Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Okay. One... two... three!”  

Danny grunts as he lifts Hazel Lou up and above his shoulders, his arms shaking slightly with the strain to keep her steady as her hands leave his shoulders and she quickly twists around – foot digging into his palms – to latch onto the windowsill.  

He hears more than sees the sound of crunching glass, and slams his eyes shut as little pebble-sized shards fall from above and onto the ground. “Keep me steady!” Hazel Lou snaps at him, hushed as can be like wind through trees, her heels digging into his feet as he shifts them onto his shoulders, “I’ve nearly got it!” 

"I’m trying,” he hisses back, his voice a permanent rasp, feeling some of the glass land in his hair and keeping his eyes closed, “hurry up, before I drop you.” He says it like a threat. 

They’re somewhere east of Crime Alley, checking out one of the old warehouse buildings because Hazel Lou swore she heard it was worth looking around. Got busted recently by the cops for being a tent city, so she says, probably worth looking around since a lot of people had to leave their things behind. 

Danny didn’t think it was that good of an idea – whether it was true or not, a lot of people will probably want their stuff back, so if they see him and Hazel Lou taking it, they’re not gonna react well. And if it wasn’t true, then they just wasted their time for nothing.  

AJ and Ida Mae, thank god, agreed with him. But Hazel Lou turned pink in the face and said she was gonna check it out with or without them. So here Danny is, making sure Hazel Lou doesn’t get herself killed by an angry crackhead, or worse, kidnapped by a bunch of sex pests or—or traffickers, or any one of Gotham’s colorful cast and crew hiding out in its underbelly.  

The door was locked when they arrived, believe it or not. So they went around and found a broken window to break even more.  

“There!” Hazel Lou cries, triumphant like a trumpet, “I got it!” 

“Shh!” Danny bangs the side of his fist against her ankle in reproach – not hard enough to knock her down, but enough to make her feel it. It’s only because he quickly tugs it down again that she doesn’t try to hop away while still atop his shoulders. 

Hazel Lou hisses at him, digs her other foot into his shoulder as revenge, and Danny does actually consider dropping her for a moment. He digs his nails into her ankle instead for a brief pinch. “That hurt, Jack!”  

“That’s the point!” He retorts, eyes still closed and glass still in his hair. It’s making him nervous, actually, he can’t see a thing and Hazel Lou’s still learning how to mind her peripherals. “Go! ‘Fore someone sees us!”

Hazel Lou groans, but a moment later he hears the muffled sound of a pipe clanging to the ground through a brick wall, and more quiet glass crunching as the weight begins to lift off him. Hazel Lou slips from his fingers and climbs through the window.  

The moment she’s out of his grasp, Danny shakes his head like a dog drying off, and feels some of the glass fly out of his hair. Following up, he opens his eyes and scrubs his fingers through his curls. He’ll phase anything out that gets stuck.  

There’s a quiet thud through the wall, and Hazel Lou quietly calls out: “Okay! I’m in, you’re good.”  

“Alright.” Danny drops his hands and backs up, looking up and down the alleyway for stragglers or witnesses. There’s no one there, just as he figured, but it never hurts to be vigilant.  

Just for good measure, and mostly out of habit, he looks up too. Gotham doesn’t have ghosts, only monsters and men, but again – never hurts to check. Never know who might be lurking. Never know what might be lurking.  

All clear, perfect. Danny looks back at the window, backs up, and gives himself a running start. He could always just fly up – but this is far more fun. He jumps, digs his foot into the wall, and half-climb boosts himself up and latches onto the window. The scarring on his legs pull a little, but it’s easy enough to ignore.  

Grunting, Danny lifts and hoists himself over the side. Down on the ground and giving him space, he can faintly see Hazel Lou watching from the darkness. One knee up, digging into the frame, and then the other, and then he’s down with a thud and rolling. He pops up onto his feet.  

“Did’y grab a flashlight?” Hazel Lou whispers, hers already gripped in her hand. Danny nods – and then remembers, belated, that Hazel Lou can’t see it in this pitch black. He hums affirmatively, reaches into his Dad’s hoodie, and pulls one out. It's one of those small, travel-sized flashlights meant for camping. He filched it out from a Target in the shopping district a few weeks back. It’s small and red and clicks when Danny presses the button on the end to turn it on. 

“Remember: pointed at the ground,” he says quietly, watching Hazel Lou turn hers on and nearly blind him and the wall behind him with the beam. “Last thing we need is for someone to see us through the window and snitch.” The windows are dirty and grimy, like the world’s most disgusting natural blackout curtains; covered in substances that don’t have any real scientific name, but they’re not opaque enough to hide the bright beam of their flashlights. 

The last thing they need is for someone to see and call the cops on them, he doesn’t want to have to run from the police again.  

He really hates doing this with the others; it’s easier if Danny can go alone to check these things out. Can just go invisible and worry about himself; can’t do that with other people around. Makes everything harder. 

Hazel Lou scoffs at him, but keeps her flashlight pointed at the floor and peels away from his side, “You’re as bad as AJ,”  

"You’re just careless,” Danny shoots back, frowning and going the opposite direction. Which is a marvel considering her and Ida Mae and AJ all grew up in Gotham and knows its brutality and underbelly better than he does; he can’t wrap his head around her laissez-faireness.   

You’d think she was the outsider coming in stained, not him.  

Hazel Lou doesn’t deign him with a response. Clever girl. Instead, she just gets further away, and Danny can all but feel the eye roll she sends at his back. He rolls his eyes too and starts moving.  

Danny keeps himself crouched low and hunched, his flashlight down by his hip and the beam going no higher than that as he looks around. He hears Hazel Lou’s quiet footsteps – crunching occasionally when broken glass crushes under her feet, but at least they’re quiet – and they’re steadily growing further away from him.  

He looks around slowly, scanning the area for the things he’d usually expect from a bunch of squatters being removed abruptly. Forgotten, half-standing tents, broken glass, cardboard boxes for beds, clothes, the works.  

But... 

Danny frowns.  

There’s nothing... really here.   

Nothing that’s useful for them at least. There are tables around the room, dirty, stained, and the collapsable white ones people rent out or buy for parties when they need the extra space, and there are crates and boxes stacked atop each other and scattered haphazardly. It’s a bit like a maze, funnily enough.  

It kinda reminds him of those horror games Sam used to play, the comparison would be kinda funny on a normal day. Only stinging a little. But...  

Unease rolls in his lungs, clinging low and methane-thick. Danny breathes quietly, the sound trembles unhelpfully, flicking the light left and right and trying to find anything else they could take back with them.  

But there’s... just tables, and crates. A few folding chairs pushed out in a tripping way, and there’s some cardboard and glass. AJ will yell at them if all they come back with is cardboard though, it’s not like they’re running low on the stuff, and they definitely don’t need cardboard with glass in it.  

But nothing else. Nothing that would be useful for them.  

This doesn’t look like a busted tent city, Danny thinks, swallowing dryly. A sneaking suspicion creeps in from the back of his mind, wrapping vines down his spine and around his throat. He for Hazel Lou – and there, right across the room from him, he can faintly see her frowning from the backwash of the light.  

Danny straightens up slightly, “Lou-Lou,” he whisper-calls, his voice bouncing quietly off the walls. He shines the light at her eyes briefly to get her attention anyways. Just in case. Her hearing can be so selective at times.  

