#I'm rocking back and forth on the floor sobbing and hyperventilating

[jamie-drysdale-supremacist]

😮‍💨

[patscorner]

LOSE CONTROL

TW: Panic attack, mention of disassociation

(Red is what's loosely referenced from the song)

This one is shorter bc I lost motivation 🤭

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You couldn't breathe. No matter how many deep breaths you took, no matter how hard you tried to ground yourself, you still couldn't breathe.

You really needed your boyfriend, but he hadn't been returning your calls. It's been 3 days.

The last you heard from him, you guys had an argument about how much time he was spending with you. Maybe next time, you'll keep your mouth shut and be happy with what you have because now, you don't see him at all.

He knew how you got without him. He knew because you told him how you were no good at being alone. You told him that without him, something takes a hold on you, and you don't know who you are. You told him that the anxiety builds in your chest when he's gone for too long. You told him that it feels like you're drowning without him, and when you see him, it's like a breath of fresh, clean air.

Without him, you're a mess. Without him, it made your skin itch, and it takes so much to stop you from tearing the skin off your bones.

You don't know how long you've been on the bathroom floor, arms around your knees as your rock back and forth, loud sobs falling from your mouth.

You were stuck in a vicous cycle of sobbing, throwing up, disassociating, hyperventilating, passing out, and then waking up and doing it all over again.

You hear muffled ringing coming from your phone that's sat on the counter next to the sink. You don't move, as the ringing in your head was too distracting. You just continue to rock back and forth until it stops.

Then it starts again. You wait. It stops.

This happens 6 more times, and each time you ignore it as you continue to dry heave into the toilet.

The next thing you hear is your bathroom door opening and arms wrapping around you. You don't know who it is, but you've got a pretty good idea.

You can hear muffled yelling, but you can't hear what anyone is saying. You put your hands over your ears, as the voices, the ringing, the dry heaving, is all too much for you.

"Ple- please.. too much... please..." You sob, rocking back and forth harder, your breathing picking up once again.

You start to rock slower as the voices stop, tears still wrecking your body.

"-aby, can you hear me?" A soft, familiar voice rang throughout the now quiet bathroom.

You lift your head up and meet 6 icy blue eyes. One is your boyfriend and one being his two brothers.

You assume, since Nick is closer, he's the one who embraced you earlier.

"Baby, I need you to follow my breathing, please." Matt pleads, as he gets closer and takes your hand and puts it on his chest so you can feel it rise and fall. "Can you do that for me?" He asks softly.

You nod absent-mindedly. "Matt?" You ask, trying to recognize him.

"Yes, yeah, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." He reassures.

"Where have you been...?" You ask as he stretches your legs out in front of you, making it easier for you to breathe. Like you said, being with him is like a breath of fresh fucking air.

Matt shook his head. "I- I don't know, baby, but I'm here now. I'm so sorry for leaving you like this." He said. "Can I give you a hug?" He asked, his arms rubbing your arms.

You nod as tears prick your eyes. Huh, you'd think you'd be out by now.

Matt embraces you in a big hug, tears leaving his eyes quietly as he relishes the embrace. It's been too long.

You pull away, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry." You say.

"No, no, no, never fucking apologize. Ever. This is on me. I know how you get when I'm not around, and I left anyway. I'm sorry." He says wiping his own tears.

"It's okay... it's just when you're not here - it feels like I'm a mess, like I fall apart." You whisper, your voice breaking.

Matt sniffles. "You're breaking my heart, baby. I'm so sorry. I'll never leave you again." He embraces you once again.

"I love you." You mumble into his chest. "I love you, too." He says.

"Can we get food now?" Chris asks from the other side of the door. He and Nick had left to give you both some privacy, but obviously, they were growing impatient.

You laugh and pat Matt's chest as you both stand up. "Yeah, just let me shower." You say, suddenly feeling gross.

"Love you, Matt." You say as he walks out.

"I love you, too, honey."

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[carry-on-my-wayward-gays]

So I headcanon Jimmy as claustrophobic. And I remembered that one time in Double Life the yellow lives trapped him in a 2x1 dark hole :)

Jimmy getting shoved into the hole and nervously laughing like "ok haha guys you got me I'm getting out now" and just as he goes to climb out someone blocks his way out and shrouds the hole in darkness.

"Guys?" Jimmy shouts up and only gets muffled laughter in return. His hands start shaking and a breath gets caught in his throat. The space feels like it's shrinking. The darkness becomes a thick void that starts swallowing him whole and clogs his mind from reason.

"Guys! Let me out!" Jimmy yells. He can feel panic rattling his body and constricting his lungs. He's hyperventilating, his hands are going numb with panic, sweat is dripping down his forehead.

He can't breathe.

"Please!" He begs, sobbing now. He stumbles back and lands on a wall, sinking to the dirt floor. His iron armor feels too heavy.

Tango sees the commotion from afar and goes to check it out. The yellow lives are too close to his ranch for his liking. When he gets over everyone is laughing and knocking on blocks of cobblestone tauntingly, something twists in Tango's gut already. Something isn't right.

"What's going on here?" He asks and head turn to face him. Mischievous grins turn downright evil.

"We got your rancher!" One of them sings.

Tango's eyes widen.

"You got my buddy? What do you want him for?" They go to answer but there's a muffled shout from under the cobble. A cry for help. Tango can feel it through the soulbond.

"Tango!" Jimmy shouts. It's desperate, panicked. Tango can feel how Jimmy is clawing at the stone through his own fingertips, can feel how tight his throat and chest are. Tango can feel anxiety slither up his throat.

"Let him out." Tango urges. The yellows giggle back. Tango starts breathing heavily. He's panicking that Jimmy is panicking.

"Let him out!" Tango shoves one of the yellows and they let up. They roll their eyes and mutter about him being a party pooper and break the cobblestone.

Tango heaves Jimmy out of the hole and holds his rancher close. Jimmy is sobbing in his arms and gasping for fresh air. His hands scrabble over Tango's back, grabbing and releasing his jacket at random.

"You're ok, I got you now, buttercup. My poor lovely." Tango comforts, rocking back and forth to calm both himself and Jimmy. Tango pats Jimmy down to help ground his soulmate and to check for injury.

The yellow lives disperse. They don't talk about what happened, besides the "how were we supposed to know?" questions. Jimmy wears himself out and calms down enough to zone out in Tango's arms. Whether or not he's dozing off or dissociating Tango doesn't know, and he won't ask unless it gets bad. He just cares about having his rancher in his arms, safe and sound for now.

And when they're safe inside the ranch again, and when Jimmy is finally coherent again, Tango tends to his wounds. The scraped fingertips and broken nails from clawing at the cobblestone walls of his small prison.

"I'm sorry you had to come rescue me. I know I should be more independent in these games..." Jimmy mumbles as Tango bandages his fingertips. Tango simply presses a delicate kiss to Jimmy's bandages.

"We're soulmates, Jim. I'd come to your rescue any time of the day cause that's what partners do." He looks up and sees Jimmy staring down at him with the most sorry expression Tango's ever seen worn on a human face.

"Plus, I know you'd do the exact same for me. It's ok, and you're ok. I promise, birdie." Jimmy nods - to himself mostly - and keeps quiet for the rest of the night. In his head, he's echoing Tango's words.

They're soulmates. And they keep each other safe.

[lilquokka04]

❤️‍🩹I'm Proud of You❤️‍🩹

-

-

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-warnings-angst, hannie crying

-wc-913

-

Oh shit.

You were watching Stray kids perform their new song but realized that Han wasn't looking too happy towards the end, causing panic to stir in your chest.

Shit, shit, shit

Unfortunately you had to wait for him backstage to be able to talk to him,although having Chan there was a big relief because you knew he would do everything he could to make him feel safe.

You practically counted the seconds til he could leave the stage and be away from the cameras and fans.

The second the members started to leave the stage you were sprinting out the room and down the hall to meet them.

When you finally found them you could see several members crowded in front of Han trying to calm him down.

Your expression cracked and you immediately felt like crying seeing the way he was sobbing and trying to control his breathing.

"Hannie!" You called out as you walked towards the group. Once the members noticed you they moved away from the sobbing boy, giving you both some room.

As Chan walked by you could see the relief on his face, he knew if anyone could comfort Han it would be you. When Han realized you were there he completely broke down, hyperventilating and hiccuping as he tried to wipe his tears away with his fists.

"Baby-" You closed the rest of the distance and wrapped him up in a hug, tucking his head against your chest and letting him use your shirt to cry on.

Tightening your grip on your trembling boyfriend, you place a gentle hand on the back of his head and rub soothing circles with your thumb, knowing he likes his hair being played with when he's upset.

"You're okay baby. I got you." You soothe, glancing up to see the members standing off to the side with worried expressions on their face. Luckily there is no one else in the hallway right now but you know it won't stay that way for long. Knowing Han won't be able to tell you anything you beckon the leader over.

"How long until you guys are needed back up there?"

He bites his lip and glances at Han.

"20 minutes at most, but we need to have our hair and makeup touched up before then."

You feel Han's grip tighten at the mention of having to go back in a room full of staff and have people questioning him. You reassuringly rub a hand up and down his back as you leave a quick peck to his head.

"I'm not leaving you." Your murmur into his hair.

"I'll take him to a separate room and clean up his makeup before you have to go back on stage."

Chan blows out a nervous breath and nods before walking off to the rest of the group.

Once the members leave you lead your boyfriend off to an empty room so he can relax and collect himself before he has to go back on stage.

