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That night, Danny dreamed of white.
Not the good kind of white. It was not snow either nor Frostbite's ice. It was not the familiar cold he used to wear like a second skin. In fact, this white was sterile. Felt clinical and he hated it. The white seemed to pressed in from every angle, too bright, humming faintly like fluorescent lights that never quite stopped buzzing.
He was on a table. Flat on his back, cold metal beneath him, and he couldn't move. He felt drunk. Groggy even. He couldn't lift his arms, couldn't turn his head, couldn't do anything but blink up into the blinding light while shapes moved around him. There were also other people in the room but who were they? Why was he here? He thought. Though he couldn't make out their faces, everything felt so blurry, distorted. And only white. White coats, white masks, white gloves, all of it smeared together as if they were blended into one featureless wall of whiteness.
He could feel himself panic and he knew he was hyperventilating and he tried to scream. Nothing came out. He wasn't sure if he was gagged or if his throat simply refused to work, and the not-knowing was happening to him was almost worse than the pain, and there was also pain, sharp and everywhere at once, radiating from somewhere he couldn't locate and couldn't protect. He couldn't breathe. Something was wrong, something was deeply, catastrophically wrong, and nobody in the room seemed to care, moving around him with clipped, clinical efficiency like he was a problem to be an experiment rather than a person on the table.
Please— Please! H-help m— can't breathe— Help—
He fought for air that wouldn't come, lungs burning, the white pressing in closer and closer until it was the only thing left —
His eyes immediately flew open. Air rushed into his lungs like it was the first breath he'd ever taken, and he had woken up gasping.
For a long moment, Danny just lay there in the dark, chest heaving heavily, staring at the water-stained ceiling of his dorm room.
His heart was going too fast and his shirt stuck to his back with sweat.
Something about the dream sat wrong in his chest, heavier than a normal nightmare had any right to be. It was too specific, too textured, like a memory instead of a dream.
It's not real, it's not real, he told himself. It was just a dream. It didn't happen. Just a dream...
He didn't fully believe it, but he made himself breathe slower anyway, counting the way Jazz had taught him years ago, until his pulse stopped hammering quite so hard. He looked around the room once his heart rate settled. Dark shapes of his desk, his half-unpacked boxes still stacked in the corner, everything exactly where it should be, and yet none of it made the unease sitting in his chest go away. He felt wrung out already, exhausted in the particular way that felt as if he hadn't been sleeping for days at all. His eyes felt heavy and gritty, and he was fairly sure, without even needing a mirror, that he looked like absolute hell.
Then he reached for his phone on the bedside table, mostly on reflex.
No messages.
The screen was the only thing lit in the whole dark room, a small cold rectangle of light, and Danny stared at its blankness a beat too long. He thought about texting Robin. Just to check, just to know if he was safe... and then thought better of it. If he was still out there, still in the middle of something, the last thing he needed was Danny's clinginess buzzing in his pocket. He'll message in the morning, Danny told himself, setting the phone face-down on the nightstand like that might stop him from checking it again in ten minutes. Probably. Maybe.
He reached over and switched on the lamp instead, turning it down low until it was barely more than a dim yellow glow but not enough to keep him up, just enough that the dark didn't feel so dark.
It helped, a little.
At least he didn't feel like he was staring into the same white nothing from the dream. He turned onto his side, watching the small warm circle of light instead of the ceiling, until his exhausted eyes finally gave out on their own.
He did not sleep well.
The next day arrived exactly as tired as Danny expected. He yawned through his first two lectures, caught himself staring blankly at a differential equation his group of friends had already solved twice over, and nodded along to Marcos's running commentary on the dining hall's crimes against pasta without really absorbing a word of it.
Just tired, he told them. Got a bad dream that's all.
Except it didn't quite feel normal, whatever that nagging feeling was. There was this small and persistent feeling, sitting somewhere behind his sternum all day like a splinter he couldn't dig out. He tried to shake it off between classes. Tried to let his friends' easy chatter fill the space instead. It mostly worked, in the way things mostly work when you're determined not to think about them.
By evening, the nag hadn't gone anywhere, and neither had the silence from his phone.
Danny checked it again outside his last class.
Nothing.
He told himself it was fine. Robin had a whole city to look after and a whole life Danny only got tiny glimpses of, and of course he couldn't text every single day. This was probably exactly how Sam and Tucker used to feel, wasn't it back when Danny would vanish mid-conversation to deal with some ghost tearing through the Nasty Burger.
The thought landed harder than he expected. He hadn't realized how uneasy that kind of waiting actually felt until he was the one doing it. Back then, he'd never thought twice about it since he was too busy enjoying his powers, the rush of being needed, of being able. He'd never once considered what it cost the people left behind, staring at their phones, hoping he'd come back in one piece.
