posttraumaticprose

[posttraumaticprose]

666 hits on the undead story. Wow. Alright, then lol

[posttraumaticprose]

Red Hood; the Fandom Menace

Chapter 2

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66673108/chapters/172012309#workskin

Jason didn’t move for a full minute. Just laid there, face pressed to what might’ve been a “Team Free Will” pillow, heart thudding loud in his ears. His spine protested as he finally pushed himself upright, slowly, like he’d aged fifty years in the fall. His eyes roamed the room again—wider now. Less dazed, more disturbed.

A shelf across from the couch caught his eye. It was massive. Stuffed full of comics. Familiar spines leapt out at him—Detective Comics, Batman, Red Hood and the Outlaws. His stomach twisted.

"No way," he muttered.

Still wobbling a bit, he hauled himself to his feet. The helmet stayed under one arm, his other hand trailing across the edge of the bookshelf like he might fall over again if he let go. His fingers brushed past issue numbers he recognized. Some that made his chest tighten, others that made his jaw clench.

Then his eyes landed on it.

That one comic.

He blinked, then leaned in, plucking it gently from the shelf like it was a live explosive. The cover was unmistakable. Stylized, brutal, garish.

Batman: A Death in the Family.

"No. No, no, no, no—" His voice shook, a whisper spiraling toward something ragged.

He flipped it open. Knew what he would find but hoped, desperately, irrationally, that it would be different. That it wouldn’t be real.

But it was.

A two-page spread showed it all—his broken body in that warehouse, Joker’s smug grin, Batman’s agony. And on the inside cover: the numbers. The fucking numbers. A reader call-in vote. 1-800-LIVE. 1-800-DIE.

The issue trembled in his hands. He stared at it for too long. Breathless. Still.

Then the laughter started.

It was short. Sharp. Bitter. Not funny. A sound dragged from somewhere deep and awful.

“They voted,” he muttered. “They voted.”

He dropped the comic like it burned.

“Was I not tragic enough? Too much of a brat? Not enough puppy-dog eyes like the next kid they threw into the yellow cape?” His voice cracked. “Was that it?”

He stepped back, bumped into the shelf. Nearly sent a row of Teen Titans tumbling.

“Fiction,” he said. “I’m fiction.”

It hit like another crowbar. But slower. Like being lowered into ice water.

“I’m not even real here. I’m a story. A character.”

He looked down at his hands. Still calloused. Still scarred. Still stained with gunpowder and memory.

“But I’m here.”

His thoughts spiraled out in every direction at once. If this was a world where he was fiction, then Bruce was fiction. Dick. Tim. Alfred. His death was entertainment. Something people read for fun on rainy days.

His chest tightened. His throat closed. The room blurred.

He staggered toward the kitchen counter and gripped it with both hands like it could anchor him in reality.

“I died because people called in. Voted me off the island like I was a contestant on some fucked-up game show.”

There were tears in his eyes and he hated that.

He wanted to scream. To punch something. To run.

But there was nowhere to go.

So he slid to the floor.

Back pressed against the cabinet, knees pulled up, arms over them. Like a kid again. Like he had been in that warehouse, when he knew—knew—Bruce wasn’t coming.

He buried his face in his hands.

For a while, the only sound in the apartment was the faint hum of the fridge and Jason’s uneven breathing.

Then—

The door opened.

Footsteps. Keys jangling. A voice, light and mumbling.

“Okay, don’t freak out if I forgot the tater tots—Oh my god.”

Jason didn’t look up.

Silence stretched.

Then a sip. The unmistakable slurp of a smoothie.

“You’re Jason Todd,” she said. Voice small. Stunned. Like seeing a ghost.

His head jerked up.

She stood frozen in the doorway, strawberry smoothie in one hand, messenger bag slipping off her shoulder. Her hoodie was black, oversized, and had JASON TODD DID NOTHING WRONG in red block letters across the chest.

He blinked. “You’re wearing that?”

She blinked back. “You’re real?”

Jason looked down at himself. Still on the floor. Still in full armor, minus the helmet. Helmet that now sat on the coffee table, staring back at him like an accusation.

“Apparently,” he rasped.

She shuffled a little further into the room. Slowly. Like she was afraid sudden movements would make him disappear. Or snap.

“I thought—uh. You were fictional.”

“So did I,” he said flatly.

