Headcanon for Danny is where he gets summoned by the Justice League to earn the trust, achieve peace, and form an alliance between the world of the living and dead, in the name of the greater good.
they were perplexed when they weren’t met by the sight of the high king Pariah Dark standing in between the ritual circle (they haven’t updated their scrolls yet, don’t mind them)
Instead, there stood a young ghost who called himself Phantom and greeted them happily with a few jokes here and there, which made sense for everyone present because jesters were known to be the ones to send dire news to the king safely without getting their heads cut off from their lower bodies.
The Justice League Dark took a big sigh of relief (Constantine), thinking they were somehow blessed to skip meeting the high king, so relieved in fact that he forgot that the summoning spell was meant to be for the high king and high king only.
Phantom just smiled innocently through the whole ordeal, doing his best to avoid looking suspicious and breaking character as the jester of the Infinity Realms. Can you really blame him for wanting a bit of fun? He was so… tired! of the endless paperwork the Observants kept dumping on him.
Everyone knows Tim Drake has a horrible sleep schedule. The man has been caught taking a 2 minute Power Nap in the weirdest of places for years. It had become tradition in Gotham to post pics of Tim sleeping with the hashtag ‘Wayne come get ur kid’ for several years now. After an incident where some collage student joking posted a pic of Tim sleeping while standing up in line at a coffee shop, only for Bruce Wayne to actually show up 5 minutes later to take him home.
This has become so common that Bruce has an alert on his phone for whenever the hashtag is used so he can go get Tim to bed or get someone else to do it if he can’t.
Because of this he doesn’t question it when the alert goes off, even tho he knows Tim isn’t in town currently. Doesn’t even really think about it until he gets to the random coffee shop and wakes up the boy who is sleeping face down on a corner table.
The boy looks up and Bruce just stares at the guy who is very much not Tim before saying “ur not my kid”
This happens serval more times with various members of the Wayne family.
Danny stopped thinking it was funny awhile ago and Tim kinda wants to meet the guy that every other member of his family has meet. Even if it’s only to trade good napping spots
Bruce didn’t recognize the voice, but it was young and close, so he turns. It turns out to be a teen, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and he’s jogging right up to him and Damian.
They had come to the festival as a father and son outing (encouraged by Dick) pretty far from Gotham as a bonding experience. He didn’t think anything crazy would happen in Pennsylvania, but he’s found he can be wrong about a lot of things.
When he turns, the boy doesn’t look confused at all. The teen stops in front of the two of them, Damian not bothering to hide his scowl at the boy.
“Geez, I turn around for a second and you disappear. Now who’s the ghost, huh?” The teen snarks.
Bruce blinks, but before he can say anything the boy’s attention is on Damian.
“You okay? Got separated from your people?”
“My father is right here, you idiot.”
“Damian,” he scolds.
The boy blinks in confusion before looking back up at Bruce with searching eyes. It takes him a lot longer than is normal before the teen blinks in surprise.
“Oh, yeah, you’re not my dad.”
Bruce gives an awkward smile while keeping an eye out for a man looking for a child.
“Sorry about that. You look just like my dad, like you could be twins.”
“Is that right?”
“Except he would never wear a turtleneck and he might be a little taller.”
Bruce blinks down in surprise.
“What’s wrong with turtlenecks?”
All the teen does is raise an eyebrow in silent judgement.
“Since you know this is my father and not yours, should you not be looking for him?” Damian asks in an annoyed tone.
“Oh, that’s easy,” he shrugs off with a cheeky grin that clearly says ‘watch this’. He turns toward the crowd and sucks in a deep breath before shouting at the top of his lungs, “GHOST!!”
Several people around them back away with appalled expressions that the boy doesn’t pay any attention to. A commotion is heard just to their left and suddenly there is a large man breaking through the crowd.
“Where?!”
“Dad!”
The man goes from ready to brawl to delight in two seconds flat like a golden retriever.
We’ve all seen Danny getting mistaken for a bat. But what about a bat being mistaken for a Fenton.
When Danny took responsibility for Dan the first thing they did was get him a human form that wasn’t his corpse. Between vlad, clockwork, and his parents they managed to get him a new body that had him looking more alive than ever.
He was a bit tanner than expected, but they figured that came from Danny’s ghostly side.
When it came time for Danny to go to Gotham for school, he refused to leave Dan behind. Instead, using the funds he got from the ghost kings treasury and child support from Vlad, Danny got them a studio apartment close to campus.
His parents outfitted the apartment with all the latest security, of course.
Everything was going great, all expect for one thing…
People in amity park accepted Dan and adapted almost immediately, having gotten used to the many quirks of ghosts long ago. Gotham….was a bit less understanding.
Luckily for him, unlucky for the rest of Gotham, the police there were incredibly corrupt and easy to bribe anytime he had to bail Dan out or, in the case of that one Karen that decided to give Dan shit for painting his nails, bail himself out of any trouble they came across.
Danny did his best to spend plenty of time with Dan, even when he was exhausted, he refused to ignore his little brother.