This time it was different. This time he was the one left behind, and he was entirely, uselessly human while he did it. Gotham wasn't haunted, not the way Amity Park had been and there was certainly no ghosts tearing through the streets, no portals spitting out chaos every other night. It had its own kind of danger, sure, but not one that had ever needed Danny specifically. Not that it mattered anymore anyway. Even if it had, there was nothing he could do about it now.
His powers were just... gone. And the absence was eating at him alive more than he wanted to admit. This slow, quiet erosion he could feel if he sat with it too long. He knew better than to sit with it. If he let himself dwell, he'd spiral, and he could already feel the first edges of it creeping in and his breath going shallow, his thoughts picking up speed before he caught himself and shoved it all back down, forcing his focus back to the present.
He looked over to where his friends were gathered, Priya mid-story about something in her chem lab, Marcos laughing before she'd even finished, Dona arguing about the new theory with Yeena quietly humming to whatever he was saying. New friends. Good ones, the kind he hadn't quite let himself have back home eventhough he had Sam and Tucker for it. He was far too busy juggling a secret life to invest properly in a normal one. He was enjoying this... actually enjoying it, in a way that surprised him a little. So he steadied his breathing, let the tightness in his chest ease back, and smiled when a joke landed in his direction, and let himself just be there, just being present.
Dinner was chicken noodle soup.
Two dollars cheaper than the Gotham cheeseburger, which was really all the deciding factor Danny needed on a barista's non existent paycheck yet and eating slowly at a corner table of the little bistro near campus while he pretended to do reading he wasn't absorbing. He lingered longer than he probably should have, sipping water long after the soup was gone, until the owner started stacking chairs around him in the universal language of it's time to leave, kid.
Danny paid, slowly gathered his things, and stepped out into the cold night.
His dorm wasn't far. Fifteen minutes, maybe less if he walked fast. But Gotham after dark had a different experience than Gotham in daylight, streetlights looking more ominous than giving safe, and Danny walked slower than he meant to or maybe exactly as slow as he meant to, if he was being honest with himself, which he was determinedly not.
He knew what he was doing. Some small, quiet part of him had known since he lingered and it was stupid. He felt stupid and since he'd taken the longer route back instead of the one that cut past the brighter, busier streets. He wasn't about to say any of that out loud, not even inside his own head if he could help it, because saying it made him feel shameless and guilty, and that shame meant admitting something about himself he didn't especially want to look at directly. Self-preservation had never exactly been his strong suit after all! Sam and Tucker had said as much more times than he could count, usually right before he did something reckless anyway.
So he walked at a normal pace, and told himself it was because his feet hurt or maybe he just want to admire the city in its darkness... which was total bullshit. Gotham was a little scary actually.
That was when the old instinct prickled at the back of his neck. The familiar, danger awareness. Danny turned and his eyes landed on the man loitering near the mouth of an alley.
Big. Broad-shouldered, thick forearms marked up with faded jailhouse-blue tattoos, a cigarette burning low between two fingers. He wasn't just standing there. He was waiting, posture too still, eyes doing slow laps of the empty street like he was cataloguing options.
Danny knew, in the half-second their eyes met, exactly what kind of night this was about to become.
His heart kicked up hard against his ribs. And then, treacherously, right on the heels of the fear: okay. this better be worth it. Shit shit shit
He kept walking, aiming for casual, aiming to just get past and a hand closed around his forearm hard enough to bruise.
"Hey—" Danny's breath caught, more startled than anything, even though some small resigned part of him had absolutely seen this coming. "Hi. Uh. Can I help you?"
The man was leering, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, eyes doing a slow, deliberate crawl down Danny that made his skin want to peel itself off. "Where you headed, sweetheart? Bit late to be walking around alone."
"Er... I am going back now? Well, good sir. Can you please let go? I mean seriously—" Danny tried to twist his arm free.
"What's the rush." The man's grip only tightened, thumb pressing hard enough that Danny's wrist began to ache. "Don't you wanna talk a little first? Pretty thing like you, out here all by yourself."
"I have somewhere to be, so if you could just—" Danny yanked hard, aiming a comment about the guy's cologne being an actual violation of the Geneva Convention, and used the moment of distraction to wrench his arm sideways.
It didn't work. He was, and had always been, distressingly skinny and he didn't think that this was going to be a problem given when... oh well. The man had at least eighty pounds on him and knew exactly how to use that strength. Danny's back hit the brick wall of the alley hard enough to knock the air out of him, and he glanced past the man's shoulder toward the street toward anyone, anything before a rough hand seized his chin and wrenched his face back around.
