#it also kicks out duke and mac which is. sigh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dottie-wan-kenobi · 4 years

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hi !! uhm so i just saw your lil bingo card thing on Ao3 and i wanted to know if you would write the panic attack on ab Duke and Jason (Duke being the one to have it) thanks in advance love 💕

Here you are! Thank you right back for the prompt, and I hope you like it

Written for the @badthingshappenbingo square “Panic Attack”. X’s are finished, asterisks are requested, and the rest are free!!

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Duke takes a bite of his ice cream, settling back into his seat. Ever since he first got officially fostered by Bruce, it’s been difficult to go out without the paparazzi hounding after him. He hasn’t been able to come back here, his favorite ice cream place, in months and he’s missed it more than he thought he would. Smiling happily, he scoops another bite off the top. He can’t help but hum at the taste of the fudge topping. He never could afford it before, and though he doesn’t love using Bruce’s money, why not take advantage here? It’s just fudge.

Jason sits across from him, licking absently at his ice cream cone. He’d offered to bring Duke out, saying, “If we’re brothers now, I should probably get to know you, don’t you think?”

And, well. Yeah. The good thing about Jason? He’s still legally dead, meaning that, other than a few paparazzi who are always trying to get pictures of him, there’s a lot less attention on them. Also, when Duke said, “Wanna get ice cream?”, Jason said, “Hell yeah.”

Usually when Duke asks that, it’s to Damian, who has lots of feelings about dairy products.

Anyway, it’s nice to just sit and chill. Jason doesn’t force conversation, but he listens when Duke speaks, and it’s really all he can ask for. (Something they don’t tell you about being brought into a big family? The daily fights for attention. Duke is still learning how to win.)

“How’s yours?” Duke asks, eyeing the Rocky Road Jason had ordered. He’s never had it before, but according to Cass, it’s a family favorite, so he’s curious.

Jason tunes back in, shrugging. “Pretty good. This place is way better than the kind we usually get. How’d you find it?”

“Grew up three streets over. We’d come here every weekend we could afford it.”

“Nice,” Jason says, and he sounds sincere. “You always get that monstrosity, or is it new?”

Grinning, he exclaims, “Hey, tutti frutti isn’t a monstrosity!”

“It’s healthy ice cream. Such a thing shouldn’t exist,” Jason replies seriously. “It’s a freak of nature.”

“Is not,” Duke says. After a quick bite, he continues, “And to answer your question, yes, I always got this here. No one else does it as good as they do.”

“I bet Alfie could.”

“Oh, don’t bring him into this!” Duke laughs.

Smirking, Jason asks, “Scared to talk shit about his food?”

“Hell no! I just. I don’t want to compare that and this.” He doesn’t want to say why—that while Alfred’s food is delicious, this ice cream is more special than any the butler could ever make. This ice cream has good memories of his parents attached to it, and he’s holding onto as many of those as he can. “They’re just—different.”

Jason doesn’t respond for a second, just looks at him. Then he licks at where it’s dripping down his fingers. “I get it. I love his noodles, but nothing can beat box mac and cheese. Me and my mom used to eat that all the time.”

Unsure if he’s allowed to ask—or if he even wants to, knowing from the others that Jason’s mom isn’t someone they’re supposed to talk about—Duke says, “Man, I’m glad you’re around. The others just don’t get it. Gourmet shit is good, but like, yeah, nothing beats Kraft.”

“You should talk to Steph,” Jason says, reaching his free hand out for a fist bump. “She argues with Tim and Dick about stuff like this all the time.”

Duke returns the fist bump, feeling like he’s the coolest kid on the block. Okay, that’s cheesy as hell, but whatever. It’s nice to be around Jason, who’s his cool older brother. Foster brother. Whatever.

Before he can reply, the worker behind the counter turns up the TV in the corner loud enough everyone in the shop can hear it. Where they’re sitting, they have to half-turn to see it properly.

On the screen, one of the local news people is giving a report on the latest Joker toxin incident. It was a few days ago now, and Duke thankfully hadn’t had to help with containing it.

“The last of the antidotes have been administered,” the news person says. “Other than the three deaths which occurred soon after the victims were brought to the hospital, no other deaths are being reported. GCPD is still recommending wearing face masks in the area….”

And okay, maybe there’s a reason Duke didn’t help out with it. It took place right around dusk, when Duke was heading home and the others were coming out. He’d been around when it happened, much closer than the rest. The crazed laughter that had filled the street has been plaguing his dreams the past few nights.

