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So, maybe flying solo wasn't Tim's best idea.
His investigative skills were top-notch, obviously, but maybe his execution was slightly lacking. Just slightly.
In his defense, a secret sewer cult living under Gotham was kinda bullshit. It was precisely the kind of bullshit that had caught Tim off guard and led him here.
Here, tied to a stone slab and surrounded by cultists. Seriously, bullshit.
It had all started a few weeks ago, when he'd caught a few weird rumors in his network. His informants, mostly reformed gangsters, had told him about some new figure stirring in the criminal underground. They called him the Ghost King, which sounded less like a cool mobster name, and more like someone's pet name for an anemic man under 5'7".
So, in an effort to learn more, Tim had suited up and set to work. He'd entered the Gotham sewer system as stealthily as he could, and he'd started collecting his evidence. He'd taken pictures of the many boxes of semi-religious items, like prayer books (which brought up a lot of questions- namely, was the cult collecting book royalties?) and candles.
Honestly, there wasn't really anything illegal about it. It was just… weird.
Well, there wasn't anything illegal until he'd been caught. After a short fight, he'd been tackled to the grimy floor and had a chloroform-soaked rag held up to his nose and mouth. He still hadn't quite figured out how they knew he was there—there weren't cameras or sensors, he'd checked.
After a fitful sleep, he'd woken up in some sort of central chamber, tied to a stone slab, surrounded by busy cultists. He could hear the tell-tale scraping of chalk against stone, and he had the sneaking suspicion that this was a well-practiced procedure.
Cool, so he was a human sacrifice. Once again, bullshit.
Tim squirmed against the tight ropes on his limbs, yanking as hard as he could. They didn't budge, and he was stating to maybe panic. Just a little.
The ropes were tight enough that they were digging into his wrists, cutting off circulation. He could barely move his fingers, let along wriggle them enough to grab one of his batarangs. His stomach dropped at that realization.
"Hey, man, we can totally work this out. I'm willing to convert to the church of the ghost guy!" Tim tried, turning his head to look at the leader of the cloaked figures. The white robes that they wore looked especially garish in the green light of the sewers, and he wondered how they kept the fabric so spotless. Was there a cult-designated laundry room somewhere?
His head was still spinning, maybe a leftover effect of the chloroform from earlier. He was mentally kicking himself for his stupidity—going out alone was the single dumbest idea he'd ever come up with, and it looked like it would be his last.
"Hush," the cloaked figure said, waving a hand. Immediately, the room went silent, and Tim felt a chill roll up his spine. He was fucked. "The circle is complete, now to prepare the sacrifice."
Tim caught the glint of a knife out of the corner of his eye and internally groaned. "Come on, I'd be such a good cult member! I'd look great in white, I'm sure- and I've got lots of friends! That's good, right? You convert me, I convert three friends, they convert three friends- ow!"
The man sliced the blade across Tim's cheek in one smooth motion, breaking the skin. Tim hissed as he felt blood immediately start running down his face, his stomach dropping.
Alright, he was totally about to get sacrificed to some elder god. Was it going to eat him? He wasn't even in his twenties yet, how was that fair? Maybe it was like the opposite of wine, sacrifices got worse with age—
"Seriously, you don't want to do this!" Tim shouted, all semblance of dignity flying out the window. If there was actual magic involved, he was outmatched—begging wasn't the worst strategy, honestly. "Please?!"
The cult members around him started chanting and a sickly green light filled the chamber. Tim struggled in earnest against the ropes, his chest going cold as the room's temperature seemed to plummet.
It was actual magic, and Tim was going to fucking die. He breathed faster, the air in his lungs tasting stale and cold. Was he even breathing? It felt like he wasn't breathing, he couldn't get enough air, and it hurt—
He dimly recognized that he was having a panic attack. In the same moment, he also realized that his vision was getting blurry. Was that the ritual or just him?!
Pain started to radiate throughout his entire body, cold and biting down into his very bones. Okay, yeah, that was the ritual. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down hard on his lower lip as the pain intensified—
It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It blazed through his body like a supernova, ripping him apart molecule by molecule—
He was dying, this had to be death because surely, he couldn't survive this kind of pain—
Then, nothing.
...Like, a lot of nothing. Huh.
Tim opened his eyes, and the green light was gone. The pain was gone. The world was quiet, save for the soft sound of… typing?
Above him, there was… a ceiling. Tim breathed in a sharp gasp of air, coughing violently as he surged up, doubling over onto himself.
He blinked through the tears in his eyes, realizing abruptly that he was in a bedroom. Fuck, he was laying on someone's bed. Someone…
Tim turned to look at the room's other occupant, who was currently staring at him. He looked tired.