Her gaze darted to the comic on the floor, pages still spread open.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You found that one.”

Jason gave a low laugh, sharp and broken. “Yeah. That was a real fucking treat.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, clutching her smoothie like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Did you vote?” he asked suddenly, voice bitter.

Her eyes went wide. “What? No! I wasn’t even born yet!”

He stared at her for a second. Then ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “Right. Sorry. Just—this is a lot.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, it is.”

A long silence fell again. Then she took a step closer. Then another.

“I’m not gonna, like... call anyone,” she said carefully. “If you need to freak out or throw things or, I dunno, scream into a pillow, that’s cool.”

Jason gave her a strange look. “You’re taking this weirdly well.”

“I mean, I’ve got severe dissociation and a god complex,” she said, cheeks pinking. “This is probably the most validating thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Another blink. Then, to her surprise, a huff of laughter.

“Yeah, okay,” Jason said, voice tired. “That actually tracks.”

She hesitated. Then moved toward the couch, gently picking up the comic and closing it. She placed it back on the shelf like it might bite her.

He watched her the whole time.

When she sat on the arm of the couch, she looked at him with quiet sympathy. Not pity. Not awe. Just understanding.

“You’re real,” she said again, softer now. “And that vote was bullshit.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, it was.”

She held out the smoothie to him.

Jason stared at it.

“Seriously?” he asked, brows raised.

She shrugged. “You look like you could use a little sugar.”

He snorted, took it. Sipped. Strawberry. Cold and cloyingly sweet.

It tasted like the weirdest fucking day of his life.

[posttraumaticprose]

Red Hood; The Fandom Menace

Chapter 1

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66673108/chapters/172009924#workskin

The warehouse smelled like gunpowder, blood, and stale regret. Jason Todd stood in the center of it all, red helmet under one arm, surveying the carnage with a critical eye and an expression that was less "oh no" and more "you deserved it." His boot nudged a semi-automatic rifle away from a groaning thug's fingers. "Wrong move, genius," he muttered. “Next time, maybe don't try to jump a guy in body armor. And with that aim?” He clicked his tongue. “Tragic.”

He didn’t believe in overkill. He believed in efficient messaging. And nothing said "the Red Hood runs this block now" like a couple shattered kneecaps and a pile of confiscated weapons. The surviving members of the crew were zip-tied and stacked in the corner like unfortunate IKEA returns. His safehouse boys would be along to pick them up soon. The cops would find them gift-wrapped with a neat little note:

You’re welcome – R.H.

His leather jacket was torn on one sleeve, a shallow cut on his bicep leaking red through the fabric, but he didn’t mind. Pain reminded him he was still alive, and being alive was still a pretty new sensation. It still felt like borrowed time. Like he might blink and be back in that coffin, nails scratching the satin lining, screaming into soil. But he was alive. And Gotham? Gotham was going to learn what it meant when its prodigal son came back pissed off.

The Bat didn’t like his methods. Boo hoo. Jason wasn’t playing dress-up anymore. He didn’t want validation or forgiveness. He wanted results. And it was working—organized crime in his sectors was down. The human trafficking rings had cleared out entirely after he’d shot their ringleader in the kneecaps and dropped him in front of a GCPD station, naked except for a sign that said “Ask me about my crimes.”

Bruce still tried to reach out sometimes. Well—tried being a generous word. Mostly it was short, stiff text messages that Jason ignored. The man didn’t understand. He *couldn’t*. Jason wasn’t just Robin reborn. He was Red Hood now. The city needed someone who would do what Bruce wouldn't.

Still, sometimes he caught himself watching from rooftops when Bats was out on patrol. Old habits. The big guy was still graceful as hell, still a silent monster in the dark. Jason couldn’t deny he missed it—the rhythm, the partnership, the family. Then he remembered being abandoned in that warehouse. Being left. And the sentiment soured like milk.

Most nights he ran his ops from the penthouse. Not because he liked high-rise living—he hated heights when they didn’t come with a grapnel gun—but because the vantage point was good, and the paranoia was worse. One elevator, rigged to blow. Backup generator. Panic room disguised as a coat closet. He didn’t sleep much, but when he did, it was with a gun under his pillow and a knife strapped to his ankle.

