Gotham ||| Jonathan Crane/Danny Fenton ||| long fic |||
The knock on the door makes me tense.
I stare at it, fingers curling against the fabric of my sleeves. Danny’s voice follows a moment later—calm, patient, like he isn’t expecting anything from me.
“Hey, Jonathan. Is it okay if I come in?”
I don’t know how long I sit there, hesitating. My mind runs through possibilities, through every reason why letting him in might be a mistake. But this is his house. He doesn’t need my permission. He could walk in any time he wanted. And yet… he waits.
I swallow, my throat dry. “...Okay.”
The door opens smoothly, and Danny steps inside, balancing a tray in one hand and a couple of shopping bags in the other. His expression is neutral, unreadable, but there’s something about his presence that keeps my pulse from spiking too fast. He isn’t tense. He isn’t expecting anything.
“I brought food,” Danny says, stepping forward just enough to set the tray down on the nightstand. The scent of fried chicken and waffles drifts up, warm and oddly… homey. A cup of tea sits next to the plate, steam curling from the surface. “Tea’s a homemade brew—lavender and chamomile. Grows in my garden.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
I’ve barely eaten in the past few days—fear does that to a person. But now, with the food right in front of me, my stomach clenches in a way that isn’t entirely uncomfortable. I ignore it for now, instead glancing at the shopping bags still dangling from Danny’s hand.
Hesitant, I force myself to ask, “What’s in the bags?”
Danny tilts his head slightly, like he’s pleased I asked. “Clothes,” he says simply. “You don’t have anything else, and I figured mine wouldn’t fit you. I tried to get things you’d like, but if you don’t, I don’t mind getting something else.”
I stare at him. He says it so casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like it isn’t strange at all to buy things for someone you barely know. Like he expects me to have an opinion on what I wear.
No one has ever cared about that before.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
Danny doesn’t seem to mind. He walks over to the dresser and sets the bags down gently, like he’s leaving an offering. Then, with the same unreadable calm, he steps back toward the door.
“If you need anything, I’ll be in the sunroom,” he says. “Straight down the hallway.” A pause, then, “That’s where my pets are, too.”
I haven’t seen them yet, but I know the only rule in this house—don’t hurt myself, and don’t hurt his pets. It’s an easy enough rule to follow.
Danny doesn’t linger. He gives me a small nod before stepping out, leaving the tray, the clothes, and an open door.
I stare at the food. Then the clothes. Then the door.
Danny Fenton is a mystery—one I don’t know how to solve. He kills without hesitation, yet he’s been nothing but careful with me. He doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t push, doesn’t force me into anything I don’t want.
