes and passion for art that Tim had seen moments before was gone, replaced by someone else entirely. His eyes darkened, though Tim could’ve sworn they flashed a bit when the blade was aimed at his throat.

With a composed expression, Danny finally responded. “You think you scare me with that thing?” He asked. His voice was calm and steady and every syllable was clear and deliberate. “Bitch, please, I’ve faced worse.”

He’s still in control. How the hell is he still in control? Danny was purposefully trying to trigger a reaction in the Joker. Tim couldn’t help but join the crowd in their morbid fascination, before he shakes it off again, looking around. Checking his phone for any messages in the middle of the crowd—especially when the room is this dark—would just be a dead giveaway. The goons are usually told to shoot anyone who brings out their own phone on sight, and Tim would not like a bullet in him, thank you very much. But there’s still no hint, no clue, as to where the Bats are, and if there’s anything Tim can do to help other than be a passive outsider.

He left all his Red Robin gear at his apartment. He didn’t anticipate needing it to go to an art gallery—but then again, this is Gotham, so what else should he have expected?

The Joker laughed, but there was a noticeable strain to it, as if he was holding back. “You—you are a feisty one, I’ll give you that.” He said, trailing the sharp edge of the knife along Danny’s neck. Not pressing in to bleed or to kill, but ghosting it over his hostage’s neck. “But you’re still the guest of honor now. And I haven’t even started playing with you, yet—”

Tim glanced up, noticing—a shadow, then two, then three overhead in the skylight. Finally. The glass shattered, and shards began to rain down from above as three figures dove in. People yelled, people screamed, running for cover as fast as they could—and then they cheered, as Batman, Nightwing, and Robin landed in the gallery. The Joker pushed away the goons around Danny quickly once the glass shattered, stepping behind him and wrapping his arms around the younger man and pressing the knife up to his throat.

Danny didn’t even flinch, still a hostage.

“Joker.” Batman said, low and monotone. Nightwing and Robin stood close behind him, weapons drawn. “Let him go.”

“Let him go?” The Joker repeated with an incredulous tone. “Why, Batsy, you haven’t even given me a chance to play with him, yet! And we were already having so much fun, weren’t we?”

From where the crowd had pushed him, Tim could barely see Danny’s facial expressions. There wasn’t much to pick up on instead of a subtle shift in Danny’s stance. Almost relaxed, despite the knife to his throat.

“I said, let him go, Joker.” Batman repeated, fists clenched at his side. He took a step forward, before freezing, as the Joker pressed the knife a little deeper into Danny’s throat.

Even Tim could see the small bead of red blood drip out on Danny’s pale neck.

“You know, Batman, you’re never any fun! You’ve got this thing about ruining all my toys. So, why don’t we make a deal? You let me play just a little bit longer, and I’ll let him go.” The Joker smirked, leaning forward into Danny’s body a bit more, relaxing ever so slightly. “What do you say—”

And then it suddenly changed. Danny moved almost faster than Tim could see. He shifted his leg out, and then, with all the force in his body, kicked one leg backwards and up into the Joker’s crotch. As soon as he hit it, he slammed his one leg down before stepping violently on the Joker’s foot.

The Joker’s grin faded instantly the moment Danny’s foot collided with his crotch, letting out a sharp, involuntary and ugly sound, before yelping again as Danny slammed his other foot into one of the Joker’s shoes.

The crowd went silent.

Just as the Joker’s grip loosened on Danny, he sent his elbow flying backwards, knocking the Joker in the ribs, sending him back. It gave Danny a chance to escape, and he quickly ran to stand behind Batman, Nightwing, and Robin, who all looked in various degrees of shock (Robin), morbid glee (Nightwing), and even a bit of surprise from the big bad Batman himself.

“Why—you—” The Joker managed out between sharp inhales of pain.

Danny turned, and Tim could see the smirk from the crowd.  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you said you liked performance art.”

Tim’s breath hitched. He thought he had been watching someone instigate the Joker, to try and distract him, probably just until the Bats showed up. But Danny wasn’t a distraction for anyone. He was playing a game—his own game—against the Joker, and most importantly, he’d won.

He’d just done something that even Bruce could seldom do: Danny had outsmarted the Joker.

Batman stepped forward; fists drawn close. Not as a weapon of a attack—as a weapon of defense. “Enough, Joker. Your games are over.”

“Yeah!” Nightwing chimed in from the side. “It’s time for you to go back to Arkham where your art’s actually appreciated.”

Robin didn’t say anything, probably deeming the conversation unworthy of a remark. He just held his katana out pointed towards the Joker.

“You are no fun at all, Batsy.” The Joker said, but his breath was still ragged and shaky. He pointed over at Danny, a long finger stretched out like a monster’s claw. “And, you! Don’t think this is over yet, little artist. We’ll see who the last one laughing is.”

Danny quirked his head to the side, but his grin said everything it needed to say. Unbothered, calm, collected—everything that made Tim’s head spin like crazy. How could he be so cool in the face of the Joker, who in most cases, is chaos and death incarnate?

“Last one laughing?” Danny quipped. “Sure, but you might want to work on that material. Right now, it’s giving open mic night flop.”

A hush fell over the crowd, and a few people laughed. Even the Joker’s many goons seemed to be enjoying the show, even if it means they—and their boss—will likely be getting beaten up and thrown in jail again.

“Nightwing. Robin. Secure the area.” Batman ordered in a hushed voice, before rushing up towards the Joker.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Nightwing and Robin both took to the crowd before heading towards the Joker’s goons who were scattered around the room. People yelled and ducked for cover as the attack started, but it wasn’t that much of a battle to be fought.

With the Joker quickly incapacitated by both Danny and Batman, the rest of the goons rounded up aren’t much of a fight, and before Tim knows it, the police have arrived and are beginning to truck off the attackers back to where they belong.

He found Danny quickly though, trying to keep to the shadows, away from the crowds. He approached, quietly. His shoulders were hung low, and he kept a hand up to his neck, still, where he’d been poked by the Joker’s dagger.

“Hey.” Tim said.

“Oh. Hey.” Danny replied, though most of the confidence in his voice was long gone. The tension had seeped out of him, and Tim could tell his mind was a whirlwind of emotions, just by looking at him, and hearing the nervous rasp in his voice.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Danny said, rubbing at his neck again. “Well, I guess, as fine as someone could be when you’re dealing with the Joker.”

“You did a lot more than any normal person would do.” Tim commented, before grabbing something from his other pocket. He pulled out a black silk handkerchief, and handed it to Danny. “Here, you’ve got a bit of blood on your neck, still.”

Danny looked at the piece of silk fabric like it was something completely alien to him. His eyes darted to Tim, then back to the handkerchief, before he softly snorted, taking it with a shake of his head. “Thanks, Tim. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You’re not too bad yourself, Danny. You handled yourself back there. You—you kept the Joker on his toes. Not many people can say they did that.”

The artist shrugged, as if keeping a murderous clown on their toes was something he did as a hobby. “Not like it was hard.”

“You keep saying that, and I don’t think you realize what you did.” Tim said with a bit of a huff, crossing his arms. “You’re… You’re something else, Danny.”

Danny smirked wide, baring his teeth off in a grin.

Tim didn’t know what to make of it.

Chapter Text

Danny Nightingale had been living in Gotham for almost two years now and he has learned that the city is full of chaos-- and he absolutely loved every second of it.

Sure, it's not always sunshine and rainbows. Sure, he'd nearly gotten killed by the Joker at the opening of an art gallery the night before. But the chaos? That's what Danny thrived in.

He found it exhilarating, a never-ending whirlwind of unpredictability that made every day feel like an adventure. Even now, as he stood in line at a coffee shop, Danny couldn't help but grin. The spot on his neck that had been nicked with the Joker's blade has all but faded by now, but he feels like he's still riding on that post-adrenaline high.

It’s a bummer that none of the hoity-toity rich folk had gotten any of it on camera or on their phones. Not that Danny particularly wanted to go viral—he was fine with his own little bit of fame from his eccentric paintings—but just so he could loop the sound that the Joker made when Danny swung his leg back into the villain’s crotch, over and over, and over again. Making the most dangerous criminal in Gotham crumble over a well-timed kick? Danny was never going to forget that.

He glances back up at the menu, looking over the different options and flavors. The café was unusually quiet for a late Gotham morning. The usual white noise of conversations and clinking ceramic mugs was subdued and replaced by the soft hum of the espresso machines, the blenders, and a rhythmic tapping of fingers on keyboards nearby. His gaze wandered while his mind tried to figure out what he was craving specifically, to the art decorating the wall. The art is muted and quiet, landscaped of different angles of Gotham—almost antithetical to the way Gotham felt to Danny.

But whatever. Not everyone had the same eye for the arts as Danny.

His phone buzzed in his pocket a few seconds after he finally ordered—an iced, sugary, caramel espresso frappé—and he pulled it out. It’s an email—not to his art account, but to his other work one.

FROM: <[email protected]>
TO: <[email protected]>
REQUEST: HAUNTED HOUSE

Hello Phantom,

I hope this email finds you well. I am reaching out to you after finding your business card through an associate, and I hope you may be of assistance for my peculiar problem.

I am a real estate developer in Gotham, and we are currently undergoing renovations on a home on the outskirts of the city to fix it up for sale. A lot of strange things have been occurring--  the worker’s tools have gone missing, strange echoes and shadows are following people throughout the house during the day and night, and electrical work keeps sparking out.

I’m not a superstitious man myself, but these recurring events are too frequent and strange to dismiss as strange coincidences. After a few weeks of trying to deal with this haunted home on my own has led me nowhere, which has led me to contacting you for assistance.

Your reputation for approaching such matters with both a logical and creative mindset gives me hope that this problem can be resolved. I don’t wish to completely exorcise whatever being is haunting this house, I would prefer a way we can come to a compromise with whatever it is. But I am largely inexperienced with the “supernatural”, which leads to my request here.

If you are available, I would greatly appreciate it if we could arrange a time for you to visit the property and assess the situation. I am willing to compensate you for your time and any expenses incurred during your investigation…

Danny read through the email quickly, his eyebrows raising slightly at the mention of a haunted house. "Another haunted house in Gotham?” He sarcastically muttered under his breath. “No fucking way, what a shock.”

Before he could dwell further on the strange request, the barista calling his name broke his train of thought. He grabbed his drink—a towering cup of ungodly sugary caffeine—and made his way to one of the small tables by the window, letting the sunlight stream over the glowing screen of his phone as he debated his next move.

He sat down with a deep sigh, stabbing through the lid with his straw and stirring it a bit to mix the caramel in. Danny got a pretty good pay from the gallery the previous night, paying for his piece in full. It was enough to tide him over for the next two weeks for the basics, including covering his rent. If he kept painting, if he kept creating—well, he wouldn’t needto be Phantom anymore, the occultist for hire.

But the persistent itch to help, help, help—it’s gonna gnaw at him if he doesn’t do anything about it. Every time he told himself he was done with Phantom, done with the occult, and he would just stick to his art, the city always seemed to demand more of him.

It wasn’t the pay that pulled him back in—the pay never was the point, not that he’d ever say no to it-- it was the need to fix what others couldn’t. Talk to the ghosts that nobody else could talk to. Help the beings nobody else could see. He has his powers for a reason, and what was that saying again? With great power comes great responsibility, or something?

He set his phone down and locked it, before leaning over to the bag he swung over the chair, digging out his old laptop. It’s about half his age, and has been dropped, had paint spilled on it, and had the screen repaired twice, but it’s the most reliable thing he’s ever had. Even if it is a little slow. He tugs on the chain around his neck as it boosts up slowly, deep in thought.

