I See A Post Talking Doom And Gloom About How We'll Never Escape Toxic Masculinity. I Think About Back

ok probably ooc but what if Tim kinda sees Bruce as his son. He hangs up Bruce’s weird ramble papers like you would a child’s drawing. He praises Bruce when he does something well, scolds him when he does something bad.

Tim has no reason to see Bruce as a father figure, but he has every reason to see him as a son. Plus, Bruce is always adamant that Bruce will never his dad, not the other way around

Jason: “he replaced me with you! A new shiny son since his first one died cause of him!”

Tim: “I.. believe you misunderstand my relationship with the Batman.”

Bruce should be named Billy cause he is the Batson

Tim puts little gold stars on the mission reports Bruce does well on and has a chart to track how well the man is doing at self-care tasks. Surprisingly, the frowny stickers are very effective at shaming Bruce. Maybe it's the disappointment of an inanimate object, maybe it's because a child is putting up the stickers, but Bruce hates seeing when a new one has been added to the list.

It would be hilarious if Tim pulled out the list for Jason and Damian too. He has sections for "insults," "murders," "knife pulled," and "bodily harm to family members."" He doesn't tell them he's the one doing it, though, cause it wouldn't be as effective. They just appear in a common area one day for all the Bats to witness.

Alfred puts ones up for the others as well.

REBLOG: go to your blog and click the egg to see what hatches

Imagine if the GIW started gunning for Jason without the Batfam ever meeting Phantom. Like, Bruce has to figure out on his own that the guys in white suits with Lazarus guns are 1. a legitimate government agency, and 2. are perfectly within their rights to hunt Jason like an animal, because 3. there's secret government legislation that says that since Jason's body processes ectaplasm, he's classified as non-sapient and has no legal protections.

Bruce calling up Clark like

Bruce: I am currently in the process of breaking into a government facility in order to dismantle their operations.

Clark: Okay? Do you need... help?

Bruce: Yes.

Clark: Sure, I'll be right there.

Bruce: Not that kind of help. Oracle is sending you the files now. I'd like you and Ms. Lane to make these people wish they were never born.

Clark: [speed-reading the documents] Oh yeah, can do. This is truly disgusting. If the public is half as outraged as I am, we'll get this sorted as fast as the courts can manage.

So Clark Kent acts as a whistle-blower, the Justice League publicly condems the Anti-Ecto Acts as inhumane, the GIW is disbanded, and Batman gets pardoned for all of those crimes that he technically did by assaulting federal agents. And after all that gets sorted, some white haired kid pops up in the Watchtower like "haha thanks for that I really didn't want a war between Earth and the Infinite Realms" and the League are like "wait what"

my best colors for your portrait

Warnings: none, jeid storyline in s14-15, just ANGST, no happy ending, based on tolerate it by taylor swift

Pairing: spencer reid x artist!reader no use of Y/N or gendered pronouns, but reader wears a dress. a/n I'm working on my existing wips but I need to get this out of my head first I'm so sorry!!

main masterlist

summary: second chances don't really matter, people never change. who were you kidding?

You don't know when this started. This, is the increasingly empty apartment. This, is silence and polite greetings. This, is walking on eggshells.

You knew what you were getting into. At least, you thought you did. 

You first met Spencer–or the BAU, more like–when they investigated a case in your apartment building. The case didn't matter–what mattered was that Dr. Spencer Reid talked to you about your art and agreed to a coffee date. You convinced him that the age gap didn't matter, you both were only six years apart.

“I'm pretty sure my prefrontal cortex has fully developed,” you said. “What are you so scared of?”

“Aging is the primary risk factor for neurological degenerative diseases!”

“Spencer, you are thirty-six, not seventy.”

“The risk of those neurological degenerative diseases like dementia and Parkinson's increase significantly by the time you are–”

You had cut him off with a kiss.