Tonight he was half a bottle into something brown and burning when he got the text from one of his lieutenants: “Black Mask’s crew is sniffing around the East End again. Want us to handle it?” Jason stared at the screen for a moment, then sighed. “No rest for the wicked,” he muttered, shoving the bottle aside. He typed back: “Hold off. I’ll go say hi personally.”

He liked driving at night. The purr of the engine under him, the city lights blurring past—it was the closest he got to peace. Helmet on, bike growling beneath him like a beast just barely caged, he tore through Gotham’s underbelly like a red streak of vengeance.

By the time he reached the East End, the Black Mask thugs were already making trouble. Jason kicked in the back door of the bar they were using as cover and walked in like he owned the place. Technically, he did now.

"Hey, boys," he said, voice echoing under the helmet. "Mind telling me why you're loitering in my territory like you forgot how painful that gets?"

The shooting started before the sarcasm ended. Amateurs. Jason dove, rolled, came up with twin pistols drawn, and started painting the walls red. Non-lethal shots. Mostly. One guy was stupid enough to try a grenade. Jason shot his hand before the pin came out. That would bruise.

He left the survivors moaning on the floor and carved a hooded smiley face into the bar with a combat knife. A little branding never hurt.

Back on the street, rain had started to fall. Gotham rain was never cleansing. It just made the blood smear easier. He walked back to his bike, helmet under his arm, face turned up toward the clouds. His hair stuck to his forehead. He looked like hell and felt marginally worse. But it was a good night. A quiet night.

That meant something was about to go catastrophically wrong.

Jason had exactly thirty-two seconds of calm before the alley split open in front of him like a bad special effect from a low-budget sci-fi flick. A breach tore through reality—literally ripped the air—and the light was blinding, electric. He barely had time to shout a very eloquent “What the fu—” before it yanked him off his feet.

Falling through time or space or whatever the hell that was wasn’t like skydiving or grappling between rooftops. It felt like being peeled. Like every molecule wanted to punch him in the jaw. Jason flailed, snarled, tried to shoot at it because what else do you do when interdimensional rips swallow you whole?

And then—

Thud.

He landed hard. Couch cushions muffled the sound, but not the impact. Jason groaned as his face smooshed into throw pillows. His ass was in the air, legs dangling off one side, a boot knocking over a Funko Pop on the coffee table.

The room smelled like vanilla candles, takeout, and bookstore dust. He blinked, groaning into a pillow embroidered with “It’s Not Hoarding If It’s Books.”

The living room around him looked like a nerd’s fever dream. Posters of Superman, Batman, and—was that Deadpool in a tutu?—lined the walls. There were Funko Pops in organized rows, plushies of Gotham rogues gallery villains, and an entire shelf dedicated to what appeared to be Captain America fanfiction.

He groaned again, tried to roll over, and knocked over a stack of Jane Austen novels with a flailing elbow.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Either I’m dead again, or I fell into the world’s weirdest comic con.”

A mug sat on the coffee table. It said: Mr. Darcy is a Red Flag and I Love Him Anyway. Jason stared at it, dazed.

“...What the hell did I just fall into?”

[posttraumaticprose]

Memento Mori.

Cross posted to AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66643030

Jason and Tim finally acting like feral brothers over Victorian death photography.

The Batcave was quiet. Not serene, not peaceful—just quiet in that exhausted, overtaxed way that came only when Batman was on patrol alone and everyone else knew better than to linger too long in his shadow. The smell of metal and ozone, the flickering blue glow from the computer monitors, the ever-present hum of machines made it feel like the belly of something ancient and cold.

Tim Drake had been watching the pattern for weeks. Every third Thursday, like clockwork, another envelope would be sitting on the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Plain manila, sealed with duct tape. Bruce never said anything out loud—he just stared, picked it up with gloved fingers, opened it, and then either left the room or smashed something within the next three minutes. There was never an in-between.

Tonight, Tim was done pretending he hadn’t noticed. Bruce had already stormed off after viewing the latest one, his jaw tight enough to crack. Once the platform elevator whirred into motion and disappeared up into the manor, Tim made his move.

The envelope was still warm.

Inside was a glossy 8x10 photograph—studio lit, deep red backdrop, dramatic shadows. Jason, in full Red Hood armor, crouched behind a stiff, grinning Joker corpse dressed like a prom queen. The tiara glittered under perfect lighting. The bouquet of dead roses cradled in rigor-stiff hands was a nice touch.