It’s a ridiculous thought, a silly hope. Danny escaping the world of the supernatural one day to leave a normal life. He’s used to dealing with ghosts and demons and witches and everything else now. This life is all he’s ever known, since he was a little baby. It was a world he was unwillingly born into. He can’t escape—but it’s nice to imagine one day maybe he could.

Once his laptop finally booted up, he opened his email and started working on his response. The ring of the bell above the café door caught his attention, and for some reason, he felt compelled to glance up.

And he’s glad he did, as one Timothy Drake-Wayne (or just Tim, as he’d called himself the previous night) walked in. He wasn’t in the same white dress shirt and slacks as he was the previous night—this Tim was dressed casually, in baggy jeans and an oversized black hoodie, with a small yellow Batman symbol stitched into the fabric, right above where his heart would be. He’s slouched and his hair is a mess, like he’d only rolled out of bed a few moments before and booked it to the closest and quietest café. But Tim was almost unrecognizable in these clothes, even if the barista took a double-take when he spoke.

Danny snorted quietly, but kept his eyes on Tim. Gotham, as Danny had learned, is strange. Of course, he’d encounter Tim in a random coffee shop not even twelve hours after he’d first met him. He watched as Tim exchanged a few words with the suddenly shy barista, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips at the barista’s reaction to him. Danny can’t hear his order, but from what little conversation he had with Tim the night before, he could probably guess it—black, with as many shots of espresso one could legally add.

It's not too long, as Tim stepped aside to wait for his drink, when their eyes finally met again. Danny smiles, noting the way that Tim’s dark blue eyes widened, and his eyebrows twitched upwards in a mixture of shock, surprise, and maybe even a bit of excitement, if the twitch at the corner of Tim’s mouth said anything.

Danny can’t resist smiling a bit wider as he noticed the surprise. The whole reaction was almost as priceless as the noise the Joker made the previous night when Danny nailed him in his crotch. His wide blue eyes, the arch of his eyebrows, and the subtle curve of Tim’s lips betrayed the cool demeanor Danny had witnessed before.

Cute, Danny thought. He didn’t know what to do, though. Just wave at Tim, acknowledge it, and get back to work? Or should he try to strike up a little conversation? It’s not every day that a random person meets a Wayne twice in twenty-four hours. Danny, impulsive as ever, nodded to Tim, waving him over as soon as Tim picked up his drink (black coffee, as he expected).

He could see Tim hesitate, and his eyes flicked between Danny and the empty chair across from him. It was fascinating to see the wheels turn behind Tim’s eyes from afar as he weighed his options, but with a shrug and a sigh, Tim walked over and set his drink on the table and sat down across from Danny.

“Twice in twenty-four hours.” Tim commented with a small smirk, leaning back and taking a sip of his coffee. “I mean, what are the odds?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m horrible at numbers. That’s why I’m an artist.” Danny joked, closing down the draft of his email, nudging his old laptop aside. “But Gotham’s seen stranger, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Tim said. “What brings you here? Planning your next masterpiece?”

Danny snorted softly. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to caffeinate through my day. he whole ‘starving artist’ thing is easier when you’ve got a decent latte, you know?” He lifted his sugary frappé drink, before taking a sip of it himself.

“You? A starving artist?” Tim laughed. “I highly doubt it, just based on your one piece last night. Your work was impressive— I mean, people seemed to think so, anyway.”

Danny quirked an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Drake-Wayne? Should I print it out and frame it in my apartment?”

Tim’s cheeks flushed pink, the smallest bit. “Don’t push your luck, Nightingale.” He retorted, though, completely playfully.

Danny laughed this time. “Yeah, well. I’m still not used to the, uh, attention from the art myself. So genuinely—thanks.” He added, poking at his drink with his straw again. “It’s not exactly something you count on when you’re painting at three in the morning in your living room.”

“Well, you deserve it.” Tim’s voice dropped a bit, and his expression softened. “Talent like yours deserves attention.”

“When you say it like that, maybe I can get used to it.”

“Don’t get an ego about it.” He huffed. “But… People will notice the real thing when they see it.”

“Careful, Tim. Keep talking like that and I might think you’re my biggest fan.” Danny teased, and he enjoyed it when Tim’s cheeks flushed a little pink again.

“Shut up.” Tim replied. He didn’t deny anything. “Your art is… good. It got me curious, that’s all.”

“Curious? Of the art, or the artist?”

“Maybe both. You weren’t exactly what I expected when I walked into the gallery last night.” Tim glanced at Danny’s wardrobe, his brows furrowed. “Are you still wearing the clothes you wore last night?”

“I mean, it’s the same outfit, but I did change into something else to sleep in.” It’s a bit of a lie—Danny didn’t exactly sleep last night, the adrenaline coursing through his veins too much. But he did technically change out of these clothes and change back into them a few hours later.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I’m an artist, not a fashion icon. If the clothes still work, why not use them? Besides, they’re comfortable.” Danny replied. “Anyway, you’re sure saying a lot, with your whole ‘just rolled out of bed’ look.”

Tim glanced down at his oversized hoodie, then shrugged, completely unfazed. “Touché. But at least I’m comfortable.”

Danny nodded, still grinning. “Fair point. Guess neither of us is winning any fashion awards today.”

“Probably not.” Tim laughed. “Well, I should let you get back to work. Probably got some important, uh, artist emails to reply to, or whatever?”

“Sure. Artist emails. We can go with that.” Danny gave Tim a sly wink, before he pulled his phone out, unlocking it and opening it to add a new contact. “Here.”

“Huh?”

“Your phone number, Tim.”

“My phone number?”

“Yeah, you know, that thing you give someone when you plan on keeping in touch?” Danny laughed. “Or is that not something you rich folk do these days?”

Tim didn’t reply and just stared down at the phone like it was something completely foreign to him. Eventually, he pulled Danny’s phone closer and slowly typed in his number.

“If I start getting weird prank calls, I’m blaming you.” Tim eventually said as he added his name to the contact, before pushing it back to Danny.

“Don’t worry, I won’t abuse this power.” Danny aimed his phone up at Tim and snapped a quick photo, of Tim in his messy hair, oversized hoodie, and eyebags. “Perfect.”

“What—hey, I can send you a much better photo.” Tim complained, unlocking his phone as Danny texted Tim his own number.

“Nah, you’ve got the whole ‘I’ve been awake too long and I’m still somehow functioning’ look. Very admirable. Very iconic.”

“You better not post that anywhere.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Danny smirked. “But future blackmail material—"

“Nightingale.” Tim huffed.

“Oh, last names, now? Fine, Drake-Wayne. I’ll try to keep my evil schemes under wraps. For now.” He winked.  

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky I like you, Nightingale. I’m pretty sure you’d be insufferable otherwise.”

Danny grinned widely, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, I’m aware. I’m a handful, but I’m charming, so it works.”

Tim snorted into his coffee. “I’m not sure ‘charming’ is the word I’d use, but I’ll let you have this one.”

“Then what word would you use?”

“Right now? Strange.”

“Rude.”

Tim laughed, before glancing away. “I like strange.” He said, quietly.

Danny pretended that he didn’t hear it, but he did smile a little bit wider, a little softer. It was a strange shift—Tim’s usual quick-witted banter had paused, replaced by something almost... vulnerable, maybe? Something a little more human than the dolled-up CEO he’d met last night. He didn’t press, but he couldn’t help the warm feeling that crept into his chest.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The night is still pretty young by the time Danny pulled up to Mario Hansen’s house outside of Gotham. Well, it wasn’t his house—Mario admitted it was one he’d been fixing up to sell—and Danny needed to take a second to step back and admire it, because, wow. It’s a three-story Victorian house on a large plot of land. Half of the building had already been painted a new, sleek white, and half of the porch had been pulled out, with scaffolding around the building to help support the roof. Thankfully—it didn’t look like Mario was one of those real estate agents, who destroyed the character of a house to replace it with something modern. It looked like he was genuinely trying to fix it up and return it to its old state, with a bit of modern amenities thrown in.

The man himself—Mario Hansen—was standing outside the house, a little awkwardly. He was a lanky, bald Italian man, with a dark goatee, wearing a thick jacket and black pants. He fixed his glasses, as Danny approached him. “Uh. Are you Phantom?”

“The one and only.” Danny said, making sure the hood of his cloak was fixed properly. The cloak itself was enchanted, an old gift from when he was younger, to help prevent people from recognizing him as his human identity. Mostly to protect himself from supernatural beings who would want to manipulate him—but now Danny finds more use in it protecting himself from normal human beings.

Mario’s gaze lingered on Danny for a moment—and he wondered what the older man was seeing. From what he’d been told, the shadow from his hood obscures his face almost entirely, except for his eyes, which glow with a bright green energy. The cloak also stretched out to past his hip, but he could make it longer if he wanted to. Without his hood up, his face looked uncanny. Something almost human but not quite, a mishmash of features that could prevent anyone from really knowing who he is unless they know. And very few people know that Danny is the same as Phantom, so…

Mario shifted on his feet. “Well, uh. Thank you for coming, Phantom.” He tried to keep it cordial and professional, but Danny could sense the slight unease and fear radiating off the man. “I wasn’t sure you were even real until you replied to my email.”

Danny can’t help but chuckle softly. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Not too many people know what to expect from an occultist for hire. But I can assure you now, I’m very real.”

Mario nodded quickly. “Right, right. It’s just... I’ve heard the stories. People talking about this ‘Phantom’ like you’re some kind of urban legend. Like—like a Bat, but something else entirely.”

Danny shrugged, his cloak shifting with the movement. “An urban legend who answers emails and invoices for services rendered. Not as exciting as the stories, huh?”

“Yeah, was not expecting to get that invoice, either.” Mario cleared his throat awkwardly.

He turned back to the house, and he could feel it. A small tug on his magic under his skin, beckoning him forward. “Alright, so tell me more about your haunting here, Mr. Hansen.”

Mario nodded, and turned back to face the house as well. “It all started about a month ago, I think. I’ve got a few contractors hired to help me with the repairs for this place. Had to take out a section of wall for the mold, and we’d just finished rebuilding it when all the tools started to go missing. They’d end up on the other side of the house, or even on the outside.” He shuddered. “And then other stuff started. Lights flickering, disembodied voices. One of my men, Ken, saw a shadowy figure staring at him one night and bolted. He now always leaves the house before sunset so he doesn’t see it again.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a persistent tenant. Do you know any history of the house?”

Mario shook his head. “Not too much. It’s an old home form the 1800s, built for an old, rich, Gotham family that isn’t around anymore. The last owner I could find on record was a man named Randolph, but not much about who he was, or what happened to him.”

That’s usually how haunted houses went in Danny’s experience. Not everybody kept detail records, especially that far back—so he was going off very little information. But he’s had less, before.

“Any information is a help.” Danny hummed, stepping up to the porch. He doesn’t feel anything bad radiating form the house. Bits of anger and grief, but not anything too dangerous. No poltergeists or wraiths—yet, though, cause there’s usually about a 10% chance Danny will find a way to fuck something up about it. But right now, it’s quiet. Angry, but quiet. “Well, good news, they’re not a violent spirit. But they’re upset about something.”

“What could it be upset about?” Mario wondered. “We’ve been—I mean, I’ve been trying to keep things looking just like the house used to. We’re not remodeling it, really. We’re restoring it.”

Danny shrugged. “Ghosts and spirits are creatures made completely of emotion and energy. They might be upset over the color you’re painting the walls, or the fact you’re in their territory. House ghosts tend to be quite territorial.” He explained. “I’ll go in, scope around, try and chat with your tenant here, and see if there’s something we can do about ‘em.”