Then a museum date, then a movie date. Then he kissed you and called you his girlfriend for five months before disappearing from the face of the earth. His team had iced you out, citing some bull about confidential FBI business.

Fine, you thought. You would heal and move on and–he showed up at an auction you participated in, all dressed up in a formal tuxedo with a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

“I'm sorry,” Spencer told you. “You deserve an explanation and a better apology.”

“You look like hell,” was all that you said. 

And it took him two weeks to wear you down because who were you kidding? He is Spencer Reid and he owns all your heart. 

He'd come to all your showings, he'd sit for hours to let you paint him, he'd feed you when you've been painting for hours, he'd take care of you when you were too ill to get out of bed—you’d sit in a lot of his seminars, you'd hang out with all his friends and host dinner parties, you'd been with him every step of the way to let him heal from his prison trauma, you'd buy second copies of his favorite books so you could paint the edges.

But not today, not for the past month.

You think it's after he'd been kidnapped by the Believers cult, but he had held you close for the entire night when he got back. You think it's after his team faced Everett Lynch for the first time.

Ah, who are you kidding? You are not the profiler, you are just a woman.

I sit and watch you reading with your

Head low

I wake and watch you breathing with your

Eyes closed

It starts with later-than-usual nights and the files stamped CONFIDENTIAL in the living room. A fresh pot of coffee is steaming from the machine, and you arrange the almond chocolate bark you made that morning in a bowl.

“Hey,” you greet because you didn't see him leave this morning. “How are you doing?”

Spencer doesn't look up, eyes focused, trained on the files. “Aside from three murder victims, I'm fine.”

“Is it local?” You ask, curiously.

“I'm here, aren't I?”

You don't point out that he used to consult cases from home during some of the 30-day mandated breaks he was forced to take for every 100 days he spent at the BAU. 

“Maybe you can take a break? Have you had dinner? I'll warm up some mac and cheese–”

“I'm good.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should switch the coffee to green tea, you came in after I fell asleep last night and left before I woke up. You should get some rest—” 

You try to take the half-empty coffee mug away from the table, but he snaps into attention, arms automatically grabbing the handle of the mug, and tugging it towards him.

You jump, startled by the force, causing the liquid inside the cup to spill, drops of coffee and cream splattered on the pages from open folders.

“Fuck,” he swears, placing the mug back on the table. “Oh, no, no!”

“I am so sorry!” You exclaim, trying to dry off the spillage with your long sleeves. “Spencer, I didn't mean–”

“Stop, stop,” Spencer moves the papers away, to the side of the table that doesn’t have coffee on it.

“I'll go get kitchen towels–”

“No,” he says, tone firm. You freeze for a second. “No, just–just let me do it and let me do my job.”

I sit and watch you

And notice everything you do or don't do

You're so much older and wiser and I

Then, the distance. He never asks you to come to his team hangouts anymore, and you never keep the door to your studio open. He still texts you when he'd be home, if he'd be late, but he doesn't kiss your lips when he leaves.

You almost call him out. You want to shake him and ask what you did wrong, but you don't because in your head, you are already making excuses.

His job is stressful, his mom is getting worse, his job is important, his mom is important—he’s just tired and exhausted and you really don't want to add to that burden.

(Because that's what you are, isn't it? A burden to be taken care of, a checklist off of a long list of things to deal with, you take too much space, you demand too much time, you're too loud, you're too annoying, art school is a waste of money–shut up, mom!)

Besides, it’s Spencer. He never lied and he knows so much more than you, he’s been through a lot more than you, so what can you do?

I greet you with a battle hero's welcome

I take your indiscretions all in good fun

I sit and listen

You hear about the incident at the pawn shop from Penelope.

“Spencer and JJ were held hostage,” she explains. “They managed to get out safely, but he cut his hand trying to escape.”

You sit by the door after she hangs up, watching, dreading. When he walks in the door, the relief you feel is unimaginable. For a moment, you forget about the chasm between you, forget about the eggshells, and you cling to him and he lets you.