So after going through hell during finals week, Danny decided to take Dan to the zoo. Danny did his best to keep an eye on Dan, he really did! He had only sat down for a moment, just to rest his eyes, next thing he knew though he could hear someone yelling about violent kids.
Danny immediately jumped to his brother’s aid.
“I’m sorry,” Danny started as he interrupted the screeching woman. “Is there a problem here?”
Danny moves to Gotham for college and falls head over heels for the ecto contaminated beef cake in his English lit class.
He’s constantly tripping over himself anytime he’s around and wants nothing more than to grab his attention.
Now thanks to all Mr. Lancers hard work, Danny’s actually pretty good at English, but thanks to a certain walking distraction he starts to fall behind.
The first time he gets a D on a test he nearly sobs. Thankfully he has a merciful teacher that decided to help him out, so they asked Jason if he could tutor Danny so he could bring up his grades.
Unfortunately that doesn’t stop Danny from being an absolute mess, and an absolutely terrible flirt.
While discussing Jane Austin, Danny decides to just bite the bullet.
“So what would it take for someone to win your heart?” He asked with a dopey grin.
Jason snorted, “The Joker’s corpse.” He said, half paying attention before continuing on with the lesson.
Danny blinked, “uhhh, which one?”
Jason paused, “what do mean which one? There’s only one joker.” He looked at Danny like he was stupid.
Danny just shrugged, “well, yeah, now there is. But, like which corpse did you want? The first, 2nd, or 3rd joker?” He asked, giving Jason a dopey grin. “I can definitely get you the 2nd jokers corpse, the third is still active so he’d require some extra effort, but I may have a problem with the first Joker.”
Jason narrowed his eyes, “and why’s that?”
Danny shrugged, “oh Batman killed him years ago,” he paused, “well technically he didn’t land the final blow. He did however cause the concussion that caused him to stumble off a cliff, but he would have died from the internal bleeding anyway.” Danny explained, not understanding why Jason was so shocked but not at all mad about the attention.
“I’m pretty sure most of his body’s been eaten by the local wildlife at this point, but I can try to find his skull if you want?” Danny said, batting his eyelashes.
Jason just stared at him in shock. “How-how could you possibly know that!?!?”
Danny smiled, “oh, I have some friends that are constantly in and out of walker’s prison in the ghost zone. Apparently the guy won’t shut up about Batman and bragging about killing a Robin.” Danny frowned, “stupid move really, living or dead, people are rarely chill about child killers. Walkers had to put him in solitary just about every week.”
Jason huffed, “you expect me to believe Batman killed the Joker after he killed m-Robin and now he’s in ghost jail?”
“Well where did you think he would end up?” He rolled his eyes “He’s not gay enough for superhell.”
Jason just blinked. “Was that a Supernatural reference?” He smirked, making Danny blush.
“Uhh. Maybe?”
Jason smiled, “alright, prove to me that joker is dead and not only will I go on a date with you, I’ll introduce you to my family as my boyfriend.”
Danny turned bright red and beamed “Deal!”
An hour later Jason walked out of the weirdest prison he had ever seen with his new boyfriend and a new lease on life.
When Jason brought Danny home for dinner that night, they ended up eating without Bruce, as he was still frozen in shock by the front door after his son came in, introduced him to his new boyfriend as his dad and gave him a hug!
A real hug! A hug that lasted a full 30 seconds!
Danny wasn’t sure what was going on but he had a hot new boyfriend who was familiar with the ghost zone! He couldn’t wait to introduce him to clockwork!
Danny in college is forced to take a creative writing class. In this class, despite hating all of the assigned reading finds himself enjoying the writing prompts as he had the freedom to write “fiction” whenever he wants so long as it fits the assignment.
Spoiler: Danny isnt a creative person, but he does have his secret years as a teenage vigilante to pull from and all that time he spends in the fabric between realities, so he winds up doing ok writing from his experiences.
So… Danny’s teacher (who steadfastly doesn’t believe in ghosts or dimension travel) loves his “realistic” writing style in his “fantasy” settings and convinced him to write all his excepts into a novel and publish it. His peers who have read it during sharing/editing/review activities all agree (for the most part).
So when money gets a bit too tight, Danny gives in and writes a short book, where he is vague about how he got the powers (other than how much it hurt and that his friends were there for him), not expecting much when he publishes it online under a pseudonym.
It does much better than expected. So, in order to keep the funds coming (and not disappointing the people who have left him such glowing reviews) he continues to write and publish his autobiography… sold as fiction using silly names.
(Like Fenton/Phantom becoming Morvaith/Wraith. And Daniel/Danny -> Nethaniel/thanny)
——
In completely unrelated news, the cape community has gone wild over this too realistic book series that follows a teen hero/vigilante they have never heard of. Who really is the Wraith character? And where is this Amicable City?
Danny doesn’t have organs. Because of how many times he’s needed to heal himself his body just stopped recreating them since he didn’t need them anymore. Now he’s just full of ectoplasm.
This would be fine if he wasn’t in the most crime ridden city ever. Where it’s so easy to get stabbed, shot, or blown up.
Now one of the Gotham vigilantes is staring him down. He’s currently oozing green from a knife wound on his chest right where his heart would be.
