#thiswentofftherails

Tim hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours. He’s running on caffeine, spite, and a playlist titled “please let me die but after the report.”

He’s halfway through another cold cup at Janny’s 24-Hour Café (the unofficial ceasefire zone of Gotham) when the ceiling explodes.

Like—actually explodes. Glass, smoke, some unholy green light, and then a guy lands in the middle of the café. A glowing guy.

He looks around, dazed, and goes: “Do you serve ecto-infused espresso, or is that just a me problem?”

Tim’s so tired he doesn’t even blink. He just goes, “Medium or large?”

Batman’s on comms like: “Report.” Tim: “I think I found a ghost.” Bruce: “Do not engage.” Tim: already handing him his own coffee mug

Anyway, the ghost guy’s name tag says “Danny” and he orders extra whipped cream. Tim hasn’t smiled in days but he does now, which is probably a problem.

Tim hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours. He knew this because he’d counted every one of them, down to the minute, watching Gotham’s skyline shift from black to gray and back again through the café window.

Janny’s was supposed to be neutral ground. A place where villains, vigilantes, and civilians all existed in this fragile little truce powered by caffeine and exhaustion. You didn’t start fights in Janny’s. You didn’t bleed in Janny’s. You sat, you sipped, and you pretended the world outside didn’t exist.

Tim liked it here. The barista knew his order. The hum of the espresso machine covered the sound of his typing. The coffee was terrible, but in a way that felt like home.

He was halfway through another cold cup and an even colder case file when the ceiling exploded.

Glass rained down. The overhead lights flickered. And in the middle of the chaos, someone crashed straight through the skylight—smoke, green sparks, and all—right into the table next to him.

Tim froze, because that’s what you do when someone literally drops out of the sky.

The guy groaned, rolled over, and blinked blearily at him. He was glowing faintly, like moonlight through fog, and his white hair was sticking up in all directions like he’d lost a fight with static electricity.

“Do you—uh,” he mumbled, “do you serve ecto-infused espresso here? Asking for a friend. Me. I’m the friend.”

Tim just stared. He should have called Bruce. He should have hit the panic button in his watch. He should have done something other than blink stupidly at the glowing boy lying in a pile of coffee stirrers.

“Are you… okay?” Tim finally asked, because apparently his brain had checked out hours ago.

The guy sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Define ‘okay.’ My portal shorted out, I haven’t slept in two days, and I think I owe someone in another dimension twenty bucks. But hey, at least I didn’t phase through the espresso machine again. Progress.”

Again.

Tim’s mouth opened. Closed. He took another sip of coffee like maybe caffeine could explain what he was seeing.

Batman’s voice crackled through the comm in his ear. “Report.”

Tim glanced at the glowing boy, who was now sipping his coffee. His coffee.

“I think,” Tim said slowly, “I just found a ghost.”

There was a long pause. Then: “Do not engage.”

“Right,” Tim muttered. “Totally not engaging.”

The boy looked up, smiling faintly. “You’re talking to Batman, aren’t you?”

Tim choked. “What—how—”

“C’mon,” he said, leaning on the counter like this was a perfectly normal Tuesday. “The posture, the earpiece, the trauma eyes. You’re one of the Bats. Which one though…” He squinted, and Tim’s heart did something deeply inconvenient in his chest.

“Don’t tell me,” the ghost boy said, snapping his fingers. “Let me guess. You’re the one who doesn’t sleep.”

Tim stared. “…That’s not a defining trait.”

The boy grinned wider. “It really, really is.”

Tim should have been wary. He should have been pulling out a containment field, or at least running a scan. Instead, he found himself smiling back, just a little.

Outside, Gotham’s rain hit the window in soft, steady taps. Inside, the ghost boy—Danny, apparently, according to the nametag half-phased into his hoodie—was asking the barista for more whipped cream like this was just another night.

And maybe it was.

So! Unfortunately, Danny’s parents finally went too far on one of their “ghost hunts.”

They’d decided to expand their range outside Amity Park (because, and I quote, “we can’t let ghosts think they can hide in other dimensions!”) and somehow ended up in Gotham of all places.

Cue Jack and Maddie Fenton mistaking actual superheroes for ghosts.

They apparently shot a spectral net at Nightwing, screamed something about “evil wraith energy readings,” and then managed to bazooka Red Hood’s motorcycle.

(He did not take it well.)

Anyway, they were arrested and legally classified as “supervillains.” Which, honestly, could’ve happened years ago, but sure—better late than never.

This, of course, meant Danny and Jazz got scooped up by child services while their house was investigated by the Justice League. (The Portal to Hell in their basement probably didn’t help their parents’ defense.)

At first, they tried separating the siblings. That lasted exactly three days before Jazz broke out of her foster home, stole a bus pass, and found Danny sleeping behind a movie theater.

So. That was a no.

Then the system tried putting them in a foster home specifically for the kids of supervillains. Which would’ve been fine, except the parents kept trying to break into the house to get their kids back. Weekly.

Jazz made the executive decision to request a transfer. (She still texts the other kids, though. They have a group chat named “Villain Kids Anonymous.”)

Eventually, they landed in Fawcett City.

The Vasquez family seemed… normal. Warm. Loud. Their house smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent, and the chaos was familiar in a way that didn’t hurt.

Danny didn’t hate it. Jazz even smiled again sometimes.

They’d been there for a few months when the Vasquezes brought home another foster kid—quiet, wiry, polite to a fault. His name was Billy.

Danny didn’t think much of it until one day, Billy came home smelling like ozone and thunder and divine energy.

Danny, whose ghost senses were screaming bloody murder, nearly threw himself through a wall.

Billy blinked at him like nothing was wrong. “Uh… bad day at school?”

Danny: “Bad weather day at school, maybe.” Billy: “...You can smell lightning?” Danny: “Buddy, I can taste it.”

The other kids were weirdly chill about the new arrivals. They’d heard about the Fenton situation—some whispered stuff about “former villain kids.” But they were kind enough not to pry.

Freddy, on the other hand, was obsessed.

“You’ve met Batman?” he asked Danny once. “Yeah,” Danny said, sipping his ecto-latte. “He was fine. Martian Manhunter was cooler.” Freddy, dramatically: “HERESY.”

Meanwhile, Jazz eventually learned what the Wizard did to Billy. A ten-year-old boy. Given the powers of gods. Then abandoned.

She immediately went into full big-sister mode.

“If I ever meet that cryptic old man,” she muttered, “I am sending him to therapy. Permanent therapy.” Danny: “Pretty sure he’s dead.” Jazz: “Then I’ll haunt him.”

And honestly? It’s working out.

The Vasquez house might be crowded, but Danny doesn’t mind it. Billy doesn’t either. They’ve both seen too much weirdness to be fazed by the other’s secrets.

A ghost boy and a lightning godling, sharing chores, doing homework, and occasionally blasting interdimensional entities off the front porch.