Success! Just before he drops the beam he manages to catch as Hazel Lou’s face scrunches up in irritation and her hand flies up to block the light, an annoyed cry snarling out of her throat. “What, Jack?”   

Hazel Lou shines her light right back at him spitefully, flash banging and successfully blinding him. Danny immediately squints, bringing his hand up to block the light this time himself. Shit—he forgot what he was going to say, uh... think quick! “Do you see anything?” 

“No,” the light disappears, Danny blinks and blinks and blinks to get the stars out his eyes, flashing black and white and seen despite the darkness, “d’you?”  

The unease thickens, Danny’s shoulders tighten up and he looks back at the tables and crates. What was he going to ask? “No,” Oh! He remembers, “When did you say this bust happened?”  

. 

. 

. 

Danny frowns, shines his light back at Hazel Lou – not in her eyes this time, but at her chest. At least, he tries, she’s halfway across the room and partially blocked off by a set of chairs and a crate stacked on top of a table. “Hazel Lou?”  

He stands on his tiptoes, trying to peer around the junk blocking the way, and—Hazel Lou isn’t looking at him, her thumbnail caught between both her teeth and her brows furrowed in that rabbit-chewing nervous way she gets when she just realized she made a mistake.  

Danny’s stomach swoops, and the space between his shoulders tightens up, coils: “Hazel Lou.”   

“I’m thinkin’, Jackson!”  

That’s not good! Danny’s chest bleeds rapidly cold, like someone’s popped a glowstick in his sternum and it was starting to brighten without being shaken. “There’s nothin’ to think about!” He hisses, “You said people were recently ousted from the building for squatting!” 

“No, I said I heard recently that a bunch of people were busted for squatting!”  

Danny makes—not quite a growl, but a snarling sound that tries to stay hushed and comes out a bit hissing-like; rasping. It hurts his throat. Unease sparks into fear, static filling up the back of his head that he tries to shove off, and he pivots on his heel and marches towards one of the crates.  

Glass crunches under his feet, and Danny sticks his flashlight between his teeth and drops into a crouch. Hooking his fingers under the latches, he flicks it open with a bang that makes him wince – Hazel Lou shushes him harshly, Danny hushes her back without thinking: “Shut up!”   

Please don’t tell me this is what I think it is, Danny pleads, being a touch more mindful of pulling the rings down. Pleaaase don’t tell me this is what I think it is.  

Because he’s not stupid. He’s not—he's not that stupid, at least, and he’s been living in Gotham long enough to know how this well-oiled beast runs. Knows what kind of black ichor it bleeds when nobody is looking, knows what it bleeds even when everybody’s looking.  

He’s got a collection of bullet shells he’s been collecting every time he stumbles across them while out and about. There’s no reason for it, they’re junk and worth nothing, but the casings are shiny and if the police haven’t picked them up then, they won’t ever. It gives him something to look forward to.  

His point is— his point is—   

Danny is not stupid. He is not smart, not like Jazz was, but he’s not stupid. Two plus two is four. Three minus one is two. Gotham’s not nice, and it doesn’t pretend to be, that’s what he likes about the city. And if you’re not rich, you’re poor. And if you’re poor, you’re either a criminal or you’re dead. What kind varies though.   

He feels along the sides of the chest for the seams, searching for a good spot to stick his nails between the cracks and open it. Your options are like classes in Gotham: you can be a murderer, or you can be a thief; you can be a scammer or a liar or a druggie, and more.  

Gotham gives you a lot of options when you’re poor: what kind of criminal are you? There’s a whole litter to choose from.  

Danny’s a thief. So’s AJ and Hazel Lou and Ida Mae. They’re all liars and thieves. Not murderers though. Not yet, in any case, and hopefully not ever.  

He – doesn't fling, but it’s a damn near thing with the way his arms are shaking, and his nerves are running hot, and cold, and sharp – opens the chest. Deadweight hopes in his collarbone.  

And then he slams it back down, the sound banging through the room like a gunshot. Hazel Lou yells, angry: “Jackson!”   

There are guns in there.  

Black and shiny and lethal.   

And real.   

“Shut up!” Danny snarls without thinking, yanking the flashlight out of his mouth as he shoots to his feet. He whirls around, gripping it tight in his hand and holding it up to his ear like a cop to search for Hazel Lou again. Anger and fear burns hot in his blood, boiling and sucking in the heat of the air. “You brought us to a fuckin’ hideout!”   

He’s going to regret getting angry later. He’s going to apologize with a hollow note in his chest and his head light and empty, void of anger and replaced with guilt. But that is not right now. Right now, he’s panicking, and that panic is churning to anger like milk-to-butter. 

This is a hideout. A hideout! For one of the many gangs in Gotham – he can’t ever keep track of the names. They bubble up and fizzle out like tea candles, small fish being swallowed by small fish being swallowed by big fish being swallowed by bigger fish. In and out, bobbing in the murky waters of the Gotham harbor.  

“I—” Hazel Lou stammers, and if Danny’s legs weren’t rooting him to the ground he’d stomp over there. But he’s stuck to the ground, melting wax in his fear, and his heart is in his ears. “I didn’t know—!”   

Danny hisses, rattlesnake sharp and cutting her off like the knife at a chopping block, “You’re fuckin’ lucky there isn't anyone here!” It’s hard to keep himself quiet when he wants to yell at her, bonfire beneath his skin and sparking like a livewire, but he manages to keep himself hushed. “They’d put a bullet in our heads without a second thought, Hazel Lou!”   

Then what would he do! What would they do? AJ and Ida Mae would be left alone, waiting for them and waiting for them, and they’d probably parse out what happened, but it’d never be confirmed. Just one night they were there—the next, they weren’t. It happens all the time. It’s Gotham. Danny’s been here few months, and there are other kids he used to see almost every day that he’s never seen again.  

If there were people here—they would’ve killed them both without a second thought. Or they could’ve killed Danny and kept Hazel Lou, and Danny doesn’t know if he’ll become a full ghost if his human half dies, he wouldn’t be able to protect her—  

He sees Hazel Lou’s face fall, her shoulders shrinking up like a kicked puppy and her lower lip popping out. She — is younger than him, her and Ida Mae both. They're twins, twelve years old this year.  

But—  

She’s not that young. Not that stupid. They’ve been telling her for weeks now to be more careful, she should know better. She’s a good actor and a good liar, knows how to cry on command to get herself out of trouble. 

Danny’s heart flinches anyways, even if it’s an act.  

It’s not enough to quell his anger, blazing bright and wild, fear-fueled. But he makes another hissing sound, eyes rabbit-wide and head spinning. He throws his empty arm out, the scarring underneath pulls taut around his elbow, aching, and points to where they came, “Go!” He snaps, lowering his voice and yet not dulling it, “To the window! Before someone shows up!”    

Hazel Lou nods quickly, and through the stacked chairs and crates he sees her dart into the darkness, out from his beam of light. He drops the light back to ground and follows after, feet crunching and smushing the glass into the concrete.  

Some of the heat flooding up Danny’s bones bleeds away as he moves, and by the time they’ve both reached the window – it's a short span, only lengthened by the fact that they both have to weave around the crates and rubble and junk turning the place into a mini-maze – he's already starting to run cold again.  

Shit, he shouldn’t have lost his cool like that. Hazel Lou is small and quiet next to him, and he feels guilty. It sits thick in his throat.  

