Archive of Our Own ^beta

Danny did his best to ignore the voice.

“Hey.”

Nope. Not today.

“Get up.”

Not happening.

“You can’t be here.”

Watch me.

“How did you even get in here?”

Danny cracked an eye open at that one, glaring at the pale boy hovering over him. He looked about his age, dark circles like permanent war paint under his eyes, clearly a fellow insomniac.

“Am I just not allowed to rest in peace?” Danny groused, rolling onto his side.

“Not when it’s in our attic,” the stranger replied flatly.

Danny scoffed, sitting up just enough to gesture at the casket. “Shouldn’t have a casket in here if you didn’t want something crawling in.”

The boy opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then stared at Danny like he was a glitch in the Matrix. Danny decided he’d had enough, reached up, and slammed the casket lid closed. Ice spread across the seams, locking it tight.

“HEY!” came the muffled voice.

Danny rolled over inside the velvet lining with a sigh. Blessed silence.

Except silence didn’t last long in this house.

Someone else came up later. He could tell by the quick footsteps and the faint muttering that whoever-it-was wasn’t happy about investigating the attic.

The lid creaked open a second before Danny snapped it shut again, this time adding two layers of ice. He didn’t even bother looking.

A young voice rumbled through the coffin wood. “Why is there frost coming out of this casket?”

“Not my problem,” Danny mumbled, already drifting back into dreamland.

The lid rattled as if someone was trying to pry it open, but Danny just scooted deeper into the velvet lining. Whoever this was, they could fight the ice. Danny wasn’t moving.

He’d run away from Amity Park to avoid this kind of nonsense. He hadn’t asked to get adopted by some random family’s attic.

By day three, Danny realized his mistake.

They were nosy.

The first kid kept coming back—annoying insomniac guy who clearly needed a nap more than Danny did. He knocked, he yelled, he even tried bribery.

Danny ignored him.

Then came the smaller, angrier one.

The casket lid was yanked open and Danny found himself face-to-face with a kid wielding a katana. A katana. In someone’s attic.

“Leave,” the boy demanded.

Danny yawned. “Nah.”

He shut the lid again.

The kid tried to pry it open, but Danny iced it shut and rolled over.

A second later the entire casket jolted like it was being shoved. Danny sat up inside with a scowl. The kid was dragging the coffin across the attic floor.

“Out the window you go, parasite!”

“Par—?!” Danny phased the casket right back to its original spot and shouted through the lid, “You’re insane!”

“No, you are trespassing!”

Danny groaned and buried his face in the cushions. He was too tired for this.

By the end of the week, Danny wasn’t sure what kind of asylum he’d crawled into.

The butler tried to feed him. (He didn’t eat human food anymore. The man looked so sad when Danny refused the soup that Danny almost felt guilty.)

Someone strung up crosses in the attic. (Danny ignored them. But when they brought up putting in Christmas lights? He hissed on instinct and nearly melted through the floorboards.)

The angry sword kid tried to evict him again. Danny iced him into a snowdrift in the corner. (Not his fault if he kept coming back.)

The insomniac came back with a stethoscope, for some reason. He pressed it against the casket lid and muttered about “no heartbeat.” Danny gave one loud, dramatic snore in response.

All Danny wanted was one thing. Just one.

Sleep.

Was that so hard?

Apparently, in this house, yes.

Danny was halfway through a really good nap when the lid creaked open again.

He tensed, ready to ice it shut, but then—

A hand, soft and steady, slid a pillow under his head. Another tucked a blanket over him.

Danny cracked one bleary eye open.

It was a girl this time. Quiet. Silent like a shadow. She just smoothed the blanket, patted his hair once, and closed the lid again.

Danny blinked into the dark velvet interior.

“…Thanks,” Danny mumbled, awkward, but meant it.

She nodded once, satisfied, and slipped away like she’d never been there.

Danny hugged the pillow to his chest, a little misty-eyed despite himself.

“…I like her,” he whispered, already sinking back into sleep.

From then on, he made exceptions for the quiet girl.

She showed up with an armful of extra pillows one day. Danny sat up just long enough to take them, arrange them into the proper cocoon, and flop face-first back into the pile.

Another time, she left a cup of tea on top of the casket. Danny didn’t drink it, but the thought counted.

Once, she even cracked the lid open to check on him. Danny, half-asleep, just shoved his head against her hand until she gave him absentminded head pats. She obliged. He purred. (Not on purpose. Just… ghost things. Don’t judge.)

The rest of the family? Still insane.

Sword Kid was relentless. Danny had started calling him Angry Bird in his head, because if the bird shoe fits…

“Face me!” Angry Bird demanded one morning, ripping the lid open.

Danny cracked an eye. “No.”

“Coward!”

“Nap time.” slam. Ice sealed.

The butler still tried with food. One day it was sandwiches. The next, full trays. Once, Danny peeked and saw a roast chicken. He sighed, whispered “Sorry, man,” and shut the lid again.

