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English
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Part 4 of The Cult of Nightingale
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Published:
2025-05-11
Updated:
2025-06-22
Words:
2,598
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3/?
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Cult of Nightingale Outtakes/Bloopers

Summary:

A series of outtakes and bloopers for the series Cult of Nightingale, featuring:

Bruce finding Danyal al Ghul-Wayne's grave and freaking out

Danny crawling out of his grave like a two-bit zombie

...and more to come

Notes:

A big shout out to meli_bear (melimsah) for this prompt!! It was so fun to write.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: I Have a What?!

Chapter Text

The air in the Gotham Cemetery was still and gray, the kind of late afternoon where the clouds settled just low enough to hush the world. The leaves rustled like they were afraid to break the silence.

Bruce Wayne stood at his parents’ grave, black coat buttoned neatly, hair slicked with wind and damp air. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but his hands were gentle as he placed a single white rose at the base of the headstone.

He bowed his head.

A moment of silence. Peaceful.

Then—something caught his eye.

Just to the side of the family plot, in a row that should have been empty, stood a headstone. New. Clean. Polished marble gleaming in the gray light. It wasn’t there before.

Bruce straightened slowly. His shoulders stiffened.

Cautiously, he approached.

The engraving was elegant, precise. The kind of stone chosen with care, not haste. He stopped in front of it, shoes planted on wet grass, staring down at the impossible.

DANYAL AL GHUL–WAYNE
 August 9, 20XX – October 30, 20XX
 Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace
 Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
 While the stars burn, the moons increase,
 And the great ages onward roll.
 — Alfred Lord Tennyson

Bruce stared.

His lips parted slightly.

“Danyal... al Ghul... Wayne,” he read aloud, slowly, as though each word might detonate.

He took a step back. Looked around the cemetery like it might disappear into mist. Nothing changed.

I was gone for six months, his mind supplied, bewildered. That’s not long enough for this. Is it?

He circled the grave. He studied it from one side, then the other, as if viewing it from a different angle might shift reality into something that made sense.

The grave stood still, worryingly present.

Just like that, Bruce spiraled:

Did I create a paradox?

Accidentally adopt a child in Babylon?

A pause.

Was it the cave painting?

Another pause.

...Did I name a Mesopotamian farmer Danyal?!

His expression warped slowly from bewildered to deeply, cosmically troubled.

This wasn’t even the strangest thing he’d seen in the months he’d been gone. But still!

There was that glowing child who floated out of a well in 4000 BC and told me to “tell the bird boy hello.”

But that had been a fever dream.

Right?

Had to be.

A voice broke through his spiraling dread like a scalpel slicing into fog.

“You appear distressed, sir.”

Bruce turned sharply.

Alfred stood a few paces behind him, gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, coat impeccable. He gave no indication that the presence of an unexpected child’s grave warranted any particular emotion.

Bruce exhaled slowly, eyes still flicking to the headstone like it might somehow get up and pounce.

“Alfred. Please tell me this grave isn’t real.”

Alfred raised a prim eyebrow. Judging. “It is quite solid, sir.”

Bruce stared at it harder. “Who is it for ?”

“Master Danyal,” Alfred said evenly. “Master Damian’s twin brother.”

Bruce blinked. “ I had a second son?! ” he sputtered.

“Indeed,” Alfred replied. He stood there a moment, assessing Bruce. “It was handled privately,” he offered, finally.

Bruce looked at the headstone again, then back at Alfred. “Was I... supposed to know?”

Alfred tilted his head. “You were preoccupied with space-time during the moment it became relevant, sir.”

Bruce turned away. He pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed, heavy.

“I came here to reconnect with my parents,” he muttered. “Instead I found out I have more children I didn’t know about.”

Alfred’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, sir. Welcome home.”

Bruce sat down slowly on the ground beside the grave. He lowered himself like gravity had suddenly quadrupled just for him.

He stared at the grave in silence, mind still trying to catch up.

“Well. At least this son won’t crawl out of his grave like some kind of two-bit zombie,” he muttered wearily. “I mean, it’s not like there’s anyone inside this one, right?”