“Right. Chat.” Mario nodded, taking a few steps back. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, kid?”

Danny turned back and smirked. The moonlight flickered off his teeth, which were just a little too sharp to be human. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hansen. I’ve got this.” He turned back and stepped through the threshold of the front door.

The anger hit him like a small blaze. Not overwhelming, but still present and persistent. Echoes of a life that had once been in the house waft over Danny, and he pushed through it as he found himself in the front entrance. A grand staircase to the left hooked up the side of the wall and up to the second floor, and to his right was an open archway, leading to a sitting room. Half of the walls had been stripped of paint, plaster and wallpaper, exposing the insides of the home. Remodeling tools and equipment were scattered about haphazardly, as if someone had angrily tossed them aside in a tantrum. The floors were covered in tarps of different shapes and sizes to protect the natural hardwood floors, and the entire house was bare of anything else.

It smelled of both cleaning supplies and mildew. Unpleasant, but bearable enough to walk through.

The front entrance led down into a hallway, where Danny could spot a few more rooms and a kitchen at the very end.

The door slowly creaked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the entire house. He flipped his hood off, now that he was out of sight of Mario, and closed his eyes, letting the feelings in the house hit him even more.

Anger-anger-fury.

Resentment-why, why, why.

Grief.

The emotions brushed past him like an erratic heartbeat, but they were all of the same wavelength, the same purpose. Only one ghost—that’s a good sign. Not a poltergeist yet, but if they keep wallowing in these emotions, there’s no telling what could happen next.

Danny’s eyes fluttered open again, and he stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. “Alright, friend. Let’s see where you’re hiding.”

His first stop was the staircase. Most of the original wood had been re-stained, but there were marks left where carpet was once stapled into the steps, and a few loose nails still. Half-finished, like much of the house felt. One step on the staircase, and it felt like the entire house shifted, leaning into his own energy, prodding at his soul. The spirit was aware and acknowledging his presence.

Alright. Danny pushed out with his own energy, wrapping around him with a small gust of wind. He can’t be actually possessed—other ghosts have tried, all have failed—but the magic wrapping around him still gave him a bit more defense, building up a wall between him and the emotions of the house.

The anger and grief intertwined into one specific emotion that he can’t name, and they beat against his magical walls with a rhythmic energy.

He inhaled, paused, and exhaled slowly. The spirit was trying to test him. Well—Danny’s a stubborn motherfucker and never backs down from a challenge. He continued up the stairs, coming to another long hallway. He felt another tug on his soul again, tugging him to the left.

“This way, then.” Danny said, following the tug. The hallway was lit only by the moonlight shining through the windows at each end. Dust motes floated and swirled in the air around him. The paint and wallpaper along the walls was all chipped and decaying up there as well, but no tools were discarded anywhere. Mario and his crew must not have gotten up to this floor yet.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked down the hall. The tug grew stronger with each step, pulling him to the far end of the hallway. The spirit is leading him, and testing him, and challenging him. He can’t help the smirk that breaks out on his face, as he gets to the end of the hallway and finds the only door that’s shut. It’s the smallest door, and the doorknob is bright, shiny and crystalline, the cleanest thing that Danny’s seen in the house. Real fancy-schmancy shit.

He knocked on the door, first, before setting his hand on the doorknob. “I’m coming in.” Danny warned, swinging the door open and stepping into the room.

The room inside was cold, far colder than it should be. The air sent a chill through him, and his breath fogged in front of him as he stepped in. The space wasn’t as empty as other rooms. An old, rotting armchair was pushed against a window, with a small table next to it. Broken glass was shattered on the floor, and it looked like a few teenagers had decided to try and have a little bit of spooky fun a while ago. A demonic circle is spraypainted into the floorboard. It’s long since faded, and Danny can tell nothing ever properly came through.

As Danny’s gaze swept the room, he noticed a small flicker of movement, at the edge of his vision. His head snapped, following the movement into the corner, behind the armchair. The shadows rippled and twisted unnaturally, and he felt his breath fog again.

“There you are, friend.” Danny smiled.

The shadows responded to his voice, flickering angrily at Danny calling them a friend. They slowly formed a humanoid figure. Tall and menacing, with small white dots for the eyes, but every other shape and detail of the ghost is obscured by the darkness. The air thickened, and Danny felt a pressure rest on his chest, a weight trying to drag him down.

But Danny stayed put. He rooted himself to the ground with his own energy, feeling his eyes flicker with his magic. “You’ve been causing quite a stir!” He laughed, teasingly. “Mario and his crew are scared out of their minds with your tantrums, you know.”

The spirit didn’t respond immediately, but Danny could feel it shifting, the pressure tightening in his chest.

“Leave.” They hissed angrily, echoing through the room. “You don’t belong here.”

Danny crossed his arms but kept his smile wide. “I think you’re mistaken. I think I belong here more than you think.”

The spirit flickered again, before their shadow grew larger, taller. The pressure in his chest tightened even more, and he could feel his human knees want to buckle a bit, but his own magic flared in response. It kept him upright and steady against the shadows. The air crackled with quiet energy—angry, angry, betrayal, angry— and it was almost suffocating. Almost.

“Leave.” The ghost hissed again, the two white orbs of their eyes narrowing. “Before I make you.”

“Make me?” Danny barked out a laugh. “Oh, buddy. You’re going to need to do more than a little bit of shadow magic to try to make me leave.”

The shadows flickered angrily in response again, curling around him and blocking out the little bit of light from the moon filtering through the window. He felt the pressure try to push him further and further down, and in response, he tugged on his own magic, glowing just a little bit brighter.

“I get it.” Danny dropped his voice softer. “You’re angry. You’re hurt, and you’re stuck here, and you don’t know what to do. But terrorizing the living isn’t the answer. It’s not going to help, it’s going to make things worse.”

“You don’t know anything, child.” The spirit hissed again, and the shadows closed in even more.

“I actually do, thank you very much.” Danny huffed, though he kept his playful grin on. “I know that if Mario had called any other occultist in Gotham, you would’ve already been blasted to kingdom come. That’s not really my style, you see. I want to help both sides of this problem, so why don’t you take a chill pill, and we can chat a bit?”

The spirit flared and then tried to attack. The cold darkness surrounding him squeezed him tight, pressing into his sides and knocking him off his feet and pinning him onto the floor. The shapes in the darkness changed, morphing back into a humanoid figure, with shadowy tendrils sprouting from their arms, tight around Danny’s chest.

“You cannot understand what I’ve been through! What I’ve lost!” They screamed.

“Really? Then tell me, then. Tell me what happened!”

“I—” The spirit faltered, and for a second—the shadows disappeared, and Danny saw their face. His face. A young man, with shaggy dark hair, blood dripping from his scalp. Glossy white eyes, like every other ghost. His clothes were older—closer to the mid-nineteen hundreds, probably. The shadows appeared again, drowning the man in darkness, but the pressure around Danny’s chest loosened. “I—I lost everything. Everything I built.”

Danny nodded. He stayed quiet, letting the ghost continue as they slowly loosened their grip on Danny.

“My—my work. My family. My life. I was betrayed.” The ghost said, pulling back.

“Who?” Danny eventually asked. “Who hurt you?”

“Andrew. I thought he was my friend. My best friend. My business partner.” The shadows faded again, showing what hid behind hit. The broken soul of a young man, murdered, half of his face drenched in blood dripping from his scalp. “He was jealous, I think. Of me. Of everything I had. My wife, my kids. He wanted her—he wanted Margie. I never saw it, until it was too late.”

Danny slowly pushed himself up off the ground, sitting up. The spirit knelt before him, the shadows fading around him completely, softly glowing with cold, white light. Large, wet tears floated from the ghost’s eyes, falling but disappearing before they even hit the floor.

“He killed me. He—he killed me, just to get Margie.” The shadows flickered again, but the ghost was too emotionally drained to use them. “He killed me and left me here. This house was already damned back then. And I’ve been stuck here, ever since.”

Ah. Not a house ghost, as Danny had thought—someone who had just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Danny leaned forward, before setting one of his hands against the spirit’s arms. Ghosts are solid for Danny, and the spirit jumped when he felt the warm touch from Danny’s hand.

“You’re not bound here, you know.” Danny started, after taking a moment to let the ghost adjust to the sudden warmth. “You’re not stuck. This house didn’t trap you—you did. Your anger, your grief, your resentment. That’s what is keeping you here, Randolph.” The name jumped from his mouth before he could stop.

The ghost—Randolph—perked up at the use of his name. But his form flickered again—anger, grief, resentment—and he shuddered. “I—I can’t. I’m lost and I’m stuck, and I can’t let go of her. I can’t let go of Margie. She was everything to me. And he—he took her.”

Danny stayed close to Randolph, keeping his warm hand on the ghost’s cold arm. “I understand. I know what it’s like to lose everything.” He smiled, but there wasn’t any glee in it—it was sad, one that felt like it was coming from the pain that Danny kept tidied up in his chest until he needed it (or until it broke through on its own). “But you can’t keep holding onto all of this, Randolph. You have to let go of the anger, the grief. It’s not doing good for you, or Margie, to be this way.”

The ghost shuddered again, tears dripping down his cheeks. “I—I don’t even know how.”

Danny’s heart clenched at Randolph’s words. He squeezed the ghost’s arm again, tugging him a little closer. “It’s not easy.” He admitted, softly. “But letting go doesn’t mean forgetting or forgiving what was done to you. It means giving you the chance to find peace. And, maybe… Maybe you’ll be surprised what you see on the other side.”

The ghost took a shaky breath, even though he didn’t need to, and nodded. The shadows finally disappeared from the room, and a soft, warm light ingulfed them both. “I... You’re right, kid.” He said, shakily. “I don’t know if I can let go. Not yet. But I’ll try. And I’ll stop messing with the living.”

“That’s all I can ask, Randolph.” Danny said, smiling a little brighter. “One step at a time. Doesn’t have to be all at once.” He let go of Randolph’s arm, pushing himself back up onto his feet. He stretched a hand out to the ghost, and the ghost took it, even though he didn’t even need to stand up. He floated up, a good half foot in height above Danny.

“You’re… You’re strange.” Randolph said, after a moment. “What even are you?”

Danny laughed. “Me? I’m just someone who’s a little more dead than living.”

Chapter Text

Tim isn’t a stranger to being up past one in the morning most nights. In fact, it’s something that he’s done since he was, what—nine years old, tailing Batman and Robin with nothing but his old digital camera, snapping photos of them as they jumped across buildings and soared around skyscrapers. He’s used to it. The late nights, followed by early mornings, where the only thing that keeps him going is the ungodly amount of coffee he drinks until he inevitably crashes and sleeps for twelve straight hours every few days after pushing himself to the brink with sleep deprivation.

He'd just gotten some sleep, too. It was a quiet night (not that anyone on the comms registered that) and Tim was about to wrap up his patrol when the winds around him shifted, and a chill ran down his spine.

Huh?

Most people would be inclined to turn the other way when something doesn’t feel right. When there’s a chill in the air, from something indescribable. That gut feeling is a biological thing meant to keep humans safe from the things that go knocking about in the night. Tim’s aware that some supernatural things that happen in Gotham every now and then. Bruce works with Justice League Dark, after all, as their only fully human member. All of the Bats are aware of the fact that Gotham is a little cursed with spooky shit, but it’s pretty much at a truce. Nobody messes with the spooky stuff until the spooky stuff messes with Gotham. It leads to them dealing with a lot of cults trying to start up in Gotham, but, hey—those nights are usually the most interesting.