☆☆☆

You rock back and forth with Han in your lap, his head tucked into your neck as his tears have long since soaked through the material of your shirt. Placing a small kiss to his temple you reach over and grab a tissue, gently wiping his tears away and dabbing at the liquid that's collected above his lip.

He scrunches up his face as you wipe some of his mucus away, feeling embarrassed but too tired to really care.

You giggle at his expression and peck his nose, then his forehead, glad to see him feeling a little better.

Glancing at the clock, you pick up the makeup bag Chris brought earlier and open it up, grabbing the foundation and a light eyeshadow to hide the fact that his eyes are puffy.

He sits there in silence as you redo his makeup, playing with the bracelets on your wrist and occasionally letting out a giggle here and there when you plant a kiss to his nose.

When you finish you set everything on the counter and gently stand up, forcing Han to get up as well.

"It's just to announce the winner, okay? It won't be for more than 15 minutes."

He looks up and gives you a small smile before glancing back down at the floor, not really reassuring you but you both know he doesn't have a choice.

"You can do this Hannie, and you will have the members right there with you. Afterwards we can stay in your room the whole day. I'll order your favorite food and we can watch anime together."

Your boyfriend gives one last sniffle but nods, and that will have to be good enough for now because you're out of time. You walk him out the door and his members quickly check him over before whisking him off to the stage once more.

☆☆☆

You watch him through the monitor the whole time and eagerly greet him when he gets back.

He definitely seems to be feeling better now but more relieved than anything that he's done with people and cameras for the day. He quickly says his byes to the members and rushes over to embrace you once more. You breathe out a sigh of relief that he can finally go home and you can properly take care of him.

"See? I knew you could do it."

[vexic929]

Have an angst prompt!

"Shit- no, hey, don't move. I've got you."

Oh I do love an angst prompt~

info on Bernadette and Tiff here and here

OCs are mine but based on Titans characters

Break-ins at the lab didn't happen often. S.T.A.R. had some of the best security available, developed in-house and maintained on a regular basis. But, that was before the Sanguine Sister incident, when most of the personnel had been brutally and ruthlessly murdered, including everyone who'd ever maintained the equipment. It hadn't been easy to clear the blood from the electronics and there were still dark stains in the grout on the main floor but, Bernadette thought they'd managed well enough.

Bernadette jumped about a foot when the first alarm tripped, shaken from her late-night musings as she scrambled for the nearest monitor to switch on the security feed. Nothing. But the alarm was still going. She flipped it off with shaking hands and took a breath. Everything was fine, Sanguine Sister had been banished to some other dimension far away from here.

The alarm went off again. Bernadette pored over the security feed, searching for any sign of the mystery intruder but to no avail. Maybe a meta?

She pulled out her phone and checked the time. 2:30am, Tiff was probably busy on patrol right now, she didn't need Bernadette interrupting. She turned off the alarm again and set her phone down, trying to calm her racing heart.

The alarm went off again. Before her brain had caught up, her fingers had already picked up the phone and called Tiff. Bernadette tried to take a breath to compose herself but she felt like she couldn't breathe.

"Hey, baby, is everything okay?" Tiff asked, immediately concerned when she answered. Bernadette could hear the sound of the streets in the background, the low hum of city life that was usually a comforting sound.

"False alarm," Bernadette croaked, her voice tight with panic as she slammed the button to turn off the alarm again. "I think. I can't be sure, I can't find anything on the feeds but the alarms keep going off." She was trying to stay calm but her words were coming faster and faster and Bernadette could feel herself starting to hyperventilate.

"Stay where you are. I'll be there in five." Tiff said firmly.

"No- don't come here, please. You're busy. It's probably just a glitch in the system and I don't need you wasting your time on it." Bernadette argued weakly.

"Baby," Tiff's tone turned serious. "I'm on my way. Sit tight and try to breathe." She hung up before Bernadette could protest any further.

Bernadette scolded herself for being so irrational as she folded herself further into the desk chair and brought her knees up to her chest. The alarms hadn't even gone off when Sanguine Sister had attacked, she'd been undetectable until it was too late, so why was she panicking now?

The alarm went off again. Bernadette let out a little whimper and buried her face in her hands. The sound was too much, too loud, too much like screams and blood and death. She felt like she was spiraling, falling down the rabbit hole into darkness.

"Hey." A hand touched her shoulder and Bernadette jumped again. "Shit- no, hey, don't move. I've got you." Tiff's soothing voice filled her ears as she wrapped her arms around Bernadette's trembling frame.

"Oh god, Tiff-" Bernadette choked out before letting out a sob and burying her face in Tiff's shoulder.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay." Tiff rocked her back and forth gently, whispering calming words in her ear. "You're safe, you're here with me. I've got you."

"I-I'm sorry-" Bernadette gasped, trying to compose herself.

"You have nothing to apologize for." Tiff said firmly. "Do you want me to go have a look around or do you just want to go home?" She asked, rubbing circles on Bernadette's back.

Bernadette took a few deep breaths. "I can't go home, I'm not done-"

"Baby," Tiff interrupted, pulling back slightly to wipe Bernadette's cheeks. "You cannot work like this. You shouldn't be working yet anyway, it's only been a couple weeks. You need rest."

Bernadette sighed, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Tiff's and closing her eyes. "I know. I'm just-"

"Shh..." Tiff shushed her, brushing her lips against Bernadette's in a gentle kiss. "Come on, let's go home. We can cuddle on the couch, eat our weight in ice cream, and watch bad movies til we fall asleep." She grinned.

Bernadette couldn't resist a small smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Okay. Fine. I love you."

"I love you too." Tiff helped Bernadette out of the chair and wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her as they made their way out of the lab. "And next time, just call me right away, okay? I'm always here for you. Always."

[gay-little-bitch]

A little snippet of smth I thought of when I was sadddddd

Steve slams the bedroom door in Eddie's face but he opens it back up and turns him around. "You don't get to fucking shut me out, Steve! I fucked up I know but give me a fucking chance!!" The tears threatening to pour from Steve's eyes started to fall and drench his face. "You cheated on me, Eddie! That's not something you can take back! You can't unfuck him, can you?!" Steve digs his nails into his palms, breaking the skin and letting the blood show. Eddie puts his hands on the sides of Steve's face and holds him. "I've never been in a good relationship before you. Please let me make it up to you." He pulls the hands off of his cheeks and points to the door. "If you want to make me feel better then leave." Eddie's eyebrows scrunched together. "What? Ste-" Steve sobs out his words and screams in Eddie's face. "Get the fuck out!" 

His legs feel like jelly and they start to wobble, his breathing quickens, and his hands start to shake. Normally when this happens, he lets Eddie hold him and sing him soft songs, lets him rock him back and forth like a baby, and pet his hair like a dog. But he just stares and waits for him to leave. Eddie's eyes fill with tears as he walks out and slams the door, he leaves Steve there, hopeless and lonely. The second the door shuts, he falls to the ground and tugs his knees to his chest. The blood from his palms coats his legs where he holds them close and he leans down to bite his knee to keep from screaming. Sobs rack through his body and his head pounds from the gasping breaths he is taking. The panic sets in his body and suddenly everything feels real. Steve's throat feels like it's closing up so he reaches for water to calm him down but he just lies there, hyperventilating and wishing Eddie was here to comfort him. 

Even after everything and after all the hurt he caused, he still loves him. Needs him. Steve's sobs get louder and louder as he thinks of how much he needs him but he can't have that anymore. Walking in on your boyfriend railing a random guy in a bar bathroom after his gig was heartbreaking. Steve was supposed to be in that guys spot, he was supposed to surprise Eddie and finally tell him that he loves him, but no. Steve's side starts hurting from the hard floor so he drags himself into his bed and wraps the blankets over him. His breathing is starting to slow, it feels like his lungs are starting to give out. He closes his eyes but he sees Eddie's dick inside someone else and it just makes him cry more. He wonders, what happened all the other times he wasn't at Eddie's gig? How many other people has he fucked? 

The thoughts hurt his brain and he has to know. He picks up his phone and calls Eddie. "Baby?" Steve speaks and his voice is almost gone. "Don't call me that." He bites his lip to keep from sobbing. "I needed to know... how many other guys have you fucked while we were together?" Eddie's breath catches and Steve can hear it over the phone. "What do you mean... we're together. We're still-" Steve cuts him off and lets his anger show this time. "Answer the fucking question, Eddie!" A small cry comes from the other side of the call. "Only him... but I fucked him twice. I'm sorry." That gave Steve the closure he needed. "That's all I needed to know. Bye." Eddie calls out before the call ends but he hangs up before he can form any words. Steve throws the phone across the room and he can see it hitting a corner, the glass probably shattered. He curls up in a ball, tears draining from his eyes, and cries himself to sleep. He's over it.

[wandamaximoffbaewrites]

Hold On To Me

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x GN!Reader

Synopsis: You have a panic attack, and Nat helps you through it.

Warnings: Panic attack, anxiety, lil angsty but mostly fluffy

A/N: Kinda just an outlet fic for my raging anxiety

You shot up into a seated position, hyperventilating and sweating buckets of ice cold water. You took deep breaths, trying to warm back up and dissipate the anxiety thrashing around in your stomach. You look over at the sleeping woman next to you. Natasha slumbers peacefully. You laid back down, drifting back into sleep after a while. The next morning you pull on a tight shirt under a loose hoodie, hoping that the compression would ease the fluttery feeling in your stomach. You also put on some pants and walk downstairs. Still feeling really anxious, you pour yourself a glass of water, not wanting to eat anything. Nat is at the table, sipping a hot coffee, and notices. She doesn't say anything though, as she knows you have tough days sometimes.