The dress you wear to David Rossi's wedding is purple–his favorite. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, like he always does, smiling the smile that made you fell in love with him. 

“You look handsome,” you say, planting a kiss on his lips.

It takes one look. One look from JJ when Spencer isn't looking, and one look from Spencer to JJ when she isn't looking when Emily talks about twin flames.

You want to die.

You want to scream and curse and above all, you want to die.

But you don't. You plaster a smile and dance with Luke and Emily. You let Kristy twirl you around as you watch Spencer and JJ talk at the bar. You let yourself down glasses and glasses of Penelope's the Rossi cocktail and champagne.

You sit and listen to his and Penelope’s stories, smiling, nodding, a little tipsy.

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit

And watch you tolerate it

The final straw is your first solo exhibition.

You want to tell him, this secret that you've been keeping for so long, the one thing that the closed door to your studio has been safeguarding. 

The final version of the invitations came that morning, and you know Spencer has a paperwork day so you prepare the dining table. You take out your favorite plates and crystal glasses, a non-alcoholic champagne on the side, similar set up that he put up during your anniversary. You buy flowers and light a candle.

“Hey,” Spencer greets as he walks through the front door. You jump from your seat, holding the embossed invitation behind you. “Do I smell lasagna?”

You nod, biting your lip to contain your excitement.

His eyes move towards the dining table, then frowns. “The candle is a fire hazard, especially with the ribbon, darling.”

Your smile flatters for a fraction, but he's right, as always. You walk over to the table and blow it out, “You're right, sorry, I didn't think about it like that.”

“That's okay,” he says, smiling. “What's the occasion? I know there's nothing significant today, so why are all the fancy stuff out?”

The excitement is back in your chest. You show him the invitation, “Well, I think this is pretty significant.”

His eyes scan the words written in shiny ink, and in two seconds, he grins. “Your first solo exhibition? Next month?”

You nod, smile mirroring his, big and free. 

Spencer pulls you into his arms. “I'm so proud of you. I will be there, I promise!”

For a moment, you think that you have him back. For a moment, you think that everything is going to be okay.

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

He isn't here. 

You wait by the front of the gallery in downtown DC, dressed in a beautiful red dress you had specifically picked for this. You glance at your watch, it has been an hour since the event started and Spencer is nowhere to be seen.

During your speech, your eyes scanned for him, but only found Penelope, Luke, and Lisa instead. You thank them for coming, and you leave them before they can make excuses for Spencer. For the whole event, you stick to your sister, who has been helping you to draw your focus back to the visitors and buyers instead of the front door.

By the time Spencer arrives, out of breath, everyone is already gone. 

You sit in front of the centerpiece, one that takes you a month to make and perfect, and you hate that it's of him. The buckets of yellow and green and blue and purple and white, the copious amount of modeling paste to create the texture of his hair and his lips and the flowers that surround him. 

A woman offered twenty thousand dollars for the piece but you tell her it's not for sale.

“I'm so, so, sorry,” you hear him say from behind you. “I was with–I lost track of time, we just wrapped up a case and I–”

“Stop,” you tell him. “Just stop.”

You hear his footsteps coming closer. “Darling, please, I’m–look at me, darling, look at me, please.”

You let him put his hand on your shoulder, turning you to face him instead of his portrait. You lift your head to look up at him. He, Spencer Reid, is illuminated by the gallery lights that make it look like he has a halo. His curls, ones that you love so much, are unkempt and frayed. His jacket and the first two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned.

“I'm sorry I'm late, but there was a missing kid–”

“Luke was here.”

“Luke is still recovering from an injury–”

“But he was here,” you say, finally standing up. You notice the way one of your heels makes a sound when you stomp it, like a child. “This is the most important night of my life, and Luke was here, Lisa was here, and Penelope was here, but you weren't.”

“There was a missing kid!” He insists. “The unsub was a family annihilator and if we hadn't made it in time, the boy would've–they needed me, you know that.”