"Where you looking, huh?"
Danny glared, jaw tight under the man's grip, and didn't answer.
The man laughed, low and unpleasant, said something about his eyes and he must have said something about how pretty and blue his eyes were, how he didn't mind Danny looking at him at all and Danny's stomach turned cold. Now, he wasn't finding the situation funny. He shoved hard, wrenching out of the man's grip on pure adrenaline, fear finally catching up to fury.
"Let go! You absolute walking piece of shit—" Danny wrenched his arm again, breathing hard. "You know, for someone who smells like a dumpster fire, you've got a lot of opinions about my face."
"Shut your mouth—"
"Make me. Oh wait, you can't, because your last three brain cells are all currently occupied trying to remember how buttons work on that shirt."
The grip on him tightened, and Danny kept going anyway, mouth running well ahead of any survival instinct he might've theoretically possessed. "Seriously, has this line ever worked? Once? In recorded history? Because from where I'm standing it screams desperation and the only action you are only ever getting is that right hand of yours.'"
"I said shut up—"
"You should really see someone about that anger issue. And ya, you smell! Honestly the smell first, probably, there is something call priorities—"
Whatever composure the man had been holding onto finally snapped. His face twisted, ugly and red, past irritation now and straight into something meaner, and his hand cracked across the side of Danny's face before Danny even saw it coming. Pain bloomed hot and sudden along his cheekbone, sharp enough that his vision actually swam for a second, ears ringing with a high thin whine.
"You've got a smart mouth," the man snarled, shaking out his stinging hand like Danny's face had personally offended it. "Think it's about time you learned some manners."
He drew back his other fist, knuckles white, murder plain on his face, swinging for Danny's face this time with the kind of force that promised blood.
Danny threw his arms up on instinct, bracing for impact he already knew he had no real hope of stopping. He squeezed his eyes shut.
The punch never landed.
There was a blur of motion at the edge of his vision, faster than anything should have moved, and then the man was simply gone from in front of him. Hit sideways with enough force that he skidded a full car-length down the empty street and didn't get back up right away.
Danny blinked. His arms were still raised, and standing where the man had been a second ago was Robin, cape still settling from the drop, and he looked furious.
The man scrambled upright, took one look at the figure standing over him, and bolted like his life depended on it which, judging by the look on Robin's face, it very well might have. Robin let him go. Didn't chase, didn't so much as glance after him, because his whole attention was already locked on Danny and even with the mask hiding his eyes, that focus felt searing that even Danny felt intimidated.
"What," Robin said, voice low and clipped, "were you thinking."
"I—"
"Walking alone. At night. In this neighborhood which I had specifically told you not to." Robin took a step closer, and Danny had never once been afraid of him, not really, not until this exact second, when that same coiled anger from the fight hadn't fully drained out of him yet. "Do you have any idea what could've happened if I had been late?"
"I didn't—"
"You didn't what, Danny. Think? Care?" Robin's jaw was tight, words coming faster now, sharper. "This city eats people like you for breakfast. You know that. I've told you that."
Danny flinched, actually flinched, shoulders curling in on themselves, and something in Robin seemed to catch on that immediately and he stopped. Breath going ragged through his nose, visibly reeling the rest of his words back in.
For one dazed, upside-down second, all Danny could think, humiliatingly, was: God, he's terrifying when he's mad. It's stupidly hot. And right behind that, guilt, thick and immediate shame, because Robin wasn't just angry. He was scared for him, angry that he was so reckless, being the idiot that he was and he was worried for him which was so much worse to look at.
Danny felt his eyes start to sting, throat going tight and hot, and he blinked hard, jaw clenched. Nope. Not doing this. Not crying. Absolutely not. He wasn't the one who got to be upset here. He was the idiot who'd walked home alone at night in a city he already knew was dangerous, practically daring something to happen. He didn't get to play the victim when he'd basically volunteered for it. So he swallowed it down, hard, blinking fast, willing the burn behind his eyes to just go away.
It didn't entirely work.
Then Robin's hand was on his cheek. The one that had just been hit and his touch was achingly gentle, nothing at all like the sharp edges of what he'd just said.
Danny tried to duck away on reflex, tried for lightness, voice wobbling despite his best effort to keep it steady. He swallowed hard before he spoke again. "Oh — this is fine, honestly, barely even hurts, I've had worse from a Nasty Sauce packet exploding—"
"Danny." Robin's voice cut through it, quiet and absolutely done, and Danny's mouth snapped shut. "Stop."
Danny stopped.
For a second neither of them said anything. Then Robin exhaled, long and rough, some of the hard edge finally bleeding out of his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he said, low. "For snapping like that. That wasn't— I shouldn't have come at you like that."