“I’ll boost you up.” He whispers, calm and small and a stark contrast to a minute before. His chest constricts – couldn’t he have talked to her like this instead? Why did he yell at her like that? Click, goes his flashlight, slightly wet at the end from being in his mouth. He pockets it.  

Hazel Lou nods, only seen because her flashlight is still on – they only need one right now –and doesn’t look him in the eyes to stand in front of him. Danny sinks his teeth into his lip. He’ll apologize later when they’re out of here—maybe he can steal one of those chocolate bars that she likes, that’d probably make her feel better too.  

Yeah, he can do that. He’ll drop her off back where Ida Mae and AJ are and then go run around for a bit – burn off some of the steam still knocking his limbs loose. They’ll probably have to wander around a bit first, find something to bring back with them.  

AJ will understand if they say it was a gangster hideout they found, but then Hazel Lou will probably get scolded for not paying attention to where she gets her information from. It’d be unnecessary: Danny’s already yelled at her, but it’d still happen, he feels bad enough already. 

Crouching down, Danny locks his fingers together and tenses up his shoulders. Hazel Lou steps her foot into the makeshift net, her hands balancing on his shoulders – he blinks, and realizes she put her flashlight down onto a nearby table, the light pointing at the wall. He’ll grab it before he leaves.  

“Okay,” he whispers, “ready?”  

A pause, it’s perfunctory, mostly. Just to give himself and Hazel Lou a moment to prepare mentally. A hum from Hazel Lou in affirmative, and Danny huffs out all the air in his lungs, then breathes in: “One... two.. .th—”  

Thmpt.   

Wait.   

Danny freezes. His heart jumps into his throat.  

What was that?  

He heard something.  

He heard something. 

He heard something.   

Soft like rain, but he heard something. A thump, he thinks. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Quiet as a ghost sneaking up behind.   

Head pressing against Hazel Lou’s stomach, Danny strains his ears and tries to listen over the sudden return of the drum-blood pounding. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up like meerkats. 

“...Jay?” Hazel Lou whispers, quieter than a mouse. A mouse! It could’ve been a mouse. The skittering feet of claws scrambling against stone. Something could’ve been knocked over— but— 

That was too quiet to come from inside. If it was inside, there’d be an echo. There was no echo.  

Danny puts down Hazel Lou, slipping her foot from his fingers slowly so that she can realize what he’s doing and get her footing beneath herself. And then he straightens up, hands on her shoulders and ready to shield her.  

He hears his breath come out of his mouth, swaying like a seesaw. “Did you hear that?” It’s quieter than a whisper; barely audible, breathy and soft and only heard because of the consonants. Danny looks around, eyes growing wide as if that will let him see any better.  

Hazel Lou digs her fingers into his arms. “..No.” She says, just as quiet as him.  

Danny tugs her close to him, and listens.  

There’s the silence of the room, quiet like tv static. There’s the outside world, Gotham’s metal purring as the city slumbers through the night. Danny can only hear the rising tempo of his heartbeat, and he has half a mind to shut it off so he can hear better— 

Thmpt...   

...Thmpt...   

...Thmpt.  

Danny breathes in sharply, the sound whistles and—ice cold—shock— fear— his spine goes numb. His breathing picks up, lungs ballooning against his ribs. What is that. What is that. What is that.

It’s quiet. 

It’s quiet.  

It’s so quiet.   

And it’s coming from the roof.   

It’s quieter than rain against tin, quieter than mornings at Auntie Alicia’s when the grass is still wet and the sky’s still gray. Quiet like rustling grass and swaying leaves tapped by wind. And it is low and weighty. Static bleeds Danny’s mind, soaking his thoughts into unreadable paper.

What is that. What is that. What is that. His mind scrambles for an explanation. It— 

No. Danny jerks, unwillingly squeaks in the back of his throat. “There’s someone on the roof.”   

He hears Hazel Lou’s sharp breath. Feels her stiffen under his hands. She digs her nails deeper into her, it hurts, sharp and sticking and probably leaving indents in his sleeves. “The gang?”  

What—? The confusion is enough to take over the fear, but only for a moment. It flashes into irritation, unyielding and unnecessary. He doesn’t know who’s on the roof, but he knows it’s not that. “What?” He says, brows furrowing, “What kind of gangsters come in through the—” 

A quiet, scratching sound, like claws lightly dragging against metal. It sounds like mice scuttering through the walls – and Danny would know, he’s heard it plenty of times – but it's coming from above them, sliding down the side to one of the upper windows.  

His blood turns to ice.  

Oh.  

Oh.  

OH.

Terror skyrockets up his spine and steals the air from his lungs.  

“The Bat.” He hears himself whisper, his voice sounding foreign to his ears. His body has gone underwater, freezing cold and numb from shock. He tries to follow the line of scratching, but it lifts—how is that possible, he’s seen the Bat and it’s huge—how can it move so quietly—   

Danny whimpers unwittingly, tugging Hazel Lou into his side and curling over her, “It’s the Bat.” He repeats, frantic, suddenly all the more fearful. Left, right, left, he looks and looks and gives himself whiplash— there's no point to trying to see him though, it’s too dark, and he’s outside. Danny barely even saw the Bat the first time, and he was right in front of the thing. 

“It's here?”   

They need to go. They need to go. They need to go now.  

The last time Danny ran into the Bat, it was while he was looking at some shady-looking racing car he found blending into the shadows of a Gotham alleyway. Danny had been caught by the model and year and lingered around to look at it, fascinated, and ended up scared by the Bat as a result. 

It had been— an experience, that’s for sure. Danny had thought—had been certain— that he was going to end up like every other person who had a run in with Gotham’s very own urban legend and monster: stuck in a hospital bed. But—instead, the beast had just...  

Honestly, Danny doesn’t fucking know, now that he thinks about it. And thinking about it he is, right now, and very frantically. The Bat hadn’t hurt him at all, on account of being a kid and being innocent, had even asked him his opinion on what he thought the car was – late 1960s-70s dodge charger is what he told him.  

But—he—it— it hadn’t done anything. Because Danny was a kid, and because Danny was innocent. It had let him go unscathed.  

But—right now—they don’t look very innocent. He and Hazel Lou. Even if they don’t look affiliated with whatever gang is setting up shop here, they’re very clearly breaking and entering. Danny doesn’t know what the Bat’s threshold for ‘kid’ is and whether he takes being innocent as a bigger priority over being young, but it’s not something he wants to stick around and find out about.

So they need to go. They need to go now.  

Except they can’t, because the only way out is through the upper window and the Bat is right outside. It might hear them; it might see them.  

Surely, he can be reasoned with, Danny thinks, breathing hard, gripping Hazel Lou tight into his ribs and looking around wildly. He can’t see it and he can’t hear it, and it’s not a ghost so he can’t sense it—and that’s the worst part of the Bat—he doesn’t know what he is— but surely, he can be reasoned with. He heard out Danny when he was looking at the car— 

Skkkt.  

Ice water dumps over Danny’s head, paralyzing him to the bone and chasing out all rational thought. His eyes bleed up to the window, far, far to the side, and his mouth runs dry. It’s hard to see, because the windows are covered in grime and dirt, the world’s fucking ugliest blackout curtains, but— 

There—  

There there there.   

There’s a figure in the window.   