So he does the sensible thing. He runs away.
Dick is freaking out. He just saw a kid get stabbed because he was too late to stop the mugger. The kid had stumbled then pulled the knife right out only for what looked like lazarus water to ooze out. Now he’s has to track down a kid that’s probably a new experiment.
Not because people lost interest — far from it. It was just that after two hours of getting walloped by angry Gothamites wielding everything from pool noodles to a frying pan labeled “Justice,” the Joker had finally passed out with a giddy smile on his face and a glittery bruise shaped like a Hello Kitty.
Danny had raked in nearly $6000, most of it in crumpled fives and change. He was packing up when the shadows behind him grew… heavier. Denser. Thicker.
He froze, feeling that chill crawl up his spine. Not ghost-sense. Something worse.
The alley grew quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the voice.
“Explain.”
Danny didn’t need to turn around. He already knew.
“…Hi, Batman,” he said casually, still stuffing the glitter pillowcase full of cash and half-used weapons. “Did you want a turn? I’ll waive the fee for you.”
The Bat didn’t reply. Not verbally, anyway. Instead, there was a soft fwip as the Dark Knight landed silently beside him, the cape rustling like doom incarnate.
Danny turned and met his gaze — well, the intimidating white slits where Batman’s eyes should be.
He held up his hands, glowing faintly green. “Look, it’s not what it looks like.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed. “You tied up the Joker.”
“Yep.”
“You charged citizens to physically assault him.”
“Correct.”
“And then Red Hood participated.”
“That one surprised me, honestly. I thought for sure he would have taken the chance to Kill him.”
Batman was silent again. He stared past Danny at the Joker — still unconscious, now drooling on his own shoulder, someone’s lipstick scrawled across his forehead: I DESERVE THIS.
“I didn’t kill him,” Danny offered helpfully.
“That’s the bare minimum,” Batman growled.
Danny scratched the back of his neck. “I mean… look, I needed cash, Gotham hates this guy, and nobody died. Probably the safest Joker encounter this city’s had in years.”
“You committed extortion.”
“No, no. Voluntary donation in exchange for therapeutic expression.”
“You used a known criminal as a punching bag.”
Danny smiled brightly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Batman took a step forward. Danny didn’t flinch, but he did shift a little, ready to go intangible if things got too batty.
Then Batman looked down at the Joker, sighed through his nose, and muttered, “He’s going to wake up and think this was a dream.”
“Nightmare,” Danny corrected.
Another pause.
“…You’re not from here.”
“Depends. Are you going to arrest me?”
Batman just stared at him.
Danny gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m Danny. Just… a kid, okay? And before you growl at me again — I know vigilante justice is your thing, but I’m broke, hungry, and honestly? I don’t think this city minds a little comedy revenge. I kept it clean. Mostly.”
Batman tilted his head. “You restrained the Joker without lethal force. Neutralized him. You kept civilians from real danger. You improvised… uniquely.”
Danny blinked. “Was that almost a compliment?”
“No.”
“Sounded like one.”
Batman’s gaze flicked to Danny’s hands, to the lingering green aura, to his faintly glowing eyes. “Metahuman?”
“…Sort of.”
Another long silence.
Batman finally exhaled and tapped something on his gauntlet. “Clean-up crew is en route. Leave the Joker. Take your money. Get out of Gotham.”
Danny raised an eyebrow. “You’re letting me go?”
“I’m giving you one chance. You seem like you want to help people. Next time, find a better way.”
Danny looked down at the still-giggling Joker, then at the pillowcase full of cash.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m keeping the glitter pillow.”
Batman said nothing. But Danny swore — swore — the Bat’s cape twitched just slightly in what might have been a suppressed chuckle.
A moment later, the shadows swallowed Batman whole, and he was gone.
Danny stood there, blinking at the spot where he’d been.
“Well,” he muttered, slinging the glitter pillowcase over his shoulder, “that could’ve gone way worse.”
As he turned to leave, he passed a cop approaching the alley, who glanced at Joker and muttered, “What the hell…?”
Danny just gave a friendly wave. “One-day special. Sorry you missed it.”
Then he vanished into the Gotham dusk, already planning his next “fundraiser.”
It had been a rough couple of weeks for Danny Fenton.
Gotham was not the friendliest place for a broke, half-ghost teen. Metropolis had Superman. Central City had The Flash. Gotham had… shadows and crime and a suspicious smell of despair baked into every brick wall. Danny had drifted here after some close calls with ghost hunters and his parents’ trial dragging into absurd territory. He figured Gotham’s chaos might be enough to help him stay hidden. But what he hadn’t figured was how fast money dried up when you didn’t have an ID, a home, or even a working toothbrush.
So here he was, half-starved, trying to figure out how to make enough cash to survive the week without attracting the attention of either Batman or, worse, one of Gotham’s less-restrained vigilantes. He needed something fast, something eye-catching, and maybe just a little insane.
Luckily, Gotham thrived on insane.
