Damian Wayne had dealt with nuisances before—rogues, impostors, paparazzi, Drake—but nothing tested his patience like Danny Fenton.
Fenton was an abstract artist with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel and the artistic discipline of a firecracker in a paint can. Somehow, inexplicably, the Gotham art scene adored him. Maybe it was the “raw emotional chaos” of his work. Maybe it was the way his canvases seemed to vibrate like they had a heartbeat. Maybe it was because Gotham had bad taste.
Danny thought he and Damian were friends.
Damian thought Danny was a chronic migraine in human form.
They ran into each other at gallery openings, charity auctions, museum fundraisers—always by accident, always because Danny appeared out of thin air (which, suspiciously, he sometimes did).
Tonight, it was the Gotham Contemporary’s “Modern Vigilantes in Art” showcase.
Damian had contributed a meticulously-rendered oil painting of Gotham’s skyline under moonlight.
Danny had… whatever that was.
A massive, messy, multicolored abstract thing that looked like someone shook a haunted Etch A Sketch until it had an existential crisis.
Danny bounced up to Damian with a grin. “DAMES! Dude! Did you see my piece? It’s about, like—the energy of moral ambiguity and stuff.”
“It resembles a crime scene,” Damian said flatly.
“Oh! Perfect. Then it totally matches the theme.”
Danny walked away humming.
Damian inhaled through his nose. Deeply.
But the worst part wasn’t the art. It wasn’t the noise Danny brought everywhere. It wasn’t even his absurd cheerfulness.
Specifically, Danny’s second contribution to the show: a swirling, chaotic piece in black, neon green, and violent streaks of white. It showed a humanoid figure—blurry but… recognizable. Too recognizable.
A vigilante in Gotham known for operating in shadows and rooftops.
And the accompanying artist statement, written in Danny’s messy handwriting, read:
“Inspired by someone I saw through a skylight last week. They were carrying someone! I think it was a body? Wild night.”
Damian had nearly dropped his glass when he read it.
A crowd was already forming around the piece, whispering:
“Is that the Shadow Wraith?”
“Is he kidnapping people?”
“Should we call someone?”
Damian stormed across the gallery.
“You imbecile,” he hissed, grabbing Danny’s arm and pulling him to the side. “What possessed you to paint this?”
Danny blinked, confused. “What? You don’t like it? I thought the colors were sick.”
“You have just made a Gotham vigilante a possible suspect in a kidnapping case.”
“Oh,” Damian repeated, voice dropping lower. “That is all you have to say. Oh.”
Danny tilted his head. “Well… I mean… he definitely wasn’t kidnapping someone. I’m pretty sure the guy was just unconscious. He kinda glowed? Like neon? Or maybe that was the moonlight—”
Damian’s eye twitched. “Which skylight did you see this through?”
“Oh! The one over by the old Kane textile mill. Nice place. Weirdly windy, though.”
Danny smiled, clueless as a puppy.
And that was the thing: Damian genuinely, deeply disliked him. Could not tolerate him. Found him exasperating, idiotic, irritating beyond measure.
But Danny wasn’t malicious.
A walking disaster who had no idea he’d accidentally created a faux-scandal that would give Gotham’s tabloids enough material for a month—and Damian enough stress to age a decade.
“Fenton,” Damian muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you are going to write a correction.”
“A statement explaining that your ‘visual inspiration’ was not evidence of a crime.”
Danny blinked again. “Oh! OHHHH. Gotcha.”
He paused. “Should I say it was metaphorical?”
Danny frowned thoughtfully. “Okay, I’ll just tell them I made it up.”
Damian exhaled. Relief. Actual relief.
“See? We make a great team.”
“We do not,” Damian said.
But Danny didn’t hear him—he was already skipping toward the curator, ready to confess to a crime he didn’t commit… artistically or otherwise.
And Damian followed, because if he didn’t supervise this disaster, Gotham was going to blame a vigilante for a murder that didn’t exist.