Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing is. 

The thing is. It’s not Danny’s fault that senior English was full of books like Dracula and Carmilla, and when everything went pear-shaped a month before graduation, that’s specifically what he had on him and hell, might as well stuff it into the bug-out bag so he has something to read on the bus instead of mentally spiraling into oblivion! 

(Who created the phrase pear-shaped? What did they have against pears, pears are delicious- no, focus, okay? Where were we-)

It’s also not Danny’s fault that one of the curses on Gotham makes a lot of weird shit look creepier than it is. Shadows are deeper and more monster-shaped, the puddles dirtier, the gargoyles look like their eyes are following you, etc. It’s like an unholy metaphysical Instagram filter. One can only guess that someone, or maybe too many someones, thought that Gotham should look the way she felt at night. 

(The curse is absolutely wrong that ectoplasm being blood-red is scarier than the green splatters that decorated a particular basement laboratory.) 

Now, Gotham herself has been welcoming, but one of her tips was “If you’re seen, make it worth being seen,” and that’s either very serious or very theater-lover of her and Danny really can’t tell. He settled here after a few years of wandering with Ellie because as fun as it was, there are few places in the world with enough ambient ectoplasm to let him not feel constantly drained.

Ectoplasm in Gotham is enough to keep him alive as he ever gets, even mostly without food as his situation has been. It’s not like he’s expending a ton of energy fighting other ghosts every day. Still, one of the gadgets he packed is an ecto-condenser/thermos combo, and every couple weeks he gets to drink a delicious distillation of a very emotion-filled environment. It’s the best way Danny has ever consumed ecto in his life, which admittedly is a low bar but hey, silver linings, right? The atmospheric ecto in Amity didn’t have nearly this much flavor. 

So one day, when Danny is walking through an alley with a thermos full of delicious ectoplasm and a mugger holds a knife up and then knocks the thermos out of his hands, spilling the remaining half, it’s 100% completely justified that Danny goes a little feral on the guy. Danny can lose his temper a little bit, as a treat, since one of the few good things of living in fucking Gotham is ruined , and this mugger needs to learn to respect people’s liquids. 

(Does that double as an anti-stabbing metaphor? Yes, it does, thank you for noticing.)

Danny’s fangs and claws are out, his eyes are glowing, and there’s an aggressive chill in the air as he smacks the knife out of the mugger’s hand and tackles him to the ground. From there, the plan is to claw the guy’s face a bit but mostly be very terrifying. 

(If Danny was asked, he might justify the lack of actual life-threatening intended harm as being due to the idea that the mugger might just be trying to feed his family or something. This justification was come up with later— the truth is, Danny is a petty motherfucker and being scared that a monster will eat/kill you is a more embarrassing punishment to give than death.)

The plan is ruined, though. Bitch. No, instead the fucking Batman swoops in way too quietly and Danny startles like a cat seeing a cucumber— and in the opposite way from his ecto-condenser. The thermos, glinting slightly from the faded attempts at street lamps, is close to Batman’s feet and the red liquid is all over the ground of this damn alleyway. 

“No… I needed that,” he blurts out in nothing even approaching a whimper. It was like, a totally cool dramatic tension-building statement, for ambiance. 

Yeah. 

Danny is not a pessimist by nature, but he knows that if he cannot get his biweekly fix he will have a significantly harder time not falling into a malaise so Victorian that Sam would commission an oil painting of it and hang it next to her coffin. Yes, thinking of it that way is a coping mechanism to defer thinking about how actually traumatized he may be about his involuntary banishment from everything and everyone he’s ever known (besides Ellie and currently not even her!), what about it, the Jazz in his brain?

So really, there’s only one thing he can do. Danny skitters full-speed across the ground on all fours in a way that humans can’t really do, and as soon as he reaches the thermos it’s in his chest and his chest is turning into mist, just like the rest of him. Batman is whirling around impotently because he’s too late, so long sucker! You aren’t catching Danny tonight! 

This last plan is excellent and Danny pulls it off flawlessly. He flies back to his hideout in an abandoned building in a section no one can get to without intangibility, which is very responsible and safe of him. The ecto-condenser is unharmed and starts processing a new batch. He does not cry a little bit and then start making a ten-step plan to somehow go back to the alley and get the liquid off the ground and get the dirt and gross out and then drink it. 

So! Apart from running into a soup-hating asshole, everything is going well! Danny is getting an A+ in being a homeless undead teen on the run from the government, which is a normal thing to try to achieve. Yahtzee! Nothing he has done has caused the present situation, which is this: 

The mugger thought Danny was a vampire. Batman was later seen equipping Robin with a wooden stake. The rumors get linked to a couple incidents of light vigilantism where Danny couldn’t help himself, and badabing badaboom, everyone thinks there’s a vampire lurking the streets of Gotham.

Obviously, there isn’t. Danny is pretty sure Lady Gotham would have either warned him or made introductions. 

But, and this is the important part, vampires aren’t hated by Gotham. The reaction is a mixture of “I fucking knew it” and “this may as well happen” with a worrying dash of “vampires? hot.” 

The smart person in this situation, realizing that they can get away with passing as a less persecuted type of supernatural being, goes along with it. Leans into it, even. They take everything they learned from movies and books and especially a goth best friend and commit to the fucking bit! They don’t walk anymore, they saunter. They do the sexy lean. They get a tongue piercing. They drink their red ectoplasm while lounging on a random balcony. They stay away from churches but are seen around mausoleums. 

The smart person in this situation decides that if they’re going to pretend to be a vampire, they’re also going to do it classier and better than the two-bit fruitloop wannabe. They turn their handful of clothing items into the most vampire fit you’ve ever imagined, with sexy boots and a shirt with poofy sleeves, none of this borderline lab-wear bullshit. They also start looking for an abandoned place with more panache and atmosphere, because Batman is hunting him down and if excuses for one’s presence must be made directly, it should be done in a dramatic monologue to deter interruptions. 

Hey, it’s Danny by the way. Danny is the smart person in this situation. 

Danny is going fucking ham on this, Gotham is not prepared. Because the thing about most of the ghosts the GIW knows about is that they need to be the center of attention. They must be the biggest thing happening, and if someone tries to upstage them, the collateral damage will probably be considerable. Therefore , if there’s a vampire making a splash in Gotham, there isn’t a powerful ghost hiding there, there can’t be.

QED, Ergo Sum, and all that other confirmatory bullshit. Danny is a fucking genius.

Chapter Text

The argument that Spectra is a unique ghost lies not in her ability to feed on emotions, but how strongly she can do it and how much extra power it gives her. All ghosts feed on emotions to some extent. If you want to get colloquial, the vibes need to be right for a ghost to want to haunt somewhere. 

(Amity’s vibe had apparently been “come ruin this kid’s life and afterlife simultaneously” but Danny isn’t bitter and he’s not making any comparisons. Not at all.) 

Regardless (Seriously, seriously, regardless) of the previous vibes Danny has experienced, the eagerness that Gothamites have for the latest tasty rumor is making the city’s aura more relaxing for him. It gives him just ever slightly more energy, which bodes well for his plan’s next steps. 

These next steps might include the beautiful but closed-down theater near Crime Alley, the tastiest part of the city. Could he like, raid an Amazon warehouse for a few hundred candles and set them up on the stage without burning the place down? Probably not with real fire, but Dora taught him how to conjure minor ghostly flames that one time, he can figure it out again. 

Danny is distracted from his train of thought by a smell unlike anything he’s ever smelled. It’s a particularly smelly smell— no, brain, stop quoting Spongebob, we’re out in the world being classy and mysterious— and Danny finds himself following like it’s pie on a cartoon windowsill. 

A few streets over, the Red Hood is beating up like, a dozen dudes. An impressive amount of dudes, at least for a human, but Red Hood doesn’t smell quite like a human, he smells like the most delicious ecto any world has ever known, at least from Danny’s perspective. One of the goons must have had a serious knife or machete, because there’s a gash across Hood’s wrist that’s dripping onto the ground when the drops aren’t flying with punches and dodging. 

Unaware that his invisibility is less than completely functioning, Danny leans against the wall and watches, eyes following— yes, okay, eyes following the injured wrist. Danny is fully aware that his ghost thirst is perfectly imitating vampiric thirst, thank you very much, and he’s leaning into it on purpose. It’s not because the smell is alluring as the first non-radioactive birthday cake he’d ever had, courtesy of Tucker’s mom. 

The goons are all down, now, and Red Hood is pulling in deep breaths, probably to try and calm down the murderous rage palpable from a dozen yards away. A few moments of that and the crime lord spots the semi-transparent shadow that Danny is right now, with glowing, watching eyes. Red Hood faces the new threat with a gun out, growling— no, those aren’t words, that’s literally just growling. Huh. 

Again, Danny was sure this guy was mostly human but the light leaking out of the helmet’s eyes is green and despite skillful movements during the fight, Red Hood doesn’t seem to be completely home right now. Probably due to the overwhelming levels of delicious ecto? Danny expands his aura over the whole alley so he can get a better idea of the whole sitch, conveniently disrupting any nearby cameras. 

Wow, what the fuck. This dude is like… a revenant or something? But a really sick one, with ectoplasm holding together internal cracks and spilling out and fucking with his head. There’s too much for his body to handle. Regardless of the exquisitely aged (and enraged!) nature of that ecto, this is basically a medical emergency and siphoning off this extra is important for Hood’s health. 

Danny doesn’t stop to think too much about how much his own thirst is affecting this assessment and does what he does best: impulsively try to solve the problem. The easiest way to do this also protects Danny’s cover story, so no problems there. Danny takes his handsome vampiric shape (which is mostly just Phantom dressed in an bomb-ass fit) and floats up to the crime lord. 

“Hey big guy, need some help with that?” he asks Hood, unable to keep himself from licking his lips. 

Hood takes a step to meet Danny which is probably all he can manage in this state, so that’s basically a yes, please save my mind and body from being overwhelmed by too-rich ectoplasm. It’s enough to take the leash off of Danny’s last remaining vestiges of hesitation, so he pushes Hood against the wall gently and uses one gloved hand to guide Hood’s head back for easier neck access. 

Danny sinks his teeth in, instantly curling his toes in his boots because fuck, that’s the tastiest thing in the universe. This is like wine that’s been aged for centuries, probably, not that Danny’s ever had that but no other comparison springs to mind with the intoxicating haze this ecto is already giving him. Wow. Wow. Holy shit. 

Underneath him, Hood is shuddering, but not trying to move away. His body is starting to relax from the tensely coiled spring it was, in fact. If Danny had to guess (which he isn’t in much condition to do at present), he’d compare Hood’s situation to a pressure cooker full of expanding emotions that suddenly had the release valve opened for the first time in who knows how long. 

Can Danny just emphasize, wow, again? Compared to this, the beers he had at the few high school parties he’s been to are just drinkable piss. This is rich and blooming on his tongue, the flavor reminiscent of plums and atmospheric pressure and yes, a little bit of iron. Fuck him, he’s gonna get wasted at this rate so with great difficulty, Danny unlatches his teeth from Hood’s neck, tongue lapping at the small puncture marks to make sure he doesn’t miss an errant drop. 

For a moment, Danny can’t make himself move, and he’s not drinking anymore so it’s more like he’s kissing Hood’s neck. That’s not kosher without more specific permission, though, so with a stuttered breath he floats back, eyes blinking closed as he tries to get a grip on himself. It’s hard; Danny feels warm and happy and kinda just wants to curl up like a cat somewhere. 

Red Hood seems to be reeling too— the relief must be overwhelming, so when the crime lord starts sliding down the wall, Danny helps him sit down and put his head between his knees as much as the body armor allows for. The purer ecto that Danny emits will heal Hood a bit, particularly the bite mark. It might not even show in a day or so. 

“Probably best to sit there for a few minutes, big guy, I bet you haven’t been able to relax in years,” Danny advises, not even having to try to make his tone sultry. You know, for the bit. And he doesn’t have to try because of practice, not because he’s tipsy and still a bit breathless from the intimacy of his lips on Hood’s skin. 

Hm. It’s probably time to get out of here before someone finds them and gets the wrong impression. The wrong impression being that he didn’t ask first, because Jazz raised Danny right and consent is important, even when masquerading as a bloodthirsty creature of the night. Lady Gotham will hide her favorite until he recovers a bit, and Danny can go take the best nap of his life. 

Danny’s execution of excellent plans continues.

Chapter Text

Jason is well aware that there’s a vampire lurking in Gotham. He hasn’t been carrying round stakes or garlic, because the All Blades will work if the vampire is evil and it’s entirely possible the vampire is just one more desperate soul trying to hide in Gotham’s miasma. 

(Do vampires have souls? The literature is divided on the subject, but Jason isn’t going to assume negatively either way. He’s seen enough shit to believe that vampires could just be another species living on Earth, trying to get by.) 

No reports reach Jason about bloodless corpses found in his territory, the working guys, girls, and others are never approached, no children go missing in ways out of the ordinary. There is a minor robbery from a blood bank from around the time these rumors started that might be related, but the vampire hasn’t hurt anyone. Jason doesn’t have that infernal bat urge to go force a confrontation for the sake of interrogation. 

(Well, that’s maybe not completely true. One of his goons with a talent for sketching saw the vampire and drew them, and Jason does want to know where he got that shirt. It’d be perfect for the Renaissance Festival if Jason gets to go this year. The fact that the vampire is apparently really hot does not factor in.) 

This becomes moot on a moonlit night, where Jason has the pit rage running through his veins high enough that he’s almost blacked out. There’s not enough rationality left in his mind to hope that the gang he’s beating up deserve the level of brutality they’re getting— it’s a very high level of brutality because Jason is very high on that rage and it’s a good thing that he’s not conscious enough to have that thought. It would probably bring up bad memories because that’s another curse of the pits, that his pre-death memories are tainted and scattered and faded, poisoned with that green negativity. He can barely recall the good times with Catherine anymore, just the needles and the slump and- 

It’s fine. He’s not thinking about that right now because he’s not thinking. The rage has only dimmed a bit with all his current enemies on the ground, groaning or unconscious, and it’d be so easy to finish them off, either with his gun or one of his many knives. Instead, Jason takes deep breaths and tries to convince himself that zip ties will be sufficient, even just for now. 

Something pings his senses like a chill, and a glance around reveals eyes watching the scene— no, eyes watching Jason, specifically. Two glowing blue eyes turn a shadow into a shape with a head, torso, arms, and a tail, only distinct due to the barest glow around the edges. Instantly Jason levels a gun in that direction, but when he tries to threaten the creature, only a growl comes out. 

(Maybe the growl is better, a more rational Jason might have thought. Maybe it’s the clearer way to communicate, with the way he feels a small answering rumble not in his ears but in his chest.) 

Jason doesn’t think he blinked, but the shadow flickers into a vaguely familiar shape, and wow, the drawing really did not do this vampire justice. This being is a snack , and they’re (he’s?) looking at Jason like Jason is a snack, and the pits are frozen in that gaze. 