"Uh… hey. You'll feel better in a few minutes, just stay put," the guy told him, turning back to look at his computer. The typing resumed when Tim didn't respond, because… Fuck, how was he supposed to proceed here?
Tim finally took stock of the room around him, catching his breath. He was in a dorm room, he realized, based on the furniture. He was sitting on a semi-messy bed, and the stranger… No, the Ghost King was sitting at his desk, typing on an old, beat up laptop.
The stranger had a mop of dark, messy hair, and he'd clearly been avoiding the barber. His long bangs fell down in front of tired, blue eyes, which were locked onto the laptop screen. He wore a dark blue hoodie and a pair of black pajama shorts. His skin was pale—not quite sickly, but clearly a bit unhealthy. Not ghostly pale, though…
If Tim had seen him on the street, he'd have pegged him as just a normal college student. A cute one, granted, but very much a normal guy.
Tim blinked, pressing a gloved hand up to his bleeding cheek. He held down on the wound for a long moment, waiting for it to stop weeping blood while he regained his composure.
He wasn't in danger, it seemed, and this guy… Well, Tim was pretty sure that diplomacy was his best bet, if he was really some kind of king. Besides, he didn't really want to get into a fight with this exhausted, cute boy.
After another minute, the typing finally stopped, and the guy groaned. He pushed back from his desk and stood, stretching out long, lanky arms.
With that, he leaned down to open one of the large desk drawers and pulled out a small gift bag. He tossed the bag over to Tim, who instantly caught it, on high alert—
It was a goodie bag, like the kind you'd get from a kid's birthday party. It even had a little green bow keeping it closed. Huh.
"You're really leaning into the ghost stuff, huh?" Tim asked without thinking, seeing the little cartoon ghost pattern on the gift bag wrapper. As soon as his brain caught up with his mouth, he winced, but the guy only laughed.
"It's a branding thing, yeah," the guy admitted, a handsome smile overtaking his chapped, pretty lips. Wow. "I'm Danny, by the way. Uh, there's a pamphlet in the bag with an explanation, if you want to read that. I'll get a bandage for your face, too."
As Danny left, walking into a door that Tim assumed led to a bathroom, he faintly heard the sound of music. A noisy dorm neighbor, perhaps. Insane.
Tim blinked, taking his hand off of the wound on his face and immediately opening up the bag. He winced as his bloody glove left little marks on the cute gift bag. Yep, sure enough, there was a small, folded pamphlet inside, with some nice graphic design—'So, you've been sacrificed to the Ghost King. What now?'
He thumbed through the pamphlet idly, reviewing a neatly labeled section of frequently asked questions like, 'Does Danny own my soul now?' and 'Will this have further implications on my eventual afterlife?' It was nicely organized, and Tim wondered how often this happened.
Admittedly, the nonchalance with which the situation was being treated was mildly hot. Here he was, having a supernatural encounter, and the entity was cute, well-organized, and totally calm about the whole thing.
Finally, Tim put the bag aside and leaned over to see the laptop screen. He squinted, able to faintly make out the faint words on the screen—it was an essay about the mechanisms of thermodynamics, complete with charts and diagrams. Further evidence that Danny was pretty smart, he liked that. He frowned, looking around the room again for anything to indicate where he was.
At long last, Tim's eyes caught on a Gotham University mug. His eyes widened.
So, he was still in Gotham. If he was in the actual on-campus dorms, he vaguely knew where he was. There was a safehouse within walking distance. Okay, this wasn't so bad.
"Here, I've got disinfectant, too. Sorry, they usually don't do stuff like that," Danny's voice rang out as he walked back into the main bedroom area, holding a small box of medical supplies. "Here, you want help with it?"
Tim considered it for a long moment. He couldn't exactly see how bad the injury was… Plus, he'd get to be just a little closer to Danny. Yes, please. "If you wouldn't mind, sure. I appreciate it."
"Yeah, man, no problem," Danny said casually, walking up to sit next to him on the bed. His leg brushed against Tim's own, soft as anything. "I won't try to take your mask off, if you're worried about that."
"Honestly, I hadn't thought about it," Tim admitted, turning his face slightly to give Danny access to the wound. The bleeding had slowed down, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched Danny open up a cotton disinfectant pad.
With gentle movements, Danny ran the cotton pad across his cheek, gently scrubbing away crusted and fresh blood alike. The astringent disinfectant stung slightly as it touched the open wound, and Tim couldn't help but let out a soft hiss.