Bruce says Duke shouldn’t force himself to face the Joker. He says it could just make everything worse, and Duke knows now that he was right.

Seeing the accompanying videos to go along with the report, Duke is thrown right back to being a child. To watching his parents get infected, worse than those people were, and hearing as they laughed. His mom’s laugh was loud and she snorted all the time. His dad’s was wheezy and low pitched. Except, that day they were totally different, like something out of his worst nightmares. Maniacal and dangerous and empty.

“Duke?” Jason asks, but Duke hardly hears him. He’s tuned out, the background noise from the shop being replaced by the sound of his heart beating in his ears.The day before he lost his parents, they came here. Mom got cookies and creme, Dad got strawberry, and Duke got tutti frutti. They sat in a booth, and Duke kicked his heels against the seat, too short to reach the ground. Dad got ice cream on his nose, and Mom laughed and she took a picture.

The next day, they were gone. Not dead, he doesn’t think, doesn’t know, but gone. Never to be seen again. Because of that goddamn clown.

Someone takes the cup of ice cream out of his hand, and he hears Jason say, “You’re gonna make a huge mess, so let’s just put that down, okay?”

His chest hurts. He wonders what was going through his parents’ heads when they descended to the sewers, high and insane. Were they scared? Did they think they were going to die? Did they think about him?

“He’s fine, just back off,” Jason says, somewhere, and Duke ducks his head, trying to breathe. Why is it so hard to breathe? It was easy a few moments ago. Minutes? He doesn’t know.

There’s a hand on his back and on his chest, and they force him to sit up straight. His arm gets tucked against a chest, and he can feel it moving up and down. Then Jason says, “Come on, breathe with me, okay? You got this, man. Just do it with me.”

It takes ages, he thinks, to come down. To come back to earth, to his favorite ice cream place, where people are looking at him. Jason is next to him, stooped really low in a position that must kill his ankles, but he doesn’t complain.

Searching Duke’s eyes, he asks, “You good?”

That’s another unofficial rule around the family—no one ever asks that unless it’s serious. Unless they expect an honest answer and won’t take any bullshit. But he doesn’t want to say anything here, not when he can see the camera phones pointed their way. Being spotted is already inconvenient at the best of times, which this definitely isn’t.

Jason seems to understand. He stands up straight, sighing in relief. His ice cream is gone, and Duke doesn’t ask. Just stands with him and grabs his own cup, wanting to get the hell out.

He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve known better. It’s too close to the anniversary, too hot off the heels of the last incident. It’s been so long, he could’ve waited. He should’ve waited.

Jason pulls him outside, leading them right for the car he borrowed from Bruce. They don’t speak as they get in, Jason in the driver’s seat.

“You’re not gonna ask?” Duke says after a few minutes, feeling like he’s going to throw up, either from the attack or the anticipation.

“None of my business,” Jason replies, shooting him a kind look. “If you wanna talk, you can. But it doesn’t seem like you do.”

“I don’t.” And he doesn’t. He wants to go back to his room in the Manor and he wants to pretend this never happened. Wants to ignore the headlines and the concerned looks from everyone. But—”Uh. Thanks. For being cool, I mean.”

Duke winces at how he sounds, wondering if Jason will think he’s some stupid kid now. He doesn’t think he’ll be surprised if that’s the case.

Jason shrugs, reaching out a second later to give a friendly punch to Duke’s shoulder. “That’s what Robins for, you know? Being cool.”

Duke blinks. And then he laughs, and it feels good, cleansing. “Hell yeah.”

#badthingshappenbingo #duke thomas #jason todd #the signal #red hood #batfam #batfamily #my writing #asks #Anonymous

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inthebrokenplaces · 5 years

Text

{lost & found}

canon divergent and based/inspired by some threads with @cptsrogers

1938

January in New York bit into your skin like a hungry wolf. The wind howled through the towering buildings, sending sharp needles that punctured through even layers of clothing. The air tore into your lungs. It kept most people inside, but Bucky was one of the few out on the streets. He breathed heavily through his threadbare scarf, his exposed skin numb. Just two more blocks. His boots skated on the slick sidewalk, but he didn’t dare lose his grip on packages he was carrying. Snow fell in a slanting angle, its heaviness quieting the city. Bucky turned the corner and held onto the rail with gloved hands as he climbed the stairs.

It wasn’t much warmer inside the apartment. Bucky laid his bags down on the sofa and went over to the radiator, pulling his gloves off with his teeth to hold his hands over it. Nothing.