“Hey big guy, need some help with that?” he asks Hood,  licking his lips (!) out in the open (!!) in a way that feels borderline lewd (!!!) to Jason’s limited green vision. Another maybe blink and the vampire is in front of him, almost within reach, and Jason— 

Jason’s vision is still green and driving him to do something, anything, even if it’s not violence. He takes a step forward to find out what that something is, but then he’s not moving forward, he’s being pressed against the alley wall by this vampire twink, neck forcibly bared so sharp teeth can sink in and—

Cool relief slides past his thoughts of being trapped, being helpless, because it doesn’t feel… bad. It doesn’t feel bad at all, even the sharpness gone through skin to a vein. The vampire has his body pressed against Jason’s, one hand holding his head back and the other against his chest in a way that would support Jason if his knees gave out, which they are definitely considering doing. 

The way Jason relaxes isn’t intentional. Does the bite come with venom? Is this a supernatural anesthesia situation? It feels like the swirling burning pit rage is being sucked out of him, which is a relief so strong Jason begins to shudder a bit. It’s not to press up closer to the being that’s feeding from him, he still has enough of the ghost of self-control, it’s just… there’s a bit of emotional feedback, or something. Faint feelings of satisfaction and even pleasure echoing through Jason’s bloodstream. 

When the vampire slowly draws his teeth out, Jason nearly whines with the sensation, the soft feeling of a tongue sucking and licking the wound. It’s not sensual in a horny way, Jason will tell himself later. It’s just overwhelming to his senses. Maybe the vampire’s senses too, judging by the hesitation to move away. Or maybe he wants more, to drain Jason— well, Jason feels pretty drained, although not necessarily in a blood loss way. He’s very familiar with the way blood loss feels, you know, and the way he’s sliding down the wall is not quite like that. 

The vampire is gentle, now. The arms that felt so immovable guide Jason into a sitting position, knees up to rest his head on. 

“Probably best to sit there for a few minutes, big guy, I bet you haven’t been able to relax in years,”

If Jason was currently capable of speech, he would reply something that would make the vampire explain himself, or even just talk more in that breathy tone. Jesus. Not in a horny way. Jason is really just relieved by the sudden easing of the pits and maybe venom of some kind. 

After he rests, he’ll go see Doc Thompson for a tox screen. No biggie. As his eyes begin to flutter themselves shut without permission, he sees the vampire take zip ties from Hood’s pockets and begin to truss up the goons so they can’t wake up and take advantage, which is very polite for someone who just drank him like a capri sun. 

Jason falls into unconsciousness like he’s being lowered gently into it, and doesn’t wake up until the sun rises. 

Chapter Text

Doc Thompkins is honestly almost as adept as Alfred at expressing just how unimpressed with Jason she is, probably because she and Alfred are long-time friends. “So you let a vampire-type being drink your blood, and then you passed out on the street.”

Okay, when she says it like that, it sounds like choices that Jason actually made rather than was pushed into by pit rage and whatever the hell the twink had going on. “It wasn’t so much letting ,” he mutters, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. 

“Mhmm,” Doc says, judgment in the arch of her brow as she draws his blood. Jason decides to take it as a compliment to her faith in his fighting abilities. She takes him through the usual tests to check alertness, notes the way the bite marks are healed to the barest remainder, and disinfects the knife cut on his wrist that is also more healed than expected. 

(Does it make sense, evolutionarily speaking, for a blood-drinking creature to heal those they fed upon? Only if they fed on the same prey repeatedly instead of draining anyone dry… which is something to consider once he’s not at the clinic, purely for strategic purposes re: protecting Crime Alley.)

Nothing seems to be abnormal from his post-resurrection baseline, but maybe the blood work will find something that explains his sense of ease. Jason doesn’t feel like his mental state is being altered, it’s just that the whispers of the pit are far quieter than they usually are this soon after an episode. Which, fuck, that’s a nice break! Usually coming back down is a much longer and shittier process! But also, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and that’s a truth Jason has had impressed upon his very bones, from birth to death to now. 

Jason goes home and showers and contemplates the way that his check-in with Babs when he woke up felt like she’d been worried about him, instead of judging him for not getting through his patrol. It seems reasonable right now to think of her as worried because she cares, but a few pit episodes ago she’d said the same thing and at the time, he’d been sure it was exasperation and judgment. 

Look, Jason knows that the pit affects his mind even outside the rage, okay? He knows it’s not just given him a hair-trigger temper and a more negative and paranoid outlook. The extent of that though has not been completely clear, what with the trouble recalling anything Before without that green tinted perspective. It’s probably not clearer now, but it feels like it is. 

Right now, he can remember Catherine reading to him, Alfred teaching him to bake bread, Dick taking him for ice cream after school, even moments with Bruce that made him feel safe. It’s fucking disconcerting— if he’d remembered things this way after his resurrection, he might have gone straight home instead of becoming a damned crime lord. What the fuck. 

Okay. Calm down. There are two possibilities: either the vampire left him with some kind of happy venom that Doc Thompkins hasn’t detected, or somehow the pit rage is in his blood and when the vampire drank it, he reduced the influence of the pits. Jason really doesn’t know which is more likely, but it’s probably worth reaching out to a few contacts to see if anyone has a clue. He's going to get to the bottom of this.

—————

When the tabloids start speculating on Gotham’s new vampire, Danny knows he’s running out of time for a very serious aspect of his vampiresona, and that’s the damn name. He is NOT having another Inviso-Bill situation, no sir! Fuck that.

He’s already talked to Sam this week— keeping their check-ins infrequent is important for safety reasons— so instead, he tries to think back to the Castlevania games he and Tucker played through in middle school because Sam was obsessed with them. Obviously anything close to Vlad is out of the question. Would it be fun and ironic to choose the name of a vampire hunter, like Belmont? Hm, no, Belmont sounds like a prissy rich boy who would shove you down the stairs at a prep school. Ugh. Hector, maybe? Danny’s memory isn’t great, and a trip down the wiki doesn’t result in anything that really speaks to him. Literally googling vampire names finds him Vesper which sounds cool but is it too Vlad-like to have it also start with a V? 

What if he went more ancient sounding, took advantage of the time travel bullshit he’d been through and pretended to be thousands of years old? Something like Asterius would be pretty rad. Wait, isn’t that the name of a vampire in the new Baldur’s Gate game? 

Danny lays on the floor of his hidey-hole and groans. It’s too hard to make a decision right now, he’s actually really tired from looking for a proper lair. There’s an abandoned church that looks cool if he feels like making up some different vampire lore, the theater, and then a couple mansions he still needs to confirm are empty. If he was eating regularly, flying around so much for this research (and stealing fancy clothes) wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s not eating regularly because he needs to stretch out the money Sam gave him for surviving outside Amity. 

Whatever. Hierarchy of needs or whatever Jazz told him about says physical safety is the most important, right? Something like that. And this vampire con will help ensure that, so really it’s for the best that he puts his energy into that now. What sort of places can he show up to build his credibility while avoiding Batman’s usual haunts? The answer lays with 90’s television: nightclubs and underground raves. He could appear out of the shadows, maybe sit on a rafter or on top of some tall furniture and look like he's looking for someone in the ground to drink. 

Of course, the small problem with that is that Danny, looking like the cover of one of Sam’s many vampire romance novels, will probably run into people who are uh, into that. And will hit on him. Hence the staying up high, but Danny has lurked across of enough of Gotham’s tweeter-sphere to know that this city’s occupants are not fucking normal, so a backup plan would be best. Would it conflict too much with vampire lore to claim he’s asexual? Probably. If literature class has taught him anything, it’s that legends of vampirism are inherently related to sex and how society views it. 

Danny doesn’t have a problem being seen as sexy, even by large numbers of people. As long as he doesn’t breach containment from Gotham, it’s way nicer than being considered non-sentient! (Yeah yeah, low bar, he knows.) And better different problems than his old problems, honestly.

The difficulty in getting a non-blurry photo of Danny makes this plan safe, okay? That’s what he’s been telling Team Phantom, and Sam thinks it’s a great plan. The fact that the plan is one that she might’ve come up with herself does not detract from her support of it. 

Enough of wandering with his brain. He hasn’t slept since that very delightful post-crime-lord-snack-nap, so it's high time he does.

Chapter Text

To say that Tim Drake is interested in the vampire case Bruce has been obsessing over would be to use one word where many are due. In Tim’s mind, someone needs to look at it more objectively, because Bruce doesn’t seem to be able to; it’s probably because the actual Vlad Dracula tried to take over Gotham very earlier in Batman’s career and Alfred had been in danger. If this vampire is connected to Dracula, they might even know things like where the Batcave is, if Dracula told someone before being disintegrated. 

Tim doesn’t blame Bruce for that. Alfred in danger is a terrible concept and no one that’s been under the butler’s care would ever say differently. Alfred is legitimately one of the best people Tim has ever met. 

Still, with as many fellow vigilantes as Batman now has as allies, Alfred being in danger is much less of a concern and this new vampire should be evaluated as a completely separate entity. There are multiple differences between the two so far: 

1. Appearance: No one has been able to get a picture of the new vampire, even Babs with her cameras, as technology seems to not work properly whenever the vampire is around. This was the case even for Batman’s cowl camera during the initial encounter. This too is different from Vlad Dracula, but according to Bruce’s meticulous description the new vampire was pretty obviously not human, with white hair poking out from underneath a hoodie, glowing eyes, fangs, claws, and green gums/tongue instead of red. Further sightings around Gotham report pointed ears and a more “vampire-y” outfit. If the new vampire has a more human facade, it hasn’t been seen/recognized. 
2. Feeding habits: While Dracula seems to have needed to feed on people pretty regularly and turned almost all of his victims into vampires themselves, the new vampire hasn’t been witnessed feeding on anyone and there are no reports of other vampires or of people disappearing that can be linked to him. The new vampire has been seen drinking out of the thermos Batman saw spilled as well as more recently a large wine glass. There has been only one blood bank theft that they know of, and it was only half a dozen bags, probably not enough to last for weeks. Due to lack of cameras, they don’t know for sure if the theft was before or after Batman’s encounter with the vampire, only that it was the same night. 
3. Technology: Batman had only gotten a quick glance, but the thermos that the vampire had had risked getting close to Batman for seemed to be more than a mere container. It had been green and silver with panels and buttons on it. Tim’s current top theories are that it either keeps blood fresh for drinking longer than a normal thermos, like a portable refrigerator, or it’s a device that synthesizes a blood substitute for the vampire to subsist on. Where the vampire had gotten it is another question, but either way Dracula hadn’t used any technology so that’s a clear difference in behavior. 
4. Existence of evil plans: the new vampire seemed desperately thirsty that first night, but they haven’t seen any evidence of an overarching plot to gain power or influence people or anything yet. There’s only been random sightings of the aforementioned drinking, usually ending with a wink to the observer and the disappearance of the vampire. This is a pretty sharp contrast with Dracula’s plan to take over Gotham by turning everyone in it. The new vampire also hasn’t gone around saying things like “I am the prince of darkness, evil incarnate” but maybe that’s a final confrontation sort of thing. 

This case has honestly been a great distraction for Tim. Things aren’t going… well, things are less than ideal, in spite of Bruce being back from being lost in the time stream. Maybe it’d been foolish of Tim to assume, but he’d kinda thought that getting Bruce back would improve his relationships with Dick and Damian. That they’d be grateful. But Damian is nearly as hostile as ever and Dick hasn’t actually apologized for taking the mantle of Robin away without asking, without even the courtesy of a heads up. Bruce himself had given Tim a single grateful hug and then never brought it up again. 

(Sure, Tim hasn’t told them what he did during that year, working with Ra’s and nearly dying a thousand times and getting his spleen stolen and hey, Tim is still getting periodic assassination attempts! But even if it had been all sunshine and rainbows, it would be nice if Dick expressed regret for threatening Tim with Arkham for being correct about Bruce not being dead .) 

But this is… this is probably what Tim deserves, after butting into the family via blackmail in the first place. He’s only worth having around when he’s useful, that’s a lesson he learned at a very young age. If Tim’s dad ever comes out of that coma, he’s certainly not going to say thank you for keeping Drake Enterprises afloat and making sure he got the best long-term care! That would be ridiculous. 

Anyways. Cass being in Hong Kong and Stephanie being dead doesn’t help either, and Jason… well, Jason isn’t actively trying to kill Tim anymore, but on more pit-fueled days will still take pot shots if Red Robin crosses into Crime Alley territory. Barbara is busy and they aren’t close anyways. All this to say, Tim has plenty of free time to throw himself into this case and as always, his usefulness to prove. 

There are rumors that the vampire has been lurking in nightclubs and raves. Neither Red Robin nor Timothy Drake are very good for infiltrating these places, so he’s going to have to come up with someone that the vampire might want to talk to. What kind of persona that might be, Tim doesn’t know yet, but he’s sure he can do it after a bit more research. Someone that will fit in at a club, at any rate.

He can do this. He’s going to solve this case, and everything will be better.

Chapter Text

The vampire is here. Why is he here? How is he here, in this specific spot? Much less laying down mid-air in a pose not terribly far off from a “Draw me like one of your French girls” joke. Not naked, of course, and not that his mind spent a second more on that comparison than it should. 

“Hey, if I get rid of those guys for you, can I have some of your blood?” he asks in an unexpectedly polite tone. It’s incongruous to the chill that’s emanating from his presence. 

What the fuck. He’s asking now? Jason as Red Hood is literally hiding in an office in a large warehouse where a bunch of Black Mask’s idiots are organizing themselves to hunt down and kill him. They have many large caliber guns of the automatic variety and have a jammer running so he can’t call for backup. How did he even find him here?  “Are you fucking serious?” Jason demands. 

“Nah, he won’t take my calls. Him being the dog star is pretty fitting actually, but I’m a sucker for guys who are mean to me,” the vampire banters back, winking. Jesus. No time to unpack all that.

Honestly, Jason is shocked he hasn’t lost control of the pit in response to this disconcerting nonchalance. The levels of green rage have been steadily rising for the past few days, and the fact that one of his men doesn’t know better than to betray him to Black Mask’s latest encroachment on Hood’s territory is concerning. It’s like everyone has forgotten the duffle bag full of heads just because he’s been killing less lately. 

(This betrayal is absolutely B’s fault. Sure, he’s not the only one who thinks the no killing rule should exist, but he's the only one who specifically put that rule— and the Joker’s life— above his love for Jason. That’s something Jason can’t and won’t forgive. The fact that his family all want Jason to stop killing as if they don’t work with other heroes who do use lethal force is also infuriating. Do they really think they have more of a claim on Gotham than Jason does? He kills for good reason, fuckers.) 

Jason is angry, and he could give into it right now and fuck up Black Mask’s men himself. He doesn’t need help, it’ll be risky and difficult with how many there are and the weapons they’ve got with them, but he can take care of it himself because he’s a fucking badass, okay? And if one more fucking person questions the lengths he’ll go to in order to protect his turf, he’s gonna take out the live ammo and stop aiming for kneecaps. 