He was trudging along an alley near Crime Alley — fittingly enough — when he heard laughter. Not the fun kind. The cold, wheezing, “somebody’s about to be horribly maimed” kind. Rounding a dumpster, Danny froze.
The Joker stood there, wiping a bloody crowbar on a fancy purple coat, whistling cheerily as a few unfortunate henchmen moaned in pain on the ground behind him.
Joker blinked, seeing Danny. “Huh. You don’t look like one of mine. Or Batsy’s. What are you, street meat?”
Danny’s ghost core surged. Not because he was scared. He was furious. He remembered Gotham news reports, saw what the Joker did to kids, families, entire neighborhoods. And here the guy was, strolling around like he owned the block.
Danny’s lips slowly curled into a smile.
About fifteen minutes later, people passing by the alley would stop, turn around, and double back, squinting in disbelief at the sign made from cardboard and duct tape:
“GET YOUR HIT IN ON THE JOKER!”
One Day Only! $5 Per Swing! Bats or Bars or Slippers Provided! No Questions Asked. No Refunds.
The Joker was hanging from the wall — literally. Tied up with a mix of ectoplasm, rope, and some glittery shoelaces Danny had picked up from a donation bin. His crowbar was now neatly propped on a folding table next to a wiffle bat, a nerf gun, a glitter-filled pillowcase, and a set of squeaky rubber chickens. His eyes swirled dizzily, and every few seconds he giggled, hiccuped, and muttered, “Best… carnival… ever…”
Danny, in a stolen hoodie and phantom-form halfway active to keep himself invisible to passing cops, called out to a growing line of locals.
“Step right up, folks! Has your family ever been terrorized by Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime? Did he blow up your apartment building? Poison your pet goldfish? Steal your car and leave it parked on top of a giraffe? Well, today is your lucky day!”
He slapped the sign cheerfully. “Five bucks per hit! Pick your weapon! Vent your soul! And maybe, just maybe, you’ll sleep a little better tonight!”
People laughed. People paid. People lined up.
A tired nurse smacked Joker with a flip-flop while muttering about missed sleep. A barista pelted him with soggy muffins. A guy in a ratty Penguin mascot suit delivered a dramatic monologue before dunking a pie in Joker’s face.
Danny made bank.
Somewhere around hit number forty-two, Red Hood dropped down from a rooftop, helmet gleaming. He stood, arms crossed, watching a ten-year-old repeatedly boop Joker on the nose with a nerf bat.
“You charging money for this?” Red Hood asked.
Danny grinned. “Five bucks. First hit’s free if you were personally murdered by the guy.”
Red Hood stared.
Then he pulled out a twenty, peeled off the cash, and grabbed the glitter pillowcase.
“Make change,” he muttered before stalking toward the Joker.
Danny leaned back against the wall, counting his earnings, the Joker’s giggles echoing behind him as more people joined the queue. A few bats flew overhead. Somewhere, Batman probably facepalmed.
But Danny?
Danny grinned wider.
In Gotham, pain was currency. And today, Danny Fenton was very rich.
The gala was in full swing at Wayne Manor, glittering with Gotham’s elite. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the soft strains of a classical quartet played in the background. Danny Fenton, in an ill-fitting tux borrowed from someone much taller, leaned against a column with a flute of something bubbly he wasn’t entirely sure was non-alcoholic.
From his vantage point, he had the perfect view of his sister, Jazz, and—unfortunately—Dick Grayson trying, and failing, to flirt with her.
“You’re into psychology? That’s wild, I’m kind of a master of body language.” Dick gave a dazzling grin, eyebrows bouncing like he was in a toothpaste commercial.
Jazz blinked at him, utterly unimpressed. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you read Freud for the articles?”
Danny winced from across the room. “Oof,” he muttered, sipping whatever this was. “She’s not even pulling punches tonight.”
Beside him, Tim Drake appeared with a glass of water and a raised eyebrow. “How long’s this been going on?”
“Grayson’s been at it for fifteen minutes,” Danny said. “It’s like watching a golden retriever try to seduce a cat. Painful, but kind of impressive in its optimism.”
Dick tried another move, casually flexing as he reached for a canapé. Jazz didn’t even blink.
Danny snorted. “Dude, give it up,” he called out as Dick stepped back for a breath. “She likes older guys.”
Dick turned and pouted. “I am older than her!”
Danny just pointed across the ballroom. “Not old enough.”
There, Jazz was zeroing in on Bruce Wayne himself—billionaire, philanthropist, and, as far as Jazz was concerned, “a prime specimen of rugged fatherhood.”
“She thinks Bruce Wayne is a total DILF,” Danny added, sipping again, eyes never leaving the trainwreck in motion.
Dick stared, mouth slightly open, watching as Jazz approached Bruce with the confidence of a woman who had studied Freud and Jung and decided to psychologically profile this man in real time.
“Oh my god,” Dick whispered. “She’s doing the eyebrow thing.”
“She’s doing the eyebrow thing,” Danny confirmed solemnly. “It’s over. May Bruce rest in peace.”
From across the room, Jazz offered Bruce a dazzling smile and said something that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward—the Wayne smirk, rare and powerful.