At around noontime you change, thinking that a run is all you need to clear the jitters.

"Natty, I'm going for a run!" You call from the front door.

"Ok, see you later love! And be careful." Her parting words are reinforced in your brain as you pop you're earbuds in and start down the street. As you are a few minutes into the run, you realize that this is only fueling your anxiety more. You keep going for a few more minutes but decide to go back, as the twisting knots in you stomach are starting to cause nausea.

You collapse through your font door, hyperventilating. The run back to your home was blurred, but you happen to remember feeling the constricting feeling in your chest and the primary thought of needing Natasha.

You barely made it through the door before falling to the floor, gasping her name.

"Natasha," you whisper-screamed white tears leaked out of your eyes. You repeated her name, holding your head with shaking hands as you rocked back and forth on the ground. Natasha came running out, not hesitating to join you on the floor.

"Hey, y/n, it's ok baby, I'm here." Natasha consoles you and pulls you into her arms. "I've got you, honey, I'm right here. What's going on?"

You're still taking quick, shallow breaths and are having trouble talking. All you can manage are choking sobs as you curl into a fetal position, clutching your stomach.

Natasha strokes your hair, whispering sweet nothings into your hair as your breaths start to become more even, although they are still stuttered by sobs.

And the two of you just sit like that until you calm down and fall asleep in her arms, sleeping soundly for the first time in months.

[sio-writes]

Witch's Gambit - Chapter 2

Summary: Lucy Breban, a witch living in the magical city of Grayslate, has just found out her good friend has been murdered in cold blood. When the cops dismiss the case, Lucy must employ the help of her reclusive, skeletal neighbor Weston when the answers the police provide aren't enough. As they get closer to the truth (as well as each other), the two begin to unravel an underground secret that could rock the very foundations of the place they call home.

<< Chapter 1

The following handful of days are monotonous. I drift through them in a haze, stuck on autopilot because anything else is too overwhellming. Customers come in, customers go out. All the while, my mind is buzzing, my thoughts an incessant fly around my head.

I wave goodbye to Elliot as the coroner's vehicle rolls down the street. I watch as police go back and forth down the street, flashing bulbs painting my shop in shades of blue and red.

It's halfway through the evening when I can't take it anymore. I watch as a young couple peruse the racks of charms I offer towards the front. They're the type not to buy anything, simply coming into a witch's shop for the fun, and I don't mind patrons like that as long as they don't try to steal anything. The boy has wispy black hair pushed away from his face, he's tall and lean, and out of the corner of my eye I thought, just for a moment, that Elliot had come into my shop like he always does on his days off. 

And I'm hit with a pang of melancholy so powerful, so concentrated, that I'm bent over myself before I can think. Every feeling I'd been hoping to store away comes rushing out full force--the anger, the fear, the sorrow, oh the sorrow. No more dances, no more tea, no more easy conversation over pastries. It feels incredibly selfish to think of it this way, what I'm lacking instead of what his family, his other friends may be without, but I can't help it. All I can think about it what I'll miss, the void in my life, what can't be replaced.

I crouch on the floor, as if being closer to the tile will make my descent into grief that much easier. 

Mr. Guss toddles up to me, sympathy etched in the lines on his face. He pats my back as I dissolve into sobs and the few people in the shop awkwardly shuffle out.

"I'm sorry," he says, his hand big and heavy over my back. "He was a good kid."

I don't respond, but I don't think he expects me to, and for that I'm grateful.

The chime over the door goes off and I hear Lady Duranta exclaim, "Oh dear!" before she also toddles over with her clicking heels and cane.

Lady Dee is a regular, and has been since I first opened. She's always been there when I'm in a crisis, whether that be telling off a grouchy customer or helping me put out a fire, she always manages to turn up at the worst of times. Once I'd asked whether she had any magic lineage and she'd just laughed and continued helping me pick up a shattered kettle from the shelf. It makes sense she'd be here when I'm having a moment of hysteria. 

"I'll take it from here, Guss," she says, her voice like butter. 

Guss, who seems quite uncomfortable, shuffles around us to my other side.

"Are you going to be okay, Ms. Breban?"

It takes me a minute to gulp down the air necessary to respond. "Fine, I'll be fine."

Mr. Guss awkwardly pats my shoulder, and I hear the chime of the bell go off and the slide of the lock in place.

Lady Dee is at my side again, fretting over me as she guides me to the ground. We sit there, on the dirty floor, as I sob my brains out and she rubs my arms with her wizened hands. She can be harsh, pushy, but she also has a soft side. She never chides me for getting upset, not that she's seen much of it. But this side that cares for me, wipes my tears away. I didn't know my grandmother, both of them passed before I was born, but I imagine Lady Dee would be a good fit.

I manage to stop hyperventilating long enough to watch another round of police officers glance in my window and roll their eyes.

Lady Dee sighs above me. "I'm going to miss him too, dear," she says into the quiet of the store.

***

Because I was raised to be a good host, I lead her to the small storage room in the back, where I've hooked up a small portable stovetop with a kettle. Calling the moisture in the air to create water feels like a heavy blanket on my shoulders, but calling it in such a way gives the tea a clean, crisp taste that tap water just doesn't compare to.

Lady Dee won't let me do any more though, ushering me to sit at the small card table I've set up, sitting me in one of the rickety folding chairs that I've needed to repair for going on two years now. It squeaks unpleasantly as I sit, and the silence is broken by Lady Dee making tea and my occasional sniffing.

Crying always leaves me feeling hollowed out. It allows me the space to think, but also feel guilty for focusing on myself. I'm competent enough to store away such unsavory emotions for a later date, but the past few days I've been too exhausted to do anything past make myself dinner and go to bed. Perhaps this was a long time coming, then. I should know better.

Still, the space is quiet, and I feel my mind working over the case.

Elliot knew who his killer was, and he was afraid. The information gleaned from his soul imprint didn't tell me a lot, but there must have been something I missed, that the detectives missed. They can't just let this go, there's got to be more. The killer they have in custody called them to admit to the murder, then just sat in his study, waiting. That's too easy. There's got to be something.

I'm starting in on a headache when Lady Dee sets a steaming cup of tea in front of me.

"You're shaking like a leaf, dear," she says as she sits, reaching over to grab my hands in hers.

"It's…" I huff a humorless laugh. "It's been a week."

"I'm surprised you opened up at all. Once I heard, I thought you'd be closed until Monday at least."

I shrug, hopeless. "I thought…distraction."

She raises a thin eyebrow. "Maybe some time off would help more?"

"You're probably right." I bring the cup to my lips and take a deep inhale. She'd picked a morning blend: jasmine, marigold, orange, and lemongrass. It's bright, refreshing me as I sip. Lady Dee is right, I probably need to take a break, but I can't just close my shop for three days. I have orders due, ingredients I need to use. There's a shipment of flowers coming in that I need to hang and dry, and a cannister of cleansing water for my tools that's about to expire.

Lady Dee looks at me over her own cup. "I know you're not going to rest. I can see your mind working from here. What is it?"

I rest my head heavily on one hand. "Elliot was good. Who would want him dead?"

She brings her cup to her lips and takes a long sip before saying, "People always have something to hide."

My attention drifts to the button in my pocket. Lady Dee has been around, traveled the world. Maybe she'll recognize this symbol. I fish the thing out of my pocket, and set it on the table.

"I found this where he-- at the scene. Have you seen it?"

Her eyes light up as she sets down the tea cup. "What's this?"

"I'm not sure. This symbol," I tap the button with my finger. "I've never seen it before."

My hand is still wrapped up from the burn, but I keep my palm down all the same. I don't want to worry her, especially if this rune is something bad.

She squints at it, adjusts her glasses and leans in, and then she shakes her head. "Could it be necromantic?"

My face screws in confusion. "I don't think so. Mom was super strict on what to avoid when she was teaching me, and that doesn't look at all familiar."

And as far as I know, Elliot wasn't into anything illegal. But then again, everyone has something to hide, I suppose. 

"You know who might know," she says, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "That dashing fellow next door."

I flush. "Mr. Engstrom?" He is well put together, dashing as Lady Dee says, but he's also very intimidating. We've shared only a handful of words in the scant few years I've run my shop next to his.

Lady Dee smiles like she's in on a secret. "He's the one. Been around longer than I have. Maybe he could help."

I tither with my gloves. "I wouldn't want to bother him this late."

It's late afternoon, most shops are preparing to close for the night. Surely we'd just be bothering him at this hour.

"Nonsense! I just walked by, he's as dead as a drowned rat, could probably use the company!" As she speaks, Lady Dee pulls me from behind the counter and then gently but firmly steers me out the door.

Whenever I walk by his shop, he's bent over his desk with long, dangerous tools in his gloved hands. The skull that makes up his head doesn't allow for expressions, barely even moves as he talks, so I never know what he's thinking.

His shopfront is the opposite of mine. I try to maintain an open atmosphere with bright colors and smiles, I even installed a purple awning for shade last year. But Mr. Engstrom's front is all black marble and darkened windows.

Mr. Engstrom's shop has a towering spiral of dark brick and mortar up top that immediately caught my eye when I first moved to the city. I'd wanted to be close to it, like a moth to flame, or maybe use it as a landmark to bring customers back. I never see many people coming or going from it, but I do see several regulars once every month. It must be enough to afford the ridiculously high rent, because he's never seemed too stressed about it.