Danny, dizzy, leans forward slightly, eyes locked on the window. There—there he is. He’s right there, he’s right there. He can barely see him, but there’s no mistaking the silhouette, barely there. Oh my god, Danny thinks, terror bubbling a shriek into his throat. He can feel himself growing hysteric, it’s awful; it’s incredible.  

I can hardly see him, he thinks, utterly horrified. It’s so fucking hard to see him. He feels like he’s hallucinating, his brain trying to convince him that it’s not there—that he’s only seeing things – but—but— but—  

A hand, casted in shadow, curling, Danny thinks it might be clawed, he never saw the Bat’s hands when he first met him. He wouldn’t know—reaching for the window. Danny’s mind blanks in fear.  

Wait. 

No. 

No. 

No.  

No no no.   

They’re just standing there. The flashlight is still on. It'll see them.  

MOVE!   

He gasps his inhale; it makes a faint wheezing sound; he lets go of Hazel Lou. “Hide!”   

Hazel Lou stumbles, and Danny nearly shrieks at her, feels the urge rush in his sternum and claw up his throat. He tamps it down so hard he chokes on it. He wants to shove her to the ground, a wild, primal urge to do anything to keep himself and her safe. “It's coming in!”   

She’s still not moving! She’s not moving fast enough! Danny, rabbit-wild and wide-eyed, glances between her and the window the Bat is perched at, and frustration boils up in his eyes, and it’s all he can do to not scream at her: “Hazel Lou, HIDE!”  

Thk.  

The window pops open. Just a crack. Just enough for Danny to see the Bat’s fingers slip through and curl around the edges of the frame. He thinks they might be long and skinny. He thinks they might be clawed. Taloned? Clawed. He’s going to throw up his own heart.  

He lunges for the flashlight still on the table, still lighting up the wall, and nearly slams his hand down onto it— the Bat is right there! He thinks, and claws it off the table instead. Click! It goes, loud and awful and echoing through the room, Danny flinches at the sound and drops to his knees.  

Creeeeaaaaaaa—   

Danny’s limbs lock into place, and he stops breathing. He’s going to throw up, he thinks, unsteadily raising his head and watching, unable to speak, as the upper window across the room slowly slides open. The hinges moan low and rusted. 

It’s here, he thinks, throat thick in his mouth. He shakes. It's inside.   

Hazel Lou— Danny almost gasps, and swings his head top-heavy around, searching—he's blind but she should be right next to him— where is she—  

Hazel Lou is still standing, that idiot!   

Danny would snarl if he wasn’t so afraid he’d sob instead, and he reaches out and grasps her wrist. With all his might and then some more, he yanks her down to the ground with him, pulling her into his lap so her knees don’t slap the floor.  

Just for good measure, he slams his hand over her mouth as quietly as he can, and holds her pressed against his chest. He can feel her heart slamming against his, like some sick sync’d duet of fear. Hazel Lou slaps her hand over his, and— 

He has half a mind to shove her off him, if only out of pure habit – or perhaps newborn instinct – alone— he doesn’t like the weight against him— doesn't like being touched— but now isn’t the time to be picky, the Bat is— 

—aaaaaaaak. Kcht.   

—inside.  

His heart lurches, Danny’s eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t mean for them to, but his mind whites out and he can’t breathe and—and—and— 

They need to get out of the open.   

There is a figure crouched in the window above them, awash of sickly yellow light flirting at its back like a broken halo. Gotham’s man-made mockery of the sun at night, with its not-right golden streetlights, sink into the tar-black back of the Bat and curl up its head to reveal its slanted, devil-point ears. Danny can’t see its face from this angle; he couldn’t see its face the last time they met either.

They need to get out of the open.   

It’s pitch black in here, darker than it ever is outside, and that makes it all the worse. And all the better, he supposes. Danny never learned if the Bat had thermal sight – but it could. Or it could have night vision, and he and Hazel Lou are sitting out in the open like a pair of ducks.  

He hasn’t noticed us yet, he thinks, breathing through his mouth because it’s quieter and he doesn’t know how good the Bat’s hearing is – he hasn’t noticed their beating hearts, so maybe he’s just not close enough? Or it’s not as great as Danny was thinking.  

But—they need to get out of the open. There’s a table right next to them, with space for them to crawl under. Danny has one hand around the flashlight and one hand on Hazel Lou’s mouth, and the Bat hasn’t moved yet. So he, with shaking arms that might just give out at any moment, leans forward.  

Hazel Lou’s hair, dark brown and curly, coily, tickles his nose and cheek, she flinches unwittingly against him as Danny leans around and presses his mouth as close to the shell of her ear as he can. He closes one eye as a curl itches his skin. “Follow — me.” He whispers, although it’s barely even that. It’s one decibel above silent, and thankfully, quiet enough that the Bat doesn’t pick up on it.  

A shaky nod into his palm, Hazel Lou’s hand slowly slips off of his, but before he removes his own hand: “Breathe – through – mouth,” Danny adds, just as quiet as before, “S’ – quieter.”   

Another nod, Danny feels Hazel Lou swallow dryly. Slowly, with limbs that he’s sixty percent sure won’t work, Danny shakily removes his hand from Hazel Lou’s mouth and starts to scoot back at a snail’s pace. He needs the space to turn around and—   

Thmp.    

Danny flinches, his head snaps to the side towards the sound, and—it—the Bat is gone. It’s too much to hope that the beast is gone. That was also quiet. God, fuck, the Bat is so quiet. There wasn’t even an echo left behind by him, and now he’s on the ground. Danny can’t see him anymore.  He tries not to feel the urge to scream at that fact. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. They shouldn’t have come here. They should’ve never come here.  

Where is he.  

He reaches out blindly, finds Hazel Lou’s arm, and begins tugging her towards the table with him. He can feel her shivering under his fingers, he thinks he might be too. He can’t breathe, the air is stuck, lodged in his throat. If he tries to suck it in any deeper, he’ll burst into tears.  

They get under the table.  

It does little to make him feel better.   

The Bat is not a ghost, and that’s the worst part about him. It is also the best part about him, but not right now. Right now, it’s the worst. It’s terrible. It’s awful. It’s terrifying.  

Danny knows how to handle ghosts. He knows how to handle ghosts really, really well. Even if it got him losing everything, he knows how to handle them. He knows the ins and outs of ghosts, the bleeding hearts and toothy stomachs, the purrs, the cores, the claws. Everything. He has it all himself.  

The Bat is not a ghost.  

Danny does not know how to handle the Bat. Maybe if he was human, it would be better, but he’s not. The Bat is not a human; there’s no way he is. He is something else entirely, and it both fascinates and terrifies him.  

He pulls Hazel Lou to the wall, the both of them under the table. He pats and pats at the ground slowly, carefully – there's broken glass everywhere. He doesn’t know which spots are safe, and which aren’t, but he pats anyways because he needs to know so they can move accordingly. If he gets cut—so be it. Better he than Hazel Lou. 

Thp.   

Thp.  

Thp.  

The Bat is so, so quiet. Danny stiffens up and his shoulders shake, a sob threatening to come up and choke him. Please, please, please, don’t let him find them, please. He doesn’t know what the Bat will do – leave them be, set them free, or hurt them, and he’s scared to find out. 

Hazel Lou presses her face into his arm; seconds later, tears bleed through the fabric and stain his arm. It takes him a moment to feel it. Danny’s own eyes sting, and he sinks his fangs into his lip hard, trying to get them to stop.  