“Broiler’s still out,” Steve said from behind him. He wore so many layers of clothing it was almost comical, but it had been at Bucky’s insistence. With the heat out, the risks for Steve went way up. A cold could turn into bronchitis, which could easily make its way into pneumonia.

“Back,” Bucky said, pointing to the bedroom. “I thought I told you to stay in there where it’s warmer.”

“I heard you come in.” Steve punctuated his words with a few coughs, and Bucky’s pulse quickened. Steve held up a hand. “I’m fine, Buck. Throat’s just dry.”

As if to prove his point, he went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Bucky shrugged off his jacket and went to put it around Steve. “I’m already wearing four sweaters. I don’t need your coat. Besides, what about you?”

“I’m fine.” Bucky was always fine. He had to be. In the two years since Sarah had died, he’d taken it on himself more than ever that Steve was okay. Fortunately, he’d found steady work as a mechanic, which paid more a tidy sum, so he could both give wages to his family and to Steve. Even better, he was able to start a small savings, so that he could finally move out of his home. Anywhere was better than there—although he spent most of his non-working hours at Steve’s anyway.

Steve mulishly pushed the jacket off and laid it on the back of the sofa. He drank his water and tipped his head toward the brown paper-wrapped bundles on the cushions. “What’d you get?”

“A wool blanket, and ingredients to make stew.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Thought it’d warm us up.” He didn’t mention the folic acid, iron tablets, and penicillin he’d also picked up.

Steve sighed. “What’d that cost you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I gotta eat too, y’know.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now get out of the way. You’re bad luck in the kitchen.”

He really wanted Steve to go back to the bedroom, but he sat down at the desk and picked up his sketchbook, and that stopped Bucky from saying anything. He loved to watch Steve draw, the little crease that formed between his brows when he was really focusing, concentration turning his eyes a storm-swept blue.

“Turn on the radio, will you?” Bucky asked.

Steve obliged, and for a while they didn’t talk, just listened to the sounds of Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington fill the apartment. Bucky cooked, occasionally holding his hands over the stove to warm them up, and Steve drew, sometimes blowing on his fingers for the same reason. The snow continued to bury the city outside, muffling what little traffic there was, and soon the savory smell of stew drifted through the air. Buck dished up two bowls, giving Steve the lion’s share of the meat, and sat them down at the table. He’d been careful about the ingredients, mindful of Steve’s food sensitivities. He got another glass of water for himself, more comfortable here than he was at home, and waved Steve over.

“C’mon, grub’s on,” he said.

Steve sat his sketchpad on the desk and walked over to the table, poking at the bowl with a spoon. “How do I know I can trust it?”

Bucky snorted. “It’s better than anything you can make.”

Steve grinned and did some more poking. “You gave me too much. Here.” And he dished some of the beef back into Bucky’s bowl before he could stop him. If he made a big deal out of it, it would just embarrass Steve, so he resigned himself to letting it go. They sat down at the table and began to eat, the stew warming their bellies. They talked a little, about nothing really of importance, just the easy conversation they always had.

After a brief lull, Steve cleared his throat. “So what’d Mac say when you told him you weren’t coming in?” There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

Bucky swallowed and shook his head. “Nothin’. Shop’s closed today.” Steve fixed him with a stare, and he held up his hands. “Honest. On account of the storm.”

“I make do, Buck. You don’t have to keep this up.”

“I’m not doing anything you wouldn’t do for me. When you make it rich and famous with your art you can pay me back.” He smiled, that warm, irresistible smile of his that made girls melt and men trust him. Steve couldn’t help but smile in return.

By the time they finished washing the dishes—with cold water—they were well and truly freezing. Steve had insisted on helping, and now he was tucking his hands under his arms trying to bring feeling back to them. Bucky felt like kicking the radiator. If Steve got sick from this, he was going to have some words with the super.

“Alright, enough, go get warm,” Bucky said, shoving the new blanket at Steve and pointing toward the hall.

“And what are you gonna do, stay out here and turn into a popcicle?”

Bucky hesitated. It was one thing to lay on the couch cushions the way they had, but laying in bed with Steve brought up a whole other set of feelings that he’d tried to keep locked away. It wasn’t appropriate. He was supposed to take care of Steve, not take advantage of him.