He paused a moment, then whirled on Alfred, gaze harried.

“Right??? ”

“Hm.”

Bruce put his head in his hands and screamed.

Chapter 2: Gay Panic and Grave Zombies

Summary:

A disheveled, dirt-caked figure pulled himself out of the grave, hand gripping the headstone like a lifeline.

Notes:

Thanks to loudwhisperthe3rd for this prompt! I had so much fun writing it!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Gotham Cemetery was quiet.

Overcast skies cast long gray shadows across damp grass, still soft from morning mist. A pair of crows perched on the iron fence nearby, watching with unflinching judgment — as all proper cemetery crows should.

Damian Wayne, fifteen and grim as ever, knelt beside a well-kept grave.

His fingers brushed the marble headstone before he placed the flowers: blue hyacinths and white roses. Intentional. Symbolic. Meaningful.

No one was allowed to mock him for it.

He sat back on his heels, cross-legged beside the stone. Silent. Stoic.

For a long moment, he just... breathed.

Then—

"This is not a confession," Damian said, voice clipped. "I’m simply updating you. Objectively."

The grave, unsurprisingly, did not argue.

"I haven’t lost a match in three weeks. No injuries. No unnecessary fatalities."

He paused.

"Richard was impressed. Father— Bruce —was as well. Probably. It is difficult to read that man. It's infuriating."

Damian stared straight ahead. His shoulders tensed.

Another pause.

"Also. I..." he cleared his throat, scowled deeper, then added through clenched teeth, "may have developed a mild affection. For someone."

He didn’t look at the headstone.

"A boy."

He raised a finger defensively, eyes narrowing as if daring the grave to make a comment.

"Not that it’s important. It’s irrelevant."

His voice dropped to a mutter. “It’s Jonathan.”

He glared into the middle distance, expression curdling.

"He’s—he’s infuriating . All smiles and sunshine and dumb jokes about cows. He texts me memes. Memes , Danyal! And sends selfies with goats. He thinks I’m funny. Me. "

Damian made a noise like a suppressed scream.

"He calls me ‘Dames.’ I haven’t suffered a nickname from anyone but you or Richard—and you know Richard is the exception, not the rule."

His glare could have leveled a mountain.

"He’s taller now. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m taking after Mother. I was supposed to take after Father’s imposing height."

He scoffed, bitter. "Yet here he is, taller than me. Broader. He’ll likely be just as big as Superman when he’s matured. It's a betrayal."

The cemetery sat in patient silence.

Damian exhaled sharply. He looked like he didn’t know what else to say.

He started to rise.

And then—the grave exploded.

Dirt erupted in a geyser of soil and decaying grass. A pale hand burst from the grave like something out of a horror movie.

Damian froze, halfway to his feet, eyes wide.

A groan.

And then—

A disheveled, dirt-caked figure pulled himself out of the grave, hand gripping the headstone like a lifeline.

Danny Fenton, hair full of leaves and eyes glowing faintly green, coughed. Dirt sprays everywhere.

“ Wow ,” Danny rasped, voice hoarse. “You fall for one sunshine farm boy and suddenly you’re out here monologuing like a Jane Austen character.”

Damian did not move.

He stayed crouched.

Stared.

There was a knife in his hand. When he’d drawn it was unclear.

“…What,” Damian said flatly.

Danny hauled himself fully out of the earth, stretching his back with a crack . A worm fell out of his sleeve. He didn’t notice. “Hey, bro. Great dirt down here, by the way. Very loamy. Ten outta ten for grave quality.” He blinked at Damian, then frowned. Concerned. “You okay? You’re doing the face.”

Damian was still crouched, blade shaking slightly in his hand.

“You were dead ,” he hissed. “You were in the grave. You were in my graveyard confession monologue. ”

Danny grinned, dusting off his shirt. “I was sleeping . Like a cozy ghost hibernation nap. Medically very normal.” He added, smug, “Also—hello, rude. I don’t pop out of your emotional speeches that often.”