But there’s not been any rumors of any cults on the streets right now. Not anything substantial, at least. So, what is this feeling Tim has…?

He froze, mid-step, looking at his surroundings. He was fine walking through the darkened alleyways on his own. Tim and Dick had split up a little bit ago, as Barbara had directed Dick to a break-in nearby. For those little things, two can be a bit of a crowd, and anyway, Tim doesn’t really want to deal with an attempted burglary or whatever. Knowing Dick’s luck, it might just be someone trying to break back into their own apartment after losing their keys. Not anything Tim would need to deal with.

But it left him alone, and against the strange silence. The moon was barely a sliver in the sky, not strong enough to cast any light down onto the ground. The domino masks have built-in screens in them that light Tim’s world up in the green of night vision, but there’s nothing there to see. Nothing visible, at least. He pressed a quick hand up to his comms, but all he heard in response was static. It’s probably just a rogue or a goon with an EMP or a transmission scrambler—but Tim shivered, again.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Tim stepped forward, pulling out his bo staff. The feeling in his gut was screaming at him, but he ignored it as he stepped forward.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Tim asked, stepping deeper into the shadows of Gotham’s alleys.

There’s not a response at first. Tim lowered his bo staff. He must be imagining things. Surely, right? Like, there could be a possibility—however small and miniscule—that it could be something more, but there’s no way that Tim has stumbled into something like that. Surely. No way. He sighed, relaxing despite the screaming in his system, until he hears it.

A giggle. It’s light and airy from a small child. He jumped back into a defensive position, swinging his bo staff around.

“Who’s there?” Tim asked, gripping his weapon tightly.

The giggle echoed again. It’s too soft for the dark streets of Gotham, the innocence piercing through the tension in the air. The shadows crawled around Tim, and his breath fogged in front of him. Tapping his comm again brings up nothing but static—great, just what he needed. His grip tightened even more, and he looks everywhere that he can, taking in as much information around him as he possibly can.

A breath of cold air hit the back of his neck. He swung backwards with all his strength, but nothing was there. “S-Show yourself!” Tim ordered, ignoring the chattering in his teeth.

He wasn’t afraid.

Tim was Red Robin. Tim was Robin, once upon a time—he’d seen what happened to Bruce after Jason’s death and pulled the man out of the darkness before he even hit puberty. He’s dealt with shit with the world ending multiple times, had to break the timestream to rescue Bruce once, and he’s the youngest CEO ever. Tim has seen a lot of shit and he’s not afraid, despite the way his body is instinctively betraying him.

“Wanna play a game?”

And then he spotted it. Her. The shadows flickered, and a small girl, maybe five or six, stepped out from the darkness. She was wearing a soft sundress, and her blonde hair is pulled back in pigtails. Her feet are bare and covered in dirt, and blood was dripping from her eyes and mouth. She grinned and her teeth were far too sharp.

Tim’s stomach twisted, but he kept his ground. “Who are you?” He asked, even though he wanted to ask something different. What are you? What the hell are you?

The little girl—whatever she was—had the appearance of such a young, innocent child. But her grin widened, splitting her skin in half, and blood dripped out from her eyes like a macabre decoration. “Let’s play tag!” She said, ignoring all of the questions Tim had lobbied her way. She took a few steps forward. They’re a little uneven and shaky, and her body doesn’t seem to want to move the way that it should. It’s forced and stiff. Not like a zombie, but something else uncanny. “I’m it!”

The little girl charged. Tim didn’t waste any time, booking it out of the alley as fast as he could, strafing left to dodge an attack from the little girl. Her hands extended into clawed fingers, stained with dirt and blood, and they sunk into the concrete like it was nothing. She giggled, again, pulling her hands out of the concrete. Her fingers were bent in odd ways, but they shifted and fixed themselves before she started the chase again.

His boots pound against the pavement as he runs as fast as he possibly can, which barely feels enough to get out of the little girl’s grasp. Her claws ghost through the fabric of Tim’s cape, and without even thinking about it, he unclasps it mid-run, leaving it behind. He liked his cape, but he rather liked being alive, too.

Tim tapped his comm again, reaching out for help. The static erupted from it loud and harsh, and he threw it out on the ground without a second thought to rid himself of that horrid noise. The little girl giggled again, keeping up with him at an unnatural pace, only barely slowed down by his cape falling into her face.

“Tag, tag, tag!” The little girl sung behind him, her claws stretching out to reach at him.

Tim took a sharp turn right, running between a few buildings. Gotham is his home. He knew her streets like the back of his hands. He doesn’t know if he can lose this little girl, whatever she is, through the alleys and secret passages between the tall, towering complexes, but it’s the only plan he can concoct while he’s running for his life from… Her.

Of course. Of course I have to deal with this fucking bullshit! Tim thought, taking a quick turn left, running back out into the streets again. Gotham was quiet, there’s no traffic on the roads, but he didn’t want to risk bringing the creature into the streets where she could decide to tag someone else.

Focus. Focus, Drake. He took another turn. For once, Tim is glad he’s the smallest of all the Bats (aside from Damian, but he’s slowly starting to grow into Bruce’s height, unfortunately). He spotted a narrow gap between two buildings, just big enough for him to run through. The bricks scraped up against the lighter fabric of his summer Red Robin armor, but he pushed through it. He kept pushing himself—faster, faster, faster. The stillness of this Gotham night would normally be a blessing, but tonight, it felt like a curse. A trap.

“Run, run, run! As fast as you can!” The little girl sang again, giggling. The little girl was trailing a bit, but it wasn’t because she was slow. She was playing with him. She was getting close, and then letting him create distance again. She was playing with him like a cat playing with a mouse.  

He can’t keep running forever, he can’t even keep running until sunrise. He could try to grab his grappling hook, but it might take too long to aim and fire. It might slow him down. Tim took another turn down a side street, and crashed right into someone. They both tumbled to the ground, and Tim yelped, crashing into the pavement of the sidewalk.

“Fuck—sorry—” Tim panted out, quickly pushing himself up on his knees. He had to take a second to blink at who he’d run into.

The figure is wearing a dark cloak, the hood covering their head. Two glowing, green eyes are the only things that are visible under the shadows. The green is similar to a Lazarus Pit—but it’s not the toxic, disgusting green. It’s a vibrant green, full of life and something else, that sends another shiver down his spine. Probably something else supernatural, too. Knowing his luck tonight.

“Run, run, run!” The little girl echoed again.

Right. Tim quickly stood, grabbing for his bo staff again.

The figure blinked and tilted his head to the side. “You good, bro?” His voice was a little high, but there was a dissonant echo to it, like it wasn’t quite there, or maybe it was more than one voice layered over another. It’s spooky, but also—intriguing?

“What? No—” Tim sputtered. “You need to get out of here. There’s—” The scrape of claws against brick—as bad as nails on a chalkboard—interrupted him.

The little girl stood at the end of the sidewalk, her claws dug into the nearby brick building. She doesn’t look phased at all by the chase. In fact, she’s a little more energetic. “There you are!” Her smile broke her face again and twisted it in even more dangerous ways, and Tim fought back the nausea churning in his stomach.

“Ah, shit.” The figure spoke. He stood—no, he didn’t just stand. The figure pushed himself off the ground and floated up into the air, righting himself and landing on his feet. “You’ve got a myling hunting you, Red Robin?”

“I don’t know what that is.” Tim replied, taking a few steps back.

The figure didn’t reply right away. He adjusted his stance a bit, putting himself in-between Tim and the little girl—the myling?. His presence was strange. There’s the faintest bit of familiarity to it that Tim can’t place. Almost like he’d seen the figure somewhere in a dream before—distant and dissonant. He’s clearly not human. Or if he is, he isn’t completely human.

The myling scratches against the brick again, but she isn’t making any other steps forward.

“Alright.” The figure said. His voice still carried that strange, layered echo, but there was genuine incredulity in it. “Okay, I’ll keep it short. A myling is the spirit of a dead child—usually one that died alone or violently. They’re... clingy. Territorial. Dangerous. This one looks extra nasty.”

“Great,” Tim muttered under his breath. Just what he needed. A ghost.

“Playing into their games is the best way to get yourself killed, Red.” The figure said. His arm stretched out; palm pointed at the myling. The air shimmered a bit around his palm, before it faded, but there was still an eerie glow around his pale skin.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Tim shot back, still gripping his bo staff tightly. “She hasn’t been trying to tag you for the last twenty minutes.”

“Shut up! You’re running the game!” The myling cried out, but she’s not moving. Her bloodstained claws point erratically at the figure, but she doesn’t step forward. Almost as if something is holding her back. “No helpers! No helpers! It’s mygame!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The figure waved the child’s screams off, turning back to Tim. “Rule number two in dealing with a myling—don’t get into their territory. She’s probably been trying to chase you right where she wants you, where she’s the strongest. Trust me. Mauled to death by a feral child is not the best way to go.”

“And who exactly are you, anyway?”

“Oh! Introductions! I nearly forgot.” The figure’s arm is still stretched out, but he bows, curling his other arm under him like a gentleman. “Phantom, part-time occultist, at your service.”

Tim blinked. His heart is still beating, and he’s sweaty and out of breath. But Phantom—an occultist, of course—is holding the myling back from attacking him. From attacking them. So, he’ll play nice. For now. Just because he doesn’t want to die. “Part-time occultist?”

Phantom stood back up straight. They’re roughly the same height when his feet are planted on the ground, roughly 5’6. “Hey! Everyone’s got their day jobs, Red.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. He could see a bit under the shadows of Phantom’s hood, but it’s hard to make out the details of his face. He’s young, or at least, he looked almost as young as Tim was. The only thing that stood out on Phantom was the cloak, which stretched past his knees, a bit of fur lined around the hood and edges. Other than that, he looked. Normal, if it weren’t for the glowing green eyes.

“And what’s your day job? Ghostbusters intern?” Tim asked, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“Ha! Good one.” Phantom laughed. “Anyway, I’m not the one being chased by a myling, so maybe save the snark for later, yeah?”

Tim opened his mouth to retort, but the scraping of claws against the concrete reminded him that now wasn’t the time for banter. The myling was testing whatever barrier Phantom had thrown up, her claws digging into the air like it was a physical wall. Her blood-streaked grin twisted further as she tilted her head at an unnatural angle.

“You can’t keep me out forever, Phantom!” She crooned, her voice like the wheeze of a broken wind-up toy. “He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine!”

Phantom rolled his eyes, and the air around his hand shimmered brighter. “You’d probably be less cranky if you actually had a nap, you know.”

“Why are you antagonizing the murderous child?”

“Just a bit of banter.” Phantom shrugged, and Tim could see a glimmer of teeth underneath. Teeth that were just a little too sharp to be human, too. He turned to face the myling completely, stretching both of his hands out, and the myling’s body was yanked up into the air. “Alright, missy. I don’t like doing this, but you’re going in time out.”

“You can’t hurt me! You can’t—” The myling struggled in Phantom’s grasp, but all for naught.

“Nope. Time out. Go take a nap, or something.” With a flick of his wrists, Phantom summoned a white energy that shot out from his hands. The energy wrapped around the myling, surrounding her in what looked like a gentle hug, before glowing too bright for Tim to keep watching.

A gentle breeze blew by, and then it was gone. The light, the myling, everything.

Once the light faded, the myling wasn’t there anymore. Phantom groaned, a hand immediately reaching up to his face. His hand shakily drew back, his fingers coated in a bright red blood.

“Ugh. I fucking hate exorcisms.”

Tim balked, for a second, before reaching into a pocket on his utility belt. He pulled out a small packet of tissues that he always carried on him. Tearing open the plastic, he pushed a few tissues into Phantom’s hand. “You exorcised her?”