Not that we've had many conversations. Mr. Engstrom isn't cold per say, just rather quiet. Our longest interaction was asking him to repair the locking mechanism in my door, and it proved the most awkward interaction I'd ever been in. I'd invited him for tea afterwards and he refused, like he couldn't return home fast enough. He did an amazing job though, the lock has never faltered since.

The door to his shop is open despite the hour, and Lady Dee brings me inside. "West! I have a visitor for you!"

The shop is empty and dark, and I realize I've never actually set foot in here, only viewed it through the large window pointing towards the street.

I'm greeted by high ceilings and an open balcony to the second floor. The walls are filled with clocks, grandfathers along the floor and chimes on the wall and even more hung all the way up to the open second floor. They start huge at the bottom and get smaller towards the top, like a waterfall of metal and glass. The room is silent, save for the ticking of a single clock, and distant footsteps.

"Miss Duranta, it is very late and--" The door at the back left opens, and Mr. Engstrom appears, holding a lantern aloft in one hand. The round, quarter-sized lights inside his eye sockets flick to Lady Dee, then to me, and back to Lady Dee. The silence is broken by that steady ticking, and I swallow around the lump in my throat. 

I've only ever seen Mr. Engstrom through the front window of the shop, or bent over when hes working. He's tall, his form is lithe, his clothes hold volume as if there's a body underneath. In the low light of his lantern I see a faint flicker all around his head--heat waves, like the air above a fire. Is that the magic keeping him upright? I don't know much about reanimation or necromantic magic, only that most of it has been banned, but this makes me want to research it. I want to know how he works.

He must have been preparing to retire for the night. His waistcoat is gone, and the shirt underneath has been rolled up to the elbows, the first few buttons undone casually. His clothes sit above his frame, as if there were flesh and blood underneath. It gives the appearance that his sleeves are floating, and I can't look away.

Lady Dee speaks up. "This lovely young lady is your neighbor."

Mr. Engstrom turns his attention to me, and I straighten my back. "I'm well aware," he says.

Lady Dee scoffs. "And she needs your help!"

The lights in his eyes move in a circle, like he's rolling them. "Could this not wait until morning?" 

"Emergencies don't wait!" she fires back.

They bicker a bit more, and it's strange. I expected an echo to his voice, but there's none. I've spoken to living armor at the museum, their voices reverberating with a tinny flatness that accentuates their polite upbringing, but his doesn't. It's just deep, rich. However subtle, there's emotion there, inflection. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I'm talking to a man.

But I wouldn't want to close my eyes, because he is fascinating up close. The two of them seem to come to some conclusion while I was lost in thought, because Lady Dee pats me on the back and says, "Go on, dear," as Mr. Engstrom steps back to his countertop at the back of the store.

He sets the lantern on the countertop with a heavy thud, leaning on one arm, the other planted on his hip. "Well, Ms. Breban?"

Lady Dee scoffs. "Don't be rude, West."

I know Lady Dee means well, but she's been trying to set me up with potential suitors since I moved here. Told me that I had no business being on my own for my whole life. So she had made it her life's mission to find me a partner. Maybe she'd picked up on my small, miniscule fascination for Mr. Engstrom, but her encouragement and obliviousness to his regard for me aren't helping me calm down.

I walk up to the counter, fumbling around in my pocket for the button. Setting it on the counter, I crush the urge to step back and instead let my arms fall to my sides.

Mr. Engstrom tips the lantern forward, illuminating the button a fiery red and orange. His other hand comes up to rub his chin, and he hums thoughtfully.

Lady Dee mentioned that Mr. Engstrom is old, but she never said how old. Lady Dee appears to be in her seventies at least, but I've never asked Mr. Engstrom his age. It seemed rude, especially over smalltalk while he was doing me a favor.

"Well?" Lady Dee says to my right, nearly scaring the daylights out of me. "Anything good?"

Another long moment passes, my face tilted towards the mysterious button, until Mr. Engstrom tilts his head towards me. I mirror the movement, our faces very close, and he starts, standing up straight.

"Where did you find this?"

I twist my fingers in my hands. Will he go to the police if I say--

Lady Dee comes to my rescue. "She nabbed it off the street, what's it matter?" 

He looks between us, unconvinced as he folds his arms over his chest. "That hardly constitutes an emergency."

Lady Dee groans. "Do you know what it is or not?"

He hums, one hand coming to his chin again, before aiming his gaze back to me. "Might I borrow this for the evening?" he asks, straightening his shirt.

I pause, unsure. "Oh, uh, of course. Is everything…?"

"Quite alright, Ms. Breban."

"Call her Lucy," Lady Dee slaps me on the back a little too hard, making me huff out my breath.

Mr. Engstrom turns his attention to me. The lights, shutter for a quick moment before reigniting, like he just blinked. And he's awaiting my approval, so I nod once, embarrassment warning my cheeks and forcing me to look down at the floor. I doubt a handful of sentences constitutes knowing me familiarly enough, but if I press the issue we'll be here all night. I'd hate to keep him up, I've already put him out enough as it is.

"Very well," he says, picking up the button and pocketing it. "Once you're closed up tomorrow evening, come by."

***

The customers are full of gossip, nowhere to go but the closest shop after the police department cleaned up Elliot's shop. It was awful--cars everywhere, dozens of officers coming and going. A few stopped into my shop and looked around, and I'd been terrified that they'd start questioning why they found my fingerprints at the scene. But the worst of it came from the customers, gossipping amongst themselves.

"Who lived there?"

"What happened?"

"I heard it was a murder."

"Not a murder you dolt! A suicide!"

"Suicide?! How could anyone do such a thing? It's beyond me."

Sometimes they ask my opinion, but then quickly talk over me in favor of conspiratorial whispers and judgemental stares. It's not answers they want, it's gossip. So I let it flow over me, centering myself in my work and the best way to serve my customers. There's orders piling up, so I begin to work through those as the day ebbs around me.

The space is loud, full, and normally I like it, it's easy to fall into and block out the rest of the world. But not when I'm trying to think.

What could that symbol have been? Did Mr. Engstrom recognize it? He hasn't contacted me today, but I'm still planning on visiting his shop tonight.

The end of the day can't come soon enough, as I lock up the front door and rush over to Mr. Engstrom's shop. I'm surprised to feel that the door is unlocked, expecting to have to wait outside for more direction. There's usually magic surrounding this door, like my own. Magic to keep out thieves. But right now there's none.

It's dark inside. I thought the windows had been tinted but no, he's dimmed the lights. I hadn't gotten a good look at the shop last night, it was hard to see in the darkness. But now I see everything is in black marble, with clocks along the walls and a large pendulum mounted stationary on the wall. 

Mr. Engstrom is bent over his bench, like usual. He's looking at something small that I can't see from the other side of the room, he hadn't even acknowledged my presence. The only sound is my breathing and the ticking of a clock that I can't see, and then my boots as I pad up to him. I clear my throat, and he doesn't budge.

"Um, Mr. Engstrom--"

"Please, call me Weston."

"...Weston." I like saying that. I like that we can be friends instead of just neighbors.

Walking up to the countertop, into view comes a small piece, barely the size of a coin. There's even smaller pieces laying against the black table top that're barely bigger than my fingernail, and he's working with tools that are the width of a needle. Weston doesn't seem to have any magnifying glasses on--then again, why would he need them?--and the light is so low I have to squint until my eyes adjust. "What're you working on, if I may ask?"

He stares at me for a long moment, the candles behind his eyes flickering like he's considering something. Then he puts his head down back to his work. "If you must know, it's a time-piece from the early 16th century. Priceless family heirloom and they couldn't be bothered to keep it clean."

His tone is clipped, he doesn't bother looking up at me again. I shuffle my feet, the sound grating against the peace and quiet. "I can come back later if--"

His head snaps up. "No, no, it's--" he sits up, running a gloved hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Ms. Breban, it's been a very frustrating day."

"Lucy."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Lucy."

His head lifts and he focuses his gaze on me. "Lucy," he says slowly, and a shiver runs up my spine. "That silver piece you gave me was quite the find."

Silver piece. "It's…not a button?"

He shakes his head, "It's an ancient piece of currency. Come with me," and stands lifts the divider in the table. But instead of moving towards the stairs at the front of the shop, he leads me further back, into the wares. There's an adequate amount of light back here, and it's needed. Stacks and stacks of boxes line the walls, some two or three deep, marking a jagged path that we take to the back of the shop. Some are open and filled with carefully organized papers, others still filled with smaller boxes and labels with script so small I can't read it. There's a lot here, but it's organized. Like my shop, it seems. 

We go further back than I thought the building stretched, when Weston stops. There's a ladder, leading directly upwards

"I wasn't sure at first," he says as he starts climbing. "But I've seen this symbol before."

The attic, like the back of the shop, is crowded with boxes and various objects. But unlike the back of the shop, there's no organization here. As if everything had been thrown here and forgotten, I wouldn't know where to even begin. There's trinkets, and clocks, and I see the glint of armor in the back corner. There's fabric so faded with time that I can't begin to parse out what it even is, and some items that seem almost brand new in comparison.

And over everything, old and new, is a layer of dust that makes my nose itch. 

There's a small path in the floor that winds to the back, and I see a book shelf along the back wall. It's where he leads me to, pulling a book down from a high shelf. Thick and faded, it's a tome at least two inches thick, but through the dust I can see the chaotic symbol on the cover.