“Jesus Christ,” Tim muttered.

“You say that every time,” came a voice from above.

Tim didn’t even jump. He just turned, slowly, and saw Jason Todd hanging upside-down from one of the cave’s overhead support beams. He was lounging like a very smug vampire bat, sans cape, mask pushed up onto his forehead and eyes glittering with amusement.

“I should’ve known it was you,” Tim sighed.

“You say that every time too.”

Jason flipped down, boots slamming into the floor with a theatrical thud. He looked good. Suspiciously good. The kind of good that only came from causing long-term psychological damage to someone you hated but were also deeply, hopelessly tangled up in emotionally.

Tim eyed him. “How the hell are you getting in here?”

Jason just grinned. “That’s a secret.”

“You do know this is actually insane, right?”

“Oh, for sure. But it’s also hilarious.”

Tim held up the photo. “He was wearing a tiara.”

“Miss Gotham 1983,” Jason said proudly. “Found it in a thrift store. Whole outfit cost me eight bucks.”

Tim stared at him for a long moment. “Shouldn’t he be… rotting?”

“Nah.” Jason wandered over, snatched the photo back, brushed a smudge off Joker’s cheek with his thumb like a proud dad at a dance recital. “I took like 400 pictures in advance. Went all out—different props, costumes, backgrounds. Even got a fog machine for the Halloween shoot. Cremated the bastard after. So I’ve got enough content to keep this up for years.”

Tim blinked. “You made a posthumous Joker photoshoot content calendar?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jason said, mock-wounded. “Makes it sound petty.”

“It is petty.”

“And yet, it’s art.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tim repeated.

Jason threw himself into one of the swivel chairs, arms spread, legs kicked up on the table. “You have to admit, it’s the only thing that’s kept B on his toes in months. He gets one of my love letters, he gets all broody, and then he does something reckless like punch a window or jump off a building without a grapple. It’s like cardio, but for his emotions.”

“You’re seriously unhinged.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Tim hesitated. “You kept the body for how long?”

“Five days. Had to keep him fresh for the Santa shoot.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling Alfred.”

“He already knows,” Jason said gleefully. “Told me the snow globe prop was too cliché. Suggested mistletoe and a string of lights instead.”

Tim swore softly, wondering how he ever believed he was the sane one in this family.

Jason leaned in, suddenly serious. “But you have to admit, the photography’s pretty damn good.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. He’d been avoiding that part. But he couldn’t deny it—each photo was perfectly composed. The lighting, the posing, the technical skill…

“…Did you hire a photographer?”

Jason snorted. “No. Took a night class. Stole a camera. Did some reading. I had time.”

Tim crossed his arms. “You know, I am a photographer.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I could take better ones.”

“You did not just challenge me to a petty corpse photoshoot war.”

“No,” Tim said, already smiling like a demon. “I’m thinking escalation. You’re all about theater, right? Let’s flip the script.”

Jason leaned in, interested. “Go on.”

Tim walked over to one of the sealed storage lockers in the cave’s lower level. Entered a code. Waited for the hiss of air and the metallic click. Inside: Jason’s old suit. Red and green, bloodstained. Preserved. Sacred. A relic Bruce had refused to let go of.

“I hate that thing,” Jason muttered, voice low.

“That’s why it’ll work.”

Jason stared at him. “You want to dress me like a twelve-year-old zombie Christmas ornament and take post-mortem photos of me to mess with Bruce?”

Tim shrugged. “He’s already seeing Joker’s stiff corpse in ball gowns every other week. Might as well complete the tableau. Little Robin, tragically returned from the grave. Very Victorian.”

Jason let out a slow, long breath. “God, you are darker than me.”

“I just hide it better.”

Jason was quiet for a minute. Then he stood. “Alright. But if I’m wearing that thing, I’m also getting a sword.”

“You don’t get a sword.”

“I died, Tim. I get a fucking sword.”

“I’ll give you a slingshot.”

“Slingshot and sword. Final offer.”

Tim sighed. “Fine.”

Within an hour, the Batcave had been transformed into a gothic nightmare. Candelabras flickered from hidden corners. Tim had set up the lighting rig, testing shadow filters and camera angles with a level of detached professionalism that unnerved even Jason.