It, as expected, has the opposite desired effect. Tears bleed up hot onto his lashes, and drip down onto the ground. Danny stops moving entirely – they’re completely under the table now, and he’s too terrified to move further—he can’t see— and, carefully, elbows digging into the ground, twists to lay onto his side.  

Thp.  

Thp.  

Thp.  

He thinks the Bat is looking for something, or it’s just looking around. He doesn’t know—doesn't want to know—he just wants to get out of here. He can’t track its position, its footsteps are too quiet to echo, and this has never happened before. He doesn’t know what to do. At least with ghosts he could always suspect an attack from somewhere, but he’s never had to hide from a ghost. He’s always the one fighting them. 

But the Bat is not a ghost, and Danny isn’t fighting.  

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to go home. He wants to be back with AJ and Ida Mae back at the Holler, he wants to be back at FentonWorks with Mom and Dad and Jazz, or at the park with Sam and Tucker. But the Holler is blocked by the Bat and home isn’t a place that exists for him anymore.  

This would be so much easier if he was alone. If Danny was alone, he could just turn invisible and run, the Bat wouldn’t ever know he was here, and Danny would be fine. But he’s not alone. Hazel Lou is with him, and she can’t turn invisible, and she doesn’t know about his powers, and he can’t leave her alone. He’ll throw himself off the Sprang Bridge if he abandoned Hazel Lou and something happened to her.  

So, he – is stuck. Here. In this stupid building with all these stupid guns and tables and junk, hiding from the Bat and terrified out of his mind. He hasn’t felt this scared since—smoke and the scent of burning flesh fill his mouth, his throat is thick and burning—he was back in Amity Park.   

“Lay down,” Danny urges quietly, tugging on Hazel Lou again, trying to twist her around. For a moment, she doesn't move, and his lip wobbles, more tears bubble to the surface and his shoulders shake. Danny feels like an awful lot like a baby, and he hates it, but he's afraid that trying to get the crying to stop will just grab the Bat’s attention. “Lou-Lou, lay down, please.”  

Tmp.  

Tmp.  

Tmp.  

Hazel Lou—he can feel her trembling, his fingers slip under the sleeves of her jacket and feels goosebumps bubbling up on her skin—lays down, and Danny wraps around her immediately like an octopus. His arms coming around to shelter her head and tuck her face into his chest. He throws a leg over her hip and traps her legs between his, and in turn Hazel Lou curls both arms under his hoodie and around his middle, squeezing him tightly.  

Danny’s stomach churns – he can’t tell if it's from the sheer amount of physical contact there is between the both, or from the fear. He holds her tight.  

She’s shivering so bad you’d think it was the middle of winter, but it’s not and his shirt is slowly getting wet from where her face is shoved into the fabric. Danny shoves his face into her curls and tries to shield her as much as possible.  

He thinks—he hopes—he thinks that if the Bat finds them, then if it changes his mind on their innocence and flies into a vengeful rage, then at least Danny will take the brunt of it and Hazel Lou can get back to Ida Mae and AJ in one piece. He’s sturdy enough, his ectoplasm stores big enough that he can probably keep his healing from making his injuries worse, he’s big enough. Nobody’s died from the Bat yet— 

That. 

 
That’s right.  

Nobody’s died from the Bat yet.  

That—is a bit of a relief then; some of his fear alleviates then. Hazel Lou isn’t gonna die if the Bat finds them, and Danny can just—he can just take the brunt of the beast’s attack. If it decides to attack. It’ll hurt, and it scares him, but Hazel Lou will be fine. She’ll be okay. That’s okay. Danny will live.  

Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Okay.  

Danny’s still shaking, and he can’t stop the crying, but—it—his chest doesn’t feel as heavy as it did thirty seconds ago, which is good because his breathing gets wheezy when its fast. Which is something, and his head feels a little clearer. He—he has a gameplan now. That’s reassuring. He’s got a plan. Good. Good.  

He swallows a dry sob, his throat thick and sore. His shoulders tremble. 

It’s so dark in here. It’s so dark in here. Danny tilts his head away from the wall they’re facing, and tries to look out into the swallowing black before them. His hair cushions the ground a little for him, but strands cling to his skin uncomfortably and it’s all he can do to not lift a hand to push it out of the way. He doesn’t want to let go of Hazel Lou.  

He can sorta see the ugly brown-yellow light from the windows, but not much else. It’s hard to see through the tears, and his nose is starting to run – fuck, he can’t sniff, it’ll be too loud.

Wh— 

Danny’s brows furrow nervously, his eyes flicking to-and-fro as he licks the salt off his lips. More tears bleed out of his eyes, sliding over the bridge of his nose and pooling at his temple. His hair is long and fluffy and annoying, itching his skin, and— 

Where’s the Bat?  

KTCK!  

Hazel Lou flinches violently, Danny feels her leg kick out next to him and nearly bang him in the shin, and he pins it down quickly with a stuttered gasp— fuck! Fuck! Too loud! His heart skips not one, not two, but five whole beats and Danny rubberbands and curls tight around Hazel Lou. More tears burn down his face.  

Please don’t let him hear that, Danny chants – that cracking sound, he thinks the Bat broke into one of the crates. That’s what that sound was, he thinks – but he doesn’t know. But fuck, please let the echo be loud enough to cover his gasp.   

Please.  

Nothing. 

Please.  

Silence. Danny hates the silence, he can’t hear where the Bat is when its silent. His chest thickens up, heaves, like there’s a twenty-pound weight on his sternum and a cotton filter in this throat. If he broke into one of the crates, shouldn’t he be searching for whatever’s in there now? Shouldn’t Danny hear it?  

PLEASE.   

What was he thinking early? What, that it was a good thing that the Bat didn’t kill? At least not provenly so? What if he does kill, just nobody’s been able to prove it's been him that’s done it? What if that happens to him and Hazel Lou? What’s going to happen if he finds them—  

Creaak.  

‘Oh thank god,’ Danny breathes into Hazel Lou’s hair, not saying a sound but mouthing the words against her skull regardless. Relief bleeds through down his head and into the thick and heady parts of his joints, where the panic is knotted at its ugliest below his scars. It doesn’t untangle a damn thing, but his heart slows a little. 

More tears wash over him; he lets them fall and shudders apart at the seams. Hazel Lou makes a little sigh of relief, teeny and barely heard by him, and her nails dig into his spine like claws.  

Quiet rustling fills the air, echoing through the room as the Bat shuffles through whatever chest he’s opened. Gentle little tap-tap-taps as the Bat... does whatever, Danny thinks it might be trying to fiddle with the weapons inside. Whatever it’s doing, he’s not really sure, but it’s making low, chunky clunking noises.  

Tentatively, Danny looks back out again, and his tears turn sideways again. It itches, and the angle hurts his shoulder. But that rustling—it sounds kind of close. Worryingly close.  

Pitch black nothingness. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. But—he squints, squeezing out more tears incidentally, and tries to turn his head a little more. Is the Bat close enough Danny might see him from here—?  

No. Not at all. It’s too fucking dark. He wishes he could say more, but he can’t, he can’t see anything. It’s just a void and static, and his eyes strain against the darkness. Fuck, he hates this. He hates this so much. Where is it!?  