“I know this whole damn city, this whole country thinks it needs you!” You throw your hand out in frustration. “Not as much as I do. This exhibition, my arts are important to me and apparently they’re not as important to you.”

Spencer huffs impatiently like he’s talking to a toddler throwing a tantrum. Maybe he is. “This exhibition runs for a whole month. It is unreasonable that you think it takes precedence over people’s lives.”

You take a step back as if he is fire trying to burn you. 

“When you left me the first time,” you start, taking another step further. “I was a wreck. I didn't go out for weeks, I barely ate, and every bad thought in my head came crawling out. It took me months to open my windows. It took me months more to pick up a brush again. Look around, Spencer–what do you think this is?”

Dark Side of the Moon is what you call this exhibition. You use a lot of space and heavenly bodies imagery, combined with your signature flowers and experiment in texture. While Spencer's portrait was done in yellow and light purple, the rest of your paintings are hauntingly dark with grays and blacks and navies and purple. A lot of dark purple.

While you were out building other worlds, where was I?

Spencer's portrait is called Solar Eclipse. Your self portrait series is called the Lunar Eclipse with a lot of red and brown and purple. There are a lot of paintings of black holes and supernovas and seemingly black canvas with purple and red mixed in to create a subtle pattern.

His face crumples in realization and understanding.

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

“Where did you go, Spencer?” Your voice breaks, and you watch as tears start to stream down his face through your own blurred vision. “I’ve been waiting for you for months.”

“I'm right here,” he pleads, one hand reaching out to you before taking it back to his pocket. “I'm here, darling.”

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

You shake your head, because he is not the same person you fell in love with–first time and then the second time. That man, that Spencer, is gone and replaced by the one standing in front of you.

Or maybe, he just doesn't love you–doesn't want you anymore.

Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life

“I think it's time for you to go,” you say.

“No,” he says, allowing himself to touch you. You let him take a hold of your cheeks, both hands caressing your face. “I'm not going anywhere.”

His touch is burning amber on your skin, sharp and fire and painful.

Drawing hearts in the byline

Always taking up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine

Spencer swallows, fear and surprise and regret crowd his eyes. You are no profiler, but you can read him all the same.

“I promised myself that I won't let anyone make me feel like that again,” you whisper. “Including you, especially you."

You step out of his reach, pushing his hand away as he tries to hold you again. It feels like taking out a knife off of your chest–hot, burning, white pain as you bleed all over your dress.

"So tell me I'm wrong, tell me that nothing happened between you and JJ. Tell me that you still celebrate my love and not just tolerate it. Tell me that it's all in my head and have it be true–then maybe I'll forgive you.”

But what would you do if I,

You nod in resignation.

Break free and leave us in ruins?

“I’m staying at my sister’s,” you tell him. “And I’ll come by to pack up the next time you leave for a case. I’m not waiting for you anymore.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have stepped out. Maybe you should tell him to leave instead of leaving because as you walk towards your sister’s car, you see her, JJ, waiting in an FBI-assigned black SUV, blonde hair flying in the wind. 

“Wait, wait!” She chases after you, making you stop in front of the passenger door of your sister’s sedan. Your hand stays on the handle, but you turn to face her anyway. “Wait, just, please, I’m sorry, I–it’s my fault, it’s not his fault. I–”

The doors of the gallery open and Spencer steps out, eyes searching around until they land on you. He opens his mouth, racing down the gallery steps to get to you.

Took this dagger in me and removed it

Gain the weight of you then lose it

Believe me, I could do it

Without letting him and JJ say another word, you open the car door and slide inside. Your sister doesn’t let another second pass before pressing her foot on the gas and speeding into the busy street. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says. 

“Me too,” you tell her.

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

I sit and watch you

We Didn’t Start The Fire

“See man, the moon!” Kid Flash said as they came outside, standing on the pile of rubble.

