Do you remember that AU where ghosts have completely different beauty standards? Like Danny is drop-dead gorgeous by human standards but basically fugly to ghosts, and he somehow ends up “dating” Tim because of it.
Loved the concept, hated the ending — it always read like Tim was unintentionally manipulating him and walking off with all the benefits.
Imagine instead that Danny decides, completely voluntarily, to make himself hotter by ghost standards. Like:
• skipping meals on purpose
• bathing in SPF 5000 so he stays blindingly pale
• doing everything possible to look translucent and exhausted
Humans are calling the hotline like “this teenager needs intervention,” meanwhile Danny is in the mirror like “yessss… finally achieving the hollow-cheeked cryptid aesthetic.”
Teachers: “Do we call CPS? The hospital? Batman??”
Damian: Loudly telling anyone who will listen that Fenton is clearly being poisoned.
Tim: Hasn’t slept in 4 days because he is CONVINCED this kid is being recruited by a cult.
Dick: “B’s not gonna like this, oh no, oh no, this child is literally evaporating—”
Jason: Sees Danny on the street and almost throws him into a soup kitchen like a sack of rice.
Meanwhile Danny’s walking around like:
“OMG I look AMAZING today. I am practically ethereal. The Zone is gonna lose its mind when they see me.”
And the whole Batfam is two breaths away from staging a city-wide intervention for a boy who is completely healthy, extremely happy, and just really committed to the pale cryptid aesthetic of his people.
Gotham thinks he’s dying.
Ghosts think he’s glowing up.
Danny thinks he finally slayed.
Everyone else thinks someone needs to call Batman.
Danny stepped out of the cab and onto the front steps of Gotham Academy, pulling his hoodie closer as the wind sliced down the street like it had a personal vendetta.
The building loomed over him—tall, old, and expensive in that gothic “we have gargoyles and absolutely unhinged donors” kind of way. Students clustered near the doors, their uniforms perfect, their faces bored, and their eyes sharp in a way only Gotham kids ever were.
Danny could practically hear their thoughts.
Looks like he lost a fight with a flashlight.
To be fair, he had been working on the “pale and delicate” look all summer. Ghosts preferred that thin, slightly translucent vibe, like someone who’d politely passed away but still attended social events.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked forward.
Immediately, a pair of girls near the entrance paused mid-conversation. One glanced at him, startled. The other frowned with clinical concern.
“Is he— is he okay?” she whispered.
Danny blinked. He’d literally just walked.
Okay, Gotham Academy kids are sensitive, he told himself. This is fine.
The lobby smelled like floor polish and old money. A secretary sat behind the desk, typing. When she looked up, Danny watched her expression slowly shift from neutral professionalism to an expression he recognized from Amity Park nurses:
This child is not thriving.
“Name?” she asked gently.
“Danny Fenton.” He flashed her a smile he hoped was friendly. It probably looked like he needed electrolytes.
She hesitated. “Honey… are you feeling alright?”
Danny resisted the urge to sigh. “Yup! Just peachy.”
the hollow cheeks, the pale skin, the way his backpack looked too big for his narrow shoulders.
“We have a school nurse,” she said slowly. “You can visit her anytime you need to.”
“I’m good,” Danny said quickly.
The secretary opened her mouth, closed it, and then held out his schedule like she was handing medication to a fragile patient.
Danny accepted it, muttered a thank you, and headed for the stairs. He could feel more eyes on him as he moved through the halls — teachers pausing, students staring, one guy whispering “dude looks haunted” under his breath.
Danny took that as a compliment.
He checked his reflection in a trophy case as he passed: pale, tired, and sharp in all the places ghosts praised. Perfect.
Day one and I’m already killing it.
Then he turned the corner and plowed straight into someone.
He stumbled back, and the other student — a tall boy with dark hair, sharp posture, and the energy of someone who had fought crime before breakfast — caught him by the arm.
“You alright?” the boy asked.
The grip was firm. The stare was assessing. The concern was immediate and intense.