“I know you can handle it yourself, I saw you thrash those goons in the alley,” the vampire adds as if he’d read Jason’s mind. Hopefully he can’t. “It’s just that you’re unreasonably delicious so I figured I’d offer a little… quid pro quo, you know?” 

The look the vampire gives him is decidedly thirsty, and Jason isn’t sure what to do with it or the information that he’s apparently delicious. 

(If the vampire thinks he’s delicious, odds are he’s going to keep coming back. His aura is not evil, so the All-Blades won’t work and staking him would probably be overkill. Not that Jason doesn’t believe in overkill— he loves overkill, actually— but maybe, just maybe, this is a situation he can take advantage of, if only to get more information.) 

Jason was raised by the Bat. More information is always useful, so it’s time to turn this all to his own advantage, and quickly before this hiding spot is discovered.

 “I have conditions,” he starts, and watches as the vampire quite literally lights up, pale blue eyes taking on a focused shine. It’s unfairly pretty. 

“No more drinking than you can handle, of course,” the vampire purrs. “I’ll stop before it’s dangerous or if you want to be done before then, I don’t like to drink from non-consenting beings.”

Either his version of consent is flexible or he had no idea how fucked up and unable to reason Jason was last time they met. If the latter is the case, Jason doesn’t want to tip him off. “Good. You sure you can take on all those goons?” he asks next. “There’s at least thirty of them.” 

(At least the traitor and Black Mask are taking Red Hood seriously— much less than that and it hardly counts as a directed hit.) 

“I’ll go invisible and knock them out, not a problem at all,” the vampire assures him. “Anything else? You wanna choose where I bite you this time?” 

Jason nods, because like fuck does he feel like baring his neck right now. “I do. Now, are you gonna show me what you can do, or keep chattering uselessly?” His voice comes out through his helmet’s voice modulator low and gruff, and he’s surprised to see the vamp blush ever so slightly green before smiling devilishly and disappearing. 

Huh. Maybe he wasn’t joking about liking it when guys were mean to him. 

Now that he has the time, Jason uses his phone to hack past the signal jammer and into the warehouse’s cameras. It takes him three minutes, which is enough time for the vampire to take out literally all of Black Mask’s best fighters. The vamp is now (invisibly) dragging them all to a single room and tying them all up thoroughly with some rope that was laying around. Their weapons are in a pile in a different room. 

Well fuck Jason for thinking it might be a little bit of a challenge for him. Damn. That’s a definite boost to the threat assessment. Is this guy a vigilante or mercenary on the side or something? Are vampires just this strong? Surely he would have heard of him if he went around doing shit like that.

Before long, there’s a slightly cold tingle in the air and the vampire is back, looking extremely smug as he lounges in the air like he’s sitting. “How’d you like that, big guy?” 

Jason is silent for a moment, trying to decide if the fact that he did like it is a sign he’s being hypnotized or something. There’s still green at the edges of his vision, but he feels in control as he holds it back. 

(Part of Jason is repulsed that anyone would want to drink his blood, as fucked up as he is from, you know, everything. Another part, a part that feels connected to the pits, only feels a tense anticipation. Together it’s a total head trip, and he’s not even being bitten yet.) 

“You have a name?” he says at last. 

The vampire… hesitates. What, does he work on Rumplestiltskin rules or something? Is he afraid of being googled? Is sharing his name a super intimate gesture, moreso than making out with Jason’s neck (with teeth?) 

“It’s Da- uh, Dante,” he answers at last, looking at Jason from underneath unfairly long eyelashes. His voice is soft, but as he finally starts floating closer, his gaze is anything but. It’s obvious that Dante wants to feed on Jason to the exclusion of nearly every other thought process, dilated pupils and all. Still, he stops a couple feet away to wait for Jason to offer himself up. Maybe he knows that Jason will shoot him if he doesn’t. 

Swallowing a sigh (he did agree to this), Jason sits down on the decrepit office chair left for years to languish in the dusty room and slowly takes his left glove off, noting the way those beautiful blue eyes track the movement. Next, he folds up his jacket sleeve a few inches, before finally holding out his wrist. 

“Go ahead,” Jason says. Based on last time, he expects Dante to dive right in, and the eagernesses rolling off him supports that hypothesis. Instead, Dante runs a long, green tongue over his fangs and slowly inches forward to take the wrist in one hand, delicately lifting it up to his mouth to inhale the scent. 

Gently, hovering right in front of Jason, Dante sinks his teeth in, eyes not leaving Jason’s red helmet as if he could see his eyes underneath. It doesn’t hurt as much as Jason expects, even as Dante removes his teeth for a moment to lick the wound before biting back down with a small, pleased hiss. 

This is— this is an act more sensual than Jason has possibly ever been involved with. It’s like Dante has read all those trashy vampire romance novels and decided to make the most of that reputation, but without the creep factor. It’s not like Jason is into it, he’s really actually definitely not, but the eye contact is intimate, the mouth on his wrist, on his pulse point, is intimate in a way that he didn’t think he could feel, as angry as he’d been not ten minutes earlier. 

(How long has it been, since someone so deliberately touched him with this level of gentleness? Was it when his corpse was cradled by his grieving father, only to be later spat upon when he came back bigger and stronger and different? He doesn’t know. The pit doesn’t let him remember that kind of thing clearly.) 

Dante gently sucks at his wrist, eyelids starting to flutter with an expression of pleasure, and Jason has to ask himself just how delicious this vampire actually thinks his blood is, because based on appearance alone, it’s the best thing to ever happen to him. Dante’s back arches a bit, but he keeps bringing his eyes back to Jason’s, or at least the helmet’s eyes. 

Jason is suddenly very, very grateful to be wearing his helmet. If Dante could actually watch his face, this would be far too embarrassing an experience. As it is, he will absolutely never be telling any of the bats and birds about this. 

Minutes pass slowly. As before, Jason’s rage and the green edges in his vision slowly ebb as Dante continues to suck and lap at his wrist. Jason tries to think of it as another data point instead of a unique, targeted relief. If Dante knows he’s having this effect, then he might try holding it over Jason’s head, and that’s simply not how this needs to work. 

(Is it just a data point that this vampire has a tongue piercing, the cool metal a contrast to a warm, but not human warm, mouth? Yes, yes it is, Jason’s rational mind insists far more weakly than it should.) 

Fuck. He needs to end this before he gets too complacent. Black Mask will send someone to check on this trap soon, right? It’s time to leave. 

Jason begins to draw his wrist back from Dante’s grasp and is met with a noise— he’s not identifying the noise right now, it was just a noise, and the teeth are leaving his wrist, that green tongue running back and forth so as to not spill a drop. 

Dante’s eyes flutter closed as he lets go of Jason, and he spins in the air to look up at the ceiling. “Wow,” he whispers, nearly slurring the word. “Wow.” 

Suddenly, Jason feels a lot better about this situation, because for all the strength and ability Dante seems to hold, it appears that all the lurid prose about “blood so delicious it’s intoxicating” isn’t far off. If Jason’s observation skills haven’t abandoned him, this vampire is actually somewhat drunk, happily floating and licking any stray bits of red from his mouth. 

It’s Jason who holds the cards here. It’s Jason that is in control. Even as relaxed as he feels, Jason could pull out a gun and shoot Dante in the head easily, or throw holy water on him, or whatever he needed to do. This experiment is proven not to be stupid and risky, it’s a huge success. Jason can now probably get a hot- er, strong vampire to do favors for him in exchange for some blood Jason won’t even miss, with the added bonus of a blunt’s worth of relaxation. This was a transaction. 

(The look in Dante’s eyes of delight and relief and gratitude— of sheer blissful appreciation— the way his long fingers wrapped around Jason’s wrist—)

If Jason is smart about this, this is an advantage that no one will see coming until it’s too late. And if he keeps his brain firmly in this line of thought, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. 

Chapter Text

Danny is in negotiations with Lady Gotham to use the beautiful abandoned theater as his haunt when something in the air changes, a tint of rage from miles away. 

“Oh ho, feel him echoing outside his haunt, do you?” Gotham grins. “I told you this location wasn’t right for you if you want to be outside his range.”

Ohhhhh sweet baby Jesus eating corn on the cob, Danny is in trouble. Gotham has been toying with him for days about this place, and this is the first time she’s mentioned the proximity to Red Hood as a factor. Danny knows he’s only a couple blocks away from the haunt’s boundary, but for most undead, that’s plenty of room. 

Judging by the way Lady Gotham’s aura is bubbling, she’s drawn out their discussion so that Danny can feel Red Hood’s aura synchronizing with that of his haunt’s in such a tempestuous manner. If by tempestuous (and that is a word she would use) he means like a wind-driven wildfire, racing across a dry grassland. 

(Why, Gotham. Why. He’s getting plenty of nutrition, thank you very much, and it’s dangerous to go back and drink ecto from the crime lord! Even if Red Hood is Lady Gotham’s favorite, hell especially because he is. Gotham is made up of almost even parts of hope and violence. What had Hood gone through, to be so like her?) 

“I didn’t think I’d feel it so hard outside his haunt,” Danny admits, green tinged ears drooping slightly. 

He really should have expected it though, with how synced Hood is with Gotham at large. 

“Perhaps you should go see what has him all worked up?” Lady Gotham says, blowing out smog like cigarette smoke. “It’s not like you won’t want to in a few moments when the smell arrives.”

Arguing at this point would be an exercise in humiliation, so Danny simply sighs and bows politely to her before flying in a loop and up into the air. He passes through the roof so he can get a better view to where he’s headed— naturally, it’s one of Gotham’s warehouse districts. It’s not terribly far from Hood’s territory but nearly on the other side of it from where Danny was. He’s careful to skirt the boundary. 

By the time Danny has flown halfway there, he can smell Hood’s delicious fermented ecto— it’s nearly as intense as last time, which again is definitely more than is healthy for Hood. Danny isn’t sure why it’s rage specifically that keeps generating and getting stuck in the ecto, but maybe that’s just the nature of that particular vintage of ecto. Where had he gotten it? How injured/dubiously living had he been when he was exposed?

Well, right now it hardly matters. Right now what matters is helping Hood out by draining that extra, with the wonderful side effect of feeding Danny the most delicious meal/drink he’s ever had. Also, why are Black Mask’s men guarding the entrances to this warehouse?

Danny investigates invisibly and hurriedly: it looks like Black Mask set a trap for Red Hood, who seems to have retreated to form a plan or something. This is actually perfect, because now Danny can offer a trade! He definitely wants to keep on Hood’s good side, after all.

After flying into the room Red Hood is hiding in, Danny strikes a casual pose (so as to not seem TOO thirsty) and becomes visible. “Hey, if I get rid of those guys for you, can I have some of your blood?” Danny asks politely— Jazz raised him right, after all. 

 “Are you fucking serious?” Hood demands after a few seconds of staring, or at least probably staring? The helmet hides his gaze but the intent from his aura feels like he’s staring. 

(Ooo! Hell yes! Hood has activated one of his trap cards, and by trap cards Danny means a phrase that Danny has already thought of a response for, during the long daytime hours that he spends in human form.) 

“Nah, he won’t take my calls. Him being the dog star is pretty fitting actually, but I’m a sucker for guys who are mean to me,” Danny banters, winking. 

Red Hood doesn’t answer, but his aura is turning from betrayal-rage-surprise-confusion back to just betrayal-rage as it was before Danny revealed himself, so apparently the quip wasn’t that good, dang. Danny thought it was good. Maybe Hood is just distracted by all the guys trying to kill him? Or maybe Danny offering to help is being taken as a diss? Oops. 

“I know you can handle it yourself, I saw you thrash those goons in the alley,” Danny adds. “It’s just that you’re unreasonably delicious so I figured I’d offer a little… quid pro quo, you know?” 

“I have conditions,” Hood says. Yes!!! Fuck yeah, Danny is gonna get to drink that ecto which means the smell will stop driving him almost literally up the wall! It’s a great day after all. 

“No more drinking than you can handle, of course,” Danny purrs in his best seductive tone, because that’s just how vampires probably sound. Wait, is that racist? Vampires are probably real after all, even if he’s never met one. Huh. That’s probably worth thinking about later, but for now he shouldn’t (and can’t) take his attention off the (tasty) crime lord with as many weapons strapped to him as Skulker. 

“I’ll stop before it’s dangerous or if you want to be done before then, I don’t like to drink from non-consenting beings.” That doesn’t settle Hood as much as Danny would like, hopefully that’s not an indication that he misunderstood their last encounter. Danny had asked!

“Good. You sure you can take on all those goons?” Hood asks next. “There’s at least thirty of them.” 

“I’ll go invisible and knock them out, not a problem at all,” Danny assures him; he’s much too consumed by the smell to be offended. Let’s see, why else might he be hesitating? “Anything else? You wanna choose where I bite you this time?” 

Red Hood nods. “I do. Now, are you gonna show me what you can do, or keep chattering uselessly?” His voice comes out through his helmet’s voice modulator low and gruff. It’s… honestly pretty hot, and Danny hopes he isn’t blushing as he smiles fiendishly and goes invisible. 

Look, Danny isn’t immune to Red Hood’s physique, okay? The man is built like a brick shithouse, not in the dehydrated bodybuilder way but in the functional, ‘I use all these muscles for a living’ way. It’s also been a long time since Danny even kissed someone— while still in Amity he didn’t have a lot of spare time for dating (not that he didn’t try) and after he left… well, he was mostly traveling with Ellie, and the shit she gave him for trying to flirt with anyone on their travels was a pretty big incentive to keep it to a minimum. Not that she wasn’t supportive of his whole realizing he’s pansexual thing, but it unfortunately took awhile for Danny to learn to flirt well and Ellie did not hold back on her critiques. 

Anyways. His first encounter with Red Hood was the closest he’s been to another person since he settled in Gotham and he was smelling and drinking delicious ecto at the time, so it makes sense that Danny is having feelings about it. It’s not a big deal unless they make it one, it’s not like it’ll break Danny’s cover. 

Danny is glad he scoped out goon locations before seeing Hood— it’s quick and easy to knock them all out while invisible, telekinetically moving their guns to another room as he drags them all into one place to tie them up. If he’s going as fast as he can, well, it’s to get to the drinking part of the night, not to impress anyone. 

It only takes a few minutes, so Danny flickers into visibility in front of Hood looking appropriately smug as he lounges in the air like he’s sitting. “How’d you like that, big guy?” 

Hood is silent for a moment, but his aura has settled a little into rage-overwhelmed-impressed so he’s probably not going to shoot Danny. “You have a name?” he says at last. 

Danny… hesitates. All the ideas he’s come up with have frankly flown out of his head because it’s hard to concentrate this close to Hood. “It’s Da- uh, Dante,” he answers weirdly late, shit, he almost said his actual name there. Stupid! But all he can focus on is the ecto practically sublimating off of Hood, and he can’t help but float closer, barely able to stop and wait for permission. 