The suit was too small, tight across the shoulders and arms, but Jason bore it with grim theatricality. His hair slicked back, the domino mask painted on, and an antique sword across his lap as he sat in the overstuffed armchair from Alfred’s collection, stiff and perfect.

Tim adjusted the lighting. “Tilt your head a little. Look more… lifeless.”

“I am lifeless, Replacement.”

“Okay, less sass, more dead.”

Click. Flash. Jason’s blank face was chilling in the first few shots. Then Tim started posing him.

One arm over a teddy bear. Head cocked at a weird angle. A fake blood trail drawn under his nose. Flowers in his lap. A torn comic in one limp hand.

Jason didn’t laugh—but his mouth twitched more than once.

The final shot was staged in front of the massive penny, with Jason posed on a pile of bat-shaped paper cutouts, eyes wide open, looking accusingly toward the camera like a ghost caught in the act of haunting.

“You’re really good at this,” Jason said, impressed.

“I’m a genius,” Tim replied.

They left the first photo for Bruce the next morning—Jason posed like a saint in stained glass, hands folded over his chest, a cracked Robin ‘R’ badge on his tunic, and a halo made from repurposed Batarangs.

Bruce didn’t speak for a full two days.

Then the punching bag in the training room turned up shredded, the Batmobile vanished for twelve hours, and the emergency alert system registered no less than six unauthorized cave entries, all traced to Jason’s apartment.

Tim and Jason just waited. Quietly. Patiently.

Round two would involve a rocking horse and a eulogy read by a ventriloquist dummy in a Batman cowl.

Petty was an artform.

[posttraumaticprose]

I'm kind of vibing with the storybook idea. Here's Jason's

This one, I actually did draw entirely myself. Cheers.

[posttraumaticprose]

COAUTHOR! Welcome to the chaos. Tim Drake now has bi-pride programmer socks with memory foam toebeans. Perfect for three-point hero landings off a Gotham Gargoyle. Go Knights!

Heyyyyy so interesting thought

It's pride month and who's an absolute bi-con?

Tim Stoker

Who's another bi-con?

Tim Drake

See where we're going with this?

What if we had a Timverse crossover?

(literally none of the Tims have much in common but it's funny as hell and I am so currently co-writing this mess with another person)

[posttraumaticprose]

I need a candle that smells like gunpowder, Bourbon, smoke, and leather just so I can light it and watch Under the Red Hood while curled up and cozy in the hoodie I'm about to custom order. Black with a crimson hood (duh) and the words "Red. Dead. Good in bed" printed on the chest with Jason's bat symbol from Gotham Knights.

[posttraumaticprose]

The End of the World

A Steve/Bucky fanfiction

Cross-posted on AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53989840

"He is half of my soul, as the poets say. I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."

Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller

-----

Steve Rogers had always been frail, sickly, small. He never let that stop him, though. Never let anything stop him. No matter how big his opponent, no matter how difficult the task. That was just who he was; the human embodiment of his favorite phrase. "I can do this all day."

The one thing that ever gave him pause was that look on his best friend's face. It wasn't that Steve thought Buck would hurt him or leave. Bucky had been with him through everything from schoolyard bullies to the death of his mother a few years ago. No, it wasn't that. It was that the look made him realize how much seeing him in pain was hurting Bucky. Like today.

Only, Steve hadn't been in a fight, today. He hadn't had any breathing troubles, or heart issues, hadn't even forgotten to eat. No, Steve knew he hadn't done anything that would make Bucky worry, today. That caused his thoughts to race for a moment. What could be wrong? What could take the sunlight out of Bucky's smile like that? His brows were knit together, and his usually bright blue eyes were clouded with the effort of hiding whatever it was he was afraid of.

And there was a letter in his hand.

Steve felt a wave of panic washing over him. No. Not that. Anything but that. Tentatively, he reached a hand out and placed it on Bucky's shoulder. "Buck?"

Bucky didn't respond, at first. Just looked at Steve's hand on his shoulder and tried an apologetic smile. After a few beats, he found his voice. "Stevie..."

The tone of Bucky's voice told him this wasn't going to be good news. He looked down at the letter in his best friend's hands, printed on US Army letterhead. No...

"Stevie," Bucky tried again. "War's callin'. I'm going to have to go."

"The draft?"