A smaller part of his brain named ‘Phantom’ wants to inch out closer to the edge of the table, see if he could spot where the Bat was and plan from there. The larger, much louder part of his brain, the one currently rooting him to the ground and inflicting terror through his veins; the one named ‘Danny’, tells the smaller part to not be fucking stupid.  

He can’t let go of Hazel Lou, he can’t and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t think she would let go of him even if he tried, anyways. She’s plastered against his side like a barnacle on the bottom of a ship and her grip on him is tighter than any one of Vlad’s manacles.  

God, he wonders if dealing with Vlad would be better than this—Vlad was predictable. Consistent. Awful, possessive, cruel beyond words, but fucking consistent. At least Danny knew what to expect from him. He could prepare for that. Could rely on the bastard to do something awful and out there.  

Danny always knew going in that he was going to get hurt, and eventually got to predicting in what ways. Unique, sure, but the end result was always the same. Some kind of trap or tool or weapon, being locked in a room or cage and handicapped in some way. Something meant to keep him there; keep him contained; keep him kept.  

Fucking—possessive, jigsaw motherfucker—  

The Bat—he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. And the reminder fills a whine in the back of his throat, sends another shudder down his spine and more tears down his face. His chest—caves, for a moment, under the weight of a sudden sob. It feels more like a hiccup with the way his lungs jolt.  

He keeps staring outward though, refusing to look away even though some part of him knows he should. The beast keeps fiddling with whatever has caught its attention in the crate, and Danny keeps himself as quiet—small—unseen— afraid —as possible. He wants – he wants to see – he wants to see – he wants to see it.  

Where is it.  

Click.  

His heart skips its nth beat, his stomach drops again. That was quiet – everything about the Bat is quiet, and yet he still can’t get over it—the Bat isn’t a ghost—it can’t fly—it's not weightless—it shouldn’t be so quiet with that size—it's unscientific – but undeniable. Whatever the Bat was looking for, it didn’t find it in that crate.  

Tmp.  

So it might check the others.  

Tmp.  

No. No, wait.  

The crate he was looking in—it was close to where they were at, there are crates all around them. But there’s crates near where they are too, and the Bat—his footsteps—quiet as rain—quiet as pebbles falling down a cliff face—quiet like a heartbeat—Danny’s blood drops to sub-zero temperatures— it’s—  

Tmp.  

—getting closer.  

Danny’s grip on Hazel Lou tightens impossibly so. Tight like a constrictor. Tight like a noose. Tight like chains. Tight like every analogous thing he can think of at the moment – which isn’t a lot. His fingers dig tight into frizzy, thick curls to the point where it even hurts him as well, and Hazel Lou’s nails claw into his back in response.  

She’s still crying. Danny holds her, and it's not enough. It's not going to be enough. It’s not going to be enough. He tangles their legs together and curls them up into balls, and it’s not enough. He doesn’t look away from the mouth of the table, and it’s not going to be enough.  

He feels his blood ignite, quietly so, thrumming—humming—buzzing like insects. Like crickets and frogs and every nighttime creature Danny's ever heard harmonize below his window back home at FentonWorks. His scars itch along his arms and legs, tingling with unprocessed energy—ectoplasm—power.  

There are still tears, bleeding hot and salty up into his eyes and carving down his face, and he thinks they might begin to boil. He can feel pressure behind his irises as if he’s holding his eyelids open too wide, green stars like sunspots begin to fuzz his vision. Not glowing. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.  

The Bat is getting closer — the Bat is not a ghost. The Bat is not a ghost, but Danny is.  

Tmp.  

The loudest they’ve been. Danny swears he sees a pair of feet – if only the faint outlines of them, fading in and out of view like a radio channel – stop right where they are. He can’t tell if the feet are human or not. Danny stills like a rabbit. Like a deer on the side of a road. Like a hare on its hindquarters. There’s a buzzing in his ears, and beyond the rubble-smoke trapped in his lungs, he tastes electricity.  

Hazel Lou is in his arms, and she’s shaking. Her hands have slipped up his back, past his shoulder blades, until she’s digging into his shoulders. Her little legs have wrapped around his waist, tight, constricting. She’s still crying, he can feel it in the soaked clinging of his shirt to his skin.  

The beast stands right in front of them, unaware they are there – but for how long? Danny will disappear if it finds them – earlier plan be damned, be forgotten, be disregarded – he will disappear and take Hazel Lou with him. He will beg for her forgiveness if he has to, apologize as many times as he must for tricking her and the others for harboring a monster.

But not yet.  

Your move, Bat, Danny thinks, unblinking, forgetting to breathe, a numbing calmness washing over the back of his mind. Quiet, numb, the way his head started to get after so many fights. Your move: go.  

The Bat stands there. 

Go 

And he doesn’t move. A hundred different thoughts race through Danny’s mind, and he doesn’t hear a single one. He only hears the steady-growing singing of his core, low and melodic and a warning growl. A ghost would hear it; the Bat is not a ghost.  

Go  

Danny is still crying, and his scars itch, and his throat hurts from swallowing ill-muffled sobs, from constricting tight to strangle any sound from coming out, and he is so scared.  

GO  

The Bat moves. Whatever it was looking for – maybe them, maybe not – it doesn’t find it where it’s standing, and so it moves. It’s feet—claws—talons—paws— softly tapping the floor as it drifts away. Its wings create a small breeze and blow across Danny’s face. His tears don’t dry, but like blowing air on a wailing infant’s face, he remembers to breathe.  

He breathes. Quietly, and nearly chokes on a cough.  

He bleeds. 

He bleeds.  

He bleeds with relief. The tension leaks out of him, and it takes with it the buzzing—thrumming—dark humming of his core—of his death-tasting electricity and leaves him back to shaking. His shoulders jumble, jolt, and his fingers loosen on Hazel Lou’s hair like a rusty marionette; slow and janky. He pets over her scalp in the place his fingers dug into— I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry— he tries to say in lieu of the words he can’t, he tilts his head back around to face her and hunches over her the best he can. Trying to protect her head the best he can.  

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, he tries to convey, still trying to soothe whatever aches he could’ve left on her. Her hair soaks in his tears. Hazel Lou models him, loosens her claws from his shoulders, but he’s sure there will be crescent-shaped indents in the meat of the skin. It’s fine; it’s fine; he’s good at hurting.  

Thp.  

Thp.  

Thp.  

Please, go away, Danny pleads. He doesn’t think he can take this fear anymore – he doesn’t think Hazel Lou can either. Go back to the shadows.  

KTCK!  

Another crate—Danny does a lot better this time at not making a sound. But he still flinches – they both still flinch.  

Creaaak.  

Every breath he takes is heaving now, deep and jarring, cutting into his lungs like a divot in the ground; silent only because it’s slow. He can’t see anymore, tears overcome him completely — and when he exhales, he burns to scream.  

He needs to scream. He needs to. It aches in his chest, in his throat, he needs it like he needs air, and his lungs are hollowing out a space for the sound. And maybe he should. Maybe he should scream, if he screams he can chase away the Bat. His ears should be sensitive – he's a bat, right? Bats have sensitive hearing.  

Yes, yes. If he screams then the Bat will leave. If he screams he can chase the Bat away and then he and Hazel Lou will be safe. He has to. He needs to. He needs to. He can’t breathe unless he screams—and he can feel it building thick in his chest—growing like roots in a glass bottle—like floodwaters raising in a house—like smoke and smog choking out the sky—like a tumor that he should rip out—rip it out before it kills him—go—get rid of it—  

Danny needs—  

He has to—  

He needs to—  

—wail—  

—wail—  

— WAIL —  

NO!  