Watching Danny, Hood sits down on the decrepit office chair left for years to languish in the dusty room and slowly takes his left glove off. Next, he folds up his jacket sleeve a few inches, before finally holding out his wrist. Holy hotdish, why is that sexy? Is Hood doing that on purpose? 

“Go ahead,” Hood says. Danny— somewhat unconsciously— runs a long, green tongue over his fangs and slowly inches forward to take the wrist in one hand, delicately lifting it up to his mouth to inhale the scent. He’s gotta stay calm and controlled, he doesn’t want to give Hood a reason to refuse at this point. Gently, hovering right in front of Hood, Danny sinks his teeth in, eyes not leaving Hood’s red helmet. He can’t be sure, but it feels like Hood is looking right back at him.

Wow. Shit. Fuck. Hood tastes just as good as the first time. How it works that Danny can drink the ecto from Hood’s blood like this while ingesting minimal blood itself is a mystery, but fuck if Danny is trying to figure it out right now. 

Danny removes his teeth for a moment to lick the wound before biting back down with an involuntary, pleased hiss. How is this so good! This might be the least human he’s ever felt but it’s so damn satisfying he can’t care about that right now. 

As Danny gently sucks at Hood’s wrist, he starts to lose track of time or his surroundings, but he keeps bringing his eyes back to the helmet’s eyes. He’s not sure he could stop right now, but the second he gets the sense Hood wants to be done, he’ll damn well try. 

Everything is floaty by the time Hood begins to draw his wrist back from Danny’s grasp and Danny can’t help but let out the tiniest whine. Thank goodness he’s too drunk to care about how embarrassing that is. Sure enough, it takes a great deal of effort to pull his teeth out, and he can’t resist licking the small wound for just a few last drops. 

Danny’s eyes flutter closed as he lets go of Hood, and he spins in the air to look up at the ceiling. “Wow,” he whispers, nearly slurring the word. “Wow.” 

Surprise-calm-satisfaction says Hood’s aura, so Danny feels safe just reveling in the floaty happy feelings the fermented ecto gives him. They’ll have to leave soon, this being a crime scene, but for now… for now Danny is just feeling good, and Hood is feeling good, and Lady Gotham feels pleased, so there’s nothing to worry about. 

It’s probably only a few minutes later (not that Danny can tell) when Red Hood stands up from the chair and dusts himself off. 

“It’s probably past time we both cleared out, I’ve called the cops for goon cleanup,” Hood says. When did he do that? Danny must have missed it. He’s right, though. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Danny says, trying to sound smooth and flirty. He can’t tell if he succeeds, Hood doesn’t give anything away, but oh well! It’s time to turn invisible again and make his way back to his hideyhole to sleep this off. 

Danny does so, and dreams of the infamous crime lord Red Hood making him breakfast. 

Chapter Text

Danny leans against the wall, happy not to be on the crowded dance floor below. He hangs out at this club more than any other because it’s a warehouse-style building and happens to have a walkway nearly two stories up that no one can get to besides staff, who never use it. Not a lot of people notice he’s up there but the ones who do seem excited when he winks or smirks at them. Also, it’s better than being in the rafters like he’d originally planned, no one saw him up there. 

(Would Danny have ever gone to a party like this in college, if he’d never died? Would he have been able to enjoy dancing in the crowd of people, not being constantly focused on keeping up one identity or the other?)

Danny sips at his glass of red condensed ecto, mind wandering again as to the lair problem. It’s becoming clear that Lady Gotham has some sort of agenda, something she’s trying to maneuver him into. It probably has something to do with Red Hood or the other vigilantes— Danny’s been damned lucky in avoiding all of them besides Red Hood and the one encounter with Batman. It helps that they’re all liminal so he can sense them within a block or two, and if Danny lets his aura out a little it interferes with the cameras. There’s no way the bats don’t have a ‘guy in the chair’ as Tucker calls it. 

There’s actually a surprising amount of liminals in Gotham, but Danny supposes it makes sense with all the ectoplasm in the air and the regular near-death experiences that so many Gothamites experience. In fact, there’s someone liminal walking through the hallway by the entrance to this walkway. 

The door opens and a kid in their mid-to-late teens steps out. They’re stylishly dressed in a choker necklace, crop top, high-waisted track pants that gather below the knees, and extremely cool sneakers that Danny doesn’t recognize the brand of. Their black hair is fairly long and there’s just a bit of eyeliner making those baby blues pop. 

“Hi, I’m Than, he/they,” he says with a smile. “Mind if I join you? This is a great place to get a bit of space.” 

Danny has a brief moment of self-reflection where he recognizes that back in high school a guy this pretty in his class would have somersaulted him into yet unachieved levels of disaster pan. He then takes that moment and stuffs it into a tiny box at the back of his mind, because that just makes him think of how much worse high school would have been if he’d been doing all that and then had a sexuality crisis on top of it. 

(Surprisingly, being on the run had given him a lot of time to think, and thoughts of romance and such had been less painful to struggle with than the reason he’d left home.) 

“By all means,” Danny manages before he’s been silent too long. “I’m Dante, he/him.”

Than smiles. “A pleasure, Dante. I always thought it’d be cool to meet a vampire.” 

(Danny debates showing off a little ice power for the sake of the pun, then reins himself in. It’s one thing to just be seen around for the sake of the façade. It’s another for anyone to have an idea of how powerful he is.) 

“And is it?” Danny smirks. 

Than pulls a slim can of energy drink out of his pocket and opens it. “Fuck yeah, dude. You’re drinking blood and everything. Didn’t think anyone here would appeal?”

Danny huffs a laugh. “What can I say, I’m a very picky eater. Drugs and alcohol in the blood taste funny.” 

“It makes sense,” Than said with a thoughtful look on his face. “Why come hang out here then?” 

This is a question Danny should have foreseen, but it’s a great chance to continue building his fake vampire lore. Plus, if the rumor gets back to the bats, it should be indirectly enough to muddy the waters. 

“The vibes, mostly. Vibes are important for vampires, that’s why we tend to be a bit more homogeneous than the human population,” Danny lies. “Like, there are different types of vibes that different vampires enjoy, but there’s less variety. Mostly in North America you’ve got medieval European types, but if a region has its own vampire-like legends, that’s usually the vibe to stick to even if the vampire isn’t that exact type.” 

This Than guy? Definitely a fucking nerd, even if they have style. With Danny’s ability to see well in the dark, the club’s dim lighting isn’t nearly enough to hide the avid interest in Than’s gaze. Almost too much interest for Danny to be comfortable with, honestly. 

“So there are different types of vampires? What kind are you?” 

Danny does his utmost to suppress a hard flinch, mind immediately cast back to days he would really like to forget. (“You’re not like any of the other ghosts, what makes you so different? What kind of monster are you?” And then the scalpel—) This a bad time and place for a PTSD flashback though, so he downs the rest of the ectoplasm in his glass and focuses on the taste and the physical sensation of it sliding down his throat. The metal railing creaks under his other hand and starts to bend before he realizes. 

At least it’s probably too dark and noisy for Than to have noticed the slip. Danny does need to respond though, and says the first thing that pops into his mind. “It’s racist to ask.” 

Shit. Uh. No, he can salvage this! “Well, not racist exactly, but it’s a similar thing in vampire culture. We’ve had many violent conflicts about it.” 

(Nailed it! Eat shit, PTSD flashback! Danny is a fully functioning person! The overwhelming feeling of dread will definitely go away soon!) 

Than shivers, putting up a hand in a disarming gesture. “Ah shit, I’m sorry, I had no idea! I have a little conspiracy theory blog and wanted to know- well, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine, you didn’t know,” Danny allows. “There are a lot of misconceptions about vampires. Sure, we’ll obfuscate stuff like our weaknesses, but the main thing I wi- I would prefer if people knew is that a lot of vampires prefer peaceful coexistence instead of power-hungry violence.” 

(Wow, that was close… Desiree is very unlikely to be within hearing distance but no way is Danny taking that chance.)

Than smiles tentatively. “You do seem a lot more like the former than the latter, if you don’t mind me saying. Although I’m not sure why you’re in Gotham if that’s the case.” 

Danny gives Than a wide fanged smile. “Like I said… it’s the vibes. Gothic architecture, hardly any sunshine, and interesting locals.” 

“I bet there are a lot of cool lairs around too,” Than agrees, curiosity once again his dominant emotion. “Well, less that are unoccupied by a rogue, but still.” 

“I haven’t found the perfect one yet, actually,” Danny finds himself admitting, like an idiot. But this guy seems to be a local, so a tip or two won’t go amiss, right? It’s not like Danny is omnipotent or anything, nor is he trying to seem that way. That’s Clockwork’s brand of mysterious asshole, not Danny’s. 

“The places I’ve liked the best had owners, so I’d need permission to enter.”

Than looks thoughtful. “How is ownership defined?”

Danny makes a face, remembering long lessons on haunt etiquette from Dora. “It’s really complicated, but has a lot to do with living there at least part time. It’s unfortunate because that tends to cover rich people’s extra houses even though they hardly use them.” 

“So if you got an invite, you’d be fine to use it until the offer was rescinded?”

What are the odds this kid actually has a place that would work? Danny can tell his clothes aren’t cheap, anyways, so it’s possible. “Yes…”

“I know a place,” Than says, eyes sparkling. They obviously think they’ve had a great idea, but Danny can’t tell if it’s of the stupid teenage variety or if the kid has a hidden agenda. 

Well, it’s not like Danny has anything better to do than find out. Why not? It’s not like he’d be in much danger even if it is a ruse— traditional vampire killing methods won’t work on him, and it’s very rare that anyone outside Amity Park would both recognize him and have the proper ghost-hunting equipment. 

“Alright, Than, tell me more…”

Chapter Text

It’s the fifth night Tim has staked out (ha) this nightclub, it having more vampire appearances reported than any of the others. Two reports isn’t a lot, but when Tim checked the cameras, there were actually four instances over the past three weeks where the cameras fuzzed out around the area of the employee-only walkway two stories up. 

Finally, though, he’s got eyes on the vampire, lounging on the walkway with a large wineglass of red liquid and observing the crowd below. Tim grins to himself and moves through the dancing crowd— it’s time to utilize the fact that he bought the whole place and get his first conversation with the target. 

The persona Tim has crafted for this mission isn’t terribly far removed from himself by design; if he’s recognized, he and his ‘e-boy goes to the club’ outfit can just claim he’s trying something new out from under the gaze of the expectations placed on him, which should be pretty relatable to a vampire. 

(It’s also kind of fun to stray away from the gender binary. Tim’s first outings as Caroline Hill weren’t spectacular, but he has a lot more experience with disguises by now and he finds he doesn’t mind cross-dressing as much as he used to. This is different, but an interesting different to try on. The most convincing alter-egos are based on real parts of one’s personality, after all.) 

The other fun thing about this persona? He named it after Jonathan Harker from Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Hopefully he won’t need to use the holy water in a hidden flask or the wooden stake concealed in the tall sole of his left sneaker, but either way, he’s ready. 

When Tim opens the door onto the walkway, the vampire doesn’t seem surprised to have company, which supports the supposition that he has enhanced senses. 

“Hi, I’m Than, he/they,” Tim says in a friendly manner. “Mind if I join you? This is a great place to get a bit of space.” 

“By all means,” the vampire replies after a moment of sizing Tim up. “I’m Dante, he/him.”

Tim smiles winningly, pleased to have a name at last. “A pleasure, Dante. I always thought it’d be cool to meet a vampire.” 

(He has to be careful not to sound too eager, too inquisitive. Than is adventurous, but smells like weed enough to stay somewhat laid back.)

“And is it?” Dante smirks. Hm, is he cocky or using that sort of response to throw anyone off of his real reactions and plans? Hard to say yet. 

Tim pulls a slim can of energy drink out of his pocket and opens it. Drinking together builds camaraderie, with the added bonus of keeping Tim the hell awake. “Fuck yeah, dude. You’re drinking blood and everything. Didn’t think anyone here would appeal?”

Dante huffs a laugh just barely audible over the thumping dance music. “What can I say, I’m a very picky eater. Drugs and alcohol in the blood taste funny.” 

Picky eater, huh? That definitely aligns with the lack of evidence of Dante ever feeding on anyone. Well, lack of evidence besides the thick red liquid he drinks, but there are plenty of ways to get blood without drinking from people directly. 

“It makes sense,” Tim says. “Why come hang out here then?” Figuring out the vampire’s motivations and plans is definitely the priority here.

“The vibes, mostly. Vibes are important for vampires, that’s why we tend to be a bit more homogeneous than the human population,” Dante starts explaining. “Like, there are different types of vibes that different vampires enjoy, but there’s less variety. Mostly in North America you’ve got medieval European types, but if a region has its own vampire-like legends, that’s usually the vibe to stick to even if the vampire isn’t that exact type.” 

Vibes is a very unspecific, unscientific word that could mean so many things, which means Tim currently hates it even though it’s definitely lingo that his current persona would use. He’s gotta be careful, but pressing further gently should be fine. 

“So there are different types of vampires? What kind are you?” 

Dante suppresses a hard flinch, and quickly downs the rest of the blood in his glass. The metal railing creaks under his other hand and starts to bend, but what’s even more alarming is the— the aura that’s suddenly choking the air. It’s cold dread, radiating off Dante like dry ice, dread with hints of pain and betrayal. Whatever trigger Tim just stepped in, it’s serious, and he’s going to have to either dodge the fallout or really make nice.

“It’s racist to ask,” Dante says in a somewhat strangled voice. If Tim had to guess, he’d say that the vampire is trying to wrestle down his sudden burst of emotions. This assumption is supported by the fact that the dreadful aura is receding. 

(The sentence itself? Really not what Tim expected.)

Dante takes a deep breath before qualifying his statement. “Well, not racist exactly, but it’s a similar thing in vampire culture. We’ve had many violent conflicts about it.” 

Violent conflicts could mean a lot of things, from a neighborly slap fight to dueling war crimes. If Dante had that severe of a reaction, it was probably pretty bad— Tim doesn’t get the impression that the reaction was voluntary or played up. 

Tim lets himself shiver from the cold, putting up a hand in a disarming gesture. Look at him, he’s a poor little meow meow! “Ah shit, I’m sorry, I had no idea! I have a little conspiracy theory blog and wanted to know- well, I’m sorry.” 

(The blog does actually exist, mostly for the purpose of making Than seem harmless and like someone who probably wouldn’t be believed if Dante reveals something he didn’t mean to. The other purpose is trolling with stupid theories about Gotham’s vigilantes, himself included.) 

“It’s fine, you didn’t know,” Dante allows. “There are a lot of misconceptions about vampires. Sure, we’ll obfuscate stuff like our weaknesses, but the main thing I wi- I would prefer if people knew is that a lot of vampires prefer peaceful coexistence instead of power-hungry violence.” 