"Sorry," Danny murmured, quiet and sweet. His other hand rose up to hold Tim's face still, his cool fingertips gently pressing into Tim's other cheek. "Almost done cleaning it…"
Tim's chest felt warm, a sharp contrast to the horrible sensation of the ritual earlier. He relaxed, ever so slightly, and his eyes trailed back down to the pamphlet.
"So," Tim began softly, trying to keep his face still as Danny worked, "this happens to you a lot, huh?"
"The sacrifice stuff?" Danny asked, discarding the cotton pad. At Tim's soft hum of agreement, he snorted. "After the first few times, I made the goodie bags. Figured that people should walk away with something nice for their troubles. The pamphlet usually helps, too."
"Smart," Tim said, and he meant it. It helped, too, that Danny's general demeanor was so calm and collected, though he looked absolutely exhausted. "And I'm guessing that I interrupted an essay writing session? Sorry about that, hadn't really planned on dropping in unannounced."
At that, Danny laughed, his tired eyes creasing with a smile. His laugh was warm and pleasant, though a bit weak. Tim couldn't blame him, it was probably well past midnight, if his hazy internal clock could be trusted.
"It's alright, the distraction is nice. I needed a break anyways," Danny said, the smile not quite leaving his voice. "Weird timing, though. They usually don't do sacrifices past, like, ten."
Tim glanced over to the digital alarm clock on the nightstand and noted that it was a bit past 3 in the morning. Ah, okay, so his internal clock wasn't too far off.
It was Tim's turn to huff out a laugh. "Yeah, well… That's actually my fault. They caught me snooping around in their creepy ass sewer headquarters. Honestly, I'm still not sure how they managed it."
"You were snooping around in a cult's headquarters, a cult that used magic to sacrifice you to me, and you're confused about how they found you?" Danny asked, his voice taking on a gently teasing tone. He pulled a small cotton pad out of the kit, carefully pressing it against the shallow wound on Tim's cheek. Finally, he pressed a piece of tape to the cotton to adhere it to his skin. "Magic, man."
"That's cheating," Tim said quietly, carefully going still while the adhesive was applied. Finally, Danny pulled away, leaving Tim with a newly bandaged cheek and slightly flushed cheeks.
Danny smiled at him, and Tim noted that his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of light blue. They caught the lamplight, and Tim's breath caught in his chest for a second.
Smart and beautiful. He was fucked.
"I'm sorry about the whole summoning thing, really," Danny finally said, a sheepish smile gracing his face. "They're… Overzealous. I'm going to try to deal with them when I have time, probably after finals season."
In the back of his mind, Tim immediately started planning. Yes…
"If you wanted…" Tim trailed off, grinning slightly as he caught Danny's gaze. "We could look into it. Do some investigative work, all that."
"Oh, really?" Danny asked, and there was a playful crinkle to his eyes and a sharpness to his smile. "That's a nice offer… And may I know the name of the brave vigilante making it?"
He was playing along and everything. God, he was everything that Tim liked in a guy, the eldritch god stuff notwithstanding.
Tim grinned and held out a hand. "Red Robin, at your service."
"Danny Fenton," Danny said with a smile, taking Tim's hand. "Very nice to meet you."
Tim shook his hand with care, wishing more than anything that they'd met while Tim wasn't in costume. No helping it—he'd just have to get creative.
"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me more about the whole 'Ghost King' stuff now, would you?" Tim asked suddenly, releasing Danny's hand. He couldn't help a smile as he asked, because man that should have been one of his first questions. Sue him, though, getting distracted by a pretty boy!
"That's more of a second date topic, I think," Danny answered, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. Tim absentmindedly wondered if they were as soft as they looked.
Alright, so Danny was forward. That suited Tim just fine. Hell, better than fine—was it warm in here? Oh, fuck, he was blushing.
"Next time, then," Tim promised—Danny laughed again, lovely and warm.
Yep, Tim was well and truly fucked.
Danny pulled two water bottles from the fridge, tucking one under his arm. He moved to go back to the bedroom, when suddenly, he froze.
His chest felt cold—and the room was starting to take on a strange green tint. Crap, a sacrifice? Now?
"Get dressed!" Danny shouted, quickly attempting to straighten his hair. He put the water bottles down on the counter, nearly dropping them in his haste. "We're about to have company!"
In a flash of green light, a large, dark figure appeared in the middle of their living room. They stumbled around, clearly disoriented, before finally straightening and turning around to look at Danny—
"Batman?!" Danny whispered faintly, his eyes going wide. He pulled the front of his robe fully shut, suddenly very aware of the fact that his boyfriend's dad was standing in his living room. "Oh, god, um… Hi?"