Bucky could only nod and fight tears. He hated violence. Had always hated it. He was a kind man. All he wanted in life was to dance and play his guitar and flirt and take care of his best pal. They had lived in their little appartment in the Heights for seven years, and while they didn't have much, they had managed to carve out a little of the beauty that Bucky had dreamed of. The walls didn't have many photographs, but Steve's drawings were everywhere. Bucky had learned to crochet so that he could make the curtains they couldn't afford, curtains made of yarn taken from ruined sweaters that they had taken the time to unravel one weekend. This little, one bedroom place was their haven, and now, he would have to leave it for God only knew how long.

I thought I had more time...

That was the only coherent thought Steve could manage. He felt like one of those sweaters, right now. Like the news, and the implications that went with it, was unraveling him from the hem up. He couldn't breathe, and for once, it wasn't because of his asthma. He needed to comfort Bucky. Needed to be comforted by him. So, he did the only thing he could think to do. He pulled the taller, one-year-older, darker haired man into a tight hug and just held him.

Neither man knew how long they stayed like that, nor what to feel about anything, in that series of moments. They only knew that they needed each other. Finally, Steve broke the silence. "I'll enlist."

"No, Stevie."

"Buck, I can't..." He couldn't even finish the thought. I can't lose you.

"Steve, think about this. They won't take you, anyway. Asthma alone would be enough to get you deferred. Besides, I would worry."

He looked at Bucky apologetically, but replied, "I'll worry, too. I can't stand the thought of you going alone."

That made Bucky stop for a moment. He looked down at Steve, seeming to see something in the blonde's blue-green eyes that he had never noticed, before. His breath caught, his heart skipped so many beats he was pretty sure it started to sound like Steve's. Without thinking, he bent to press his lips softly to the other man's, and it was the sweetest sensation he could remember ever having felt.

Steve's eyes went wide for one brief second and a quiet gasp escaped between their lips, followed by an almost inaudible sound of contentment as his eyes closed and he lost himself in Bucky's kiss, hands coming up to hold his face. Bucky's own hands did the same, one at Steve's cheek, the other hungry for the feel of blonde silk between his fingers. It was a truly dizzying experience for both of them.

When they eventually broke the kiss, the two men were breathless, eyes locked in shared shock. A look of understanding passed between them, aquamarine and sapphire eyes, both boundless as the sea and sky. Steve smiled softly, not wanting to consider the implications, just yet. All he wanted in that moment was to bask in the warmth of Bucky's embrace. They could worry about the rest later.

Bucky pulled Steve to him, holding the younger man against his chest and burying his face in soft strands of sunshine. His heart was so full from that kiss that he was afraid it might shatter. Knew that it would if he was forced to give this up. Steve was so small, beside him. No more than five-four, and thin as the sticks of charcoal that so oft stained his hands black when he sketched. He wasn't a physically strong man, and that made Bucky want nothing more than to protect him. Buck knew Steve needed him. In that moment though, he began to really understand that he needed Steve just as much.

They spent another few moments like that, holding each other for dear life, and when they turned in for the night, the bed that they had shared for lack of ability to afford a second one suddenly seemed too big. It wasn't unusual for Bucky to sleep with his head on Steve's chest, but this was different. It wasn't because Steve was having trouble breathing. It wasn't for worry. This time, it was affection that drew him in, and lying there with his best friend, he felt more at peace than he ever had in his entire life. Not even the war could steal this from him. He loved Steve. Steve loved him. That was enough.

-----------------

That had been in 1942, the day he had been drafted. Eighty years of trauma and shared experience ago, Bucky reminded himself. Now, he stood there, watching Steve step up onto the platform in preparation to return the Infinity Stones to their proper times. He saw the look on Steve's face. He knew.

Steve wasn't coming back.

When Steve hugged him, his words confirmed it. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back."

Buck held tight to him, clinging to him like he would die if he let go. He almost couldn't get the words out. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

 

It was goodbye. 

Bucky's heart didn't just break. It was like Thanos snapped it right out of his chest. For the first time since Steve had rescued him from Hydra's control, Bucky wished once again that he had died falling from that damn train. Part of him was happy for Steve, or at least, he tried to convince himself he was. Steve would get to be with Peggy, his life's great love. He should be happy for his friend. He couldn't bring himself to be.

Peggy was the love of Steve's life.

Steve was Bucky's. Steve was walking away. He wanted to scream and cry and break everything in sight. He wouldn't. Couldn't. He just... let Steve go. With Steve went his soul, his heart, and his smile.