What had he cut himself off for? It sounded like he’d been about to say he wished, but there’s nothing in vampire lore that suggests they have wish powers. Is Dante friends or enemies with a genie or something? Tim really hopes not, the last thing they need in Gotham is a being that can grant wishes. 

Than smiles tentatively, deciding to offer some gentle flattery to soften his next question. “You do seem a lot more like the former than the latter, if you don’t mind me saying. Although I’m not sure why you’re in Gotham if that’s the case.” 

Danny gives Than a wide fanged smile, the trespass apparently forgiven for now. “Like I said… it’s the vibes. Gothic architecture, hardly any sunshine, and interesting locals.” 

Goddamn it, ‘vibes’ again? Although Tim can hardly deny that aesthetics-wise, the answer makes sense. Let’s see, how can he… yeah, that should seem like a natural question. 

“I bet there are a lot of cool lairs around too,” Tim agrees. “Well, less that are unoccupied by a rogue, but still.” 

“I haven’t found the perfect one yet, actually,” Dante admits to Tim’s surprise. “The places I’ve liked the best had owners, so I’d need permission to enter.”

Now this was interesting. What could Dante gain by admitting that? He probably has some sort of interim space, but if he’s looking for the ‘perfect’ place, that marks an intention to settle in Gotham long-term. 

Could it simply be that Dante wants like, recommendations or something? If so, why ask Tim specifically? Because Tim is wearing high quality clothing that could indicate wealth, or because Dante recognizes him? 

At any rate, Dante’s statement opens the door for clarifying questions. “How is ownership defined?”

Dante makes a face. “It’s really complicated, but has a lot to do with living there at least part time. It’s unfortunate because that tends to cover rich people’s extra houses even though they hardly use them.” 

As much as Tim wants every detail on how it works, this is an Opportunity™️ that he didn’t anticipate and definitely wants to take advantage of. How better to keep an eye on and learn more about a vampire than provide a conveniently placed lair? Tim is a genius. 

“So if you got an invite, you’d be fine to use it until the offer was rescinded?”

“Yes…” Dante says, gaze sharpening with interest. 

“I know a place,” Tim says. The amount of sincerity he’s exuding? Definitely an Oscar-worthy performance, if he says so himself. 

“Alright, Than, tell me more…” 

Hook, line, and sinker. Bruce might judge this plan as reckless, but Bruce doesn’t need to know until the plan bears further fruit. It’s not like anyone actually lives in Drake Manor after all, even if Tim occasionally sleeps there after patrol if he doesn’t feel like driving back to the Nest after a meeting in the Batcave. Dante can sleep there during the day or whatever, and Tim can casually drop in regularly and get more information. 

It’s the perfect plan.

Chapter Text

Jason is a leaf floating on an ocean-sized wave of rage, liable to be swallowed at any moment. He’d managed to leave the manor (no longer home) and lock himself in a safehouse before hurting anyone (again, as they all knew he would, why did they bother to invite him over) but it’d been closer than he liked. 

(Shouldn’t they fear him? After everything they’d done to him, what he had and could do to them—)

It’s a tight grip with both hands to keep himself from going back over Bruce’s latest insults again and working himself up further. Maybe he should suit up and patrol, there had to be someone out there he could beat into the pavement. 

It’s only minutes until Jason is suited up sans helmet, and he’s about to put that on when someone taps at his window. If it’s one of his stupid brothers, he’s fucking shooting them. When he turns around, though, it’s not them, it’s glowing blue eyes and white floating hair and a toothy grin. 

Has Dante been stalking him, did Twilight get that one right? It’s highly suspicious, so Jason disables the window traps and opens it up to get answers. 

“Why are you at my apartment?” he growls. 

Dante smiles, fangs sticking out over his lips. “I’m not specifically an energy vampire, but when you get worked up it’s a lot easier to smell you. That’s how I keep finding you, no stalking required.”

“That sounds a lot like energy vampire shit to me,” Jason deadpans, not taking his hand off his gun. “And I’m not convinced you’re not stalking me.” 

Dante tilts his head like a dog or bird or something, expression still open in spite of the implied threat. “Can’t you sense my presence though? You’d know if I was near you all the time.”

Jason takes several deep breaths to try and calm his rage enough to actually examine if that’s true or not. He certainly feels a cold spot in front of him, and although it’s hard to clearly recall his more pit rage-filled moments, he thinks he might have noticed Dante’s approach previously, especially the first time. Hmm. 

Taking the silence as confirmation, Dante grins again. “So, got anything I can help you with tonight in exchange for a drink? I won’t harm innocents and don’t want to kill anyone, but I’m sure you can think of something…” 

With the rage yet clouding Jason’s thoughts, it’s hard to think of the optimal favor, but if he lets Dante drink first, then he might be too relaxed. Still, it’s too good of an offer to pass up. “I will think of something, probably some surveillance,” he concedes. “But you can drink first and come by tomorrow for the assignment.”

Dante lights up eagerly but even as Jason steps back to let him in, does not come inside. It’s highly irritating until Jason remembers there’s this whole thing about vampires needing to be invited in. Guess that one is true, then. 

“Come on in, then, before someone sees you,” he grunts. 

Dante’s grin widens as he floats inside. In spite of (or maybe partially because of?) the green gums/tongue and sharp teeth, the smile is— well, it’s weirdly charming. Catches the eyes. 

Closing the window and re-engaging the traps, Jason takes a moment to realize that he’s only wearing a domino, not his helmet. If Dante wants to like, look him in the eyes again, it’ll probably be embarrassing, but offering up his neck invites a more… intimate positioning. 

(Maybe Jason should accept that he’s not likely to get out of this with his dignity intact. Is it worth it, for the favor and relief from the pits? Yes, but like, barely, no matter how nice of a week he’d had after the last two times. Hopefully this time he can get more info out of the vampire, too.) 

Jason takes off his jacket for easier access to his neck, noting the way Dante’s eyes dilate slightly. It’s clear that the vampire is thirsty, his gaze following Jason as Jason sits on the couch. 

“You prefer the neck?” 

Dante licks his lips. “The neck is good,” he agrees, floating closer with his body held horizontally in the air so as to not be sitting on Jason’s lap. 

“Go ahead, then,” Jason says, tilting his head. Dante gets close, delicate fingers brushing across Jason’s jawline to shift him slightly for the best angle, and then his mouth is on Jason and then his teeth are in Jason, and despite the sharpness of the bite, the relief from the pit rage is nearly immediate. 

Jason closes his eyes, feeling his breath stutter slightly as his body starts to relax. Dante hums slightly in response, his right hand coming up to rest on Jason’s shoulder. It feels safe, and the pit’s usual paranoia can’t gain its usual foothold. In fact, Jason has to fight a sudden, embarrassing desire to tug Dante closer. 

(It must be the venom or whatever. Jason resolves to ask about it before Dante leaves— although he’s not exactly ready for this to end. You know, for pit reasons, not like… enjoying the fact that someone feels safe enough to be so close to him or anything like that. It’s not the almost-purring buzz coming from somewhere or the soothing coolness ebbing through his system, either.) 

Time passes in a way difficult to keep track of, but eventually, Dante’s teeth slide out and he starts running his tongue over the small wounds as if to seal them. Who knows, maybe it does work like that? (Jason kind of wants it to work like that?) Regardless, it definitely feels like kissing this time, and Jason is very close to making some kind of embarrassing sound that might give the impression he likes it, so with effort he puts his hands on Dantes’s shoulders and gently moves him backwards. This gives him a close-up view of the vampire’s face; he looks completely blissed out, eyes half-shut and unfocused. 

“That really gets you fucked up, huh, Blue Eyes?”

Dante turns in the air to nuzzle Jason’s arm. “I can’t help it, Hot Stuff, you’re just so… delicious,” he sighs happily, words a bit slurred. 

“Hot Stuff?” Jason asks, relaxed enough to be amused instead of startled. The folks turning tricks in his territory flirt with him sometimes, but it’s all in jest. He knows he’s mostly just scary nowadays, and that’s fine with him. Then again, if Dante is as strong as he seems, would he even find Jason scary? He didn’t seem to mind having a gun pointed at him. 

“Yeah, have you looked in a mirror?” Dante says, curling his legs up towards his chest as he drifts slightly forward. Like this, he’d be in Jason’s arms and lap if he wasn’t floating, and Jason gets the impression that a blood-drunk Dante is a cuddly Dante when he doesn’t have to worry about leaving the scene of a crime. 

(Snuggling actually sounds pretty nice right now, but they… they should probably keep this as professional as they can, right? This is a business arrangement, no matter how nice it might feel to have those lips and tongue back on his skin— wait, no. That was the venom speaking. Shit.) 

It’s Jason’s turn to sigh. “Dante, I gotta ask. Do you have like, venom or hypnosis or something that makes me relax or anything like that?” 

Dante blinks, looking confused. “No? If I did, I’d bite myself. Things have been really stressful since I died.” Sighing, he nuzzles Jason’s arm again. “Drinking you is like, the nicest thing to happen since then, I think.” 

Jason is no longer relaxed, at least mentally even if his body still hasn’t got the message and is like a sack of wet noodles on a couch. Seriously, the nicest thing? What the fuck is this guy’s life? Or is it unlife? “You died?” he asks in spite of himself, instantly regretting it. Jason hates how it feels when people ask about his own death, after all. 

“Yeah, I was fourteen. Fuckin… stunted my growth I think,” Dante muses, apparently too drunk to get angry or morose about it. “With my dad near seven feet tall, I thought I’d at least break six, but noooo… you better appreciate your height, Big Guy.”

“I lord it over my family all the time, don’t worry.” It’s honestly shocking that hearing about a kid dying (even if he was some kind of undead now?) hasn’t driven Jason right back into a green-eyed rage. Instead, his instincts tell him to hold the guy who keeps drinking his blood. What even the fuck, man. Why would he even do that? He has a reputation and shit. 

Dante seems satisfied with his answer, and yawns. “Good. D’ya mind if I take a little nap?” 

(Well, that isn’t the worst reasoning to keep him around for longer. And learning more about the vampire is crucial, so—)

“Sure, I guess,” Jason says, “I can turn on the TV or something-“ 

He just, he— Dante has stopped floating, not suddenly enough to land uncomfortably, but he had been above Jason, right? So now he is on Jason, head of soft white hair resting in the crook of Jason’s elbow, torso in Jason’s lap, and legs resting to the side on the couch.

The TV remote floats from the coffee table to the couch so Jason can reach it with his non-pillow arm. How convenient! Yeah, this is excessive, and Jason is definitely going to tell this stupid snuggly vampire that he can’t just treat a crime lord like a bed. 

The words die in Jason’s throat as he looks down at Dante. It’s not like he hasn’t seen his face up close, like he hasn’t been looking since Dante stopped drinking. But somehow now it feels different, the way the dim lamp light hits his face, the two slow blinks before his eyes close and he falls asleep. Jason can count every freckle, and the freckles look like constellations from the night sky so rarely seen in Gotham. 

(Don’t be weird, Jason, for fuck’s sake don’t be weird! He turns on the TV and loads up whatever DVD he already had in there, which happens to be the 1995 version of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. Sure, fine, whatever; it’s Not Weird to watch such a perfect romance with a twink he’s met only twice before now in his lap! It’s not.)

Some amount of minutes into this completely normal and business-like situation, Jason has a brief moment of panic at the fact that Dante isn’t breathing before realizing that oh yeah, he literally just told me he died. Fuck. Jason hates that, but the pit rage still isn’t bubbling back up so he schedules that breakdown for later and tries to concentrate on how Mr. Collins is making an ass of himself. 

(Dante is so light in his arms, probably half as light as one would expect for a guy of his height and build. It’s such a strange combination with how immovable he’d been that first night, holding up Jason’s entire weight with no trouble at all— Jason can’t help but wonder just how strong Dante actually is. You know, for threat assessment purposes, not anything else.)

Jason watches Pride and Prejudice with probably the least amount of attention he’s ever given it. It’s impossible not to keep looking down at Dante and his peaceful expression. He’s just objectively beautiful, okay? And probably by design, for greater ease of getting people to feed on. Not that Jason has heard of anyone else being fed on, and that thought makes him feel…. something. 

(It’s not an emotion Jason has much practice with, or can really put a name to besides some kind of wanting.) 

If he had to try and describe it in literary terms…. wait. 

Wait. 

Hold the phone, hold all nineteen of his current stash of burner phones. In literary terms and themes and tropes, Jason is in a story. Like, the fucking first act of some vampire-themed bodice-ripper novel. Fuck. What the hell! The first meeting with all the potential misunderstandings, the unexpected second meeting where the protagonist is impressed with the love interest, and then finally a chance to understand each other better in spite of the tension that the blood-thirst causes… 

Jason starts reconsidering his own thought processes during each time he and Dante have spent together. It’s not easy, what with having been in a rage for parts of it, but the things he’s noticed, and the things he’s refused to think about, it all points to being attracted to Dante. It points to being attracted to Dante and being firmly in denial about it, which is another goddamn romance trope. 

Only the fact that it would wake the vampire in his lap stops Jason from facepalming or screaming into a pillow. Okay, so he’s been an idiot with zero self-awareness, fine. It’s not like the threat assessment reasoning and desire to get useful favors aren’t both still good reasons; Red Hood can’t afford to not be pragmatic, here. On the other hand, what if he was pragmatic and lived his best life as the heroine in those previously mentioned bodice-ripper novels? 

Huh. What a thought that is. 

(In normal circumstances, this is where the pit would start saying things like how Jason doesn’t deserve happiness or love, and how even if he did he’s never going to truly get it. But the pit is quiet right now. His thoughts and feelings are mostly his own— completely his own, if Dante is to be believed.) 

Jason looks down again at Dante, and this time lets his mind run free of that self-imposed denial. Dante is beautiful, and the neck kissing felt really good, and Jason likes being someone Dante looks forward to seeing. Is it only for his blood? Maybe, maybe not. Time will tell, and he’s excited to find out.

Chapter Text

Danny drifts back into consciousness like a leaf in a gentle stream, thoughts slowly eddying into coherency. He’s warm, which is pleasant, and the pillow his chest is against moves slightly in a rhythm close to how Danny’s heart beats in human form these days. Kevlar is far from the ideal material for a pillowcase, but—

Oh. 

Danny’s level of consciousness takes a deep dive off a sudden waterfall, and the sharp rocks at the bottom are made of 100% anxious confusion. And he’s lost track of the metaphor, because he is currently snuggled up to his favorite crime lord— and boy would Jazz get mileage from that assigned title— who is apparently sleeping, perfectly content with Danny in his lap. 

(His very comfortable lap, in spite of various pieces of body armor. Danny wouldn’t mind repeating this experience, repeatedly… No, brain, stop that! Go back to horny jail! BAP! It’s the ecto, for fuck’s sake!)