“And Superman! Do we fulfill our promises or what…” his voice trails off as a grinding clanking sound echoes behind them.

They turned around, confused to see a tricked out pale yellow Volkswagen bug trucking its way up the rubble and crumbled building blocks. It stopped before it got too steep, a man in a familiar white lab coat stumbling out.

Immediately, they were on guard, the man haphazardly climbing towards them.

Robin drew two batarangs in each hand, standing in front of Superboy as he got closer. It didn’t even matter that the Justice League had just landed behind them, if this CADMUS scientist tried something, Robin would be the first to defend Superboy. Without hesitance.

The man stopped in front of them, huffing for breath.

“You’re-!” He stopped, leaning over his knees with gasping breaths, “Sorry, one sec!” He held up a finger, gasping for another few seconds before stepping forward-

Chains of water surrounded him before they could blink, Robin looking back surprised to see Aqualad standing with extended weapons and a grim face.

“This is odd.” The man looked at the water wrapped around him, wriggling a bit before shrugging. His eyes zeroed in on Superboy, “You’re okay!” He said with a blinding grin.

Superboy recoiled and Robin immediately stepped between them.

“What.”

The man glanced at him briefly before looking back over Robin’s head, “You are okay right? I mean I tried my best but I couldn’t figure out a way to get you out- I mean if I’d known you were there to begin with I’d would have never-but then I wouldn’t have-

“Who are you?” Superman asks, suddenly close from behind them.

The man’s mouth clicks shut, looking between them all before a grimacing smile rises to his face.

He extends his hand at the elbow between the liquid chains, “Dr. Danny Fenton, ex-biochemical engineer of CADMUS labs Mr.Superman,sir.”

Flash zips forward, the eyes of his cowl narrowed, “Ex?”

The grimace turns into a wince. “Oh.. heh, yeah, I’ve found that arson is usually a pretty good kickstart of sudden unemployment,” there’s a thoughtful pause as he looks over the rubble, “It’s usually accidental though.”

Nobody responds.

“What? You didn’t think that lab fire started on its own did you? How else was I supposed to get you here?”

“There’s a Justice League public phone! That’s literally its entire purpose!” Kid Flash shouts, throwing his hands in the air. At this point, Aqualad cautiously lowers his water bearers, releasing Fenton.

“Oh, sure, I call a bunch of superheroes and tell them my boss is doing a Grow-Your-Own-Superman in the boiler room. That’d go over well.” He pauses, “Though the sidekicks was a surprise.”

The comment goes uncorrected, as the rest of the league has snapped to face Superboy the moment he says it.

Superman looks stricken as Superboy reveals the logo on his torn shirt.

Fenton unceremoniously breaks the tension, “Sorry I never asked, do you have a name? I’d feel really bad just calling you-“

“… They called me.. Superboy..” He says, still not looking away from the man of steel in front of him.

“That’s not-“ Fenton rubs his temples and sighs harshly, “Okay, I can fix that later, whatever-“

“You’re not gonna be ‘fixing’ anything, Doctor.” Robin snarls.

Fenton blinks. “Huh?”

Batman steps forward, “Green Lantern.”

Green construct cuffs snap around the Dr.Fenton’s wrists, though he looks at them puzzled.

“Superman, check for survivors in the damage, Flash find some salvageable evidence before it finishes burning. The rest of us, we’ll continue this interrogation at the hall.”

“Wait what?” Dr. Fenton says, perking up like a meerkat even as Batman turns away with swirl of his cape.

“What about me?” Superboy asks, desperation in his hesitant step forward.

Batman looks to Superman. Superman nods, and then shoots off into the rubble and emergency vehicles.

“For now, you come with us.” Batman says, and Superboy’s shoulders loosen just a hint.

The dark knight pauses again before turning completely, “And don’t think we’ve forgotten the rest of you,” he says, cowled eyes narrowed over his shoulder, “Robin.”

Robin shirks back, “Heh.. Right.”