A quote from a book that he had read recently struck him. "He is half of my soul, as the poets say. I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world." This, Bucky thought, this moment. Not when Thanos snapped half the world away, not when Tony had died to bring everyone back. No.

This was the end of the world.

[posttraumaticprose]

Pardon while I write this. Or something like it. Give me three days. Or twenty minutes. I'm pretty caffeinated, tbh.

---

Follow-up. The first chapter as cross-posted on my AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66568585/chapters/171709069

Grave Inheritance

A Danny Phantom/Red Hood crossover fic

---

It started in his spine. That cold. Like someone had poured liquid nitrogen straight through the base of his skull and let it trickle down each vertebrae one by one. Danny nearly dropped the soldering iron.

The familiar whoosh of his ghost sense followed a second later, blue mist curling from his lips. But it didn’t fade. It lingered—no, thrummed—in the air, static and sharp. Not like Skulker, not like Ember. This wasn’t a ghost trying to cross over. It was something worse. Something heavier. Older. Like the aftershock of a tectonic shift.

He straightened from the workbench and blinked at the flickering overhead light in the basement. No spectral readings pinged on the specter tracker. No ghost alarms. But the cold? The wrongness? It was all-consuming. He hadn’t felt anything like this since the day he’d met Dan.

"Jazz?" he called, voice tight. "You feel that?"

Jazz, upstairs in her converted office, didn’t answer. Either she hadn’t felt it, or she was in full therapist-mode and writing it off as anxiety. That was fine. He didn’t need to scare her. Not yet.

He phased through the ceiling, emerging into the living room of FentonWorks, still rubbing at his arms. Goosebumps littered his skin. Every breath tasted like ozone. His core pulsed, ghostlight throbbing under his ribs.

Five miles out. Whatever it was hadn’t entered city limits. But it was moving closer.

He moved to the window and stared out at the sunset-tinged streets of Amity Park. Quiet. Uneventful. It had been like that for months—no major ghost incidents, no breaches, just an endless stream of minor cleanups. He hadn’t even needed to go full Phantom in weeks.

But this wasn’t just a ghost.

This was something walking the line. Something like him.

He tapped the edge of his phone, hesitating. He could call Tucker, who’d probably be tracking unusual activity on the city grid. Or Sam, who still had her weird Sixth Sense when it came to dark vibes. But neither of them would feel this like he could.

He phased into his suit instead.

Phantom glowed into being, white hair crackling with ambient energy. He took to the sky like an instinct—intangible, invisible, and alert. The cold clung to him like a second skin. Something in the air pulled at him, guided him west.

The highway was nearly empty. A few semi trucks rolled by. A motorcycle cut through the dusk like a blade, twin headlights flaring. Danny hovered higher, peering down. The rider’s helmet gleamed red in the low light. A heavy leather jacket, weapons holstered at the sides. Purpose in the way he moved.

And then it hit.

A wave of tainted ectoplasm—sour, oily, sharp as broken glass. Not raw ghost energy. Not corrupted ghost energy. This was something more human—but warped. Like a soul dragged through the Ghost Zone and stitched back into skin.

Danny sucked in a breath, hand flying to his chest. His core flared with sympathetic resonance.

Whoever that guy was, he’d been soaked in death. Not just once. Multiple times. Like Ecto-Pools and liminal energy were stitched into his very bones.

The biker turned his head slightly, and even with the helmet, Danny felt the flicker of a gaze. Trained. Controlled. Dangerous. This guy was no stranger to combat.

But not hostile. Not yet.

He trailed the motorcycle from above, careful to keep his invisibility solid. The rider didn’t deviate, didn’t stop—he was heading into town. Danny’s ghost sense hadn't gone off like this since… ever. Not like this. It wasn’t just warning him. It was trying to speak.

Phantom dropped back to ground level just before the city limits, waiting. When the motorcycle passed the Welcome to Amity Park sign, the wave of cold broke again—like his core recognized something.

It wasn’t familial. There was no blood tie. But there was something familiar. Something echoing inside Danny's ribs. Like a rhythm he'd never learned, but somehow knew.