“You—” Damian’s voice cracked. “You heard that?!”

“Dude, you were talking out loud to my face. Or, you know. My dirt pillow.” Danny smirked. “ ‘Jonathan,’ huh? ”

Damian exploded.

“You mock me from your grave?! From your sleep coma crypt box?! I was trying to be respectful ! I brought SYMBOLISM FLOWERS!”

Danny grinned. Dirt stained his teeth. “And I appreciate it. Very classy. Nine out of ten florists agree.” He leaned slightly closer. “Soooooo... are we hugging, or are you throwing the knife at me?”

Damian crouched lower, vibrating with fury. “You are the most infuriating sibling in existence,” he spat, “You make Jonathan Kent look tolerable!”

Danny gasped, deeply touched. He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. It smudged the dirt even worse over his face. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

“I’m going to scream .”

Danny plopped onto the grass beside him, still plucking grass out of his hair.

“Go ahead. I’m dead. You can’t ground me.”

“I can and will re-bury you.”

Danny beamed, absolutely delighted. “Love you too, bro!”

Notes:

Meanwhile, in Kansas:
Damian: says Jon's name
Jon: perks up.
Damian: proceeds to complain and bitch about Jon
Jon: sad puppy eyes

 

Comments sustain me

Chapter 3: Conspiracy Theories with Tim Drake

Summary:

Tim must spread the truth:
Daniel Fenton? Phantom? Danyal al Ghul?
Obviously, they're all the same person.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tim hunched in his chair like a gargoyle, staring unblinking at the monitors in front of him. He was twenty, but looked much older in the moment—or maybe just haunted. Wild eyes darted across various screens. His fingers twitched with the sort of energy that didn’t come from rest, but from too much caffeine and the sheer momentum of obsession.

The area around him was a shrine to insomnia. Coffee cups and energy drink cans formed an unstable fortress around his chair. Every surface had been sacrificed to the great god of caffeine, and hinted that this descent had not been sudden, but long and intentional.

His monitors were covered with evidence: newspaper clippings, glitchy videos, blurry photographs. Amity Park’s local ghost made countless appearances: Phantom flying, fighting, smirking. One article, ominously headlined "Local Ghost or Global Threat?", stood vigil at the center of it all.

"Defends ghosts and humans. Hero. Menace. Possessed the mayor once. Fought the Ghost King and won. Who does that? Who survives that?" Tim muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and cracking.

The footage on one screen looped. In flew Phantom, out flew Phantom. It looped. And looped. Continuing indefinitely.

Footsteps echoed from the other side of the cave, heavy boots on concrete.

Signal—Duke Thomas—entered from patrol. He paused, taking in the sight before him: Tim, in exactly the same place he’d been five hours ago, now slightly more buried in caffeine.

“You’re still up??” Duke asked, stunned.

Tim spun to face him, eyes bloodshot, smile fevered. “I’m so close to a breakthrough! I just need the last piece—the final confirmation—"

Before Duke could speak again, Tim vaulted from his chair, scattering a precarious stack of empty cans in a clattering avalanche that echoed off the cave walls. He didn't seem to notice. Instead, he rolled over an entire cork board from the shadows, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. It bumped into the desk, toppling over a mug labeled "#1 Insomniac Genius." It shattered, littering the cave floor in shards of ceramic.

It was madness incarnate:

Photos, red string, Post-Its with frenzied scribbles. At the center were three images: Phantom. Daniel Fenton with his face circled in red 37 times, covering what had used to be the rest of the family of Fentons. And a photo of Danyal al Ghul’s gravestone. Next to that, a gala photo of Damian Wayne, clearly photoshopped: blue eyes, wild hair, annotated with "TWINS!!!"

“All three of them! They have to be the same person!” Tim declared, waving a hand at a color-swapped image of Phantom and Daniel. The two looked eerily alike, if you ignored the ghostly freckles. And the fangs. And the glowing eyes.

“Wait,” Duke said, alarmed, “Daniel Fenton’s alive. Phantom’s a ghost. And Danyal is… a literal grave. How could they possibly be the same person?”