Tim blinked. “He’s smirking. She got the smirk. That’s—kind of terrifying.”
“She once convinced the FBI that our ghost dog was a federal asset,” Danny said. “This is light work for her.”
Meanwhile, Dick looked betrayed. “He’s like a thousand years older than her!”
Danny clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Dick, buddy. You’re a gymnast. Bruce is a whole genre.”
Tim coughed, trying not to laugh. “Should we… do something?”
Danny shrugged. “Nah. Let her cook.”
And across the ballroom, Jazz leaned in slightly closer, her smile brilliant, and Bruce Wayne—Batman, scourge of Gotham’s underworld—looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed, flattered, or afraid.
Danny smirked. This gala was way more fun than he thought it’d be.
Gotham was a city used to chaos—supervillains, vigilantes, the occasional alien invasion. But for one day a year, fear reigned over even the most hardened criminals. That day was April 15th—Tax Day.
And there was one man who became a model citizen exactly once a year: The Joker.
“Oh, you can gas the mayor, blow up the zoo, or replace the city’s water supply with lime gelatin,” the Joker once told Harley, lovingly licking a stamp. “But you do not mess with the Internal Revenue Service.”
Danny Fenton didn’t get it.
“Why is everyone so freaked out about taxes?” he asked, lazily floating upside-down in the Batcave, sipping a soda. “It’s not like they’re gonna send hitmen after you or something.”
Jason, perched on the edge of the Batcomputer, stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “They literally will, Danny. That’s exactly what they do.”
Bruce, arms crossed and trying to make sense of Danny’s W-2s—which were somehow written on ectoplasm paper thank you ghost writer and referenced “liminal hazard bonuses”—grunted. “Everyone pays taxes. Everyone.”
Danny shrugged. “Not me.”
Tim looked up from his tablet, eyebrows slowly rising. “What do you mean, not you?”
“I mean,” Danny said, setting his soda down with a slight fizz of anti-gravity, “the Fentons don’t pay taxes.”
“…You’re evading federal law?” Damian asked flatly, already reaching for the Bat-phone. “Father, allow me to call the IRS.”
“No no no,” Danny said, raising his hands. “We’re not allowed to pay taxes.”
Silence.
“What.”
It took less than twenty minutes for Oracle to hack the federal database and confirm the impossible.
The Fenton family has not paid a single tax in six generations.
There was a note on their file. A glowing, pulsing, red note—signed and sealed by multiple high-ranking officials and stamped with a Department of Defense warning tag. It read:
FENTON EXCEPTION ACT - CLASSIFIED DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT CONTACT. DO NOT AUDIT. THEY ARE TO BE LEFT ALONE. [Subnote: In the event of unsolicited contact, consider immediate relocation and witness protection.]
“Why?” Dick finally asked, trying not to sound hysterical. “Why in the actual haunted tax-code hell are they exempt?”
“I dunno,” Danny said. “Mom said something about Great-Grandpa Jack accidentally collapsing a dimension when he filed with the wrong form. The IRS has left us alone ever since.”
“What form?” Bruce demanded, looking more distressed than he had when Gotham was overrun by Fear Toxin.
Danny scratched his head. “I think it was called… uh… Form 66-Ectoplasm-B? Or maybe that was the one that summoned a wraith accountant? Oh, wait—that was Grandma Fenton…”
Meanwhile…
At an undisclosed IRS location deep under D.C., in a steel bunker reinforced with both magic and nuclear shielding, a red light began to blink.
The agents in the room froze.
“Is that…?” one whispered.
“Fenton ping. But it’s passive. Someone looked them up.”
The lead agent, an old man with a cybernetic eye and an exorcism tattoo burned into his hand, swore under his breath and lit a cigar with trembling fingers.
“God help them. Someone in Gotham must’ve tripped the file.”
Back in Gotham…
The Joker, halfway through filling out his Schedule C, saw the alert pop up on his monitor: Fenton Account Flagged – Gotham Search. He dropped his pen.
“No… No no no no no.”
He reached for his emergency bag: clown nose, fake passport, and a one-way ticket to Fiji.
“Harley!” he screeched. “Pack the hyenas—we’re going off-grid! The Fentons have surfaced!”
That night, Batman received an anonymous, trembling message from the IRS:
“Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell your newest ward to never attempt to file a tax return. We still haven’t recovered from the last time. The Department of Dimensional Finance sends its regards.”
Bruce turned to Danny. “What did your family do?”
Danny shrugged. “I mean, one of our fridge magnets is a minor god of debt collection, so maybe that’s part of it?”
Bruce just groaned and added “Fenton Family Finances” to the Batcomputer’s Top Threats—right between “Joker’s Laughing Gas Variants” and “Demon-Summoning TikTok Teens.”
And so, the truth became legend in Gotham:
There are two things certain in life—Death and Taxes.
Danny didn’t know what he expected when he agreed to visit Gotham.
Maybe a stiff “thank you” from Alfred and a polite “leave now” from Batman. Maybe a few awkward hours in some dusty corner of the mansion while Alfred reunited with the haunted circus act he called a family.