Danny gasps— quiet, thankfully quiet, and hides himself deeper in Hazel Lou’s hair. No, no, no—he can’t scream. What was he thinking—if he screams that will do the opposite of scare away the Bat, it’d lead him right to them both! He can’t scream. Why would he ever think of screaming— 

He— his eyes.  

His eyes are burning— burning like they do when there’s ectoplasm pulsing behind them, casting a faint green glow against Hazel Lou’s dark curls. Cold—cold—cold—is what his blood runs. His core has come back thrumming again, returned to just below the surface of his skin, threading full into his tissue— when did his eyes start glowing?  

His eyes slam shut, there are more tears.  

How many times can he run a chill before he freezes? Did Hazel Lou see? She’s not trying to push away from him, so maybe she didn’t. He prays she didn’t. She’s not trying to run away from him, so she might not have seen it.  

His hearing comes back online. Everything comes back online—how did he get so distracted so quickly? It’s not like him to zone out like this—and the Bat is mussing with the crate he found still; Danny cranes his ears and hears it.  

The chill of the concrete is sneaking into the threads of Dad’s hoodie, sinking into his burn scars and, oh, that feels nice. The chill chases away some of the worst of the itch and now isn’t the time—now is the worst time actually—to focus on that, but its – good. Less distracting.  

Click.  

All done. Onto the next crate, he supposes. This is a nightmare.  

Thp.  

Thp.  

Thp.  

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting something different to happen – Danny thinks that might be happening right now. A real-life case study in the worst possible setting.  

Every time he thinks the Bat is done – that he’s found whatever it is he’s looking for – the beast goes and opens up another crate, or box, or whatever the fuck it is that these fucking gangsters have in their hideout. He drifts close, and drifts far, like an irregular tide that can’t decide whether it wants to lap the shore or the rocks.  

It’s maddening. Danny thinks, too many times to count, that maybe the Bat will leave. And then he doesn’t, and every time the awful beast draws closer to their hiding space, his breath hitches, his grip on Hazel Lou tightens, and his head fills with green static. It says different things every time. 

—Run—escape—take Hazel Lou—go—he’ll hurt us—he'll hurt us—go—go—go—GO—  

—Hide—hide—hide—HIDE—it can’t hurt us if we hide—we can’t be hurt if it can’t see us—he’ll hurt us—HIDE—  

—Fight—fight—fight—FIGHT—it’s not a ghost—vulnerable—flesh soft—its bones brittle—weak—couldn't stop you—alive—it bleeds—monster too—  

—Scream—  

The beast never comes back close enough for him to act on those thoughts, he doesn’t think he could choose to act on them if he tried. The Bat moves away and Danny’s core quiets, and no matter how many times he tries to shove it down, it comes back up.  

It’s maddening.  

Around and around it goes, like a twisted carousel. Flipping and flopping between flight—freeze—fight, and the Bat goes and searches as many crates as it can—Danny doesn’t bother keeping count. His head spins every time he comes down from the buzz of ectoplasm in his ears.  

Please, he pleads again at some point, green stars swimming in his vision. His lungs thick and heady, distress lining every side of him, please just fucking leave. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.  

His heart hurts like he’s run a marathon, he hasn’t moved an inch. His shoulder hurts, his fingers have gone numb from the cold, it’s the middle of summer and the nights are still somehow cold— his eyes ache, are puffy and sore, he thinks he might’ve washed Hazel Lou’s hair completely with his tears— 

Thmp.  

Danny stiffens again, not willingly, everything aches—he’s tensed up and relaxed so many times that he hurts. The Bat’s wrapped back around near them again, and he tilts his head and spares a peak in the direction that the sound came from.  

The Bat stands below the window—the window he came from, the one still propped open, hope swells prematurely through Danny’s heart – is it over finally— and he holds his aching breath. Please, he thinks, please please please.  

Still as a statue, and then—it's up in a flutter of its wings—huge, black bat wings that flare out, Danny can feel the wind it creates as it blows into his face—nearly nailing him with specks of dust and dirt and glass—he's forced to flinch and close his eyes at the onslaught— 

He manages to keep one eye open, just enough, to blurrily watch the Bat perch on the window ledge and crawl right out, gone faster than it arrived. The table is in the way—but he hears the window loudly moan shut, and click to lock.  

He holds his breath more – he feels Hazel Lou do the same. It’s not over yet, he waits, listening over the drum of his heart, and—faintly hears scratching sounds. The bat is climbing back up to the roof.  

It’s so fucking quiet, but at least it’s leaving now.  

Thmpt...  

...Thmpt...  

...Thmpt.  

...It’s gone. Bat’s gone.  

Danny slumps completely, melts out of his hold on Hazel Lou and rolls onto his back with an audible whine. His eyes hurt. His eyes hurt and his lashes are clumped together, his face itchy and damp with salty tears. His scalp itches with sweat, and minute tremors run through his limbs, plucking at sinew.  

“He’s gone,” Danny rasps, hoarse and nasally; his throat twinging like he’s got a bad cold. At this point, he doesn’t care, Danny’s eyes slide shut and he sinks into the ground, bleeding free of all but the most stubborn of his terror. “Bat's gone.” 

They should still wait a few minutes before leaving—just in case the Bat is lurking around the street and spots them leaving the very same warehouse he just came out of—but at least it’s gone. Can’t linger too long—still a gangster hideout, the fuckers using it could drop by any minute.  

But—for now—he's too exhausted to get up right now. He's going to bask in the fact that he’s alive and they’re both unharmed, and— 

Hazel Lou whimpers, audibly.  

Danny shoots up immediately—wait, fuck, Hazel Lou is still on top of him how could he forget— his arms snap out around her before she can fall back. “What’s wrong?” He whispers, nearly banging his head on the bottom of the table.  

He tries pulling her off his lap, he can get a better look at her then—she shouldn’t be injured or hurt anywhere, the Bat didn’t find them—was it glass? He can barely get her an inch away from him before Hazel Lou’s arms remove from their place around his torso, and instead constrict around his neck instead. 

Fuck—shit—he forgot he doesn’t like being touched—Danny tilts his chin up and tries to turn his head away as Hazel Lou buries her nose into the crook of his neck, panic crawls up his throat: “Lou-Lou,” he hisses, and his voice cracks unhelpfully, “you know I don’t like being touched— this was just an- an exception— get off—”  

His hands wrap around her middle, Danny tries to pull her off, but—Hazel Lou’s somehow gained superstrength in however long they’ve been huddled under the table, and she doesn’t budge. Maybe it's because of the uncontrollable shaking in Danny’s arms too.  

Hazel Lou does what they’ve both been doing this whole time: starts crying again. Her shoulders jolt, jerk, and the only warning Danny gets is the feeling of wetness against his throat before— 

She starts wailing.  

Shit! Danny’s head jerks back, his eyes flinching shut by accident. It rings right in his ears, and Danny fucking flails for a moment, his arms spasming around and letting go – a mistake, Hazel Lou’s legs tighten around their place over his waist and there goes the only leverage he had to get her off. 