"I knew I'd seen it somewhere before," Weston says, opening to a depression between the pages, revealing my silver piece in the margins. "Spent all night looking for it."

"You didn't lose sleep over me, I hope," I say, leaning over his shoulder to look. This is exciting, I feel like a detective. Not the ones I dealt with last week, but ones who solve mysteries. It's also easier being around him without watchful, expectant eyes on us. My heart thumps in my chest as I rest a hand on his arm.

Weston starts at the contact, and I instantly feel bad for leaning into his personal space. "This symbol is old. Very old."

"Older than you?"

He huffs a breath of amusement, the first I've heard. "Not quite."

He flips through pages so thin I can see the print on the opposite side, looking for something specific. The print is too small for me to skim, and the blocks of text with carefully detailed scientific diagrams make me think it's a reference text of some sort.

Weston continues flipping, until he gets to a page with the same symbol as the silver piece, surrounded by others I recognize from the crime scene. There's a small block of text on the opposite page that I can't read in the dark.

"At the time, they were called Messengers of the Enlightened." He reads from the small block of text, "A small underground following of the Enlightened One, they attempt to bring her into this plane and usher in a new era."

I frown. "Sounds like a cult."

"How so?"

"Elliot's…body," I shudder at the memory. "He was covered in these." I point to the symbols on the following page. They're not quite runes, but also not quite sigils. Something in between, as if someone had been experimenting. Even in this non-magical book they feel…corrupted. I lean into Weston, trying to get a better look as I flip to the next page.

"Where did you say this book was from?"

"I took it from a library in the 3rd Century." Well there go my worries about Weston calling the police.

"So this information could be outdated?"

"Oh it certainly is," he clicks the book shut. "You said your friend owned a shop? He was social and had friends?"

I nod.

"Then this is likely much bigger than a handful of members now. Indoctrinating the general public instead of remaining underground as they were likely means they've grown significantly." He pauses for a moment, then looks to me. "Was there anything else at the scene that looked like this sigil?"

I chew on my lower lip, hopeless. "I didn't really get a good look. I only saw the button--silver piece, because it caught the light. But…" I trail off, thinking. "The police hadn't done much to the scene. When I got there, they were driving off with the murderer, and only wanted me to confirm it was them."

The police there didn't seem particularly interested in investigating, either. Mostly they stood around answering press questions. They definitely could have missed something. 

I whirl on Weston, "We have to go back."

He blinks at me several times, the lights in his eyes shuttering. "Back? Back where?"

"The crime scene!"

"I don't think that's--"

"Listen! The police must have missed something, looked over a detail that we can find!"

Weston snaps the book against his palm. "That is out of the question."

I throw my hand in the air. "Then I'll go by myself!"

Weston points a finger at me. "I was willing to overlook you tampering with evidence. But this is too dangerous."

"But if there's something there that could help--"

He throws his hands out, and his eyes, for the briefest moment, flash red. "No!"

I flinch at his shout, so sudden and abrasive it's like opening a window. To think he could get so angry over me, basically a stranger.

Weston pauses, looking at me up and down, and then rights himself, turning his head away and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I apologize, I shouldn't have shouted."

I look down at the coin in my hands, a frown puckering my brow. It would be stupid to leave this alone, but the police aren't going to do anything about it. I flip the coin in my hands and sigh. "I suppose I should take this information to the police…"

Weston places the book back on the shelf, and crosses his arms. "And why is that an issue?"

Mirroring him, I fold my arms, grabbing each side with my hands. "They said it was too much work, it was above their paygrade. They'd seen another like this before but--"

"They discussed the case with you?"

I flush. "Not exactly…I kind of…listened in. But they didn't care! Not about Elliot, or his death, or even his sweet dog and--"

Tears build in my eyes again, and I furiously wipe them away. I'm not sad, I'm angry! This isn't fair to Elliot, to be tossed into another cold case file! Something needs to be done! Angrily, I stomp on an open patch of the floor, and dust springs up like a water spout, flying into the air, and then straight into my face. I'm thrown into a coughing fit that has me keeled over, and Weston's hand is on my back, guiding me to an equally dusty lounge chair. Sitting on it kicks up more dust, so I hold my breath until it settles. He sits next to me, hands falling to his lap as I try to recall how to breathe correctly.

"What kind of dog?" he asks.

I huff, very mature, and stare at a spot on the ground. "What do you care?"

He rests his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He says quietly, "I love dogs. Used to breed them for a line of monarchs in the Alps."

His tone is so sincere, like he's never told anyone that before, a secret just between the two of us. I crumble a little. "Paul. A golden retriever, barely a year old. And they just threw him in the pound."

I swipe at my tears again, and Weston offers me a handkerchief. It's a small square of silk, and I wonder why he has it if he can't cry.

"That's a shame. Young dog like that, someone is bound to pick him up eventually, though."

I only shrug my shoulders and sniff away more tears. They wouldn't take as good care of him as Elliot. I would've taken him in if I'd had the space, or the time. But I have neither, so poor Paul is left up to chance.

We sit as my tears dry, and I hand him back the silk handkerchief, that he tucks away in his waistcoat. Weston looks down at his hands, and clears his throat. "Well, if you're not going to the police, then I'm coming with you."

Chapter 3 >>

[sapphosvioletts]

Only Yours

Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Autistic Daughter reader

(+ Melina and Yelena)

Part 1

Summary:

Natasha met her daughter in the Red Room when they were paired together. They've been extremely close ever since. When Natasha comes back from her mission to find her sister, and taking down the Red Room in the process, her daughter has to try and be okay with the fact that there are now two new people she has to share her mom with, Melina and Yelena

Word count: 1,137

Warnings: description of meltdown

Note: Not every autistic person experiences autism the same. I'm autistic and I am writing from my perspective of how I personally experience autism, but not everyone feels the same as me or has the same perspective as I do.

.oOo.

It's been about a week since Yelena and Melina arrived with my mom. They are all out of the medbay, each getting their own room on our floor. Ever since my mom has been back and sleeping in her room, I've been joining her. I missed her, and sleeping with her always seems to keep my anxiety at bay.

I selfishly am glad that Yelena and Melina are out of the medbay because it means I have my mom back. I've spent almost every second so far attached to her side, refusing to be separated again.

Yelena and Melina have been nothing but kind to me, but I still can't help but resent them. It makes me feel incredibly guilty because they have been so sweet, and I still feel this way about them. Of course, I don't show my resentment to them, I have a hard time being mean to people, which at times can work against me since I won't stand up for myself.

I have barely talked to them, only muttering occasional single words. But I try not to come off as rude, like by giving them small smiles.

.oOo.

I frown when I walk into the kitchen and see my mom handing over one of my stim toys to Yelena, showing her how it works and what it does. I don't like other people touching my things, I only let people I entirely trust touch them. I'm attached to many things, even objects, and I get so worried that people will break or ruin them. It's scary when someone else touches them. Only my mom is allowed to touch them, and no one else.

I turn on my heel and run back to my room, feeling incredibly frustrated. I close my door and slot myself into the small area between my desk and wall, needing to be somewhere small and comforting.

I rock back and forth and hug my knees to my chest, feeling just about ready to scream. It feels like there's just too much going on inside of me, with no way to express or get rid of it, it's almost painful. I bang my feet on the hard floor in anger, until my heels hurt too much I can't take it anymore.

I dig my fingernails into my legs, squeezing as tight as I possibly can. I let my shoulder bump against the wall with every rock, needing more sensory stimulation. This goes on for a couple more minutes, until I've thoroughly exhausted myself. My sobs have died down to only tears, and my breathing was heavy, but not hyperventilating. I lean to the side against the wall tiredly, my whole body feeling heavy now.

I jump when there's a knock on the door, and then the familiar red head pops her head in. She furrows her brows when she doesn't see me, but her face quickly turns into a frown when she finally spots me. She closes the door behind her and makes her way towards me.

She sits in front of me, laying a gentle hand on my knee. She takes note of the imprints left on my leg from my fingernails, some which had small droplets of blood coming from them. She noticed the bruises already starting to form my heels and ankles as well.

"Oh honey, did you have a meltdown." I nod, not making eye contact. I pull my hands out and hold them out, she immediately holds them in hers. "Can you speak?" She asks gently. "Yeah" I mutter in response.

She looks down and sighs for a moment, before looking back up at me. "Honey... I can tell that something is going on and making you feel bad, can you please tell me so I can help you." I rest my chin on my knees and start running my fingers along her wrist, enjoying the repetitive feeling as a stim.

After a couple more seconds, I nod. She gives me a small, encouraging smile. "Here let's start with how you're feeling right now. What are you feeling right now?" She knows that I sometimes have a hard time starting, with answers or tasks or anything really, so she tries her best to help.

"I... I don't know." I huff out, stomping my feet against the ground in frustration. I don't know what I'm feeling, and I hate it. "Okay, that's alright honey." She takes a deep breathe before speaking. "Is it Yelena and Melina? I know that I've been spending a lot of time with them recently, and them moving in is a really big change. It's probably really overwhelming for you, yeah?" I feel my eyes water, mostly in relief, because she understands.

"You... you're my mama. You're mine. And now I have to share you with two people I just met. And I feel guilty for it because Yelena and Melina are so kind, and you have still taken care of me and been there for me through everything, but I still can't help but resent them. Cause you're mine!" I say the last part almost angrily, stomping again.