What he didn’t expect was to be thrown into the chaos like a reluctant new cast member in a sitcom called “My Dad Is Batman And All My Brothers Are Emotionally Compromised Weapons.”
—
Night 1.
“Are you kidding me?!” Jason Todd snarled from the hallway. “You brought in a glowy zombie?!”
“Ghost,” Danny corrected, sticking his head out of his temporary room. “I’m a ghost.”
Jason blinked at him, deadpan. “Oh good. That makes it better.”
“You’re technically dead too, aren’t you?” Danny asked, eyebrow raised.
Jason scowled harder. “Yeah, but I don’t glow about it.”
Before Danny could reply, Dick Grayson’s voice called cheerfully from downstairs, “Be nice, Jason! He’s glowing with personality!”
Jason looked like he wanted to throw something. Preferably a sibling.
Danny leaned back into his room. “Can’t believe I got peer-pressured into ghost-adjacent bonding time with Gotham’s most emotionally repressed.”
“You haven’t met Tim yet,” came a dry voice from his window.
Danny spun around—and found a bleary-eyed young man perched in the actual window frame, sipping coffee like it was a life force.
“Are you seriously caffeine-bonded to the building?” Danny asked.
Tim shrugged. “It’s a symbiotic relationship. I keep the city from falling apart. The coffee keeps me from falling apart. We both have a healthy dependency.”
“Uh-huh.”
Tim took another sip and nodded at him. “You’re the ghost king?”
“Unfortunately.”
Tim looked him over. “Huh. You don’t have the ‘haunting screams of ten thousand souls’ vibe I was expecting. Just… low-level death aura. Maybe like a cryptid lifeguard.”
“…Thanks?”
“You’ll fit in. Try not to explode.”
He was gone before Danny could ask how long he’d been clinging to the side of the house.
—
Night 3.
Danny was starting to settle. Kind of. Maybe. A little.
Alfred had immediately resumed his domestic reign of terror, ghost or not. Danny had nearly passed out from how good the guy’s ghost-charged shepherd’s pie was. Jason grudgingly tolerated him. Damian still threatened him every morning, but with less knife waving than usual.
Bruce, meanwhile, remained… Bruce.
Their conversations were short. Measured. Evaluative.
“You died young,” Bruce said once, out of nowhere, during breakfast.
Danny, mid-sip of his black-as-sin coffee, didn’t flinch. “Didn’t have much of a choice. Lab explosion. Ghost powers. Long story.”
Bruce hummed. “You kept your sense of humor.”
“I have to. Or I’ll start screaming.”
“Good. You’ll last longer.”
Danny wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a threat. He decided to treat it as both.
—
Night 5.
A rift opened in the sky.
It was a Tuesday.
A banshee warlord tried to drag Alfred back to the Realms.
She got dropkicked by Damian, stunned by Tim, shot at by Jason, emotionally manipulated by Dick, and glared at by Bruce until she just evaporated out of embarrassment.
Danny blinked at the carnage. “So… this is normal?”
Alfred adjusted his cufflinks. “It is Tuesday, sir.”
—
Night 8.
Danny floated over the Wayne Manor roof, staring at the stars.
Alfred appeared beside him, silent for a moment. Just the two of them in the quiet, watching the sky ripple faintly where realms brushed together.
“You’re staying,” Alfred said softly, not a question.
Danny sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You do,” Alfred replied.
Danny looked down at the windows of the manor. Warm lights. Soft shadows of bickering brothers. The sound of Bruce pacing in the study. Damian arguing with the cat. Jason yelling at a toaster.
He did know.
“I missed being alive,” he whispered. “I missed… being part of something.”
“And now?” Alfred asked.
Danny gave a faint smile. “Now I’m part of a Bat-infested chaos cult with trust issues and a grappling hook addiction.”
Alfred smiled back. “Welcome home, Master Daniel.”
Danny let the crown flicker above his head for just a moment before it vanished again.
Danny grumbled something indistinct and vaguely profane under his breath as Alfred began to tidy the throne room like it was a dusty old study in Wayne Manor and not a floating obsidian palace suspended in an interdimensional rift of howling souls.
“You’re not supposed to clean the Ghost Zone,” Danny muttered, watching as Alfred adjusted the ancient tattered banners of conquest and brushed off the eerie green fungus growing on the bone chandelier. “It’s supposed to be creepy. Messy. A little existentially horrifying.”
“I find existential horror is best experienced with a clean floor,” Alfred replied without missing a beat. “Besides, I’m rather certain this particular ‘fungus’ is sentient and trying to open a demonic credit account. I believe it bit me earlier.”
Sure enough, the fungus hissed and retreated as Alfred reached for it again with a lace-edged handkerchief. Danny watched the whole thing unfold with exhausted resignation.
“Okay. You win. We’ll visit,” Danny said, rubbing his temples. “Just a visit. Not staying. I’ll pop into Gotham, let you see your spooky murder kids, and then I’m coming back here to rot in peace like a proper undead king.”
Alfred straightened up, victorious but not smug. “Very wise, Your Highness.”
“Don’t call me that while we’re on Earth. Seriously. I will vaporize the next person who bows at me.”