“Wait what’s going on?” The Fenton scientist yelled back over his shoulder as Green Lantern pulls him away.

He starts to say something but the construct fully engulfs him now, shifting from a platform to a soundproof bubble.

It seems to shock him enough, Fenton tapping at the walls and looking like he wants to take it apart and take a sample.

Robin grit his teeth.

He was not gonna let these CADMUS freaks touch Superboy again.

Not Fenton or anybody else.

Hair band for giants

PEAK brother behavior, like they are SOOO annoying <3 i would do anything for them to interact again

Danny accidentally appearing out of Duke's shadow. And doing it purposely every time after that. ; requested by @kyrianclawraith! (deviated from your original prompt a bit, sorry! the ghostlights brainworms got away from me)

Traveling through shadows has become second nature for Duke after using them so extensively over the years. He even uses them as a civilian, hopping between shadows when he’s running late to class so he doesn’t have to stress out over traffic. 

Not even Batman’s scoldings can stop him from making it on time to his classes. Risks need to be taken for the sake of his education!

The shadows are comforting. They hide him from sight, get him to where he needs to go, and gives him the alone time he needs when he’s been around people for too long and desperately needs some quiet to recharge. Duke would say that he’s well versed in the shadows at this point, no longer stumbling out into the light.

Even with all his practice and confidence, he still can’t prepare himself for tripping over someone in the shadows while he’s trying to escape some of The Riddler’s goons. 

They both go tumbling out of the shadows, landing in a corner hidden by storage shelves. The poor tripping hazard of a person is under him, groaning lightly as he reaches up to press a hand to the back of his head, where he hit the concrete floor. 

“Oh, shit,” Duke whispers, “I’m so sorry. What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“I was hiding,” the guy hisses back at him. “I wanted to get out of the rain and dozed off and when I woke up, guns were being shot! I was up in the rafters, so excuse me for thinking no one would find me up there!”

Another gunshot rings out, alarmingly close to where they are.

Duke curses under his breath, then picks up the guy and hauls him over his shoulder. “Time to go!” And then he’s disappearing into the shadows again, following the line of them outside the warehouse and down the street. 

As soon as they’re safely away from the goons, Duke steps out of the shadows and carefully sets the civilian back onto his feet.

“So sorry about that,” he says, “But I need to get back and deal with them. Stay safe!”

He’s gone before the civilian can say anything else, and though it’s embarrassing that he tripped over someone while shadow hopping, at least it ended relatively well. It’s not like it’ll happen again.

Duke, sweet, naive Duke, doesn’t think much of the civilian again. He’s a busy guy with a busy life! Lots of things to do! Lots of embarrassing moments to keep secret from the other Bats! No one has mentioned it at all, so he thinks he’s safe from being teased about it.

That is, up until he’s training with Dick and a hand pops up out of his shadow.

“Um,” Dick says, backflipping away from Duke’s punch. He lowers his escrima sticks and squints at the space behind Duke. “Are you… trying something new with your powers?”

“...No? I’m not using my powers right now.”

Dick looks more and more alarmed. He won’t look away from the space behind Duke, and it’s making him nervous. He doesn't want to look, but he knows he has to. 

Steeling himself, Duke takes a deep breath, then turns slightly to see what’s behind him.

Nothing. 

His gaze goes down, and he sees a pale hand sticking out of his shadow, moving back and forth. It then comes out some more, up to the elbow, and the hand pats the ground Duke’s shadow lays on, a stiff mat perfect for sparring.

Behind him, Dick turns on his escrima sticks, the electricity crackling through the air.

The hand disappears for a moment. 

Then two hands appear and grab the ground, hauling up a body from Duke’s shadow.

Duke is very well versed in shadows. He travels through them almost daily. He thinks he would know if there was some strange netherworld hidden in the shadows where other beings could pop out of shadows like portals. This is alarming, to say the least.

“Don’t move, Duke,” Dick warns, creeping closer, ready to attack.