Danny managed a weak thumbs-up. “Totally fine. Just… uh… acclimating.”
The boy didn’t let go. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Danny laughed. “Nah, man. This is just my face.”
The boy’s jaw tightened. “I’m getting a teacher.”
“NO— no— seriously, please don’t.”
But the boy was already turning away, muttering something under his breath in a language Danny didn’t recognize.
Great. First five minutes and Gotham already thinks I’m dying.
He tugged his hoodie up again and continued down the hall toward his first class.
Danny found Room 2B with only minimal wandering — which he considered a victory, given that the school was built like a gothic castle and absolutely wanted him to get lost.
He slipped inside just as the bell rang.
The classroom was warm, dimly lit, and filled with students already arranged in neat rows. All of them turned to look at him with varying degrees of curiosity, judgment, and “is this kid about to keel over?”
Danny felt their eyes crawl over his pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and the faint shadows under his eyes that he’d worked very hard to maintain.
He flashed a quick, awkward smile and shuffled toward the only empty seat in the middle of the room.
The teacher, Ms. Carter, paused mid-roll call when she saw him. Her brows lifted the tiniest bit — concern? surprise? clinical alarm? Gotham teachers had range.
“You must be Daniel Fenton,” she said.
Danny nodded. “Danny’s fine.”
“We’re happy to have you here.”
She hesitated, then added gently,
“If you need to see the nurse at any point, please don’t hesitate.”
Danny resisted the urge to faceplant onto his desk.
Students were still staring. Not in a mean way — more of a “should we call someone?” way.
He sank into the seat and tried to ignore it.
The girl to his right leaned over. “Hey, um… if you’re hypoglycemic or something, I have fruit gummies.”
Danny blinked. “What—? No, I’m good!”
She held out the gummies anyway, eyes wide with the determination of someone who had nursed many fainting Gotham classmates.
Danny took the packet just so she’d stop looking at him like a dying plant.
“Thanks. I’ll… keep these for later.”
On his left, a boy with a neatly pressed shirt and perfect posture kept sneaking glances at him. Not curious glances — evaluations. The kind that said he was cataloging Danny’s pulse, breathing rate, and approximate odds of passing out.
Danny shifted. “Something wrong?”
The boy straightened. “You look unwell.”
Danny groaned softly. “I’m fine. Really.”
Before Danny could defend his very intentional aesthetic choices, Ms. Carter began the lesson.
Danny forced himself to focus. He took out a notebook — pristine, empty, optimistically untouched — and uncapped a pen.
The words on the board blurred.
Not because he was actually dizzy — he was not dizzy, thank you very much — but because the overhead lights were too dim to tell how pale he looked today. He subtly tilted his wrist, checking reflection off his skin.
Still good. Almost spectral.
Ms. Carter was looking at him again.
The class collectively inhaled.
He tugged his hoodie sleeve down. “Sorry. Just zoning out.”
She nodded, but the look she gave him was the same one Jazz used to give stray cats she found in the alley.
Class resumed, but the boy to his left wasn’t done.
“I am Damian Wayne,” he whispered, like an interrogation. “Why are you pale?”
Danny blinked. “…Genetics?”
“Okay, do you interrogate EVERY new student?”
Damian didn’t blink. “Only the suspicious ones.”
Danny stared at him, deadpan. “I just sat down.”
“I tripped over my own shoe!”
Damian narrowed his eyes. “Your coordination is impaired.”
“It’s called being clumsy!”
Ms. Carter cleared her throat. They both froze.
Danny doodled in his notebook just to look occupied. Damian pretended to take notes but didn’t stop watching him like a hawk eyeing an injured mouse.
By the end of the period, Danny was exhausted from being observed like a lab specimen.
As the bell rang, Damian spoke again — quieter, but no less intense.
“If you require assistance, I will notify staff.”
Danny groaned into his hands.
“I don’t need help. I’m not dying.”
He clearly didn’t believe him.
“…For now,” he murmured ominously.
Danny let his forehead drop onto his desk with a soft thud.
This school year was going to be a nightmare.