“I’ll make sure the family is briefed,” Alfred promised.
—
Later… in Gotham.
Invisibility hadn’t helped.
Intangibility hadn’t helped.
Even phasing through three buildings, two taxis, and the entire ceiling of a high-security skyscraper hadn’t helped.
Because apparently, stealth meant nothing when a small, violent, bo staff-wielding Robin could sense Danny like a migraine wrapped in a bad day.
The kid had tackled him out of the air the second he materialized in the Batcave.
“You’re leaking death,” Damian Wayne growled, nose wrinkling. “Why do you smell like Lazarus Pit, death cookies, and… old tea?”
“That last one’s you, actually,” Danny wheezed from where his spine had been introduced to the reinforced concrete floor.
Damian blinked, then turned sharply. “Pennyworth?!”
“Master Damian,” Alfred said with all the warmth of sunrise. “I’m home.”
The shift was immediate. The demon-child menace launched off Danny and rocketed across the room to grab Alfred’s arms like he thought the old ghost might vanish if he blinked. He didn’t even yell at him, just clung there for a long, stunned moment.
Danny floated upright, dusting himself off. “…Ow.”
He looked up—and froze.
Because standing at the top of the stairs, cape draped in perfect dramatic flair, was Batman.
Bruce Wayne. The man. The myth. The terrifying bat-dad legend himself. Staring at Danny like he was an untagged biohazard in the middle of a secured crime lab.
Danny swallowed. “Hi.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not human.”
“Rude,” Danny said automatically, then blinked. “Wait, no, actually—fair. Still rude.”
Alfred gently cleared his throat. “Master Bruce, allow me to formally introduce Daniel Fenton. Also known as Phantom, High King of the Infinite Realms, Defender of the Dead, and the reason I am still able to maintain cohesion on this side of the veil.”
Bruce’s eyebrows inched higher. “You’re a ghost.”
“Yep.”
“Alfred is a ghost.”
Danny tilted his head. “Technically.”
“You’re keeping him stable with your ectoplasm.”
“Also true.”
“You’re being hunted by infernal warlords from seven dimensions over.”
Danny gave a finger gun. “Only on Thursdays.”
Bruce blinked. “…You’ll fit right in.”
Danny stared. “What?”
“Room’s down the hall. You’ll share a floor with Jason.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to—wait who’s Jason?”
“You’ll find out,” Alfred said cheerfully.
Damian crossed his arms. “If he eats my Pop-Tarts I will destroy him.”
“Why is everyone like this?” Danny whispered, as Alfred rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder and began to guide him forward.
The Bat Family was weird. Gotham was weird. This entire thing was spiraling fast.
And somehow, Danny was starting to think maybe—just maybe—this was the best haunting he’d ever had.
Being Ghost King sounded a lot cooler than it actually was.
Danny had thought once he took the crown, things would get quieter. The endless invasions, the constant battling of rouge specters, all that nonsense? He figured it would slow down if he just sat on the throne and ruled like a responsible afterlife adult. Boy, was he wrong. The throne was cold, the crown itched, and there were forms. So. Many. Forms.
And Alfred Pennyworth would not shut up.
The ghost in question hovered nearby with an air of dignified disapproval, arms crossed behind his back, ectoplasm shimmering like mist over crisp dress attire. Somehow the man had managed to materialize into the Ghost Zone fully pressed and polished—Danny wasn’t even mad. Just… exhausted.
“Your Highness,” Alfred intoned, for the fourth time that hour, “you truly must consider returning to the human world. Fresh air, natural light, a proper diet, and human contact—”
“Alfred,” Danny groaned, face-down on his floating throne, his crown hanging loosely off one spectral ear. “I literally can’t eat human food anymore. I am fresh air. And do you see all this glowing fog stuff? It’s basically a ghost humidifier. I’m moisturized constantly.”
Alfred didn’t blink. Danny wasn’t even sure if ghost-Alfred could blink.
“Nevertheless,” the butler said patiently, “you are isolated. Detached from the very world you protected. My offer stands—there are people in the living realm who would gladly welcome you. Who would understand you. And… I would prefer to return home as well.”
There it was. The real reason.
Danny sat up, sighing. “You know you can’t go back without me. You’re tethered here now. Even if you found a way back, you’d need ectoplasm to stay stable, and no offense, but the average Gothamite isn’t exactly stocked on glowing green goo.”
Alfred gave a slight incline of his head. “Indeed. I admit my motivations are not entirely selfless. But I also believe you belong there. With people. Not buried beneath bureaucratic sludge in a realm built on half-remembered regrets.”
Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, most ghosts beg me to not send them back. They’re all, ‘I lived, I died, I have no regrets except not haunting my ex.’ You? You’re the first ghost to come here and nag me into un-dying.”
Alfred gave him a thin smile. “I am a butler, sir. It is my sacred duty to improve the lives of my charges. Even if they are stubborn, dimensionally dislocated monarchs.”
Danny pointed accusingly. “You’re trying to adopt me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m simply trying to ensure your well-being. If I wished to adopt you, I’d insist you eat a proper breakfast, get eight hours of sleep, and wear less black.”