A head pops out of his shadow. Whatever it is glows and their white hair moves softly as if underwater. They’re facing away from him, so he can’t see their face, but he can see the black, skin-tight suit their wearing as they float up from his shadow, no longer needing their hands to pull themself out. 

“Huh,” they say, looking up at the ceiling.

Dick grabs Duke’s arm and pulls him back, shielding him with his body. “Who are you?” he demands, voice cold. 

The creature/person startles and whips around to stare at them with wide green eyes. His gaze darts down to the electrified escrima sticks, then back up again, visibly nervous.

“Um, hi! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be here. Wherever this is.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was practicing a new portalling method. I found a ghost to teach me how to move through shadows, since my usual portals are very bright and noticeable. Not great when you’re trying to be stealthy! I did not mean to end up here.”

Duke stares at him. “You came out of my shadow.”

“Sorry,” the guy repeats. Then he squints at Duke. “Hey, didn’t you save me the other day? From the warehouse?”

It’s been a while since Duke’s saved anyone from a warehouse. Criminals and goons have moved on to condemned apartment complexes and the back rooms of bars. The only person he’s saved is the tripping hazard…

“Man, what is up with you and getting caught in my shadows?”

“This is your fault!” the guy insists. “I associate shadows too strongly with you! That’s why I’m here! Probably. I don’t actually know how this works.”

“You don’t know how it works but you did it anyways.”

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.” The guy floats down to the ground and offers Duke a hand. “I’m Phantom, by the way! Figured I should introduce myself because this will happen again.”

Duke considers introducing himself as the Signal, but Danny is looking directly at his bare face, so it’s lost cause. Talk about an unexpected security breach. “Duke. You looked a little different when we first met.”

“Yeah, that was my human form. This is my ghost form.” A watch on his wrist, some clunky looking thing that looks like it came from the early 2000s, beeps and Phantom frowns at it. “Shoot, I need to go. I’ll see you later!” And he dives right back into Duke’s shadow, disappearing.

Duke blinks at the empty space where Phantom used to be, still reeling from the shock of it. He’s so busy processing the last few minutes that he doesn’t hear the escrima sticks turn off until Dick is dropping a heavy arm around his shoulders, holding him in place. There’s a smile on his face, but it’s not happy; it’s a warning that he’s at his limit and is barely hanging on to niceties.

“So,” he says as Duke cringes, “Looks like we need to have a talk about the things you’ve been hiding from us, Duke.”

He can’t do anything but resign himself to his fate.

After that conversation, he’s instructed to let them know when Phantom pops up. Which is fine until he realizes that Phantom really did mean it when he said that it’ll happen again. 

Phantom pops up constantly. Most of the time, Duke is lucky enough to be at home, or in the Manor, or in the Batcave away from the public where no one will freak out about a glowing boy popping out of his shadow. Sometimes, he’s in the middle of the street as a civilian and has to sprint away, ducking into the first empty alley he can find in order to climb up onto the rooftop where no one will see him.

It’s stressful and confusing and he wishes he could be more upset about it, but Phantom is fun. He’s funny and charming and tells the craziest stories about ghost fights that Duke can’t help but hang onto every word.

He dutifully updates his Phantom Log, noting each time he’s portaled through Duke’s shadow, any information he’s revealed, and an injury count after Duke noticed a concerning pattern of Phantom often showing up after he’s been in a fight.

Duke begins to get a feel for when Phantom is about to show up. A shiver runs down his spine and his awareness of the shadows around him grows. Sometimes, he could swear he could feel something tear apart in his shadow. He feels it then, a tear that stitches itself up almost instantly, a ripple in the shadow, before that familiar hand pops up again and Duke grabs hold of it to haul Phantom out into his bedroom. 

He is, once again injured. There’s a large gash running down the length of his other arm, bleeding a toxic, glowing green. 

“Dude,” Duke says, unable to keep the judgment out of his voice.