Right, the ecto. Danny has a semi-vague recollection of Red Hood asking if Danny had some kind of chillaxing venom sitch (Ancients, if only) so apparently getting rage-fermented ecto removed was like doing weed or something maybe? Which could be enough to relax Hood enough to sleep around someone he has little reason to trust. 

At any rate, Danny needs to figure out what to do now. 

One of Hood’s well-muscled arms is Danny’s pillow and the other rests across Danny’s waist, so that Hood is basically holding Danny. This probably doesn’t mean anything, but it’s still… It feels nice, okay? He doesn’t want to rush away like some walk of shame bullshit, that’s not what this was. 

(Danny is very glad that his ghost form doesn’t get morning wood. On top of being incredibly embarrassing, he doesn’t want Hood to think that he can’t control himself. No crime lord—particularly of the liminal variety—is gonna want an out-of-control undead monster in his territory!)

Anyways, the slightest cracks of light coming from the edges of the blackout curtains indicate that it’s daytime, and that poses a pretty big problem as far as maintaining his cover goes. Either he makes up a reason why he can leave in the daylight, or he has to stay at Red Hood’s safehouse until sundown. Danny doesn’t really like either option. 

Danny closes his eyes so he’s not as distracted by mapping out each scar visible on Hood’s face and neck, and tries to come up with a solution. Instead, he thinks about how his teeth marks looked on that tanned skin. 

(Yeah, Danny might still be a little ecto-drunk actually. Just a tiny bit, a small fraction. It’s either that or he’s being a horny idiot, and the latter is an option Danny isn’t willing to consider, like at all. He has much better self-control than that.)

Hood’s breathing starts to change, and Danny stops his own breathing again so Hood can’t use it to determine wakefulness. After a minute or two, Hood inhales in a manner that might be surprised. 

“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” Hood says quietly, and Danny slowly cracks open one eye. 

“You’re surprisingly comfortable to nap on,” Danny says before he thinks better of it. Oh goddammit, he hadn’t meant to admit that? But it’s probably fine. Hopefully. 

Hood’s expression doesn’t change, but something about his face softens. It’s like a layer of his tough front had fallen off, similar to the flaky outer layer of an onion. (That was a stupid simile, but Danny had struggled in English for more than one reason, okay?)

“You know, this is usually the part of the sleepover where I cook breakfast for my guests,” Hood says. “Can you still eat human food?”

Danny licks his lips. He hasn’t eaten food for a few days; it’d probably be fine to tell the truth here. “I can still eat human food, I just can’t live on it anymore. Well, for the given value of ‘live’ and all.”

Hood snorts. “You make death jokes too, I see. That’s refreshing. Well, you’re welcome to stay for breakfast, then. Is the garlic thing true?”

“Even if it was, I’d still eat it,” Danny says immediately, and is treated to an actual laugh from Hood. Wow, what can he do to hear that again? Jesus, his smile is… dammit Danny, get a grip! Fuck. He’s probably grinning like an idiot now, so he releases his connection to gravity. 

No doubt Hood feels his weight lessen, because he lifts the arm over Danny and lets him float up and back so Hood can get up. Hood looks at the window then pulls out a phone to check the time as he stands. “Actually Dante, it looks like you’ll have time for more than breakfast, since it’s past sunrise. I’m sure we can find something to occupy the time.”

Okay, that was definitely flirting?! Danny hopes he isn’t blushing. Is this a new tactic to throw him off guard? Or maybe it’s like, for fun? Either way, Danny has to maintain his flirty persona, he can’t be outdone here! 

“Oh, did you have that good of a time last night that you want to keep me around?” he says, batting his lashes with a technique stolen from Paulina. 

Hood’s ears flush pink—one point Danny!— but he recovers quickly, returning the smirk. “Was I not supposed to?”

It’s a really good thing that Danny has so much experience with witty retorts on the fly, otherwise he’d be staring like an idiot. “You were, but it’s always nice to get feedback.” 

“Is that an invitation to bite back?”

From the look on his face, Hood knows he scored a point, but he doesn’t comment on the green flush on Danny’s cheeks. Instead, he walks to the adjoining kitchen and starts rummaging in the fridge for ingredients, pulling out eggs, sausage, cheese, and two bell peppers.

“That’s a lot of commitment for our third meeting,” Danny says (only a little late!) as if he’s not vividly imagining such a thing. Ancients, he has got to get it together, they’re literally just bantering! “Although I’m sure you’d look great with fangs.” 

Hood smiles again, and Danny finds himself unable to look away. Honestly, Danny had wanted to stay awake longer last night, staring at Hood’s face— what are the odds he’ll be allowed to see it again after today? Hood is obviously smarter than most who go looking for fights, because he protects himself from potential concussions by way of the helmet. Really, Danny would have sooo much brain damage if he didn’t have the ghostly ability to bounce back from all but the worst harm!

If it wasn’t for that practicality (plus probably a HUD system as well), Danny would ask why he doesn’t just stun people with how hot he is instead of with flash grenades? Like, goddamn, dude. Hood’s thigh is probably a similar size to Danny’s waist! Not that Danny is staring in order to compare or anything. Absolutely not. 

What was Danny thinking about again?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hood says, looking Danny up and down before going back to grabbing ingredients, this time an onion and two potatoes from the pantry. “Omelets sound good?”

“Hood, omelets sound amazing.” 

—————

The omelets are amazing, literally the best Danny has ever had, and Hood seems satisfied when Danny tells him so. Hood is less satisfied when Danny insists on doing the dishes, but has trouble arguing when Danny uses his telekinesis to do it while sitting smugly in the living room. 

Then comes the question of the day: what to do until nightfall. 

“So, do you have an umbrella?” 

Hood looks at Danny with an air of confusion at the question. “An umbrella?”

Danny can’t help but smile, even if he’s about to stretch the boundaries of normal vampirism. It’s just that he really doesn’t know if he can handle staying in this small safehouse with Hood for an entire day— the flirting is fun but Danny can’t keep up the facade indefinitely. It’s doubtless that Hood is too sharp not to notice any slip-up when not jacked up on ragey ecto or high on the relief of the removal.  

(It’s dangerous, how much Danny enjoys Red Hood’s company. It’s all the ectothirst— okay, FINE, 90% ectothirst, 10% regular thirst because Danny has fucking eyes, okay?!— but the post drink cuddles really shouldn’t happen again, no matter how nice they were. Safety of getting close to a crime lord entirely aside (he’s done stupider things), Danny doesn’t want to take advantage of someone he’s technically providing medical treatment to.)

“Gotham’s smog is really impressive,” Danny explains. “It blocks the sun enough that adding an umbrella makes it safe enough for me to venture out in the daytime. Not that I like to, but I’d hate to impose on your hospitality for the rest of the day! Also, did you decide on that favor I owe you?” 

Hood’s aura is much quieter when he’s not raging, but Danny catches a tinge of disappointment. It doesn’t make a lot of sense— does Hood prefer to have sunlight be a worse weakness for Danny, just in case?

“For the favor, come back tomorrow night after sunset,” Hood says after a moment. “In the meantime, I’m happy to walk you back to whatever storm drain or abandoned building you prefer to disappear into.” 

Danny gets the impression it’s a sincere offer, not a suspicious one. It’s actually pretty gentlemanly, all things considered…. like the whole morning has been, actually. Weird. Maybe this is just how Hood acts when he puts his guard down a bit, since Danny has been consistently agreeable?

Either way, it’s something to consider later. For now, he’ll let Hood walk him to the old theater— If Than’s family manor (which he needs to get back to surveilling) doesn’t work out, hopefully Red Hood’s blessing will convince Lady Gotham to let him squat there. 

Chapter Text

Barbara Gordon hasn’t survived in Gotham thus far by being ignorant of what’s happening in the city, particularly since becoming Oracle. Regardless of how various relationships have been strained between different members of the birds and bats, Babs does her best to keep herself— well, not neutral, exactly, but apart from most conflicts so as to be able to help keep the collective from working at cross-purposes, at least. 

(Not that she’s always succeeded. Everyone in their little vigilante family is exceedingly stubborn, not least of all Babs herself.)

The case of the vampire newly making their home in Gotham though… well, nobody is really coordinating on that one. Bruce is being so broody about it that no one wants to work with him on it, Damian is of the opinion that they should just stake the vampire and be done with it, and Dick is busy with a smuggling ring in Bludhaven.

Then there’s Tim and Jason. 

Tim investigating on his own makes sense; that year flying mostly solo had changed him, and it’ll take time for him to learn to work cooperatively again, maybe even to want to. Time and some reciprocated effort— as much as Tim has always been pretty independent, part of the problem is (as always) the terrible communication between him and the others, much of which isn’t Tim’s fault. 

Dick had been drowning in grief and the responsibilities piled on to him with Bruce’s death, and so hadn’t very well handled Damian’s murder attempts, the passing of the Robin mantle, or Tim’s assertion that Bruce was alive. Worse, he doesn’t seem to realize how much hurt he caused, and Tim certainly won’t tell him.

Damian… well, he’s a child assassin trying to cope with monumental changes in his life with hardly an emotionally stable adult to be seen, at least not one he respects enough to listen to. Babs is unfortunately included in that; while Bruce was gone, she’d been dealing with her own grief and frantically busy besides trying to keep Gotham together with their number basically halved. 

Bruce has no idea what Tim went through to get him back— for that matter, even Babs knows only bits and pieces, but she knows it was far worse than Tim would ever admit. Bruce should be able see that much, at least, especially with the hints Babs has been dropping. 

At any rate, Tim is tracking down the vampire himself. He used the Batcomputer to run some searches for cameras glitching in the manner the vampire seems to cause, but deleted the results that might actually lead to finding them. (That might fool Bruce for a while, but not Babs.) 

Babs is both proud and a bit aggravated at how long it takes to uncover Tim’s movements and actually get ahold of his personal reports he hasn’t synced with the Batcomputer. When she does, she fights the urge to slam her head against her desk. 

Tim bought a nightclub where there were sightings of the vampire and then went and talked to them, without bothering to have backup on hand. The vampire, whose name is apparently Dante, thankfully did not attempt to bite or otherwise harm Tim, otherwise Babs would go much harder on the scolding that Tim will be getting. If something had happened,  Babs wouldn’t have hesitated to bring out the big guns, aka Alfred’s disappointed stare. 

Babs is also very unimpressed with the remainder with the mission report, which details Tim’s plan to house Dante at Drake Manor in order to gain more intel. Dante had said he’d take a look and think about it— considering the invisibility powers, that probably means stalking Tim to make sure he’s on the level about the offer. Tim hasn’t gone out as Red Robin in the week since the offer, sticking to paperwork and investigation. 

Quickly typing up the details of just how stupid it was to not tell even one other person what he was doing (in a cypher unique to Tim and Babs’ correspondence), she adds the report addendum to Tim’s system and starts going over the cameras for each Batcave entrance to check for interference. They haven’t confirmed that Dante can shapeshift into a bat, but if he can it’d be laughably easy to hide in the existing colonies that call the Batcave home. 

Hours later, Babs hasn’t found any indication of the Batcave being compromised and has set up temperature-based alerts for the cameras in case Dante’s hypothetical bat form maintains the chill of death instead of a bat’s relatively high body temperature. It’s not foolproof, but it’s something at least. 

Tim is going to try to convince her to let him give his plan a go regardless of the risks. It is true that trying to back out of the offer now would only make Tim seem more suspicious; the strategy of only leaving the Nest as Red Robin via an underground tunnel instead of the more visible roof so it seems like Tim is still home is also a good precaution. 

Still, considering the weirdness that’s been going on with Jason, it would really be best if everyone actually coordinated for once. 

Although she hadn’t noted it at the time, the first aberration of the typical had been right after a pit rage episode. Jason’s tracker had lost connection at the same time as the cameras around him had fritzed out. The last view of him had been Red Hood standing over a dozen beat-up goons, and although the cameras had come back about ten minutes later, the tracker hadn’t reappeared. The goons were still on the ground but zip-tied, and strange shadows stretched along the walls of the alley. Nothing else changed until dawn, when the shadows receded to show Red Hood, standing up from a sitting position and shaking himself before calling in for the goons and walking away. 

It wasn’t uncommon for Jason to disappear himself during his rages, particularly if he thought he was close to completely losing control. It was clear that Jason didn’t want to unintentionally hurt any of his family again, and was working to keep himself under control. Because of this, Babs hadn’t checked in until his tracker had come back that morning. The surprising part had been that Jason hadn’t snapped at her asking how he was; it typically took time for him to fully come down from the rage. 

Maybe it hadn’t been as bad that night, or he was getting a better handle on it, Babs had reasoned optimistically.

Last week’s disastrous family dinner could be taken as evidence against improvement— or at least that recovery wasn’t linear— but Jason’s actions afterwards had been unusual. Instead of hitting the streets as Hood to vent his rage, Jason had stayed at one of his safehouses all night and texted an apology to Alfred the next morning. 

And wouldn’t you know it… the cameras had glitched out around the safehouse not long after Jason had gotten there, and Babs is pretty confident it was the same type of glitches the vampire’s presence usually caused. Just like in the case of the previous pit rage episode. Two times isn't a pattern, but it’s enough to get her asking questions.

“Excuse me, Ms. Barbara?”

Babs looks up and smiles at one of the library’s more frequent guests. “Yes?”

“Do you know if you got in that Hubble Telescope book?” 

“We did! Just a moment please,” she says, wheeling back from her desk to where she’s put aside the book for him. Tommy Folman is a polite young man, early twenties at most, who spends late afternoons and evenings at the library reading every space-related book he can get his hands on, and a few random novels besides.  

Babs suspects he’s down on his luck and possibly homeless— his clothes are quite worn and often dusty, like he sleeps in an unused attic, not to mention he’s underweight— but he doesn’t smell too bad and treats the books well, so she’s happy he can find refuge here instead of having more of the day to get into some kind of trouble. 

Well. More trouble. One day a kid spilled their water bottle on him, so Tommy took off his sweatshirt to go wring it out in the restroom and Babs got a glimpse of about as many scars as a vigilante might have. The one that stuck out most to her was one she’d seen part of already— a lichtenberg scar, starting from a burn on his palm and running all the way up into the sleeve of his tshirt. That kind of scar usually fades quickly, but his is… prominent.

As it turned out, the ID he’d presented to get his library card was a fake, an extremely good fake.  And that was basically asking Babs to look into him! 

What has she found? Hardly anything, oddly enough. There are school and immunization records, enough history to establish him as someone who existed, but nothing else. No social media, credit cards, passport, or places of residence. He’s practically a ghost in the system— the only thing she’s found is a well-disguised trail leading back to the federal witness protection program, which only raises more questions. 

Babs has hacked into nearly every federal database multiple times, and yet she can’t find Tommy’s information there, either. It’s like he’d been in witsec, given a well-made new identity, then erased from the database. No traces of his former identity, not by name or picture. It’s frustrating, but it’s given her a working theory that he’d witnessed or been part of a big federal case (that she also found no reference to!) and then either run away from witsec or had been disappeared by them, possibly due to corruption or not having faith they could protect him. If that’s the case, though, why is his identity still active? 