Danny narrowed his eyes. “You already do that.”
Alfred didn’t deny it.
The problem was—Danny liked Alfred. The guy was sharp, unshakable, and reminded him painfully of Jazz on her best “mom mode” days. He wasn’t pushy, not really. But he was there. Always. Offering advice. Cleaning Danny’s ectoplasm-splattered boots. Refusing to let the skeletal Zone Guards intimidate him. Setting ghost-traps not to capture but to reorganize the wailing hallways.
The Ghost Zone had never run so smoothly.
Still, Danny had his suspicions. “Who exactly are these ‘people’ you want me to meet, Alfred?”
Alfred hesitated. Which meant it wasn’t just “some nice people.”
“…The Wayne family,” Alfred finally admitted. “My family. And I daresay they would be quite interested in meeting a young man with your… unique circumstances.”
Danny blinked. “Wait. You mean the Waynes? Like Bruce Wayne? Billionaire Bruce Wayne?”
“Yes. Though I doubt he’d care much about the money in this case. You see, he’s… something of a night owl. And quite familiar with things that go bump in the night.”
Danny’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God, you’re Batman’s butler.”
“I was,” Alfred said gently. “And I think my family could become yours.”
Danny stared at him.
Ghost King. Champion of the Realms. Master of Shadows. He had survived being turned inside-out by spectral entropy, negotiated peace with the Fright Knight, and had once fought an army of ghost bees.
And now the ghost of Batman’s butler was trying to guilt-trip him into letting himself be adopted.
“…Fine,” Danny muttered. “I’ll think about it.”
Alfred’s eyes twinkled. “Very good, Your Majesty. Shall I begin packing your cloak?”
“I didn’t say yes!” Danny shouted as Alfred turned and started folding it with expert efficiency.
“But you will,” Alfred said serenely. “Eventually. I’m very patient.”
Bruce Wayne had been in his fair share of unexpected encounters — rogue attacks, sudden board meetings, impromptu galas, and Alfred’s lectures about nutrition — but this might have been a first.
It was a quiet Saturday morning in Gotham, as quiet as Gotham could ever get, and Bruce was enjoying a rare day out with his sons. Damian was a few paces ahead, pretending not to be interested in the bookstore they were headed to. Dick was trying to convince Jason that black coffee didn’t count as “breakfast,” and Tim… well, Tim was nursing his fourth coffee of the morning and looked like he hadn’t slept in at least thirty-six hours.
They were halfway across campus — Gotham University — when a young man approached.
Messy black hair. Tired blue eyes that still managed to hold a spark of mischief. Hoodie slightly frayed at the cuffs, jeans a little too worn to be new. He looked like any other college student trying to survive midterms and cafeteria food.
Except most college students didn’t walk straight up to Bruce Wayne with the confidence of someone who’d just decided to gamble with fate.
“Hey, you’re Bruce Wayne, right?”
Bruce blinked. “Yes,” he said slowly, glancing at the boys, who were all watching with varying degrees of suspicion. “And these are my kids. What is your name?”
The young man grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Danny. So, here’s my situation.”
Bruce tensed — half-expecting a pitch, a scam, or perhaps an elaborate attempt at publicity. But the boy continued, perfectly casual.
“I’m a broke college student, and I can’t afford to both feed myself and pay for my books this month. Can I get $200 off of you?”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Feel free to say no,” Danny added quickly, raising his hands. “I just figured — what’s the harm in asking, right?”
Jason actually barked out a laugh. Dick’s jaw went slack. Damian muttered something under his breath about “audacity unbecoming of a commoner.”
But Bruce… Bruce was amused. The kid’s tone wasn’t entitled. Just honest. There was no manipulation in his words — just quiet desperation wrapped in a sort of brave awkwardness that made Bruce feel, for a fleeting moment, like he was looking at a mirror from a long time ago.
Without saying a word, Bruce reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and handed over every bill inside — a solid few hundred, at least.
Danny blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
Bruce shrugged. “You were polite. And honest. That’s worth something.”
Danny quickly pocketed the cash, not even bothering to count it. “Counting money in front of the guy who gave it to you is rude,” he said matter-of-factly, as if quoting some universal rule.
He grinned, offered a small wave, and walked off down the street, the morning sun catching faint traces of exhaustion under his eyes — and something else, something… off. For a moment, Bruce thought he saw a faint shimmer, like heat distortion, around the boy’s outline.
And then he was gone.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Did… did that just happen?” Dick asked finally.
Jason started laughing again. “That kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
Damian scowled. “Father, you cannot just hand money to random strangers on the street.”
“Technically,” Tim murmured, sipping his coffee, “he’s not a random stranger anymore. His name’s Danny.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“What?” Tim shrugged, watching Danny disappear into the crowd, that faint smirk still on his lips. “He was kind of cute.”
Jason choked on his laughter, Dick burst out into delighted cackles, and even Bruce — for all his practiced stoicism — had to fight back the smallest, faintest smile.
Because honestly? Danny Fenton might’ve been the boldest person Bruce had met all week.