Steve rolled his eyes, grabbed his sketchpad and pencils, and pushed Bucky toward the hallway. Bucky could’ve stopped him with minimal effort, but he didn’t really want to, and if Steve was okay with it, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Steve shut the door to the room behind him and spread the new blanket on top of the three others on the double bed. Bucky turned back toward the door.

“Where’re you going?” Steve asked.

“I’ll be right back, just a sec.” He went into the living room and grabbed a book, one of the few he’d left here at Steve’s because reading wasn’t an encouraged hobby at home either, and then returned to the bedroom. Crawling in under the covers beside Steve, he switched on the bedside lamp. They were both still bundled in their layers of clothing, but with the extra blanket and the shared body heat, they slowly started to thaw. Steve propped himself up against the pillows and began to draw again, and Bucky started to read. A comfortable silence stretched between them, just like before, until Bucky felt Steve move. He looked over to see Steve shivering.

Without thinking, he put his arm around Steve’s shoulders and drew him close. Something squirmed through his stomach, and he almost let him go, but then Steve let out a sigh and stopped shaking. He readjusted himself so he could lean against Buck’s chest and keep drawing, and for a while they just stayed like that. Bucky read the same sentence over and over. All he could think about was Steve’s closeness, if this was wrong, if he was betraying their friendship, a million other thoughts coming at light speed. The only sound he heard was the soft swoosh of Steve’s pencil on the paper, and his even, blessedly clear breathing. Buried somewhere beneath all the anxiety was how good this felt, how happy this made him. It surfaced like spring flowers, fighting its way to the top until Bucky felt his body relaxing.

“Hey Buck?” Steve craned his neck back to look at him.

“Yeah?” He tensed.

“’m tired.” Steve sighed, annoyed with his fatigability, even when he wasn’t exerting himself, and handed his sketchpad to Bucky.

“I’ll go take the couch,” Bucky said, laying the sketchpad on the bedside table.

“No, don’t,” Steve said quickly. A flush crept up his neck. “You’re warm.”

Bucky gave a little smile. He could be a human heater for Steve, if that’s what he needed. “Okay, pal. But only ‘cause it’s subarctic out there.”

“’Course.” That’s all it was. Just sharing warmth on a frigid winter day. Steve hesitated. “Will you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Will you read to me?” He was staring at his hands as he asked, because this definitely wasn’t about keeping warm. This was about something else entirely. “I’m just interested in what you’re reading.”

The request caught him a little off guard, but his smile broadened. “It’s Jules Verne. Classic.” He flipped back to the beginning and began to read.

Bucky’s voice vibrated in his chest as he read, and Steve let himself get lost in the deep tones of his voice. He was half listening to the story, but mostly to Bucky. That voice warmed him in ways that no blanket or heater ever could. Bucky read chapter after chapter, his voice growing a little rough from the strain, but Steve thought that just made it sound even better. Slowly, Steve’s eyes began to close, and he drifted off into a heavy sleep.

Bucky took notice when Steve fell asleep, and he very carefully reached over to lay the book on top of the sketchpad and turn off the light. He was still half sitting up—not the most comfortable position for sleeping—but God himself couldn’t move him in that moment. For a little while, he just sat there, Steve curled against him, and he let those burgeoning feelings of happiness bloom. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe he should be at home. But this, this was home. He didn’t fully understand what that meant for them, but he knew wherever Steve was, that’s where he’d be. Gently, almost shyly, he leaned his head against Steve’s and pressed a small kiss into his hair.

2017

The last three years had been rough. Two on the run, one more half on ice as Princess Shuri worked to deprogram him. Bucky felt torn apart, in more ways than one. There was the rawness of it all, memories and gaps that crashed into each other until sometimes he wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t. He’d never exposed himself like this, even before HYDRA. He had a lot of baggage to let go of, and some of it pre-dated the war. That was almost harder than the deprogramming. When Princess Shuri was fixing his brain, he just laid on a table and sometimes laughed at her jokes and easy demeanor. But with the therapists, he had to actually talk. He’d expected to talk about the Soldier. He hadn’t expected to talk about his father, or the way he’d never really lived for himself. But he wanted it to work, and one thing drove him: Steve. That was the wish he kept close to his heart on the nights that felt too cold for the weather.

When Steve arrived in Wakanda, it hadn’t been how Bucky envisioned it. He’d been waiting, waiting, waiting. And Steve had stayed away. It wasn’t until the king evacuated Steve from a mission gone wrong and brought him to the medical facilities for healing that Bucky understood why. He’d let his anger win out and they’d fought, but Bucky never left his side. He’d been so afraid Steve wouldn’t want him because he could never be the same Bucky as before, he hadn’t stopped to consider that it wasn’t the same Steve, either. But he saw it now. And he resolved to help Steve through it, to help him heal the wounds no serum could touch. Old habits died hard.