It was another mystery on her plate, but Barbara Gordon was no quitter; she could and would handle it, just like everything else. 

“Here you go!” 

Tommy’s eyes lit up with excitement as he accepted the book. “Thanks Ms. Barbara!” he says, and immediately takes it to his favorite chair to start reading it with obvious excitement. It reminds Babs of why she enjoys her day job so much, and she takes a moment to savor the feeling before diving back into her computer. 

Chapter Text

Tim sits in the kitchen of Drake Manor, sipping a cup of coffee. Usually he’d down it quickly for the caffeine, but he does like coffee even if he doesn’t often have time to savor it. This usually would be the last place Tim would choose to sit down and savor his coffee, too, the house not holding what he would call good memories, but today was the day that Dante had agreed to meet him here an hour after sunset to give him a decision about staying here. 

“Drake Manor, huh? Pretty fancy,” Dante said, looking it over from where he hovered about fifteen feet off the ground. He’d followed Tim’s cab invisibly and only appeared once the cab left, but didn’t seem to be too guarded. Did he not think about the possibility this was a trap, or was he simply confident in his ability to escape one?

“It’s certainly not what I would call homey,” Tim agreed dryly. “What’s the point of being old money if you can’t show it off to other bluebloods, right?”

Dante snorted. “Rich people are fuckin fruitloops, couldn’t be me,”

…Fruitloops? That wasn’t an insult that you heard in the common parlance. It also probably pointed to Dante being on the younger side for a vampire; Fruitloops weren’t invented until 1963, after all. (Unlikely as it sounds, Tim had needed to know about the cereal for a previous case. Not a fun case, either.) 

“They really mostly are,” Tim agreed, and stepped up to unlock the door. “Does the wording of the invitation matter, by the way?”

“As long as it’s not too ambiguous, nah,” Dante said with a lazy smile. 

“Then come on in, welcome.”

Tim is excellent at maintaining any necessary persona. This fact is the only reason he, a highly trained vigilante, jumps when a shadow appears by the coffee pot. The shadow’s blue eyes lack pupils, but blink twice before the shadow resolves into a smiling Dante. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Dante purrs, floating so that his feet are level with his head, chin resting in one hand as the other caresses the counter. “I got distracted by the smell of coffee. I bet you’ve got the fancy beans, huh?” 

After spending years watching Dick (as himself and as Nightwing) use charm to get what he wants, Tim is confident at this point that Dante is laying it on thick in a purposeful manner. The only question is of course, what is the purpose? 

“Yeah, do you want some? I made a whole pot, the mugs are in the cupboard right above it.”

Dante perks up. “Absolutely, I do.” He pours himself a cup, body turning right side up again, and takes a sip of the steaming drink. “Oh yeah, that’s the good shit alright,” he sighs happily.

(Tim smiles in spite of the fact that he was planning on drinking the entire pot. It’s totally fine. Totally. Than is a normal person who shares his coffee, and it’s good information that Dante is able to consume human drinks.)

“So, what have you decided? Do you want to lair here?” 

“So, I was thinking you might like this room for lounging at night, we can move around furniture as needed,” Tim explained, pulling back the smaller ballroom’s thick drapes to reveal floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the garden. The Drakes had hardly used this ballroom, as any larger parties benefited from the better security of the main ballroom. 

Dante looked around, admiring the tall ceilings. “Not bad, not bad. I like the balcony too, gotta have a good brooding spot and all that.”

Tim swallowed the joke about having that in common with certain types of bats, although honestly he should ask. “Speaking of windows and entrances, do you like to go out often as a bat?”

“Eh, it’s not really my thing,” Dante said carelessly. “I prefer being a shadow or mist, I’m harder to catch that way.” He then quickly looked away like he was hiding a flinch; had he not meant to admit that last part? It would match up with the hints of trauma he’d mentioned at the club. 

“Let me show you the place where I thought you might like to sleep during the day,” Tim says, deciding not to press. 

He led Dante to the wine cellar, or rather the wine cellar that wasn’t climate controlled. This wine cellar was designed specifically for guests, stone walls evoking a castle-like atmosphere, albeit one with heated floors. Antique yet sturdy wooden beams crossed the arched ceiling, providing anchors for wrought iron chandeliers. Along the walls were slots for the bottles of wine, with a long wooden shelf running along the top at chest height. The Drake coat of arms dominated the top of one wall, so that the head of the long table in the center of the room had it as a backdrop. The table and chairs matched the wood of the ceiling beams and shelves of course— they’d originally been from a country home owned by someone who signed the Declaration of Independence or something ridiculous like that. Two full suits of armor flanked the door, which rested at the bottom of equally castle-y stone stairs. If someone tripped and fell down them, they’d break their neck for sure. 

“I figure we could move the chairs and table to storage so there’s room for— well, do you actually sleep in a coffin?” he asked. 

Dante huffed a laugh. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to have one, but they can be comfortable. A friend of mine has been saying I simply must try a velvet lining.” 

“You seem on the level,” Dante says, looking at Tim with a relaxed gaze. “Yes, I’ll stay here, and you can visit if you like. Just don’t try to wake me during the day or startle me, can you agree to that?”

The week of not going out as Red Robin has been totally worth Damian giving him shit about supposedly spraining his wrist, ha! Tim is going to get the best intel and keep Dante safer from the rest of Gotham’s vigilantes until his motives are confirmed. Because honestly? It feels like Dante is running from mistreatment more than anything else. 

“So, is your name Than Drake?”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck, looking down. “No. But after so many years of being raised to be the perfect heir, I want to know who I am without the weight of so many expectations. I want to figure out who I want to be, you know? So now that my parents aren’t around, I’m trying to take that chance where I can.” 

He looked up to meet Dante’s gaze; the vampire’s blue eyes were filled with complete understanding. 

“I get it, Than. Don’t let anyone stop you, not even those who claim to care.” 

“I agree,” Tim says firmly, holding out his hand to shake. Dante’s hand is cold, but not lifeless. “Welcome home.” 

Chapter Text

Jason is a man on a mission. He has roughly 36 hours from the time he leaves Dante at the old theater until Dante shows up at his safehouse for Jason’s favor. 

…The favor that Jason really would like to be non-business related. Would he scare Dante off if it was? Don’t get him wrong, having someone with Dante’s abilities would make certain operations much easier— rumor is that Black Mask is trying to cut some kind of deal with the Falcones, but getting any details has been a fruitless endeavor so far. Dante has seemed totally fine with the fact that Red Hood is a crime lord, even complimenting his fighting skills the second time they met. Asking him to surveil in this case probably wouldn’t be a stretch of his capabilities nor too easy as to be offensive. 

That decided, he can gather what information he has on times and places the meeting is rumored to be taking place at, and then focus the rest of his time researching Dante and brush up on vampire basics. He doesn’t want to accidentally offend Dante, after all. 

Jason starts by hacking into the Batcomputer. He does actually have his own log-in now, but he doesn’t want anyone else to know he was looking at it, so he figures out Dick’s passcodes and uses those instead. 

The file definitely shows signs of both B’s obsessive cross-referencing and the Replacement’s meticulous analysis, but the latter doesn’t seem to have added much to the file in weeks, which is odd. Either the kid got reassigned, felt the need to focus on another case, or decided to do some work on his own. The last option seems the most likely; Robins have a tendency to exert their independence against B’s wishes, particularly when benched or something. 

Red Robin hasn’t been benched to his knowledge, although he’s not been seen out much lately. No, in this case it was more like being removed from the team— Jason doesn’t actually know what went down between Dick, Damian, and Tim after B’s death, but he knows it was something bad enough to make Tim go look for B without any backup. Jason had been pretty deep in his own shit at that point, too deep to pay close attention to the way the rest of the family was imploding. It was bad enough to drive away Cass, which means it was pretty bad. 

Now that B is back and things are settling down a bit, he listens in on the Bats’ main comm channel often enough to tell that Tim hasn’t really reintegrated. Whether the reason for that is Tim’s choice or not, Jason has no idea, but he does know how it feels to be a solo act being pressured to fall back into the fold— it sucks, plain and simple. B doesn’t know how to compromise, Dickie just likes to act like everything is fine and uncomplicated, and Damian was raised to be judgemental. Babs is the only one who understands the idea of give and take, really, and he resolves to drop off some sort of baked good for her this week. She deserves it for coordinating all their emotionally constipated asses. 

At any rate, Jason reviews the compiled vampire lore which is ordered by how confirmed as true it is, paying special attention to how Dante differs from each fact or supposition. Dante’s assertion that he’s not an energy vampire had stuck out to Jason as a partial truth at best, but if he was specifically avoiding being identified as one, there was probably a reason for that. Some sort of vampire discrimination maybe? Something to subtly probe Dante about. Jason finds absolutely nothing on Dante himself.

The last thing on the preparation agenda is dinner, and Jason brainstorms for a full two hours before deciding on steak fajitas with sides of red rice, homemade refried beans, grilled corn, and jicama slaw. Dessert will be sopaipillas if he has time. (Jason is very good at time management— he’ll make sure there’s time.) 

In spite of how much Dante likes to drink from Jason and the effects thereof, Jason gets the impression that he’s pretty flighty otherwise. Feeding him human food is another way to draw him in, and if Dante’s face when he tasted a simple omelet is any indication, it’ll be effective. 

—————

Whatever Danny was expecting for this meeting, a restaurant-worthy dinner just taken off the stove was not it. What the fuck is Hood doing as a crime lord if he can cook this good!? It takes as much self-control as when drinking from him to not be completely embarrassing and moan in pleasure. It tastes so good and Danny really wants to know what it tastes like on human taste buds, too, but in ghost form he gets hints of emotion infused within; there’s an aftertaste of positive consideration he can’t quite identify in the same way the meal is flavored, multiple different spices and flavors blending into a blissful experience.

Red Hood is in a domino again instead of the helmet so he can eat as well, and seems quite satisfied with Danny’s obvious enjoyment. It doesn’t take much urging to get Hood to tell him about where he learned the recipes and how the Crime Alley auntie would rap her wooden spoon on anyone trying to get a taste unless it was with a clean, designated taste-testing utensil. They continue to chat as they eat, Danny in turn sharing the story of the first time he’d had sopaipillas from a street vendor when on a trip to see a particular cave full of crystals. He talks around the fact that he had company at the time, and continues to do so as they talk about other places they’ve been. Red Hood is remarkably well traveled for someone who can’t physically fly anywhere, but Danny isn’t going to press if it was for crime or something. 

(It’s not like Danny isn’t curious, especially since Hood seems to be a year or two older than Danny at most. But seeing as people don’t usually become a crime lord for fun reasons and Danny doesn’t want to invite equally detailed questions about his past, they keep things light.)

Finally, though, they’ve both eaten their fill and it’s time to get down to business. “So, what kind of favor do you have in mind?” Danny asks, keeping his tone flirty. 

“Unfortunately not the most fun kind,” Hood flirts back, and oh, it’s a good thing Danny can’t actually see his eyes, because that tone of voice alone... ugh, focus Danny! You can’t be down bad for this hottie even though he’s cooked for you!

Danny pinches himself and does his best to look interested at the map of Gotham that Hood has pulled out. “Black Mask seems to think that he can get back into the game by setting up the Falcone family with a deal on pseudoephedrine, as if the Falcones don’t go through me for the drug trade. Still, if they decide they want to risk working around me, that’s a problem, and meth is always a problem considering that I’ve got my hands pretty full keeping fentanyl out of the other opioids to cut down on people OD’ing,” Hood explains. 

“So you want me to shadow Black Mask and see how that meeting goes?” 

Hood nods. “Even if the Falcones don’t go for it. Black Mask is slippery like a fucking cockroach, just keeps coming back. He also has a tendency to torture people to death regardless of how involved they actually are. If he’s trying to make a move against me again, he’ll probably target innocent people under my protection too.”

Being a crime lord/vigilante sounds like a lot of work. Danny’s seen the needle exchanges, the after-school programs, the soup kitchens. He knows that Hood does a lot for the people of Crime Alley that he doesn’t need to. And well, Danny’s quite familiar with doing good and being called a villain over it. Helping Hood doesn’t feel wrong, even when not consumed with thirst for his weirdly fermented ecto.

“You got it,” Danny says. “Where can I find him?”

As Hood points to the map, showing Danny possible hideouts, Danny tries not to think about getting used to this. It’s been years since he actually did any vigilante work that wasn’t like, impulsively tripping a mugger so their victim could kick them in the head and run away. His time heroing in Amity was a lot of exhaustion and injury and pressure, but it wasn’t all bad; saving people always felt right, and some fights were actually fun once he’d gotten the hang of things more. Danny probably can’t have that again, but this? This he can probably do once in a while.

Chapter Text

Jason had known that the meeting between Black Mask and the Falcones was a few days out, but his restless energy increases exponentially every night that passes without Dante being spotted— not just by him, but by anyone. 

(The VampWatch Tweeter account may or may not be Jason’s most frequently visited place on the internet right now. An art student had been at a club at the same time as Dante a few weeks ago and had drawn an excellent portrait that was then posted to Tweeter and has now become the background of Jason’s civilian phone.)

After a full week with no news, Jason is on edge enough that when Batman and Robin get too close to Crime Alley, he goes to the boundary street of his territory and stands on a rooftop, arms crossed in a clear message of unwelcome. The so-called dynamic duo (was it really dynamic if it was like, the sixth iteration?) get as close as across the street, the Demon Brat moving as if to swing over before Batman puts a restraining hand on his shoulder. 

(If Jason had to guess, his younger brother wants to complain in person since Jason has been avoiding the main com channel tonight. Apparently Damian still isn’t allowed to patrol alone, although whether that’s for safety or a punishment isn’t clear. Odds are, it’s some combination of the two.)                                        

Batman does that thing where he indicates an eyebrow raise with his posture and Jason rolls his eyes back. Still, he doesn’t feel like body-language snarking back and forth for an hour, so he grapple-guns over to them. “What?” he snaps. 

“Hn.” 

“Why are you not on the main coms tonight?” Robin demands imperiously, as if Jason didn’t know that Batman had just said that.

Jason folds his arms again. “Because I’m already in a bad mood and didn’t need you lot driving me the rest of the way up the wall.”

Batman shifts his weight slightly. “Hn?”

“None of your business,” Jason scowls. “Not unless you have Carmine Falcone’s personal schedule for this and last week.”

“What is happening with Falcone? You did not log any new cases about him in the Batcomputer,” Damian says with a frown of his own. Jason is pretty sure that the kid has never laughed or smiled on patrol and it’s sad, honestly. 