“Well, yeah.” Phantom took a tissue, and pressed it up against his face, hidden in the shadows. “Like, she wasn’t going to listen to me, and she would keep hunting you down until she got you. So, it’s time-out for her now.”

Tim watched Phantom dab at his face with the tissue, soaking up the blood from what was probably a nosebleed. He had to take a step back to take a deep breath. Everything was happening so quickly, and he’d barely gotten a chance to think.

He pressed both of his hands to his face. “Time-out?” Tim echoed. “That’s what you call banishing a murderous spirit? Like she’s a kid who broke curfew?”

Phantom let out a tired snort. “Well, yeah. It’s basically what I did. I don’t like doing full banishments. Usually leaves me a lot more exhausted like this. It’s just a hard reset. Gives her time to think about her actions. Hopefully once she calms down, someone can deal with her properly.”

“Properly?”

“You know. Find out her unfinished business, help her move on, yada yada.”

Tim had to take another deep breath. “So, you didn’t actually get rid of her. You just... hit pause on her rampage?”

“Well, luckily, you would’ve been her first kill. She’s still, you know. Pretty young for a ghost.” Phantom danced around the topic like an elephant in a China shop. “And yeah, pretty much. She’s stuck in the veil for now. The in-between of here and the beyond. So, she shouldn’t be bothering anyone for a bit, but when she does come back, someone will have to sort her out right.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re just going to let her come back, and have someone else deal with her in the future? That’s not very sustainable.”

“Ah, well, I’ll be able to tell when she gets back. I’ll just deal with her when the time comes.” Phantom added, with a casual shrug. As if casually dealing with a murderous spirit of a six year old was a casual Tuesday night thing. He stretched, and yawned, the bastard. “Now, if you excuse me, I need about a gallon of Mountain Dew and a nap.”

“You’re just going to leave?” Tim asked, narrowing his eyes. He stepped forward. “What if she does come back?”

“Then I’ll come back too,” Phantom replied, showing off his toothy grin again. “Or you can call me. I’m easy to find.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

Phantom dug underneath his cloak before pulling out a small card. It’s shaped like a business card, though it looked like it was awkwardly cut and not cut with a precise machine. He set it down in Tim’s hand. There was a shimmer to the business card, but Tim couldn’t tell if it was from the strange magic of it or the fact that there was a bit of glitter glue along the edge. In very horrible handwriting, it said:

PHANTOM
OCCULTIST 4 HIRE

“There’s no number here.”

“Au contraire, my fowl-feathered friend.” Phantom replied. “Don’t need a number. Just think about me when you hold this, and I’ll hear you. Probably.”

“Probably?” That wasn’t really reassuring.

Phantom waved a hand casually. “Relax, Red! It works like… 90% of the time. You’ll be fine.” He jumps up into the air, floating a few inches off the ground. “Anyway. Nice meeting you, Red Robin. Stay safe, and maybe try not to run face-first into any more murderous spirits, kay?”

“Wait—” Tim said, but it’s too late. Phantom is already gone.

He glanced down at the card in his hands, still shimmering with the glowing light.

Strange.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

There’s no hello, there’s no hi, where were you, and not even a Bella, where have you been loca?

None of it.

Tim is greeted with:

“Red Robin, report.”

Tim knew what he was going to be walking back into as he made his way back to the Cave. His legs felt like jelly from running so far and fast through Gotham to get away from that spirit—the myling. He’d also ditched his comm at some point, and he didn’t have a back-up for once. They probably only knew that he was alive because of the trackers on his suits.

“Jesus, Tim. You look dead on your feet.” Dick comments, taking a sip of something hot and steaming from a mug. He paused, eyes furrowing. “Well, more than usual.”

“Shut up.” Tim groaned, peeling off his mask. Not only was the usual adhesive stickier than normal, but he was also drenched in sweat from running so much. There are a few scrapes in the padding on his chest plate, and his cape is long gone. He didn’t know where it dropped, and once Phantom disappeared, he didn’t want to know. He ignored the glare from Bruce as he made his way to the small table in the cave and collapsed on one of the chairs.

He barely had a second to catch his breath, when Bruce stood over him. “Report. Now.”

Tim knew it came from a place of concern, he could see the worry lines in Bruce’s usual Batman-y grimace, but damn, could he not just wait a minute. Every single muscle in his legs burned from running, and his chest was still tight. “I’m alive, aren’t I? Give me a second.” He snapped, before clearing his throat. “Sorry.”

“Tim.” This time it’s a little softer, thankfully. But still worried. He hears Dick’s chair scratch against the stone floor of the Cave, and Tim couldn’t hide the flinch as he immediately thought of the myling’s claws scraping against the brick—

Tim swallowed, hard. “I was out on patrol, right after you left, Dick. It was, you know. Q-word.” He explained. “And the next thing I knew I was being chased by a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Dick’s voice cracked. He leaned into Tim’s personal space, grabbing Tim by the face to mother hen over him for injuries. “You sure you didn’t miss a grapple swing? Hit your head out there?”

Tim ripped his head from Dick’s hands, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I wish I hit my head. No, it was—it was a myling? Yeah, that’s what he called it. Murderous little six year old girl. Was probably gonna maul me to death or something.”

“A myling?” Bruce grunted. “That’s a Scandinavian spirit.”

“Of course you know what that is.” Tim shouldn’t really be surprised by Bruce’s odd wealth of knowledge anymore.

“They’re very vengeful spirits, usually tied to where they died. Not much else is known about them outside of occultist circles.” Bruce continued, ignoring Tim’s comment. “Who told you what it was?"

"This occultist guy. I ran right into him—literally.” Tim ignored the flush build in his cheeks from how embarrassing literally running into someone on patrol can be. “Glad I did. He exorcised her, or something.” He dug into his utility belt, and put Phantom’s business card on the table. “Told me if I ever needed him, I could hold onto this and think for him.”

“Is that… glitter?” Dick asked.

“Phantom.” Bruce’s eyes flickered across the card, before picking it up carefully to examine it. “The name is vaguely familiar. There’s been talk on the street about what he does. The reports are usually inconsistent, but the name appears enough that there’s a pattern.”

That piqued Tim’s interest. “A pattern?”

Bruce set the card back down on the table. His expression is frustratingly unreadable. “I’ve only heard his name; but I haven’t seen him in action myself. Supposedly, he does a lot of house calls, dealing with restless spirits and haunted homes. Occasionally he’ll be on the streets dealing with rogue spirits. No associations with any other cults or rogue groups, no clear methodology. Works alone.”

Dick curiously leaned forward, pulling the card closer to him. “So, there’s a guy out there who’s dealing with spooky scary stuff, and his calling card is this… sparkly, glitter-covered thing?” He flipped it in his hands carefully, to not spread the glitter on his palms. Tim was already pissed that the inside of his utility belt will be coated in glitter, but there was nowhere else to put it. “That’s kind of amazing, actually.”

“Focus, Dick.” Bruce sighed, before he looked back at Tim. “How did he handle the spirit?”

Tim blinked. “It was... interesting. Like, I don’t think he fully banished her. Just sent her into the veil, I think he said?” He tapped his chin. “Basically, he put her in a time-out.”

“A time-out?”

“Yeah. Nothing permanent.” Tim explained. “So she could come back, and probably will, and she’ll probably try to hunt me first. But Phantom said he’d deal with her when she got back.”

“If he can permanently banish them, why didn’t he do that, so he didn’t have to deal with the problem in the future?” Dick wondered aloud, the same question on everyone else’s mind.

Tim shrugged. “He was very… Personable, with the ghost. Even if she was just trying to kill me, there was something about how he interacted with her that was very… I dunno.” Tim sighed. “Empathetic, I think is the better word.”

“Empathetic for a murderous spirit.” Bruce repeated, his tone grim. He looked back down at the card, before sliding it back to Tim.

“I don’t know what to make of it either, B.” Tim sighed, picking up the card again. “But he didn’t treat her like a… like a monster. He was trying to reach out and help her, I think.”

“Lot of empathy for a child that was trying to maul you?”

“Again, Dick, I don’t know.” Tim slid the card back into his utility belt. He’s too tired to care about the glitter now. “He seemed, like. Responsible for dealing with her, or something. It was so weird.”

The cave was silent for a moment. Bruce’s expression was inscrutable as he mulled over the situation, and Tim absolutely hated when he got that look. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “Empathy… or manipulation?”

Tim shrugged. “Could be both? But he didn’t seem like he was playing at something. It was… honestly, too sincere. It’s not like when a cult tries to summon a demon and then is surprised when it tries to eat them. It felt like he actually cares about the spirits. Not just ‘cleansing’ them, or whatever occultists do.”

“It’s dangerous.” Bruce said, eyes narrowing. “People who get too attached to spirits can lose sight of what’s necessary. It’s happened before.”

“I know.” Tim swallowed hard. “I don’t trust him completely. Not right now. But I don’t think he’s a threat yet, B.” He shuddered, thinking again of the myling. “He saved my life, without even hesitating. That counts for something, at least.”

“It does.” Bruce admitted, although hesitantly. “But sentimentality can be used against you, Tim. People don’t just walk into Gotham and do good with nothing to gain.”

“We do?” Dick offered.

Dick’s comment is ignored. Mostly because it’s right, but also because it’s not something they like to think about too often. How selfish most Gothamites are.

Tim nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Bruce. See if I can figure anything out on him. Hopefully he keeps his promise on not letting that murderous six-year-old maul my face off.” He shuddered at just the thought of how painful it sounded.

Bruce sharply inhaled, and Dick squirmed a bit in his chair, both probably thinking of the same thing. Eventually, Bruce cleared his throat. “Be careful, Tim. Not only is Phantom an unknown, but he is also connected to the supernatural. It’s a different world out there, Tim. You need to be extra careful.”

Oh. Oh, wow. Tim wished he wasn’t so exhausted, so he could actually feel the shock of Bruce… Trusting him, to lead the investigation into Phantom. Of course, Tim had led investigations before into people. He’d solved so many cases in the many years of being Robin, and then Red Robin. He’s got the highest “solved cases” count, followed only by Bruce himself. To have Bruce trust him on something this big, though? That was special.

Tim smiled, weakly. “You got it, B.”

Chapter Text

Danny slept for a good seven hours after he’d gotten back from banishing the myling.

Well, actually—he stayed up for another two hours, hacking away at the painting he was currently working on. And then he passed out on his couch for seven hours, and only woke up when the late afternoon sun started to poke through his curtains. There was still a bit of dried blood caked on his upper lip, and even though he’d hidden his cloak back into its covert form—the chain around his neck—he can still feel the exhaustion from the exorcism.

He could probably hear the criticism now. You gotta do more bloody exorcisms if you don’t wanna deal with the exhaustion, Danny. But Danny doesn’t want to think about what his mentor would’ve said, because he’s not there, and Danny was trying to learn to do this shit on his own, in his own way. Had the myling (her name was Anna, he knows her name was Anna) not been chasing Red Robin like that, he probably could’ve helped properly. But her sight had been set,and she was hunting, and he couldn’t pull her out of that at all.

He groaned, rubbing at his face, before sitting up. His back was tense and sore from falling asleep on the couch. He stretched a bit, wincing at the sound of his shoulders popping and cracking, before looking around his apartment. Other than the noise of the city outside, it was quiet, the only sound in the small apartment being the hum of his fridge. His stomach growled, but Danny didn’t want to make anything. And he can’t use his magic like other people can, and just have the food made for him. His magic isn’t like others. So, he has to actually get up and do it, if he doesn’t want to waste thirty bucks trying to get something delivered.