He knew it wouldn’t be any easier for Steve than it had been for him. Harder, even, maybe. Bucky had never led a team. The weight he carried was different. His guilt was different. But he knew what it was to not sleep for days, to wake in a cold sweat from nightmares, to have your mind turn against you in the most insidious ways. He knew what it was to not be able to shake the responsibility of it all.

So as he let Steve work through it at his own speed, Bucky tried to be that same breath of hope for Steve that he had been for Bucky. He tried to show Steve small pleasures, like feeding the goats and playing with the children, or watching the spectacular sunsets from a particular hill he liked. He made them dinner, showing off some of the Wakandan dishes he’d learned. He took Steve to his favorite eateries in the city, played for him some of the modern music Princess Shuri had introduced to him. On some special occasions, he sang to Steve some of their old favorites, his voice rough but pleasing nonetheless. Sometimes, Steve smiled.

They spent time together in that easy silence, and they also comforted each other on the rough nights. Bucky bought a sketchpad and pencils for Steve, but he still hadn’t picked it up. Time. He knew it would take time. So Bucky just continued on. At least Steve hadn’t left. He took that as a good sign. As long as Steve was there, they could get through this together, just like they always had. Bucky had to believe that.

Just like Steve hadn’t wanted to push him when they were on the run, Bucky was careful about physical affection. Steve didn’t need more pressure. Sometimes his hand lingered on Steve’s shoulder, or he’d brush the hair out of his eyes. Simple, uncomplicated acts. He missed Steve’s touch so much it hurt, but he shoved it out of his mind. He’d dealt with that before. He could handle it again.

One day, he was cooking when Steve came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist, pressing his face against Bucky’s back. Buck stopped stirring the rice he was cooking and looked over his shoulder.

“Steve? You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice was muffled. “Just…needed this.”

Bucky gave a tight smile. “Me too.”

They stayed that way for a few minutes, just holding on to each other, until Steve reluctantly let go. They ate dinner and washed up together, working in tandem, and then settled in for the evening. Steve laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling, while Bucky sat on the floor beside him writing in his journal.

The nights in Wakanda carried a pleasant breeze, scented with some flower that Bucky didn’t know the name of. It was cool in the small house, the sun marching across the floor as night fell.

“Hey Buck?” Steve said after a long while.

“Yeah?”

“Remember that time we were snowed in, and you read to me?”

How could he forget? “’Course.”

Steve was still staring at the ceiling. “That was a good night.”

“We almost froze to death.”

“But it was still good.”

Bucky hesitated, and then got up from the floor. He put his journal on the desk and went over to a small shelf full of books, running his finger along the spines until he found what he was looking for. Then he came back to the bed.

“Move over,” he said.

“What?” Steve looked up at him.

“Move over,” he said again. “You’re a lot bigger than you used to be.”

Steve shifted, and Bucky settled in next to him, his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him tight against him. Then he began to read. Jules Verne. It was one of the first books he’d bought of his own accord.

Steve slung his arm over Bucky’s waist and listened to his voice rumble in his chest. It stirred the same feelings as it had that frigid night in Brooklyn. Some of the tension eased from his body and for the first time in a while he felt he could breathe. Bucky read a few chapters, and then stopped. Steve tipped his head back to look at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just—“

“What?”

Bucky hesitated. The timing was all wrong, it was inappropriate, it could be taking advantage. But Steve looked up at him with those eyes, and suddenly he was twenty-one again feeling those fissures of hope and happiness break through all his logic.

He leaned down and kissed Steve. It was all comfort and affection, a promise, a hundred years of longing and love.

“Sorry,” he said breathlessly.

Steve reached up to cradle the back of his neck and kissed him back. They tangled together in a mess of limbs, holding on to each other as if afraid the other would disappear.

“I’m a mess,” Steve said when they finally broke apart, his forehead resting against Bucky’s and his eyes closed.

“So am I. But I don’t care. Whatever kind of shape you’re in, or I’m in, I’ll always want you.”

Steve smiled. “That’s my line.”

“I know, I stole it.”

“Jerk,” Steve said.

“Punk.”

#cptsrogers #fics #cw: ptsd #re: and I'll shred 'em all and go with you; steve

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