I didn't even realize I had just spilled everything to her, but it does make me feel slightly better at getting it all out. I gulp nervously as I look up at her hesitantly, slightly scared of her reaction. I know she would never get angry at me, but that fear has just always been instilled in me from the Red Room.

"Oh honey. I'm so sorry. I'll always be yours, no matter what. I know that it might be hard to have to share me now, I understand that you attach yourself to things or people, and that I am one of those people. So I know how hard this is for you, and I'm really sorry for not addressing it sooner."

I crawl into her lap at her words, just so happy that she's at least not angry with me. She holds onto me tightly, hugging me with just the right amount of pressure. After another minute or two or just holding each other, she finally continues.

"I know that it's hard, but unfortunately you're going to have share me. But I promise you, I'm only your mama, no one else gets to share mama, I'm only yours, forever. You may have to share Natasha, but I promise you that mama will always be yours, and only yours."

I cry harder at her words, nuzzling closer to her. She rubs my back and holds me close. Those were exactly the words I needed to hear. Of course, it doesn't make everything better or take any of my feelings away completely, but they provide a lot of comfort.

"My mama..." I parrot back. She sadly smiles and nods. "Only yours."

[astorytotellyourfriends]

It’s me again. 😊 I just love your Storys so I’m asking for another one, please 😇 Angst #28 Alex/Reggie please, maybe with a nice ending? Thank you so so much 😘😘

hiii sorry it took me so long to get to this! <3

-x-

"Reggie--"

"No, Alex."

"C'mon, Reg--"

"I said no," Reggie says firmly. "I'm done talking about this."

"But--" Alex moves, blocking Reggie's exit. "You're upset, and that's okay! But--"

"No! It's not okay!" Reggie tries to get past Alex again, but he won't move. "Go away, Alex."

"No, I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

Reggie stares him down, looking angrier than Alex has ever seen him. It's a little jarring, but Alex stays right where he is. Reggie shouldn't be alone right now and he knows it.

"Move out of my way," Reggie says slowly, "before I make you."

Alex doesn't mean to snort, but it happens. On any given day Alex is pretty sure he could take Reggie in a fight if it came to it, but right now there's a possibility that he's about to get punched in the nose.

Reggie tries to push past him but Alex doesn't let him, which earns him a good, hard shove.

"Hey!"

"I told you to move!"

"And I told you no!" Alex sighs. "Reggie, you can't just run away from--"

"I'm not running away! I just don't want to talk about this anymore!"

"Okay!" Alex groans when Reggie tries to shove him again, and he grabs Reggie's wrists. "We don't have to talk about it, okay? But I'm not leaving you alone."

Reggie tries to pull away but Alex holds on tight. He doesn't want to hurt Reggie and he's pretty sure Reggie doesn't want to hurt him either, but he's upset. Alex just wants to try and help him feel better, even if Reggie keeps lashing out.

"Let go," Reggie says as he tries to pull his arms back.

"No," Alex replies, holding steady.

"Let go!!" Reggie cries, starting to hyperventilate as he tries in vain to get away from Alex. It doesn't work. They struggle for maybe a minute before Reggie all but collapses down to the floor, like a puppet cut from its strings.

"It's okay," Alex says as he pulls Reggie into a hug, cradling him close as Reggie cries into his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

Reggie clings to him tightly, but anything he says is lost amongst the sobs. Alex just keeps holding him, gently rocking back and forth until Reggie's crying slows and his breathing isn't as labored.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, his head still tucked against Alex's chest.

"You don't have to apologize," Alex says. He presses a kiss to Reggie's forehead and gently wipes a tear away from Reggie's cheek.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you," Reggie says. "You were just trying to help."

"You're not going to scare me off that easy, Peters." Alex chuckles lightly. "I told you, I'm not going anywhere."

Reggie slips his arm around Alex's waist and hugs him tightly. "Good."

prompt list here

[heauxzenji]

hihi kind of emergency request but i'm kind of prone to attacks (don't wanna call them panic attacks idrk what they are???) where i start hyperventilating and crying and it's super tough to breathe and it's usually from stress of just the world's problems + my problems idk but could i have suga with a s/o like that it would calm me down a little (i just had one and still feeling it) thank you ily!!

Aw bby I’m so sorry to hear that you’re struggling! I totally understand- I’m prone to anxiety attacks (yay GAD) myself, it’s NOT fun at all 🙃 Anxiety in itself is a bitch ugh. I hope this can give you some comfort!

Warning: Depcitions of anxiety/Panic Attacks

The tightness in your chest seemed to override very other sense you had. Your breathing turned into repeated short and shallow gasps as you felt yourself slipping slower and slower into the thought train that fed on your fears and worst uncertainties. Things like this didn’t happen often, but when they did, they were gut wrenching, and left you a mess of tears, confusion, and worst of all, a sense of helplessness that you couldn’t claw your way out of if you tried.

Here you were, spiraling again. The tears had started to flow and your breath was ragged. You covered your face to try and calm yourself down, only succeeding to sink into the floor. You choked out a half scream- but stopped as soon as you felt warm hands enveloping your trembling ones.

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” Sugawara cooed. “Look at me. Look only at me.”

You were still crying as you forced your eye open to look into his. They were your safe place. Your getaway. In his eyes, you could find comfort and solace.

“Look at me,” he said again. He pulled your head into his chest and held you there, gently stroking the top of your head. Your breath had calmed only a little, but it was still erratic and uneven.

“Breathe with me- in, 2, 3. Out, 2, 3.”

He was coaching you, having you breathe with him, the beat of his heart keeping the tempo as it thudded in your ears. He repeated himself.

“In, 2, 3... Out, 2, 3,” he slowly began to rock you back and forth in his arms, shushing you to help silence your now squeaky sobs. The shaking had stopped, and so did the river of tears. The feeling of safety in his arms gave you an overwhelming wave of calm, your breathing eventually slowing back to a more leveled rate.

“I’ve got you, I promise I got you.” He pulled your body away from him to wipe your tears and look you in the eyes.

“You’re safe with me, Y/N,” he said, looking into your eyes. You kept clinging to him.

“Please don’t go,” you pleaded quietly. You were practically clawing into his shirtsleeve to keep the contact you had made.

“I’ll stay here as long as you need me to,” he replied, hugging you tightly.

“I got you.”

[dyker-farmer]

More bro fic.... angst fodder kind content.

Take that can away if you can

I never see Shane works that don't go all in for romance nor explore the more realistic ugly parts of recovery, and I kind of crave That TM. So let me have at it too with the self-insert whump mumbo jumbo; no romo version.

Set post-8 hearts event- not 10, jesus-, Farmer Uidelsib is two years or so in, full house built and married to Emily. They/them pronouns, same as me.

Diverges from then on, Shane-centric from an outside POV for the most part.

I also put it on Ao3.

[[MORE]]

A bitch bastard man and a bitch walk into a room... Chapter 1/2/3/4

"I think we should talk about this."

If the room was stifled before, this just causes the pin to drop, and the relative lull to shatter with it. I don't want a storm, but we can't pretend the sea's a slightly oversized pond if we want him not drowning in it- again, my mind supplies, unhelpful.

He's zoning out again, blurry eyes pointedly off me, preferring the turned-off TV.

Let's start easy. "Why did you come here, Shane?"

"I-I-" It sounds like an excuse building up and it bubbles out like a shaken can, "I don't- I shouldn't have-" he goes to up and leave, and we just can't have that.

I scrape my chair closer and grab his shoulder, same as before. Hopefully it's more placating than caging. "No, you should have. You did good. Seeking out, remember?"

He doesn't answer but stills.

"Like Dr.Campbell and Harvey said." I try again.

"Yeah… Yeah." Deep breathing. "I. Don't know." He searches for my face, not quite past the nose. I nod, ushering him on. "It's. Stupid." I frown and my eyebrow goes higher than before and he immediately doubles down. "I know- positiv' reinforchment and all that shit! But… It's hard." A tired hand wipes the most of moisture off his face, before it goes back to wriggle with the other on his lap. "It's so fuckin' hard. Didn't even last two seasons!-"

I cut him off. "Two seasons is a lot! One and a half too. Last time, you'd tried to go cold turkey on the spot. We know what that got us." Sea foam in the mouth and a shared cold in the early spring, on top of a Joja lawsuit. "Shit's hard, like you said. You lasted one and a half this time. Next time-"

"Why the fuck do you always think there's gonna be a next time."

This time, I still. My laidback demeanor mirror his, but so does the cold anger creeping in and tensing both our backs.

"Because. There is going to be a next time. And another after that. And another. Same way there's been next times before this one now."

What's left unsaid we don't touch.

All irritation floods from him like it's just pointless to keep it in anymore, and his forehead goes to thunk softly against the wooden surface he leaned on before. The table muffles his next words a little.

"I can't… keep doing that." I don't peep. "I can't keep rolling back down and then up and down, and up, and down. I- I just can't, Garcia- Uidel-"

"I'll drag you there." I shrug.

"But you shouldn't have to!" His voice raises and make the boards vibrate where his skin's still pressed. "You shouldn't have to-to fuckin'-" he sniffles, the following words drowned out in held-back sobs. "Fuck damn it, you- I said I- I wouldn't be a burden anymore!"