Tim turned on him like a conspiracy-possessed cryptid. “That’s just it! Phantom is DEAD! Danyal al Ghul is DEAD! Ergo , all three of them? DEAD! Because they are the SAME. PERSON!”

Duke began to back away, slowly.

“Hey, uh... Alfred?” he called behind him, carefully not taking his eyes off his maniac brother. “Please tell me we still have those tranqs from Tim’s last episode. I think he’s too far gone. Again.”

From the shadows, Alfred emerged, as composed as ever, carrying a covered silver tray with the ominous dignity of a butler who had definitely done this before far too many times.

Tim was already back at the cork board, whispering feverishly and tying more red string between a blurry ghost and a poorly-lit photo of a school ID. Some of the yarn now led to a mugshot of Vlad Masters with the caption: "WHY IS HE SMILING??"

“Master Drake has been at it since Tuesday, I believe,” Alfred said mildly.

“He’s connecting dead kids and ghosts and assassins like it’s a group project,” Duke muttered. “I think he’s becoming the string diagram.”

“Master Bruce broods and makes contingencies. Master Jason blows things up. Master Tim builds conspiracy webs with craft store yarn,” Alfred said serenely, setting the tray down on some miraculously-empty part of the mess that was once the Batcomputer desk. "This family deals with their troubles in their own ways."

Duke frowned. “I mean, does your method usually involve denying yourself food, sleep, or... blinking?”

From the board, Tim mumbled, “Blinking wastes crucial time.”

“Alfred,” Duke said flatly.

“I come with tea,” Alfred replied, unconcerned.

“That’s not going to cut it.”

Alfred calmly lifted the tray cover. Inside: a steaming mug of tea, and a dart gun already loaded with a tranquilizer. He arched a single, impeccable eyebrow at the boy.

“That...” Duke said weakly, “That'll work.”

Tim, scribbling on a new note, muttered, “...ecto-signatures match cufflink residue... needs more red string..."

“You may leave, Master Duke. I will handle Master Tim,” Alfred told him.

“You’re a hero,” Duke muttered, already speed-walking out.

Alfred turned to Tim.

“Master Tim.”

Tim whipped around, clutching a marker in one hand and a frayed bit of yarn in the other. “You believe me, right? I’m not crazy! They’re all the same person!! You have to believe me!!”

Alfred, eyes unreadable, readies the dart gun. Tim doesn't seem to notice, too far gone in his head.

“I believe you, Master Tim. Your theories are impeccable as always. However, I believe it is high time to rest. Your mortal body cannot go several days without sleep.”

Tim brightened, beaming. “You believe me! I knew it, I—wait." Tim paused, cogs visibly churning in his head. He's slow to continue: "...What do you mean ‘mortal bodies'?”

PFFT—a tranq dart hits his thigh.

Tim blinked, sways, then slowly collapses, blinks becoming heavier and heavier.

Alfred tucked the dart gun under his arm and sighed.

“Sleep-deprivation to this point is noted particularly for its hallucinations, Master Tim. Please do not resist.”

His eyes flickered ghostly yellow. With a small motion, he levitated Tim’s now-limp body into the air, suspended by a soft glow.

Tim mumbled as he floated, “Right... of course you would be a ghost too... How did I never see that...?”

“Hush now, Master Tim,” Alfred said, guiding him gently toward the infirmary.

The lights of the Batcave dimmed as Alfred passed by the workstations, trailing a silent wake of ectoplasmic shimmer. By the time Tim was laid out on a bed, he was fully unconscious, mouth parted slightly, one hand still faintly twitching as though tying string in his dreams.

Alfred nodded in satisfaction.

“Very good, Master Tim.”

Alfred waved a hand and tucked Tim into bed with a gentle flow of yellow aura. Then, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the cave. There were other tasks and family members to attend to, after all.

A butler's job is never quite done.

Notes:

I hope you guys enjoyed this one!! I had fun :)

Notes:

If anyone else has any fun prompts for this series, please shoot me a comment/message!

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