The insomniac had graduated to bringing in medical equipment. Danny had opened the casket lid once to find him mid-blood-pressure-cuff attempt.

“Dude.”

“You don’t eat. You don’t breathe. You don’t pulse.”

Danny yanked the cuff, tossed it across the attic, and shut the lid.

But the quiet girl? Yeah, she was safe.

Danny let her open the lid anytime. She never asked questions, never tried to drag him out, just handed him things like earplugs, a heavier blanket, or a stuffed bat.

He kept the stuffed bat. Named it “Steve.”

Steve was an excellent pillow.

Better than half the people in this house, that was for sure.

Danny was almost comfortable with his new setup—pillows from the quiet girl, Steve the bat plush, a couple of blankets he’d iced to the perfect cool temperature—when the attic door slammed open like it was in a horror movie.

The footsteps this time were different. Heavy. Confident. Whoever it was didn’t stomp around like they owned the place. No—this was someone who knew they owned the place.

Danny cracked the lid a fraction of an inch and peeked.

Big guy. Broad shoulders. Leather jacket. White streak in his hair. He leaned against the wall with all the casual menace of someone who’d seen some things and wasn’t impressed by much anymore.

Jason. He introduced himself a minute later.

“You’re the squatter,” Jason said.

“You’re the guy with bad hair dye,” Danny countered, shutting the lid halfway.

Jason barked out a laugh. “Okay, I kinda like you.”

“Cool. Close the door on your way out.” Danny flopped back onto Steve.

Jason didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t. He dragged over an old chair, plopped himself down next to the casket, and cracked open a bag of chips.

“Tim’s losing his mind over you,” Jason said conversationally. “Keeps going on about corpses and undead squatters. Damian’s convinced you’re a parasite. Dick wants to adopt you or something. Alfred’s insulted you won’t eat. Cass…” He hesitated, then smirked. “Cass likes you.”

Danny muffled his face into Steve. “…Cass has taste.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, she does.”

They sat in silence for a while. Well, Jason crunched chips and Danny tried to sleep through it. He was halfway to dreamland when Jason spoke up again.

“So what are you, exactly?”

Danny cracked one eye open. “…Tired.”

Jason raised his brows, unimpressed. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” Danny yawned, curling deeper into the casket. “Now shut up, Skunk Stripe, Steve and I are busy.”

“…Steve?”

Danny proudly held up the stuffed bat.

Jason stared. Then, against all odds, he grinned. “You know what? Fine. You win.” He ruffled Danny’s hair through the half oened casket lid and stood. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m rooting for you, coffin boy.”

The lid shut gently.

Danny blinked in the dark, startled. Then hugged Steve closer. “…I like him too.”

Danny had settled into a routine.

Nap. Get harassed by Angry Bird. Nap. Get poked with medical equipment by Insomniac. Nap. Receive pillows/head pats from Quiet Girl. Nap. Jason hanging out like they were attic roommates. Nap again.

It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

Until one night, the attic door creaked open.

Danny frowned into Steve’s soft wings. The footsteps were different this time— measured, deliberate. Whoever it was moved with the kind of calm confidence that usually belonged to predators.

The lid lifted slowly, carefully, like whoever was on the other side was worried what they might find inside.

Danny blinked up groggily. He hadn’t iced it shut tonight—Jason had convinced him to “let the family cool down” (hah, pun unintended)—and that meant some stranger was now staring right at him.

Square jaw. Dark hair. Tall. Radiating dad energy in a way that made Danny’s ghost core twitch nervously.

Danny sat up fast, eyes glowing in the dark interior. “What.”

The man stumbled back with a sharp inhale. His hand twitched toward his belt—yeah, definitely predator energy—before he froze entirely.

Danny tilted his head. “…Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The man just stared.

Which, okay, rude. Danny knew the glowing eyes were a little much in the dark, but still. He sighed and flopped back into his pillow fort. “If you’re here to evict me, take a number. Angry Bird already tried. Spoiler alert: didn’t work.”

The man finally managed to speak, voice low and rough. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Danny groaned into Steve. “That’s what all of you keep saying. I didn’t break into your attic, I just… found the casket. It’s free real estate. Not my fault you had good velvet.”

Silence.

Danny peeked up again. The guy hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked. Just standing there like he was seeing the devil.

“…Do you… want a pillow?” Danny asked, genuinely confused.

The man turned on his heel and left without a word, footsteps deliberate again—but heavier.

Danny stared after him. “…Weirdo.”

He cuddled Steve closer and drifted back to sleep.

Downstairs, Bruce Wayne entered the kitchen at three in the morning, pale as a sheet. Jason was sitting on the counter, eating cold leftovers straight from the pan.

“You okay, B?” Jason asked around a mouthful.

Bruce just whispered, “There’s a glowing-eyed corpse child in the attic.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. That’s Danny.”

Bruce froze. “…You named it?”