He's crying out loud now, open sorrow and no walls left. Out of all the things you could stick on the not-so amiable man sulking straight from bed to Jojamart to Stardrop Saloon to bed, you probably wouldn't think of "extreme scare of bothering anyone". Yet it's all here in how he collapses silently in the mattress, wake without a sound, keep his head down the whole time he crosses town, tries to merge himself in the fake-nice blue of the shelves at work, then corners himself right between the chimney and the bar on Emily's side, stuck in-between two sources of warmth that can never touch him unless he swings one way or the other. And he doesn't a lot, still keeping to himself strictly. You probably wouldn't think either of how dreamy he gets, hidden in his alcove but seeing everything from there.

When Harvey nerds out about classical, jazz and electro swing music down the bar to me, trying to catch me up on my fuzzy memories of arts history and the implications of breaking codes in the tempo and the leisure of each instruments; of how each note gets a specific response from the brain if done right, and can make up for caffeine deprivation in miraculous ways, when there are no more chances to push back the dread of midterms season at doctor school.

When Elliott, boisterous and drunk, arm-on-arm with an equally inebriated Leah, calls out to the whole place to hear out his latest soliloquy, and drags on the words too much, but with a voice that carries it well, all flamboyance and no limits, as his hair floats around him in a crown and he reigns over the room like a kind lion- Description all intoxicated words from your chicken man truly, not mine. I always get too caught up in the pendulum of Leah's braid and her crooked smile to quite appreciate his theatrics. But the recital rings clear, and everyone applauds the performance- because hey, you applaud a drunk guy showing off the prowess of not tripping a single word in a ten minutes tirade, but also because it really is that good! Everyone, even Shane, whose hands zipped to under his armpits the moment our eyes crossed and I met his pink cheeks with a clairvoyant smile.

Hey, what can I say. Dude's a sapiosexual. Hence why we'll never and cannot bang. That, and, uh, the being lesbian thing.

But all this is closed off and not for anyone to see behind see-through fogged windows, like those kitchen cabinets, when you can make out the piled plates all resting against the cold surface precariously, bound to crash and shatter the moment you open them.

It took a good wrecking ball of a fake-oblivious polite faced stranger and my incessant, hot pepper poppers-powered pestering, to even just crackles the glass.

The rest was all done out of his own volition. He can't see that because alcohol is a depressant, and guzzling it down leads to blurry concepts made softer always and pretty much lush in brain, and when he's off the thing, and that's rare, he instantly goes from not there to thinking he's everywhere, soiling everything and giving nothing.

His sobbing doesn't relent, and he whimpers issues of "trustworthy sack of shit", "not being worth the fucking shrink's money", "not being worth his aunt's troubles", "not being worth Jas". At some point he goes to grapple with his hair, and tugs brusquely once, then twice, then I have to reach for his wrist to make him stop, which he snatches back as soon as I make contact. But he doesn't grab anything to pull or pinch or punch again, so that's good. I stay on standby beside him, but don't touch him. He rasps more condemnations, struggles to breathe enough through the phlegm spreading in his respiratory system, and I start reenacting the steps to stop a hyperventilation in my head, and the first aid for choking, when he begins to cough violently, his entire frame upset with the movement.

He takes the tissue box i nudge with insistence toward him, and ends up spitting mouthfuls of mucus mixed with some bile in the basin under his feet. Most of it is clear and smells of fruits, not beer, so I'm not too worried. When I go to stabilize him by taking his shoulders, he grasps at my wrists to stop me- but let them stay here, while he clings. The tremors get to me now, and I remind myself that this is good, this is before the cliffs and him finding refuge to burst open, not glassily stare at the weeping clouds as he blabbers on the meaninglessness of his life.

This is… very alive.

I ought to be glad.

I let him come down at his rhythm, counting the pulses of his wrists as I feel mine numb with the blood circulation slowed down under his hold.

When he's back with a mind, I count to three, then let go. His arms flop back down, on his lap and hands dangling between his tighs. He blows his nose again.

"I'm so pathetic…"

"Yeah sure, and I'm a serial prom queen."

Instead of jabbing back and forth, we get interrupted by a soft mewling. Both of us turn to the door, that's opened slightly to let in Eryza, the pitter-patter of her paws on the stone flooring the only sound for a moment…

As we both stare in revulsion at her jaw, a single line of vomit dripping of it.

Shane puts his head down in shame, not even having the strenght to hide further.

"Sorry."

"Nah, 's okay. She's already trash, anyway."

Eryza edges closer and rapidly tour around our legs- going back to Shane's feet twice, her whiskers tickling his exposed ankles. Purring loudly, she completely ignore my chastizing as I threaten to make her diet periwinkle-based to counter-act her literal potty mouth, and she scampers to do who-knows-what in the rooms.

"Your vibes are rancid, do you hear me?? Rancid, girl!" I call after her. "I swear to Yoba, Shane, your aunt might as well have brought me a raccoon."

Turning back to him, I can see the short-lived humor of the situation was, well, short-lived. I sigh.

It's late. We're both tired. Tomorrow is sunday. It's cool. We've got time.

I don't sit back down right away. First, I put a hand down on the nape of his neck, that slides to the top of his scalp, right where he'd tug. My quota, remember?

He sniffles some, a few teardrops make their way to the planks, unheard. We stay like this for a moment.

He doesn't shake me off, but in the slow tandem his body takes, rocking lightly from back to forth, I can tell it's enough, for now.

I sit back down on my chair.

I lean on the hand I'd put in his dark purple strands before, smelling cedar wood and pine trees. I don't assume. My farm has plenty of those to stumble through. And even if he went back to the cliff, another time again. I do that too. With my own cliffs back at not-home, but close. There's a sense, in staring down what couldn't take you.

Like visiting a scene crime that you've narrowly escaped from. And pride too. And the thrill of asking- "what if again? What if this time?"- and okay, I can see why it'd be worrying to have him go there a thrice time on his own late in the evening.

But last time was fine, the one before was made fine, and he might need a bitch for a friend right now, but not a watchdog.

His forehead is back against the table.

Three fingers massage my temple. I don't know how much he'll even remember tomorrow, but it's worth the try, always.

"Shane, dude, look at me." He doesn't.

"Dude."

Still doesn't budge. I knock the wood lightly.

"Yo, punk, my eyes are up here." I joke.

He snorts, or maybe he sniffles, and his chin's now resting on the table, peering through the forgotten drinks to watch me. His hands are hidden, probably still clutching his midsection. If I went on a rollercoaster toasted, I'd probably look the exact same.

"I told you before that you literally couldn't be a burden."

He snorts for sure this time, derisive. I knock wood again. "Don't look away from me when I talk, young man. Rude ass punk."

"Bitch." He throws.

"Bitch bastard man." I send back. "Anyways, as I was saying. If I choose you're my dumb of ass to keep around, that's me, that's my decision. You can't burden me if I choose the hard mode package and roll with it. So stop it. I literally told you before, it's not about you not making efforts or burdening people, it's about people who want to deal with you, out of free will."

"Freaky."

"Oh shut up, you dramatic himbo wannabe."

"A what now?"

"Internet slang. Gotta admit you're closer to a dad bod type, but the energy's here, according to many."

He shuffles, self-conscious. "Y'don't need to remind me…"

"Oh hush you, you're perfectly fine. And Elliott would eat his dumb little lobster and pomegranate toasts off that belly if you'd grow out of your own shell and let him."

He sputters unintelligibly, red as a fecking pepper. Good. Flustered is better than self-depreciating.

But now he's pulled on his hood and the strings all the way out, and resumes to chanting me to fuck off, so that might be a good call for a break.

"I'm gonna change and clean up, you need anything? Do you think you'll go back to the ranch, or stay here for the night?" It's happened before, but you can count them on the fingers of one hand.

A long silence follows and I allow myself a quick look in the mirror. Yeah, we're skipping a shower tonight, but the simple hairbrush will not do. I look like a bird's nest that the birds fought in to know who'd keep the children when bird 2 takes off and bird 1 is left to mourn the empty space that'll never fill up the same again and the good times that won't be- wow, trauma lane much, not now, cowpal. First we buckle up our current rodeo. I walk back to the main room, now pajama-clad.

"I've got the beds for the possible kids up there, don't ask me why Robin put so many there, we're two people in a house, and I can lend you a Tee if you want."

He's anxious, chewing his thumb. "Emily won't mind?"

"She's out, sleeping at Haley's tonight. Girls' night and sisters catching up. It's important for her energy flow and karmic balance. Plus, you know she wouldn't mind, she likes you."

That makes him blush more, covering up the alcohol damage enough. I take note, but don't comment. Things for later. They pile up tonight.

"I- I can't go back to the ranch like this."

"You could. Marnie knows better than act as if you're doing this for fun, now. She'd have to understand. But you don't have to." I reassure him when agitated pupils jump up to me. Let's keep that ongoing panic attack at bay. "Either way, I won't mind."

I sit back. Stretch my arms between us. Catch his worrying hands into mine. Give him a squeeze. Tense appendages don't squeeze back, but don't pull back either. That's half a win. He stops torturing the poor things, and unfold with visible effort, like a crumpled up paper flower put on water. His head shakes, and I can't tell if it's conscious, him speaking with himself or trying to shake off a thought, or just a reflex. He visibly forces his shoulders to relax.

"I'm… not bothering you?" Righteous. Seeking vocal positive reinforcement, like a pro.

"Nope." I pop out the 'p'.

"... I think I'll, uh, stay for tonight."

My hands shoot into the air. "Woo! Sleepover, baby!"

I don't catch his hands curling back on themselves, trying to capture that leftover warmth in the late summer night.

--- to be continued.

[jacobsknifeplay]

It Will Be Ok

Is it shameful to ship these two? It's pure in my mind. Genuine love and all..