To his relief, Bruce didn't look much worse for wear. There was a bruise beginning to bloom along the side of his jaw, and he wa still panting heavily, but he was otherwise unharmed. Unharmed, and standing in front of Danny, who was acutely aware that he, himself, was visibly sweaty and had a few love bites along his neck.
"You're-" Batman started, the growl in his voice faltering as he looked around. He clearly realized exactly where he was, in Tim's apartment, and he turned to look at Danny with a solemn expression. When he finally spoke, he was quiet. "…Does he know? That you're…?"
Danny winced. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally opened it again. He raised his voice, his eyes flickering to the bedroom door. "Um… Babe?! Tim!"
There was a faint rustling from the bedroom, but no reply. Danny wanted, very badly, to sink into the floor.
"Tim, get out here- your dad got sacrificed!" Danny finally caved and shouted, his face heating up as Batman—Bruce gave him an unimpressed frown.
"WHAT?" Tim shouted, finally bolting out of the bedroom—wearing nothing but his boxers and one of Danny's shirts.
"Pants-!" Danny squeaked, his face going red at the sight of the hickeys along Tim's thighs. "Pants, Tim! Please!"
Tim visibly grimaced, pulling the shirt down lower—and, because the universe hated Danny, exposing a bright red bite mark on his neck. God. "Oh, fuck- hey, Bruce. Uh, you know Danny."
Without ceremony, Bruce pulled down the cowl and gave Tim a thoroughly unimpressed scowl. For a long moment, he didn't say anything, instead just pinching the bridge of his nose and looking up towards the ceiling.
Finally, Bruce murmured, "Yes, we've met."
Danny, who was pretty sure that his face couldn't get any more red, quietly walked across the room and grabbed his backpack. He unzipped it and quickly pulled out one of the pamphlets. He was so lucky that he'd remembered to bring a few of them with him.
He walked back up to Bruce, held out the pamphlet, and gave him a sheepish smile.
"Um, there's a 'Frequently Asked Questions' section, if you want to just… Yeah. Sorry about being sacrificed," Danny offered, wincing slightly. Finally, Bruce took the paper and began reading, the world's most put-upon expression on his face.
With that, Danny stepped over to Tim, entirely mortified, and tucked his face into his boyfriend's shoulder. He could still feel his face burning.
'Mortifying' didn't even begin to cover it.
He felt Tim start petting a hand over his hair, fingers carding through dark strands. Tim, very softly, informed him, "He doesn't care, you know. It's okay, really."
Danny made a quiet, horrified sound, and pressed himself harder into Tim's arm.
At long last, he heard Bruce clear his throat, and Danny gathered enough strength to look up at him. He cringed, expecting the worst, but he didn't receive it.
"Is… Hm. Is this how you two met?" Bruce finally asked, giving Tim a curious frown.
"Yeah," Tim said, and though Danny wasn't looking at him, he could hear the smile in his voice. If this weren't the world's most embarrassing situation, Danny would have been tempted to kiss him. "I got sacrificed while doing recon on the cult. Ended up in Danny's dorm room."
Bruce hummed, nodding quite seriously. He looked down at Danny, clearly more thoughtful than anything else.
"And… You're the king of ghosts."
"Yes, sir," Danny said, averting his eyes.
"I see," Bruce said, glancing between Tim and Danny. "What does that title entail?"
"There's a page about that in the pamphlet," Tim said, pointing to the item in question. He was strangely calm, which was great because Danny was still pretty horrified. "He's in charge of ghosts. Meta stuff, basically."
"Do you have any… world domination plans?" Bruce asked haltingly, and Tim groaned.
"Bruce, seriously? He's still the same guy-"
"It doesn't hurt to check, Tim."
Danny smiled sheepishly. "No sir, I don't have any plans for world domination. Maybe, um, after I graduate? That's- that's a joke. I'm joking."
Bruce nodded sharply, clearly accepting his answer. "Good, that's… Yep, good. Alright, that's- well, if I have more questions, I'll contact Tim."
"Yes, sir," Danny said, nodding. He couldn't help but smile slightly, inwardly relieved. "Thank you for being… You know, nice about the whole- yeah."
"Of course, I wouldn't…" Bruce trailed off, clearly thinking very seriously. Finally, he met Danny's eyes and said, very firmly, "I'd never think less of you for something like that. You don't need to be ashamed, Danny."
Oh.
Danny swallowed thickly, suddenly very aware of a burning sensation in his eyes. He blinked, clearing his throat slightly, and nodded. "That's- thank you, sir. I appreciate that."
Tim wrapped an arm around Danny's shoulders, squeezing him closer. Danny smiled, leaning into the warm embrace.
Admittedly, this wasn't how Danny thought they'd end the evening, but it really wasn't so bad.