Jason shrugged. “Nah, he named himself. Well, Im not sure who named him, but thats how he intreduces himself... Point is, he’s harmless. Don’t touch him.”

Bruce rubbed his temples. “You’ve been living with— with that—for how long?”

Jason smirked. “About two weeks. Welcome to the party, old man.”

The next morning, Bruce did what Bruce always did when confronted with something bizarre, terrifying, or supernatural. He prepared a full interrogation strategy.

Coffee brewed. Files organized. A chair was dragged up to the attic and placed directly across from the casket.

He was ready.

The casket creaked. Slowly, Danny’s head popped out, hair sticking in fifty different directions. His eyes were still glowing faintly, his pillow clutched against his chest like a lifeline.

Bruce leaned forward, every inch the Dark Knight. “Who are you?”

Danny yawned so wide Bruce could see the tips of fangs. “Mmm… nap.” He promptly flopped sideways onto the pillows and closed the lid again.

Bruce blinked. That was not the response he had anticipated.

He knocked on the casket. “We need to talk.”

From inside came a muffled, “Sleeping.”

Bruce pressed his lips into a thin line. “This is important.”

The lid cracked open an inch, one glowing eye peeking out. “…You got a better pillow?”

Bruce blinked again. “…What?”

The lid shut with a definitive thunk.

And that’s when Jason appeared, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed and an obnoxious smirk plastered across his face. “He said he’s sleeping. Maybe let the kid rest, B.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Jason. This isn’t a stray dog. This is—”

“A roommate,” Jason interrupted smoothly.

“Jason.”

“Look, the kid’s harmless. Tim’s convinced he’s a zombie, Damian keeps trying to stake him, Cass likes him, and me? I think he’s funny. He’s not hurting anyone, unless you count Damian’s ego.”

From inside the casket: a faint, sleepy, “His ego tastes gross.”

Jason snorted. “See? Harmless.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me you’ve allowed a possibly undead intruder to nest in our attic?”

“Allowed?” Jason laughed. “B, no one allows Danny to do anything. Trust me, we tried. He just… naps through it.”

As if on cue, the casket rattled slightly, then went quiet. Danny had fallen back asleep.

Bruce stared at it for a long moment, then muttered, “…This isn’t sustainable.”

Jason shrugged. “Eh. You’ll get used to it.”

It happened on a Tuesday.

Bruce was already knee-deep in contingency planning, Tim had three separate “is-he-undead” spreadsheets running, Damian was sharpening a new set of weapons, and Jason was guarding the attic door like a guard dog with a vendetta.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

Alfred, as always, answered it with his usual calm. He was met with a young woman holding a clipboard, a duffel bag, and wearing an expression that screamed “I am so done with this nonsense.”

“Delivery,” she said.

Alfred tilted his head. “Pardon?”

“Yeah,” she said, brushing past him like she lived here. “One (1) dumbass runaway, currently comatose. I’m here to collect before he squats your house forever. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

By the time Alfred gathered his wits, she was already stomping up the stairs.

The family followed in confusion as the stranger marched into the attic, planted herself in front of the frosty casket, and rapped her knuckles on the lid.

“Daniel James Fenton,” she announced. “You are in so much trouble.”

The casket lid creaked. A very sleepy Danny peeked out, blinked, and then groaned. “…Jazz? How’d you find me?”

“Because you left your phone on, idiot.” She yanked the casket lid all the way open and pointed to the glowing screen nestled under his pillow. “Also? You’ve been sharing your location. Rookie mistake.”

Danny yawned. “I wasn't hiding.”

“You were squatting,” she corrected, already hooking her arms under his shoulders like she’d done this a thousand times.

Danny flopped limp in protest. “Too tired. Five more hours.”

“Nope.” She bodily lifted him out of the velvet lining, pillow and all. “You’re not haunting rich people’s attics, Danny. We talked about this.”

Jason stepped forward instantly. “Hold on. You can’t just—”

Jazz leveled him with a flat look. “You his keeper?”

Jason hesitated. “…Kinda?”

“Cool,” Jazz said, utterly unimpressed. “He still goes home.” She dragged Danny toward the stairs while he mumbled sleepily into her shoulder.

“Betrayal,” he whispered at Jason.

Jason’s jaw dropped. “What—hey—no, I didn’t—!”

Jazz ignored them both, maneuvering coffin and boy with practiced ease. She muttered under her breath the whole way down: “One week. You couldn't last one week without me. Unbelievable.”

The Waynes trailed behind in stunned silence as Jazz carried both Danny and his entire casket right out the front door.

Bruce finally managed, “Who are you?”

Jazz gave him a look like he’d just asked if water was wet. “I’m Jazz. And I’m the only reason you’re not gonna end up with a permanent dead kid in your attic. Don’t thank me.”

Then she shoved the coffin into the back of her beat-up car, dumped Danny on top of it like excess luggage, and drove off.

The Batfamily just stood there in the doorway, processing.

Jason finally muttered, “…I feel robbed.”