He sniffed at his t-shirt. Ugh. Gross. Shower, then food. It’d be nice to get the dried blood off his face before he did anything else. Especially considering the fact that he’s probably just gonna walk a few buildings down to the deli on the corner and order something small there, to avoid making anything and the exorbitant delivery fees in Gotham for food.  

He didn’t even remember how he’d gotten so involved with the painting. It was a scene of Gotham from above at sunset, based off a picture he’d taken floating above the cityscape one night. Of course, the perspective is warped, and everything is a lot rounder on the canvas than it is in real life, and it was brighter, and colorful. He was having trouble with the clouds, but apparently in his late night/early morning painting fervor, he managed to finish the clouds, and they looked damn perfect. Fluffy and soft and like little marshmallows dotting the sky.

His stomach growled again. “Right. Food. Fuck.”

The shower wasn’t eventful. He scrubbed the blood off his face, and washed his hair quickly. He didn’t even have the energy to dry his hair, and he threw a t-shirt and jeans on, ignoring the way his body cringed at the feeling of his longer wet hair hitting the cotton fabric of his shirt.

Oh, wait. Duh. Even though he’s exhausted, Danny pulled on his magic just enough for the water to fall through his hair completely, puddling on the floor. His hair fluffed up immediately. “Perfect.” He said, running a hand through his hair, before heading out the door and to the deli a few buildings down.

The air is still hot and humid. Summer in Gotham has always been a little miserable, or at least, the last summer was. The streets were chaotic as usual. Gotham’s usual hm of distant conversations, the clatter of traffic, and the buzz of city life melted together into a soft white noise. For the first time in a bit, it felt like Danny could breathe, surrounded by the chaos of daily life. He perked up a bit—still exhausted, still hungry, but feeling better, as he made his way through the door to REGGIE’S DELI.

The bell above the door rang out as Danny stepped inside, getting hit with the cool air from the AC immediately. It was a welcome relief from the humidity outside. The familiar smell of freshly sliced meats, baked bread, and green veggies greeted him like an old friend would. The scent filled him with even more energy, and he wasn’t even embarrassed when his stomach growled loudly.

Behind the counter was Reggie’s son—Reggie Jr., or RJ, as he preferred. RJ was still in high school, but he’s always worked at the deli as long as Danny had moved in a few buildings down. A little lean and nerdy, with skinny arms and legs, and a patch of mustache that’s just starting to sprout from his upper lip. Nevertheless, a good kid. “Danny!” He greeted happily, eyes wide and sparking.

“Howdy, RJ! The usual, please and thank you.” Danny said, walking up to the counter and pulling his wallet out.

RJ’s face lit up, and he quickly rung Danny out before he got to work. Danny can distantly hear Reggie senior—RJ’s dad—talking in the back kitchen with one of the meat processing folk. Some boring business stuff. Boring. What’s more fascinating is watching RJ make his sandwich. The kid always had an energy about it, an energy that is squarely missing in the rest of Gotham. He grabbed the slices of sourdough bread and flipped them open, squirting one side with a copious amount of mustard, and grabbing everything for Danny’s usual—the Reggie, the special menu item, and Reggie senior’s favorite sandwich.

Man. Reggie sure liked naming things after himself. He’s not full of himself, though—the man deserved every bit of praise he ever got.

RJ’s hands moved swiftly, but with a kind of deliberate care, assembling the sandwich like it was a well-practiced art. The kid was like a machine, but there was a lightness in the way he did it—like he could find joy in something as simple as making a sandwich. RJ hummed a song under his breath as he piled on the layers of turkey, swiss cheese, and squirted the signature Reggie sauce on the other slice of bread. He wrapped it up quickly, sliced it with expert precision, and slid the finished sandwich across the counter with a flourish.

“There ya go! One Reggie special, Danny-style.” RJ smiled, his eyes twinkling.

“RJ, you know I would kill for you if you asked, right?” Danny asked, grabbing the wrapped sandwich, licking his lips at just the thought of how fast the sandwich was about to be devoured.

“You say that to me every single time, man.” RJ laughed.

“And I mean it every single time.” Danny unwrapped the end and took a bite of it. Yes, it was heavenly. Yes, it was worth killing someone over. Maybe multiple people. He swallowed the bite hard. “How’s it going with… you know. The thing.”

RJ’s smile faltered, for a second, and he sighed. “I… I haven’t mentioned it, yet?”

“Oh, c’mon, RJ. Your dad won’t care. In fact, I think—” Danny lowered his voice. “I think he’d be ecstatic that you wanna go to culinary school next year.”

RJ glanced behind him, eyes wide, before looking back at Danny. “I know, I know. It’s just—four years is a long time to be away from Gotham, y’know? And sure, I’ll be here for the summers, but I… I don’t know. I don’t know if I wanna leave him, you know?”

“That’s very kind of you, RJ. But you gotta remember you’re not living for anyone else. You’re living for yourself, first.” Danny explained.

RJ shifted, looking away. “Yeah, I know… but it's hard, you know? I mean, Dad’s been running this place for so long. He’s put a lot into it. What if he needs me? What if he can’t handle the place without me?”

“You’re seventeen. Almost eighteen.” Danny pointed out. “When did you start working for your dad, again?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen years before that, he was running it fine, wasn’t he?” Danny pointed out. He took another bite of the sandwich. “Your dad has built something incredible here, RJ, but he was handling this place long before you were even born. He can handle a few years without you being around all the time. Especially since you’ll be learning to make even better sandwiches.” He sighed. “It’s your life, RJ. But don’t just toss away the full ride, alright?”

“Yeah. Okay.” RJ leaned over the counter. “I’ll… I’ll think about it. Thanks for believing in me, though, Danny.”

“No problem. Though, if you do leave, I might have to hunt you down in New York just so you can make me these sandwiches still.” Danny laughed, wrapping up the rest of his sandwich to take back to his apartment. His response got the quirk of a smile out of RJ, too.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Danny got an email the next day to his art email, and he had to look at it a few times, and pinch himself to make sure he was reading it right.

FROM: <[email protected]>
TO: <[email protected] >
Possibility of a Commission

That was a Wayne Enterprises email address. Asking for a commission. Danny sat up in bed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he looked at the phone. That was a Wayne Enterprises email address in his art website’s inbox.

He wasn’t technically open for commissions. He’d never done them before. A few galleries around Gotham had requested certain things in his paintings, sure. But those were requests at the end of the day, and they all still took whatever he gave them and paid pretty nicely, for the most part. That money, plus what he gathered when he worked as Phantom, helped pay for a pretty decent (if a little small) apartment on the edge of downtown Gotham, close to the artsy side of the city (of course).

Even though he wasn’t open for commissions, the email address being from Wayne fuckin’ Enterprises is more than enough to pique his interest. Especially when it was sent at four in the morning, when most of the city should be asleep.

Hello, Mr. Nightingale!

I hope this email finds you well. My name is Tam Fox, and I’m reaching out with a specific request. I am looking to commission a custom piece of artwork for Tim Drake-Wayne’s upcoming birthday, and after hearing wonderful things about your work, especially from Tim himself, I wanted to inquire if you might be open to such a project.

I checked on your website, but I could not find if you were open for commissions or not. If you are available for commissions, I would love to discuss the details and price for a piece I have in mind and how we could make it an extraordinary gift for Tim. Of course, you would be paid handsomely for your time and artistry, and I would be happy to discuss your rates and payment method as well.

If you are open to this opportunity, I hope to hear from you soon.

Best Regards,

Tam Fox.

“What the fuck.” Danny muttered, sitting up, pushing his hair out of his face. He read the email twice. Three times. He even considered restarting his phone and making sure it wasn’t a prank email, or that his phone somehow got hacked in the last few hours of sleep when he wasn’t paying attention, because there’s no way that was a real email. Right?

What are the odds, that Danny not only ran into Tim Drake-Wayne twice—once at the gallery open, and then the following day at the café— but then he gets contacted by Tim Drake’s assistant to create a custom piece of art for him for his birthday? Those odds are—well, Danny isn’t a numbers guy, but those odds have to be so fucking low, because how is this reality. How is this even happening? He’s just—he’s just a random guy. He’s just an artist and is barely breaking the “starving artist” stereotype —it seemed too good to be true.

But he was curious. He was so curious to see if this was legitimate. Danny typed out a quick response on his phone, not even bothering to get out of bed and turn on his slow laptop to pull the email up.

FROM: <[email protected] >
TO: <[email protected]>
RE: Possibility of a Commission

Hi Tam,

I usually don’t do commissions. but you’ve got me intrigued. This isn’t a joke or a scam email, right? I mean, I guess you wouldn’t tell me if it was a scam or not if it is. But I still need to ask.

Also please call me Danny, Mr. Nightingale was my father.

-- Danny

He got a response almost immediately, right as he finished brushing his teeth. He grabbed his phone with his magic, floating it up to his face as he brushed his fingers through his hair, styling out the overgrown wolf cut.

FROM: <[email protected]>
TO: <[email protected] >
RE: RE: Possibility of a Commission

Hello, Danny!

Great to hear from you so soon. I understand your hesitation, but I can assure you that I am not trying to scam you. I would love to discuss the possibility of commissioning a piece of your work for Tim for his birthday.

If you would prefer, we could meet up somewhere in person to discuss the details, so things feel a little more real. I understand the complexities of emails all too well that tone is rather difficult to read over text.

Let me know what you think, and I can pencil us in for a meeting together.

Tam Fox

He stared at the screen, bringing the phone back into his hands. His heart was flip-flopping—not because he was nervous, but because everything felt too surreal, in a strangely realistic way. It’s not like the nerves or adrenaline of dealing with a rogue spirit, like the myling from the other night. It’s something else. Nervous? Excited? Hopeful? He can’t tell, because this situation is so strange.

Tam’s casual professionalism in her emails was a little comforting. He did feel a little stupid replying to the email asking if it was a scam, and was relieved when she replied quickly and in a tone that read as a little more human than the first email. She wasn’t rushing him, either. She wasn’t demanding, like other rich folk in Gotham had tried to be. Just requesting something simple—not even sharing the commission details yet.

She just wanted to talk. Okay, talk. Talking was something Danny could do. Maybe a little bit too well sometimes. And he could always say no. Maybe he’d feel a little awkward, especially since he’d met Tim twice and was literally just texting him the night before. But maybe that’s why he’d be the perfect person for the job. He’s acquaintances with Tim already. Tam might not know—or realize—that, but Danny has a bit larger of a personal connection.

And the thought of making Tim something? The thought of taking time and energy, to pour himself into a painting that was just meant for Tim, and Tim alone? Something about that idea felt… Nice. It felt good. It made his heart flutter in all the best ways possible, and Danny pushed those thoughts aside for a moment as he worked on his response to Tam, taking the time to actually open his dinky old laptop to draft out a response.

FROM: <[email protected]>
TO: <[email protected]>
RE: RE: RE: Possibility of a Commission

Hi Tam,

Thanks for the quick reply! I do appreciate the reassurance. I’ll admit, this all still feels a little unreal, but I’m definitely interested in meeting up to discuss the details. Email is good for logistics, but I’m totes with you on how tone can get lost in it.

How’s tomorrow afternoon for you? There’s a small café in the corner of 5th and Arch that I frequent. It’s a quiet spot. If that works for you, we can meet there.

Looking forward to hearing from you,
Danny

He hit send without a second thought, knowing he’d end up psyching himself out if he hesitated. It was just a chat. It was just a talk. Danny didn’t have to say yes to anything. He can always say no, but then he started getting that excited feeling in his fingertips, like he wanted to start now. Like he wanted to start painting recklessly and without abandon now, even though he had no idea what Tim would want, or what Tam would ask for.