Danny opened his mouth, already halfway to it's fine, you had every right, but Robin kept going before he could.
"But I'm not sorry for the rest of it. I'm not sorry you know exactly why I'm upset." His thumb moved, barely, against Danny's injured cheek, and his voice dropped even further, rougher now. "You could've been really hurt, Danny. Worse than just this. I need you to understand that. I need you to actually hear it, not just wait for me to stop talking so that you can make a joke out of it."
Danny's breath caught, and the sting behind his eyes came roaring back with a vengeance. He blinked hard, furious at himself. "I hear it," he managed, voice thinner than he wanted it to be.
"Okay." Robin's hand stayed where it was, steady, warm. "Okay. Good."
Danny decided to be brave. He lifted both his own hands and curled them around the one still resting against his cheek as if it was a treasure. He held it there, pressed it closer, and turned his face into it. Nuzzled against the leather glove like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain had a say in it. His heart was doing something ridiculous, hammering fast and hard against his ribs, loud enough that he was half-convinced Robin could probably feel it through the two feet of space still left between them.
He didn't even realize he'd closed his eyes until he opened them again and found Robin staring back at him, something caught and startled flickering across what little of his expression the mask let through.
Danny felt his face go warmer, if that was even possible at this point, but he didn't pull away.
"I was hoping you'd show up," he said quietly, still holding Robin's hand against his cheek. "Which is stupid, I know. I didn't d-dare to text you. I didn't want to bug you in case you were busy. But I kept hoping anyway, and—"
"Why do you keep doing this." Robin's hands hadn't moved, but his voice had, dropping into something rawer.
"I don't know," Danny admitted, small. "I don't really think about it, honestly. I just — I don't know."
Robin exhaled, slow, like he was working something loose in his own chest. "Danny, I will always show up unless something had happened. I don't care what I'm doing, I don't care what I'm in the middle of — if something's wrong, you're not a call I ignore. Ever. So stop putting yourself somewhere I might not be there for."
"Okay." Danny's voice came out smaller than he meant it to. "Sorry. I didn't want to be — I don't know. A bother."
Robin's jaw tightened, and after a moment he drew his hand back from Danny's cheek. Danny felt the loss of it immediately, warmth replaced by the cool night air, and he was sure whatever expression crossed his face in that instant gave far too much away because Robin didn't pull back any further. If anything, he stepped in closer, closing his gloved hand around Danny's instead, like he couldn't stand to leave the space between them empty for even a second.
And even through the fabric, even without actual skin against skin, Danny could feel exactly how strong that grip was, as if he absolutely had no intention of ever letting go of. Danny's heart did something complicated and stupid in his chest.
"You're not a bother," Robin said, low. "You're never a bother."
Danny didn't trust his voice not to wobble, so he didn't use it. He just nodded, throat tight, and pressed his lips together, not sure what words could possibly follow any of that. So instead he stepped in closer. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off Robin even through the suit and before he could second-guess himself, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to Robin's cheek. Longer this time. Deliberate, in a way the first one hadn't been.
He pulled back with his whole face on fire, his neck too, painfully obvious under the orange wash of the streetlamp but this time he didn't look away. Didn't duck his head or find something fascinating to stare at on the pavement. He just looked back at Robin, steady, because he was done pretending this wasn't exactly what it looked like. He was crushing hard on his vigilante, badly, hopelessly, and helplessly and he was tired of hiding it.
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Robin just looked at him, something soft and almost stunned flickering behind the domino mask, before his hand tightened around Danny's properly — fingers lacing through this time.
Danny was fairly sure, even in the dark, even with the mask in the way, that Robin was blushing too.
Neither of them mentioned it. Neither of them let go of the other's hand the entire walk back to Danny's dorm.
The next morning, Danny was reaching for his cereal when his phone buzzed on the table.
R: you free tonight?
And he nearly knocked the box over lunging for it. Outside the tiny kitchenette window, the morning was doing that overcast Gotham thing again, grey sky, a thin drizzle just starting to streak the glass but none of that mattered anymore, because his grin was already spreading wide enough to hurt.
Danny: depends what you have in mind
R: I know a place. best hot dogs in Gotham. non negotiable.
Danny: a hot dog date? Cool! be still my heart.
R: don't knock it till you've tried it. pick you up at 7. there's a cart a couple blocks from your dorm, corner of 5th and Kane. I'll meet you outside your building instead, easier.
Danny stared at the message for a solid ten seconds, grin refusing to budge, and then typed back a single word — deal — before shoving his phone in his pocket and finishing his cereal considerably faster than he had any right to, suddenly very eager for the day to be over.