The rider slowed, pulled into the gas station near the edge of town. He dismounted in a smooth, calculated movement, helmet off in one hand. Dark hair. Jaw tight. Scars along the jawline, one over the eyebrow. Blue eyes, sharp and full of history. Phantom floated a few feet away, invisible but overwhelmed.

He’d seen this guy before. Not here. Not in Amity. Somewhere in a newspaper photo maybe. Gotham? Maybe that one STEM summer camp, years ago?

Jason Todd.

Red Hood.

Danny phased back into human form slowly, body tense. Why was the Red Hood in his town? Gotham’s vigilantes didn’t leave their city lightly, especially not the messy ones.

Jason looked around like he knew something was watching. His shoulders tensed. His right hand hovered near his thigh holster—not drawing, but ready. Danny took a shaky breath and stepped out from behind the air pump.

“You’re not a ghost,” he said.

Jason’s head snapped up. Eyes narrowed. "And you're not normal."

Danny gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Welcome to Amity."

Jason studied him, like he was measuring something. Not just weapons, not just threat levels—energy. Danny felt seen. Not just physically, but like this guy could feel his ectoplasm vibrating in the air.

"You’ve got the same hum," Jason said finally. "That resonance. It’s quieter, cleaner. Less angry."

Danny blinked. "You know ectoplasm?"

Jason shrugged. “Lazarus Pit. Y'know, green goo, smells like death forgot to stay down? Swam in it once. Didn't ask for the side effects.”

That explained the echo. Corrupted ghost essence. Of course it would trigger Danny’s core. They were cut from the same haunted cloth.

Jason took a slow step forward, eyes still sharp. “Why’d you come down here?”

“You tripped every alarm in my body,” Danny answered honestly. “Didn’t even know I had half of them.”

Jason grunted. “Not here to start a fight. Just following a lead. Someone’s trying to synthesize pit fluid. Using whatever's here. That’s your turf, I think.”

Danny’s blood went cold.

“Who?”

Jason glanced down the road. “League remnants. Talia’s splinter faction, maybe. They think they can make stable resurrection fluid if they get enough of the inert stuff.”

Danny closed his eyes, processing. They weren’t just connected. They were targets of the same war.

“Well,” he said, voice quiet. “You should probably come inside. If you’re here for answers... you’re gonna get more than you bargained for.”

Jason smiled. Just a little. Not friendly. But not hostile, either.

“Story of my life.”

Dc x Dp prompt

(Somehow I fell into this crossover hole, and it has me in a chokehold on the floor)

I like the idea of Danny being around Jason's age, maybe a little older, but still younger than Dick. And completely 100% Bruce Wayne's real kid. (Freaky 3some at some science charity event that the science couple Fenton went to ig).

But still being raised as a Fenton his whole life, even until the fact that he's over and done with the hero menace life.

But then Damian comes into the picture, in all his "I'm the blood son" glory. Kiddo goes to school, more to learn to socialize than really learn anything.

The geology class, after getting a generous donation from the Wayne's, wants to do an ancestry test and talk about how everything connects back in the world history and all that good stuff.

Imagine, the chaos that ensues, when as Damian opens up the email when the results came back, and it shows a DNA match with a half sibling.

Bruce, of course, instantly tries to hunt this kid down. Cause; "wtf, I didn't know I had a bio kid other than Damian, I can't wait to collect another one"

Danny having already: 1. died, 2. revived, 3. become a hero, 4. retired. And at this point also had a fallout with his parents, and is a grown adult.

I wonder if he would be willing to integrate into the family, what about his ghost side? Will he bring his clones, what about the ghost king thing?

Will Bruce let him be, or will his paranoia take over (yes), how will he react when he finds out that another one of his kids, that he didn't even know, has also died, and also revived, but didn't come back all the way.

I also like the headcanon that the lazarus is contaminated ectoplasm, so he might be able to help Jason's pit rage.

I feel like this has a lot of potential, because it'll also throw the entire family off the balance, because, a new meta, ghosts are real, Brucie Wayne has to reveal a secret new bio son (or the news will expose it somehow, against their wishes), and it's a fucking small-town hero??

[posttraumaticprose]

While my co-writer works on their chapter of the TimVerse, I'm working on storybooks based on the BatFam! Here's the first one:

Somebody else actually drew the chibis, I just arranged them and did the other bits. I couldn't find the OG artist, so if somebody wants to tag them, please be my guest. I would love to credit them.

[posttraumaticprose]