“You should see the other guy,” Phantom snorts. “I slammed him through five streets, then ripped his limbs off.

“Dude…”

“Just to be clear, they weren’t his real limbs. He has a robot suit he uses like a body because he’s like a tiny little bean.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to take that. Anyways, have you still not figured out how to open portals that aren’t connected to my shadow?”

Phantom shrugs. “Nope. And I’m not really trying to figure it out. I like hanging out with you. Plus, it’s nice to see a friendly face after a fight.”

“Can’t you like, go home and have your family take care of you first.”

“Uh, better not,” Phantom laughs nervously. “They’d probably kill me for real if they saw me like this.”

Duke quietly notes to himself to add that statement to the Alarming Things Phantom Says list. 

“Does it… bother you? Me always coming to you?” There’s a smallness to his voice, a fragility that makes Duke want to beat himself up for making Phantom feel like that.

“No! No, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t keeping you from anyone else.”

Phantom brightens. “Oh! Well, no need to worry about that. No one’s worried, back home. They know I disappear sometimes.”

…Another concerning thing. Duke is considering bribing Phantom into staying in Gotham forever, living in his shadow, just so he can take care of him. Just to be sure Phantom’s safe. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, eyes flickering down to Phantom’s bleeding wound.

Phantom futilely tries to hide the wound with a hand. The green blood leaks out from between his fingers, and he applies more pressure to the wound with a faint wince. “Nope! All good here. I’ll heal in no time, honest.”

“Then, do you want to just hang out? I really don’t know why you’d chose to keep coming to me.”

“You’re good company, dude. Very chill. Very fun. And you’re a hero! That’s so cool. Why wouldn’t I keep coming back?”

Duke shrugs, not sure how to put his insecurities into words. He’s already starting to get the Bat-specific inability to communicate emotions, which is definitely a problem. He’ll need to spend time with other people to be normal again. 

As if sensing that Duke’s mood is falling, Phantom launches into another tale, complaining about people who bother him, teachers who are terrible at teaching, having snark-fights with the embodiment of Time itself, and so on. He always has the craziest stories, and he tells them so casually that Duke has to second guess himself, wondering if he’s overreacting when he’s shocked by what Phantom tells him. 

He starts telling his own stories as well, mostly fun civilian interactions he’s had since they last spoke, villain fights, the ever changing theories on the ‘Who is Batman Sleeping With Now?’ shared document all the other Bats have. By the time an hour passes, Phantom’s arm is fully healed and he’s flying in lazy circles above Duke.

His watch beeps again in the middle of him recounting the insane drama happening at his school. Phantom sighs and sinks back to the floor, hovering just above Duke’s shadow.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says, voice warm.

Duke shrugs. “You’re good company. I like when you visit.”

A slow, soft smile spreads across Phantom’s cheeks, making him glow even brighter. “Sweet talker,” he accuses fondly, then flies in for a quick, tight hug. He pulls back before Duke can reciprocate, and salutes him with a cheeky, “See you soon!” and is gone, flying into Duke’s shadow before he can respond.

Shaking his head fondly, Duke falls back against his bed.

Despite how unconventional their friendship is, he is glad Phantom keeps coming back. He hopes he’ll get to see Phantom’s human form again.

…And get more used to the horror movie scene that is Phantom clawing his way out of his shadow. No matter how many times he sees it, the sight still makes him jump.

Not that he’s ever going to admit that.

If Phantom thinks he’s cool, he’s going to do whatever he can to keep that impression from changing. It’s only reasonable, really.

(“Shut up, Dick,” he says later when he recounts this encounter with Phantom. Dick just keeps laughing, endlessly amused that Duke got ‘jumpscared into a crush’ as he phrased it. That’s definitely not what happened.

Next time, he’s definitely convincing Phantom to scare Dick with him. 

Revenge will be his.) . . .

[send me ghostlights prompts! one day left before they close on 11/17]