Still running on remnant adrenaline, Danny’s heart skips a beat— the panic flares, he looks around quickly out of habit—for anyone who might hear— the Bat that might still be nearby—  

“Hazel Lou!” he hisses again, panic starting to spark into anger again, ready to shush her again, “Louie—”  

Hazel Lou cuts him off with tightening arms and a choked sob: “I’m sorry!”  

...What? 

Danny stills. His hands, having found Hazel Lou’s thin wrists – small, his fingers touch when he wraps around them, it makes it very easy to peel her off him – slacken. His discomfort falls to the wayside; the tension drains out.  

“...What?” He croaks.  

Hazel Lou sobs again, rubs her face into his shoulders and gets snot all over his shirt and hoodie—there's a brief moment in the back of his mind where he thinks to get angry, that’s his Dad’s hoodie, you brat, but it’s snuffed out quickly. One of Danny’s hands fall to the small of her back, while the other drops to the ground to prop himself up.  

“I’m sorry,” Hazel Lou repeats in between tears, shoulders convulsing, “I’m sorry Jack, m'sorry. M’sorry, m’sorry.”  

Hey, whoa, Danny adjusts slightly to sit better and, thinking he’s trying to get away, Hazel Lou whines high and holds onto him tighter. It’s nearly choking him, but—shit—he's not good at comfort. AJ’s got the magic touch for this kinda thing— 

“Wh—  hey—” he pitches his voice low a bit, softens it as much as he can until he’s sure it could rival one of those plush blankets he likes to run his hands over at the store. It’s a bit hoarse, but his voice hasn’t worked right since the explosion so he’s not too worried about it. “Hey, Hazel Lou— it– s’not your fault.”   

“Yes it is!” Hazel Lou refutes, another piercing wail pitches out of her, “’M the one who brought us here! I’m sorry!”  

Shit, he wishes AJ were here, he’d know what to say—fuck, what would AJ say? Or—or Jazz? Or Mom and Dad? Danny’s mind blanks, and he starts petting Hazel Lou’s spine in attempt to comfort her. Shit, she’s shaking real bad.  

“You didn’t know,” Danny tries, brows scrunching together, he tilts his head and noses at her temple, “Lou-Lou, you didn’t know. You didn’t know that the Bat was gonna show up, s’okay. We’re okay.”  

He doesn’t know if that works or not, Hazel Lou just shakes her head again and sobs more and all it does is cause a fresh wave of panic to lance up his spine. “I could’a got us killed, Jay,” she says, gasping for breath, “it— it— it was gonna kill us.”  

Oh and if that doesn’t rear up something ugly and black in Danny’s gut, the thought so abhorrent that he near-physically recoils, dark heat flaring through his nerves and pulling his lips back into a wordless snarl. Like jumpstarting a car. “I wouldn’t’a let him,” he snarls against her skull, before he can remind himself too, that the Bat doesn’t kill.  

(To his knowledge.)  

A small voice tells him that maybe he should remind Hazel Lou of that fact too, and just like all the other times, he quickly shuts it down. Maybe later, when she wasn’t hysterical and this incident was far from her mind, he’ll tell her.  

For now, the larger part of his brain is still latched onto the dark, protective anger filling in the marrow of his bones and building an inhuman growl in his throat. Danny tilts his chin to rest protectively over Hazel Lou’s head, and his arms wrap around her fully again; he rocks from side to side.  

“Hazel Lou,” he says low, his voice like rolling thunder to his ears. It hurts the back of his throat, “the Bat would’ve had t’go through me if it wanted to even lay a finger on you, and it wouldn’t’ve ever ‘cause I’d rip its throat out before it could.”  

He surprises himself a little by how genuine he is by it—Amity Park’s ghosts were always violent, but Danny tried to never stoop to their level by returning that same kind of violence back. He wanted the people to like and trust him; he couldn’t do that if he fought just like the guys hurting them.  

Well, look where that got him. His loved ones dead and Danny just shy of a thousand miles away from the city he grew up in. Amity Park’s never liked him, in both forms, so he’s not gonna kid himself and lie and say he ever liked it that much back either. Gotham doesn’t care if he doesn’t play nice, it’d sneer at him if he tried.  

“You’ve never known me to lose a fight,” Danny murmurs, his voice hushed and whispered, still dangerously low, watching out into the darkness vigilantly, “and I don’t plan on startin’ to just ‘cause my opponent is a beast. Okay?”  

And Danny doesn’t want to fight the Bat; he doesn’t mind what the beast is doing for Gotham, and meeting him in that alleyway that one time had, once the fear and bewilderment passed, been kinda cool. That being said, he will if he has to. The idea—the notion— that the Bat could kill Hazel Lou – or god forbid, Ida Mae and AJ – is laughable to him, and infuriating and terrifying.  

He can’t— he’s not— he will not—  

He will not.  

He won’t let him. He can’t survive another heartbreak.  

Hazel Lou hasn’t responded, but somewhere when Danny wasn’t paying attention, her sobs subsided down into sniffles. Good, good, the angry feeling in his gut settles a little and his core vibrates quietly. He hums, and gently bumps his forehead against hers, “Hey,” he calls softly, and can’t help but raise a hand to brush her wild mane out of her face, “okay, Lou-Lou?”  

A moment passes, and then he feels more than he sees Hazel Lou nod. “Good,” wrapping an arm around Hazel Lou’s waist, Danny starts scooting out from under the table, “an’ speakin of fights, y’gotta tell me how and who gave you the info about this building.”  

He counts the little wet huff he gets against his neck as a win, “Why?”  

“So I can figure out if I need to beat their ass,” he drawls, clearing his throat when it skips like a scratched CD. They get out from under the table, and he carefully starts prying Hazel Lou off, “I don’t think you ever explained where y’got the information for this place – Hazel Lou, I’m gonna start peelin’ out of my own skin soon if you don’t let go –” he hears a giggle in his ear and her grip loosens, “Thank you. Anyways— so if you just overheard it, fine, but if someone told you?”  

Hazel Lou’s feet touch the ground with a quiet tapping sound, and Danny brushes his hands over her arms just in case any of the glass on the ground got stuck in the fabric. Afterwards, he plucks out her flashlight from his pocket and presses it into her hands, quickly grabbing his own to shine a light on his face.  

The light is pretty much blinding, but Danny ignores it the best he can to meet Hazel Lou’s eyes. He bares his fangs at her in a mimicry of his best jack-knife grin, eyebrows scrunched together, and slides his thumb across his throat like he’s slitting it, “Their ass is mine.”  

For the sake of his own eyeballs, Danny drops the flashlight beam soon after that and pockets it again – their escape window is right behind them anyways – and as he does, more of Hazel Lou’s laughter fills the air like an incense. It’s a much better sound than her crying.  

Danny grins for real this time, and waits until her laughter has subsided before speaking again: “Now seriously,” he ushers her around him, “we gotta go, Louie. Bat’s probably not lurking around here anymore, and we gotta stop and steal cigarettes.”  

He can practically feel the bemused look Hazel Lou gives him, her footsteps sound around him and then her flashlight turns on with a click , and she places it back on the table towards the window. “I thought AJ was good for now?”  

“It’s for me, actually,” he snarks, kneeling to the ground, “after tonight? I fucking deserve that nicotine addiction.” 

Hazel Lou’s hands plant on his shoulders, and she shakes with laughter as she hunches over him and puts her foot in his threaded palms. Danny grins wider, “Alright, ready?” 

“One... two... three!”