The itch grew too much to bear after a few seconds. He closed his laptop, tossed his phone into his pocket, and made his way out to the living room in his small apartment. It’s a pretty decently sized living space, but his couch took up a good 40% of that real estate. In lieu of having a kitchen table, because nobody ever eats at Danny’s place because he really doesn’t have any living friends, he has an easel set up, with his paints all organized (to the best of his ability) on cheap wooden shelves.

He crossed the room, his fingers practically vibrating with the need to create something. Something new, something bold. He takes down the current canvas, the sunset of Gotham he was working on earlier, and puts a new empty canvas up in place of it. He stood there for a moment, the stillness of the white canvas almost absorbing him. A few ideas flickered through his mind, before something hit him. He stepped around it and pulled a few colors off his shelf, grabbing the old apron he usually used when he was painting and tossing it around his neck. The pallet was haphazardly balanced on the support beams for the easel legs, and he used his magic to float it up to him to grab, mid-air, and he started to mix the colors with just his fingers.

Danny loved art for a lot of reasons. It was one of the few escapes he had when he was in the system. A lot of those drawings were made on scratch pieces of paper and the back of homework sheets, and most of them were all neatly organized in a shoebox underneath Danny’s bed. They served as a memorial of where he’d came from, and a jumping off point for where he could go, if he ever needed the inspiration. The drawings he made were all escapes into a creative passion that drove him forward, helped him embrace the chaos of his life.

Art is also one of the few times where he felt his mind quiet. Even with the paint staining his hands as he childishly swiped paint-covered fingertips across the canvas, everything else around him faded away. The city noise outside, the swirling thoughts in his head—quiet, gone. The only things that mattered were the brush in his hand, the paint on his fingers, and the colors on his canvas. It was fluid, instinctual.

The painting in front of him slowly began to take shape. It was a blend of colors and shapes that felt right. He liked leaning into abstract shapes to explore feelings, and none of it was ever purposeful. There were no clear plans, no specific references—just Danny, his thoughts, and the canvas. So, when accidentally flicked a bit of blue paint into his red splotches, it wouldn’t be a mistake he would have to try hard to cover up. It would be something to show off in the painting. A break of cool colors in the sea of reds, oranges, and yellows.

As he worked and focused, paint on the edge of his hands and fingertips began to leave behind their own streaks and marks. The shapes were irregular and messy, but that’s how Danny liked it. He kept at it, dragging new colors across the canvas with different shaped brushes, tossing them into the mess of his kitchen sink to properly rinse and clean out later and grabbing new ones, even grabbing a sponge and a piece of paper towel to create interesting textures. It was layered, it was messy, and it was bright, and it was loud, but it was also Danny. Irrevocably Danny.

He doesn’t know how long he spent on the painting, but his phone buzzing in his pocket eventually pulled him out of his creative reverie. He’d woken up at eight in the morning and hadn’t eaten anything at all for almost four hours as the canvas before him came to life. He set his pallet aside on the kitchen counter, taking a step back to pull out his phone.

It’s a response from Tam.

FROM: <[email protected]>
TO: <[email protected]>
RE: RE: RE: Possibility of a Commission

Hi Danny,

Thank you so much for getting back to me so quickly again! He may be hesitant to admit it himself, but Tim is a huge fan of your work already. I’m hoping to keep this gift as much of a surprise as I possibly can.

I’d be more than happy to meet up with you tomorrow afternoon as you suggested. I’ve cleared my calendar for the meeting tomorrow, but if you need a different time or location, just let me know, and I can adjust accordingly.

I will bring some reference ideas, and some payment ideas that would reflect the work you do the best. Of course, all of this is up in the air, still—I’d be happy to discuss the specifics when we meet in person.

I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow, and can’t wait to hear your ideas!

Warm regards,
Tam Fox

Well. Guess he’s meeting Tam Fox tomorrow.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

He wasn’t quite sure what he’s expecting when he meets Tam Fox for the first time. They got together in a small café that Danny suggested, a little bit of a ways away from the Wayne Tower in downtown. The entire café is surprisingly quiet for the time and place, but it’s probably just a weird coincidence.

He arrived a little early, and ordered himself a large white chocolate mocha, topped of course with whipped cream and sprinkles. Some people couldn’t function without caffeine, Danny couldn’t function without sugar. Part of him wanted to be dressed a little neatly, but after digging through his closet for anything “nice” and having no luck whatsoever, he kept to a simple outfit. A black t-shirt with ripped jeans, his trusty converse sneakers, and a maroon cardigan he’d thrifted years ago. He’d put more effort into this outfit than he had with any of his gallery openings, ever, and it felt weird.

He fiddled with the old plastic binder filled with prints of his work while he waited. It was a last-minute grab when he walked out of the apartment. She’d probably seen some of his stuff online, and it probably wasn’t necessary, if Tam was coming with an idea like she’d said. But he still grabbed it just in case.

Tam Fox walked in right on time. Her presence already commanded attention, though the only attention in the café she would be getting would be the curious head turns of the baristas and the one guy typing away at a computer in the back corner. She’s dressed impeccably, everything that a corporate woman would look like—a navy blazer, over a crisp blouse, with slim black pants and low heels that clicked on the wood. She had a small wallet tucked under her arm, and her confident smile found Danny across the room pretty quickly.

“Danny Nightingale?” She asked as she approached.

Danny stood quickly, hitting the table with his hit. His half-finished drink was nearly knocked over in the process, and he quickly grabbed it before anything spilled. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!” Danny said, and took Tam’s outstretched hand, hoping she wouldn’t notice how sweaty (and cold) his hand was. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ms. Fox.”

“Please, just call me Tam.” She corrected, taking the seat across from Danny. She glanced around the café with a smile. “Thanks for suggesting this place. I didn’t even know it existed.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my hidden go-to spots.” Danny explained. “It’s usually busier, but I’m not going to complain about the quiet.”

“You and me both.” Tam laughed, before noticing the old plastic binder on the table. “Is that your work?”

“Oh, yeah.” Danny nodded, nervously pushing the binder towards her. “Just some prints of my, uh, my paintings. I know you said you had an idea in mind, but a few more examples never hurt, right?”

Tam opened the binder, and slowly began to flip through the pages. Her eyes darted across the images, her expression thoughtful. “These are… incredible, Mr. Nightingale.” She eventually said. “You’ve got such a unique style. I can see why Tim’s a fan.”

“Hey, if I’m calling you Tam, you can just call me Danny.” He awkwardly corrected. He didn’t know what to think about the last bit of Tam’s statement there. Tim’s a fan. He knew that the other guy was into his art—and he’d teased Tim about being his “number-one fan”, but he didn’t mean for it to be so…

… literal.

They’d met up twice, both times on accident and a strange coincidence, and Danny had gotten Tim’s phone number pretty quickly. There were occasional text messages sent—how are you, what’s going on—but nothing concrete yet. No formal “hang-out” plans yet. Danny understood. They both had busy lives. But it’d be nice if Danny could meet up with Tim and see what exactly he’d like.

Tam set the binder down, leaving it open to a few of Danny’s impressionistic landscapes. “So, Danny, tell me… Are you open to discussing the commission?”

“I’ll be honest, Tam.” Danny replied, leaning back in his chair a bit. “I’ve never actually done any commission work before. A few galleries requested some themes be present in my work, but I’ve never been paid to make someone a specific piece. But for Tim?” Danny nodded. “I’d love to.”

Chapter Text

Stakeouts were usually boring. He understood the importance of them, for information gathering, but, damn, they could be dreadfully dull sometimes.

Tim kept himself perched on top of the building across the street, peering down at what looked like an unassuming townhome in the empty neighborhoods on the edges of Gotham. Most of the buildings were old and worn-down. The one Tim is perched on is the better of the homes on his side of the street, the only one with a roof that hasn’t partially or completely caved in from age and wear, but it’s still angled, and a little slick from the previous night’s rainstorms. He kept his eyes peeled on the target, though, watching for any sudden movements.

“Hey, Tim, can you do me a favor?” Dick asked him earlier that night. “I actually need to be in Blüdhaven in like an hour, but there’s something Bruce asked me to check out. Can you take it over for me?”

Last time Tim ever did anything nice for one of his older brothers. No good deed goes unpunished, or whatever. He grumbled incoherently, bringing his arms in tighter to his chest. He’d read the briefing Dick had given him before he came out, of course.

An informant had told Dick of a black-market sale of an old grimoire to a person who had mentioned a group they were working with. No names, no personal identifiers, but a group, is all they said. Usually if someone was buying an old grimoire for a book it meant cult stuff, which while it did fall in the “supernatural gray area” for Gotham’s heroes, if there were living, mortal, human beings involved, the Bats would step in. And unfortunately for Tim, there were in fact living, mortal, human beings involved. Because of course it’s a cult.

Dick was probably still a little sour from the last time he’d dealt with a small-time cult on his own and ended up stuck with an Australian accent for a week because of a spell that went awry. The memory did bring a brief smirk to Tim, at least—it was pretty funny at the time and was still funny, especially since Dick was a little butthurt over it. He shook his head, trying to return his focus to the task at hand, staring down at the small townhouse across the street from him.

Nobody had gone in or out of the house in hours. Two people had entered right as Tim settled in for the stakeout, but nobody else had left. It was probably acting as their base of operations, but who’s to say they’re not summoning some sort of eldritch being below Gotham to wipe everything out? He should go in there, he should, but the mission is nothing more than observation and investigation. If he was more certain about how many people would be in the building, he would try to sneak his way in and figure things out from within, but he was still fixing the remote-controlled bugs that Jason had accidentally stepped on the last time they’d patrolled together. The tiny machinery required the precision of someone who had more than a few hours of sleep spread out over three days.

He's fine. Tim is totally fine. It felt like the weight of the night was dragging into him as the minutes slowly ticked by. He’d been out for almost two hours, and nothing was different. Nobody changed, nobody moved, nothing. Maybe it wasn’t this house. Maybe it was somewhere else and Tim just got the location wrong. Maybe—well, maybe he’s already too late and everyone’s about to die as some sort of monster Cthulhu hybrid is just about to burst out of the grounds beneath them and swallow the entire city—nay, maybe the entire world—whole.

… Maybe he’ll get some sleep tonight, after the stakeout.

“—What’re you up to, birdie?”

Tim yelped at the sudden voice, jumping up. He’d balanced himself haphazardly on the slanted rooftop, though, and his movement sent him sliding down the slick tiles, before he felt a cold hand grab ahold of the back of his suit from under the cape and catch him. Gravity seemed to let go of Tim for a few seconds as the strange hand set him down on the top of the roof, where he could get better footing.

It was Phantom. Because of course it was. The cloaked figure floated a few inches off the top of the roof, and even with his face obscured, Tim could see a bit of mischief behind those eyes.

“Phantom.” Tim crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I could be asking you the same thing, Red.” Phantom said, gently landing on the tiles beside Tim. “You looked a little lonely. Thought I’d stop by.”

“I’m fine.” Tim looked away, back at the townhouse across the street. Nothing changed in the last few minutes. He shifted his weight again, making his balance a little better. “Just a stakeout. Nothing you should worry about.”

“A stakeout?” Phantom tilted his head to the side, before following Tim’s gaze across the street. “Oh, for the cult?”

“The—what.” Tim looked back at Phantom and blinked. “How do you know about that?”

“Ghosts are pretty chatty.” The occultist replied with a shrug, his tone incredibly casual, as if he were just commenting on the weather. “They like to gossip, and a cult with a big plan for tonight? Prime ghost gossip. They can’t resist.”