(Even Tim’s Robin was a bucket of joy, stubborn kid that he was. But thinking about Tim as Robin is a bad idea right now, not with how hair-trigger Jason’s temper is currently—)

Something tickles at the edge of Jason’s senses, and he turns back to look towards Crime Alley abruptly. Something is nearby, something... well, he isn’t sure how to describe it. Switching his helmet over to thermal vision, nothing is showing up, but he’s sure there’s something there, further into his territory. 

“Hood?” Batman asks quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Jason lies gruffly. “If I want your help, I’ll fucking let you know, asshole.”

Batman doesn’t sigh, but his shoulders radiate disapproval. Well, Batman can suck it, Jason is leaving. He fires his grapple and swings back into his territory, deciding to at least get far enough away that he can’t feel their eyes on his back anymore. 

He’s just gotten out of sight (although he still feels their gaze) when a cold spot rapidly turns into a completely invisible Dante coming to meet him. Jason thanks his past self for putting the thermal vision filter in his helmet. It means that when he stops on a rooftop conveniently out of view of any cameras and takes his helmet off so he can smoke, he completely surprises Dante by offering him one. 

“Wow, I didn’t think your aura sense would be that precise!” Dante exclaims with a grin. “How long have you felt me in your haunt?”

His haunt, huh? Jason should call it that in front of B sometime, his face would be funny. It’s nice to talk to someone who makes as many death jokes as he does. “Not nearly long enough, I’d say,” Jason says, both flirting and completely meaning it. He’d never have forgiven himself if Black Mask had done something to Dante somehow.

Dante looks surprised for a second before his smile turns a bit sheepish. “Ah, yes, the intel. Black Mask is a paranoid bastard, but not only did I find out where he’s keeping all the drugs, I also found out when it arrives and what other manufacturers he’s approached. I wanted to be thorough,” he explains, pulling a flash drive out of his sleeve in a way that doesn’t look like normal sleight of hand.

“Impressive,” Jason says, feeling a significant portion of stress melt away. With that kind of information, the operation is as good as dismantled. Maybe he’ll even let a bat or two in on it, if there’s more than one location that he wants to hit at the same time. “I think I’m going to have to keep you around.”

A nearly-glowing blush creeps over Dante’s cheeks and towards his ears at the words and the smile that Jason gives him. Still, his smirk is light as he floats closer, face to face. “Shouldn’t that be my line, what with how you’re the tastiest fruit punch in Gotham?”

“I want to say I’m a classier drink than that, but I was born and raised two blocks from here,” Jason quips. 

Dante chuckles. “Well, I must admit that I was hardly classy myself even a few years after my demise. It’s something that’s come with time— and a medieval queen’s dedicated tutelage.” 

“That sounds like at least one interesting story.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Dante says, brushing a speck of dust off his gloves. “I would have enjoyed our meeting much more without the dragon involved, mind you, but it all started when  her despot of a brother was still ruling the kingdom...”

As Dante’s words wash over him, Jason relaxes, the heat of discontent ebbing away with the pleasant chill of the vampire’s presence. The favor hasn’t scared Dante off, meaning Jason still has time and opportunity to make this romance novel come true.

Chapter Text

“-so now, Dorathea rules the kingdom, her brother is imprisoned, and my friend Hellebore added another item to the list of things she was right about,” Danny finishes. Red Hood probably thinks this actually happened in the middle ages, but like Helle (ha!) he’s going to just give out the real name of a friend. Can’t be too careful. 

Red Hood snorts. “I hope the neighboring kingdoms didn’t start shit because of it.”

“Ah, this was in a very remote location,” Danny says, grinning. It’s still funny even if he’s the only one in on the joke. “Last time I was there, Prince Aragon was still imprisoned and quite mad about it. It’s a good thing that he’s in a place no mortals can reach. Well, just about no mortals, anyways.”

“Well that’s not concerning at all,” Hood snarked. “Your friend Hellebore sounds rad, though, definitely ahead of her time. With a name like that, is she a vampire too?”

Danny debates lying, since Sam would love being known as an actual vampire, but decides against it. He doesn’t like to lie, which is funny considering how much he’s had to do it for the past six years. There’s also the fact that since Hood’s angry ecto isn’t at an overpowering level at the moment, it’s possible he can pick up on Danny’s vibes and could tell if Danny lied. Hood is definitely getting better at detecting Danny’s presence, if nothing else.

(Do revenants get as strong post-mortal empathy as ghosts? Danny can’t for the life of him (ha) recall. He does know that liminals like Sam, Tucker, Val, and Jazz have some capability in that department, although since they’re in his Fraid, that might have strengthened it... if only he remembered his lessons with Frostbite better!)

“Oh, she’s still around and telling me how to be properly goth,” Danny says fondly. “She told me last week that if my coffin isn’t lined in velvet, I’m not being a vampire right.”

Amidst the amusement, there’s a sour note that tastes like fear. Hood pushes it down quickly, but Danny resolves not to bring up coffins again. Just because he was never buried after his death doesn’t mean Hood wasn’t, and he might have some trauma about it. Danny won’t ever ask, obviously, he’s not uncouth.

“No sympathy for the working-class undead, I see,” Hood quips. “What a pity.”

Danny laughs. “Nah, just not for me, she knows me too well. That’s the problem with still being friends with your exes, they don’t let you get away with anything anymore.”

“She live in Gotham too, or did she come visit you?” Hood asks, his tone and posture casual but his aura attentive. 

It makes sense that Hood would be wary about other undead in his haunt. “We are parted by necessity for the foreseeable future,” Danny assures him, trying to keep his own self casual instead of showing how desperately he misses her and the others. “Thankfully, portable phones exist now, so we can still catch up regularly.”

Hood zeros in on that. “You have a phone? If you’d like to continue our little exchanges, it may behoove us to exchange numbers.” 

(Behoove? Man, either Hood is trying to speak old-timey for Danny’s sake or he reads a lot of Shakespeare and shit. Either way is pretty great.)

Since Danny typically keeps his phone in his arm for convenience (and to avoid ruining the way his pants show off his figure), he makes it look like a normal sleight of hand trick and grabs it from under his puffy sleeves. “Splendid idea, you’ll probably be ready to drink from in another week or less, and I should check on my lair after so long away.” 

(Not that Danny wants to wait, but he also doesn’t want to press his luck. Hood may or may not have any weapons that would end him, but a physical bullet still hurts regardless, as would a stake or something.)

“Your lair, huh? Is that 5th date stuff, being invited to your lair?” Hood flirts as he pulls out what is obviously a burner phone and offers it to Danny.

Danny does his best to avoid blushing, although his ears might be a little green. “I guess you’ll just have to find out, hm?” Instead of taking Hood’s phone though, Danny sets his own phone to the new contact page and hands it over. “Ah, my phone number isn’t terribly stable, so let me text you so you have it, hm?”

Hood raises an eyebrow high enough to be seen even with his domino mask, but obliges. His face when he gets the text from “420-6969” is priceless, and Danny cackles.

“That’s not even a valid phone number!”

“It used to be!”

Danny and Tucker are hilarious, truly. The phone’s number does change regularly, but it tends to be silly, non-actual-numbers like that; it turns out that when routed through Realms, the number doesn’t actually matter. Hood texts back a picture of an alley cat to make sure the number works, and Danny coos. “Aw, what a handsome scrapper! Takes one to know one, I guess.” The wink is gratuitous, but hey, why not? Danny wants to win the banter/flirtation game, he always does. “Anyways, talk to you later, Hood!"

—————

A shadow travels across the yard unnaturally before resolving itself into the form of Dante, floating up to the secluded balcony where Tim is lounging on an unnecessarily ornate chaise. He’s scrolling through a tumblr that only posts pictures of superhero fails, like running into a post or having their capes blow in their face. There’s a really funny GIF of Flash the younger slipping through the aftermath of a truck full of olive oil crashing. 

Dante smiles as he alights onto the balcony and leans against the stonework railing. “Hey Than, how’s it going?”

“Hey, Dante, things are fine. I haven’t seen you for a while, everything going okay?” Tim asks, but not like, urgently or anything. This is partially because he is currently Than the Chill Dude™ and partially because he’s using the cover to actually smoke a blunt after a particularly vexatious meeting in the Batcave where Bruce brooded (what else was new), Damian wouldn’t stop with the boasting/complaining combo he was so adept at, and Dick mostly just made puns and cooed over his littlest brother to distract how actually stretched thin he was over his latest case. When Alfred started hinting towards Tim sleeping over, Tim bounced, deciding to make a stop at Drake Manor even though he hadn’t seen Dante for over a week. 

And now he’s rewarded for that excellent decision, especially if vampires also smoke weed and he can get Dante to relax enough to give away more intel. (The fact that Dante is nice to look at under the weak rays of moonlight is a perk that will not be going in a report except in a section regarding possible evolved methods to attract prey.) 

Dante laughs lightly, waving a hand. “Nice of you to miss me, but I’m perfectly fine. I simply was off doing a favor for a friend of mine. I didn’t mean to rhyme that by the way, I’m not that kind of vampire. Anyways, why don’t I just give you my phone number?”

“You have a phone? Like, from this century?” Tim says, already itching to see what it will look like. If he can get his hands on it for just a few minutes, he can blow this case wide open. Wider open than Drake Manor is currently, even. 

“Hey, I keep up with the times pretty well,” Dante protests, and pulls out a- wait, for real??? No fucking way. That color scheme wasn’t anything on the market!

“Is that a BlackBerry 7210!?” Tim demands, agog. He’s pretty sure his father was one of the first people to get one when they came out, or at least the first to throw it out after buying it. 

Dante laughs. “Oh, you recognize it? Yeah, my technomancer buddy says older tech is easier to integrate with magic and dimensional physics, or something like that.”

Tim takes a hit of his blunt so he doesn’t extend grabby hands for the obviously tricked out phone. It’s the same silver and lurid green as Batman had described the vampire’s thermos, although Tim hasn’t seen it personally yet. Did this technomancer (!?) friend make that too? “What kind of features does it have? Kind of a cyberpunk aesthetic or something, huh?”

“Oh, nothing too spooktacular,” Dante puns, ignoring Tim’s resulting groan. “No carrier needed, super long battery life, gets service in hell dimensions. Oh, and Snake. Only the necessities.”

“Shit, dude, why would you want to go to a hell dimension? That straight up does not sound like a good time.” Also if the vampire is capable of interdimensional travel, is it through magic or technology or both? Is he even from this dimension at all? He might be from somewhere with completely different vampire rules than here. Tim doesn’t recall seeing that Batman made a contingency plan for that, and if he hasn’t then Tim is totally gonna rub it in his face at some point.

Dante scrunches up his face. “It’s not usually so much about want as it is... other reasons. I don’t visit much these days, which is for the best. I’m not really ready for that stage of the afterlife yet.”

Tim inhales and exhales smoke as he tries to decide how to phrase his next question. Finally, he says, “are you aware that every time you answer a question, you either raise ten more or an existential crisis? Because if you are aware, that’s a pretty fun bit.” Not to get meta or anything. It’s actually a very annoying bit, if you’re Tim. But Tim isn’t Tim, he’s Than, and Than knows so much about controlling how he’s perceived because giving the wrong impression to any crowd-- no, that’s Tim again. But Than has just as much experience, minus the cape experience, so either way-- what was he saying? (Thinking. Definitely thinking.) Right, trying to decipher what was a bit and what wasn’t, when it came to Dante.

“I’m dead yet somehow living, my very nature is an existential crisis,” Dante says dryly, which isn’t really an answer but makes Tim think that Dante is perfectly aware of how enigmatic he is. 

“Shit, you want some of this then?” Tim offers, holding out the blunt. You know, for science/rapport-building.

Dante sighs ruefully. “Unfortunately, human weed doesn’t really do it for me. I did get some ghost weed off of my older sister’s ex once, but my arch-nemesis stole most of it to do “chemical research” on it.” Dante gestures the air quotes heavily. “Honestly, he was just mad that I should dare get to relax for a couple hours when he’s bitter and alone due to his own actions.”

Tim raises his Red Bull. “Cheers to that, dude, I know exactly that kind of asshole and they need to get a life. Like, I’m sorry for holding you accountable for running the company I inherited, go cry into your wife’s trust fund and stop bothering me. Fuck, man.” Hopefully Dante’s arch-nemesis isn’t a creepy old guy with marriage designs. Carlson’s reaction to being fired from the board of Drake Industries is annoying, but that’s not who Dante’s story reminds him of. 

“Old rich dudes is the same,” Dante nods solemnly. Tim is forced to conclude that regardless of Dante’s true age, he speaks very convincingly like a modern young adult.

Nodding back, Tim asks what hopes is the natural, non-offensive follow-up question. “But you’re forever young or whatever, so you don’t have to worry about becoming that, right?”

Dante looks... pensive, maybe, like the question is one he wrestles with when he’s alone. “I... don’t want to stop worrying about what I’ll become. The moment I don’t care anymore is a moment I fear.”

Shit, things just got serious. Again though, Tim knows exactly what he means, and has ever since he found out that he had evil future selves like Gun Batman. 

If Dante could stop saying relatable shit, that would be nice. 

“I suppose being undead gives you plenty of time for introspection, whether you like it or not,” Tim muses. 

“After the first few years, sure,” Dante agrees easily. “But part of that conclusion was just having to deal with a vampire named Vlad, who’s a total asshole. All my homies hate Vlad.”

“Vlad... like Dracula?” Tim ventures, once again wondering how old Dante actually is.

Dante laughs loudly, nearly bending over in his mirth. “Ancients, he wishes he was that infamous! Nah, there’s tons of vampires named Vlad, it’s like the James Smith of vampires. I’ve never met the actual Vlad Dracula, thankfully.” 

“Okay, I was wondering, because there’s a theory that Batman faced and destroyed the actual Vlad Dracula during the pre-Robin days,” Tim ventures. “No one knows how, of course.” 

(Giving Dante this information is a gamble. It could scare him away, or it could net more intel, or- well, there are a lot of possibilities, but Tim thinks the risk is worth it if Dante’s reaction sheds any light on his relationship with other vampires. And Tim is very good at calculating the odds, if he does say so himself.)

Eyes wide, Dante whistles. “Damn, that’s impressive if true. Rumor has it he was one tough motherfucker, like rip his head off his body and he laughs at you kind of tough. Friend of a friend of friend heard it from their cousin, you know how it is. Then again, I gotta imagine ol’ Dracula was a real megalomaniac, so it makes sense that Batman would have to take him out.”

Tim nods. “I mean, if he really was the historical figure, we know how he liked to rule: absolute power and lots of executions. Not the kind of guy you want to chill with.”

“Yeah, it gets lonely avoiding most other supernatural creatures, but for me, it’s the opposite of safety in numbers,” Dante admits, looking out at the yard. “The more of us in one place, the easier it is to attract hunters. If Lady Gotham hadn’t specifically welcomed me, I probably wouldn’t have settled down here, ambiance aside.”

“Lady Gotham?” Please be speaking metaphorically, please be speaking metaphorically-

Dante looks back at Tim, confused. “Yeah, you know, the city spirit?”

“We have a what?”