“Ghosts.” Tim repeated flatly, unconvinced. “You’re telling me you just… stumbled across a cult because of ghosts?” He knew that Phantom had experience with ghosts—the night with the myling said enough about it, and the inside of Tim’s utility belt where Phantom’s business card was hidden away was covered in glitter still. But there’s still the way that Phantom is so oddly casual with ghost. He was very… acquainted with death, and it was a little strange, but also very fascinating.

“Not stumbled. They overheard something about a ritual and passed it along to me.” Phantom added with another casual shrug. He crossed his arms, and pushed himself up into the air, gravity a mere inconvenience for the occultist. He crossed his legs mid-air, and it made him look even more ethereal and ghostly under his cloak.

“Right.” Tim’s tone might have been dry, but his mind was working overtime. “And what exactly did these ghosts tell you?”

“That there’s something nasty brewing in there.” Phantom jerked his thumb towards the townhouse across the street. “Dunno what. Something was bought, something was stolen—they didn’t clarify.”

“Of course they didn’t.” Tim muttered, and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “And why are you here, exactly? I didn’t think you’d get involved with… this.”

“What do you mean?” Phantom tilted his head to the side. Despite his face being cloaked—pun intended—by his hood, his body language could be read from a mile away. The subtle shift of weight, an almost curious tilt to his shoulders, and the faintest tension in his stance as though he was genuinely considering the question, even as he was floating above the roof.

“You know. Living stuff. Human stuff.” Tim replied. He glanced back to the townhouse to scan it for any changes—but the building was still and unassuming. As it had been all night. Tim’s shoulder stayed tense, ready for action, still. He glanced back to Phantom.

Phantom’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly under the hood. “Living stuff?” He asked, with a laugh that reminded Tim of the sound of the wind in the winter. He floated a little higher, stretching out in the air a bit. “You’d be surprised by how much of that human stuff ghosts care about. You know—they’re still people, for the most part. Just a little different.”

“I don’t know about that.” Tim mumbled, his mind racing back to the myling incident the other night, when he’d first met Phantom. He can still hear the ghost’s haunting laughter and the sound of claws through brick.

The floating occultist landed next to Tim, with a grace that seemed unnatural. His feet touched the roof without a sound, and the cloak around him billowed faintly, caught in a ghostly breeze. He could feel a chill in the air with Phantom standing so close, and it looked like for a second, Phantom was going to say something, but his head whipped towards the townhouse suddenly. “Hm.”

“What?” Tim asked, looking back at the townhouse. “Phantom…?” He trailed off, as the strangest scent began to fill the air. Crisp, metallic, a little sweet—almost like there’s electricity in the air. Ozone, if he had to hazard a guess. He felt his ears pop, and a low, melodic hum began to reverberate like a far-off engine. A weight dropped on Tim’s shoulders, the air suddenly feeling tight and heavy.

Phantom kicked off the roof again, floating closer to the townhouse. “What are they doing in there?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tim’s eyes darted back to the townhouse. It looked eerily quiet, like nothing was wrong—but there was something there, wasn’t there? His breath fogged out of his mouth, the smell of ozone growing stronger. “You said something about a ritual?” He asked, his eyes darting back to Phantom.

“Yeah, but it’s… It’s weird. Something’s wrong.” Phantom murmured, his voice quieter now, as though afraid to disturb the thickening tension in the air. He looked back at Tim, the faint glow of his eyes intensifying under the hood. The look sent a shudder down Tim’s spine. “They’re not summoning something. But I don’t know what they’re doing.”

A faint ripple pulsed outward from the townhouse as soon as he finished speaking. Shadows along the edges of the building began to move unnaturally, as if they were trying to flee something. Tim’s had his own fair share of cult nonsense. In Gotham, they’re practically a dime a dozen. Something about the city’s cursed air brought them in more and more. It’s the only supernatural thing that Tim and the rest of his family know how to deal with, because most of the time, the cultists are usually one-hundred-percent human. It’s as close as they get to the supernatural in the city. If it’s not a summoning—could it be some sort of tethering, or binding ritual? Tim’s eyes scanned the building again, as another pulse of energy rippled out form it.

“I can’t just stand here.” He said to himself. Tim’s breath was coming out in thicker clouds, and he felt a chill in his bones. He reached for his utility belt, feeling his pulse spike, his mind putting a strategy together quickly. Most likely in the lowest level, since there hasn’t been any detectable movement in the windows. If I go in through the—

His thoughts are cut off by Phantom swooping down in front of him. His green eyes stared out from under the hood, flickering with some sort of emotion. Tim can’t figure out. “You’re not going in there alone, Red.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you, Phantom.” Tim replied, reaching for the grappling hook on his belt loop. “If whatever they’re doing is going to hurt Gotham, I have to stop it.” He reached up to tap on his comms, to reach out to Oracle or anyone nearby for backup, but a harsh, static feedback exploded in his ears. He winced, jerking back from the comm immediately.

“I’ll save you the trouble then. No arguments, I’m going in with you.” Phantom stated and reached his hand out. “We’ll do it together.”

“Together?” Tim repeated, his eyes glancing towards Phantom’s outstretched hand. The cloak draped open with the movement of Phantom’s arm, but everything else was cloaked in the shadowy darkness. The hand wore a fingerless leather glove, and the nails were slightly sharper than he’d thought they would be.

His hesitation isn’t from the backup. He rarely worked completely alone—there was always someone there by his side, whether it was Bruce himself, or Dick, or Cass or Damian, or on the rarest occasions, Jason. But they were all a part of the same unit. They all had the same training, they all had similar experience in Gotham. They knew Gotham and its dark alleys.

There was no denying the urgency—whatever the cultists were doing, it might tear the city apart if they didn’t stop it. But the unease gnawing at him wasn’t about the danger ahead; it was about the presence in front of him him. Phantom wasn’t just another ally. He was an unknown, a wildcard in the worst possible ways.

If I work with him, I could learn more about how he operates—

His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the offer for help. Were there risks? Most definitely. But there wasn’t a lot of time for Tim to analyze every little detail about Phantom. If he wanted to stop the cult—well, Tim would rather like to have someone help him out with it. Going up a cult alone is possible for him, but it’s not easy, or fun.

After a moment of deliberation, he sighed and reached out to grip Phantom’s outstretched hand. It’s colder than he expected, like he’s touching freshly fallen snow through his gloves. “Fine.” He said, trying to keep his voice steady. “But if you try anything—“

He’s cut off by a laugh from Phantom, and the occultist tugged on Tim’s hand. For a second, nothing happened, but then Tim’s footing lost themselves on the rooftop. His heart skipped a beat, his breath caught in his throat, thinking he’d accidentally slipped, but he didn’t fall down. The sensation was strange and disorienting.

“Don’t worry, birdie!” Phantom said with another mischievous laugh. He tugged Tim forward in the air, further away from the top of the rooftop. “I won’t let you fall. Hold on tight, though, yeah?”

His mouth went dry, and he squeezed Phantom’s hand as he was dragged, mid-air, towards the townhouse across the street. Even as Phantom pulled him downward, the hand around him was tight, and the angle they went was gentle. The entire thing felt incredibly strange— Tim had been in places with zero gravity before, but that felt like something completely different. It’s as if his body was purposefully ignoring the rules of gravity that should be there, guided by the strong, gentle hand of Phantom.

Phantom landed gently on the ground, first, before helping guide Tim to land.

Tim glared at the occultist. “The hell was that?” He hissed, his voice dropping.

“Just thought it’d be a bit quicker.” Phantom replied with a shrug, heading up the stairs to the front door. “Now, c’mon, birdie. We’ve got a ritual to ruin!” Without a second’s hesitation, Phantom kicked the door in, the old wood flying off rusted metal hinges.

“Wait—” Tim tried to say, but another pulse of energy hit them hard again. Usually, he’d like a more concrete plan than fuck shit up, which seemed to be Phantom’s current M.O., but whatever the ritual was, it should probably be stopped as swiftly as possible. He followed after Phantom as the occultist swept through the house.

“Nice place.” Phantom casually commented as he walked in, glancing around.

The house looked like it had been abandoned since the eighties, like a demented time capsule. Floral wallpaper was fading and peeling off the walls, and the carpet had turned an awful yellow color. Or maybe it had been the puke yellow the whole time. Whatever furniture was left was old and decayed, whatever was worthwhile had been long ransacked by people already. Every step on the floor creaked under Tim’s weight (though, notably, Phantom’s steps were eerily quiet). There were still a few photos on the walls, of a family who would have lived in this home a long, long time ago.

Another pulse of cold energy hit them—a lot colder this time. Tim’s breath fogged out again, and he suppressed a shiver. “We need to figure out where they are.” He said, glancing around the first floor. “They’ll probably be in the basement.”

“Cause basements are creepy, old, and stinky?”

Ignoring the rather juvenile expression from Phantom, Tim nodded. “For the most part, they’re out of sight.”

“That makes more sense.” Phantom said. He took a few steps into the long hallway, before he froze for a second. And then he darted forward to the back of the house.

Tim kept up with him easily. The cultists didn’t seem too organized for this ritual. Maybe they were inexperienced, or maybe they just didn’t think anybody would be onto them this soon. Either way—there’s no guards blocking a door that’s cracked open in the kitchen, where a mysterious light is glowing in.

“Shit.” Phantom muttered. He glanced back at Tim. There was something in his glowing eyes—he knew something, or he figured something out. “I think I know what they’re doing now.”

“What, then?”

“A house as old as this should’ve had a house spirit guarding it.” Phantom explained, his voice dropping as he approached the door. Cracking it open let in more cold, blue pulsing light. The occultist shuddered. “They’re—fuck—they’re trying a ritual that’ll turn the house spirit into a wraith.”

“A wraith?”

“Yeah.” Phantom murmured. “Wraiths are, like—they’re meaner poltergeists. They’re absorbed in mostly anger and rage. If they’re trying to turn a house spirit into a wraith, they probably want to use them—her— as some sort of weapon.” He glanced back at Tim again. “Look, birdie. I’ll get in there and deal with the wraith, you deal with the cultists. There’s not more than seven or eight. Think you can handle it?”

Tim’s gaze flickered to the door, and then back to Phantom. There’s an intensity in his eyes—it’s clear it wasn’t going to be an easy fight. For a plan, it was pretty simple. Phantom had more experience with ghosts. Tim had more experience with humans. They’d stick to their lanes, stick to what they’re comfortable with, and work from there. It’s the bare bones of a plan.

“You said they’re turning it—turning her?” Tim pushed aside the question of how Phantom knew the future wraith’s problem. “How far along are they?”

“Too far.” Phantom explained. His eyes glowed a little bit brighter. “If we don’t stop them now, then I’ll have to completely banish the spirit, and. Well, I try to avoid that as much as possible.”

“Okay.” Tim grabbed his retractable bo staff from his belt, expanding it to its full length. The air was heavy, like the building was holding its breath. The energy from the ritual was clawing at them, and Tim could feel his own heartbeat picking up, the rhythm almost influenced by the pulse of magic coming from the other side of the door. “Seven or eight, you said? I’ve had worse odds.”

The light from the basement flickered again, and it caught on the smile from underneath Phantom’s hood—bright teeth that are sharper than they should be. It was sharp, it was dangerous, and he leaned in close to Tim. “Of course you’ve had worse odds.” Phantom said, with an audible smirk. “Just be careful, okay? You don’t want to get in the wraith’s war path.”

“Careful is my middle name.” Tim snarked back, spinning his bo staff.

“I highly doubt that, birdie.” Phantom snickered, before turning back to the door. “Now shall we blow this popsicle stand?”