A/N: None??... read at your own extent. I just needed this out if my system. Also here's a song to set the mood 💞 This will ways be a thing with me. Get used to it.

"I'm so sorry." She whispered. Her voice now hoarse from sobbing and screaming through the night. Ruelle was kneeling on the ground with her hands on her knees. Her arms stiff as she dug her nails into the fabric of her pants. A shudder coursed through her body as another wave of anger followed. Her features twisted and twitched, a small sob escaping her. Her lips parted enough to reveal gritted teeth in the effort to restrain yet another scream.

Rocking back and forth she sniffled her sob but was unable to prevent the small whimper that escaped her throat. Her heavy breathing began to pick up until she was hyperventilating. With arms now trembling from the vice grip on herself she reminded her body to breathe. Inhaling deeply several times she sighed as she finally regained her composure once more.

The moonlight illuminated the trashed place through the dirty windows. The shattered glass filling it's portion of the room with stars and glimmer. The blood on the floor only seemed to grow. Spreading ever so slowly like a snake slithering in the dark. She blinked the remaining tears away, sniffling softly, while looking over Rush's body once again. Her skull mask covered his face to return him some dignity beyond the grave.

This was her fault.

The slow creek of the iron door brought her back to reality, preventing her mind from wandering into the deep end, her attention now on her surroundings behind her. Looking over her shoulder the Judge froze by the entrance. Their shoulders visibly slumped down upon comprehension. Taking a ghostly step forward they hesitantly extended their hand outwards the Captain. Turning away from them, Ruelle sighed heavily, shifting her weight in discomfort at her failure before her. Her head lowered in shame.

"He wasn't supposed to die." She said after some silence, her voice breaking at the end. Heavy with guilt her eyes watered again, a shiver going up her spine.

The Judge sighed softly before closing the distance between them. Their steps softly echoing across the room then coming to a stop. Ruelle's posture was held together with every last ounce of her strength. Her refusal to break down again pulled at the Judge's heart. It was like seeing themselves all over again. Memories of the countless dark and hateful glares reflected by the bunker's restroom mirror. The self inflicted punishment of not being allowed to heal, to feel, contradicted with the inner cry of regret and help. It was all in front of them again. Ruelle was now that mirror and they couldn't have it.

Kneeling next to her they placed a hand delicately on her shoulder.

"Not your fault." They signed with their free hand. With the little knowledge they knew she understood they continued. "He's proud." They wanted to let her know he wouldn't have had it any other way. Rush would've liked to see the people of Prosperity free from the Highwaymen regardless if he's in the picture. Refusing to work for them meant that they were true at heart. That was all that mattered for the promise of a better future.

"I could've done better." Ruelle began. Looking down at her hands she breathed shakily. "If I had ju-"

Interrupting with a grunt the Judge tightened their grip on her shoulder. "Twins strong." They signed. "You're stronger." They shook her softly yet firmly.

Ruelle finally released the grip on her knees. Her hands aching from the long lasting tension they had been forced to keep up. Looking up at the Judge with defeated eyes she placed her hand over the one on her shoulder. "I don't feel strong Judge. I don't feel strong at all. I had sworn to protect him." Her tears couldn't be refrained from falling this time around. Soft wet streaks decorated her scratched cheeks. The corner of her eyes appearing to glow redder as her red nose began to sniffle again.

Without warning the Judge pulled them in for an embrace. The hand that was once on her shoulder now rested on the back of her head, the other wrapped around her pulling her closer. Ruelle buried her face at the base of their neck as muffled cries seemed to endlessly flow from her. The Judge rubbed her back in a soothing manner making Ruelle wrap her arms around them in response. They stayed like that for a while, until Ruelle's sobs eventually subsided to sniffles again. Resting their chin on her head they sighed softly as they continued to rub her back.

There was a long pause between them. Slowly Ruelle pushed away and looked up at the Judge. Her reddened eyes searched the ones behind the mask hidden in the dark. "How do I tell the others about this?" She asked. "How's Carmina going to react?" Fear flashes through her eyes up at the Judge in question.

The Judge shakes their head in response. "Don't worry." They signed.

Tenderly they clean the tears away with their index finger before cupping the side of her face. Instinctively Ruelle leaned into the touch looking down with a heavy sigh. There really was no point in worrying how they'll take it. It can't be hidden from them. Lifting her head by the chin her eyes widened in shock as she suddenly felt a pair of lips press softly against her forehead.

"It will be ok." An unknown voice filled the space between them. Gone without the trace of an echo, so soft only her ears could pick up.

Ruelle gasped as she looked up at the Judge as they pulled the mask back down. The moment was gone so quickly, Ruelle didn't catch a glimpse. "Let's go." They signed before getting to their feet.

[lemonadegarden]

Courage.

For @batwayneman. Happy Birthday! 

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear. 

~Mark Twain.

Robin was scared.

He wouldn't admit it, but Dick could tell over the phone. The anger in his voice, the shakiness. The sullen tone.  

“He's not responsive,” he was saying.

“Just bring him home. The batmobile's on autopilot, it'll be fine. Just– just keep talking to him,” Dick said into the phone, keeping his voice low. He was in the locker room in the precinct in Bludhaven, rapidly changing into his civilian clothes.

“I am,” Damian said, his voice a tight, thin thread, “but he won't say anything.”

“What do you mean, he won't say anything?” Dick says, pushing open the locker room door with one hand, his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.

“He won't say a word. He just keeps looking at me, like I'm– like I'm some kind of–” Damian cut himself off. When he started speaking again, his voice was stiff. “His eyes are dilated. And he's hyperventilating. The batmobile sensors says that his heart rate is at 120.”

Jesus. Dick saw Peterson at the coffee machine, going through his phone.

“Hey, Sarge,” he said, “you mind telling the Captain that I gotta leave early tonight? Family emergency.”

Peterson frowned. “Grayson, there's a debrief today. About the bay area murderer. You can't miss it. All officers have to be present.”

Dick sighed. “Look, Nick, please just tell the Captain I can't make it. My dad's sick.”

Peterson shook his head, going back to scrolling through his Facebook feed. “I'll tell him,” he said, “but I can't guarantee that he'll be okay with it.”

“Okay. Okay, that's fine. Thanks, Nick,” Dick said, grabbing his wallet and keys off his desk. He shoved them into his pocket.

“That's sergeant Peterson for you,” Peterson said, still looking at his phone.

“Thanks Sarge,” Dick called out, and he was already out the door.

“Tell your dad to get well soon!” Peterson yelled back.

*

“Richard, are you even listening?” Damian said, and he sounded angry enough to be near tears. He wasn't just scared, Dick realised. He was terrified.

“Of course I'm listening,” Dick said soothingly, getting into his car. He backed out of his parking spot and onto the road in one swift turn.

It would take three hours to reach Gotham. Two and a half if he avoided the turnpike. Two fifteen if he asked Babs to make all the traffic lights along the way green.

He sighed. He couldn't do that.

“He's shaking,” Damian was saying over the phone. “We're almost home.”

“Shaking? Like a seizure?” Dick said, trying to sound calm. There needed to be at least one calm person in this conversation.

“No, like shock,” Damian said, “and he keeps trying to get out of the car. He's– he's trying to open the car door. He won't listen to me.”

There was definitely a quaver in Damian's voice at that last sentence, there.

“Okay, Damian,” Dick said, “you've locked the doors, haven't you?”

“Of course I've locked them,” Damian said, testily, “how stupid do you think I am?”

“I don't think you're stupid at all,” Dick said, trying to stay calm, “If the doors are locked, Bruce can't get out. Just get him to the cave. Alfred will take care of things, okay? And I'm on my way.”

“It'll take you hours,” Damian said, and he sounded so miserable and frightened that Dick's chest broke open, “and he can't wait that long.”

“He doesn't need me as much as he needs the antidote, okay Dami? It's going to be okay. I need to drive now, but I can leave you on speakerphone if you wanna keep talking.”

“No,” Damian said, sounding quieter, “we're here anyway. I have to help Pennyworth get him out and onto a stretcher.”

“Okay,” Dick said, “you did good. You did really good.”

“Come quickly,” was all Damian said, before he hung up.

Dick drove through the traffic like a madman, switching lanes and overtaking cars. He couldn't do anything once he got into gridlock though, and he was stuck in the middle of a knot of traffic, while his father was drugged out of his mind and half-dead in a cave. He looked at the stoplight. Still red.

The dial tone was still in his ear.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He called another number, one that he’d had on speed dial since he'd been fourteen.

“Dick?” Said the answering voice.

“Babs, I need a favour,” Dick said.

*

The first time Dick had ever inhaled Scarecrow's fear gas, he'd been nine and a half.

He hadn't been able to breathe, or even think, much less talk. By the time Bruce had realised what had happened, and taken him back to the cave, he was having a full-on attack.

“He's going to fracture a rib if he doesn't calm down,” Alfred was saying. Then there was a hand on his back, soothing, stroking.

“Dick,” said a voice, “it's going to be okay. Come here.”

But Dick was shaking his head already, wrenching himself out of Bruce's grip, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.

He tried to run, run away from the dark of the cave, the image of his parents lying on the dirt of the circus floor, their blood and brains mixing with the muck, and then he was slipping on it, on the blood, and he falling through all the safety nets a hundred times, a thousand times.

He was curled up on the floor, he realised, sobbing quietly. His heart wouldn't stop racing.

Someone scooped him up, pulling him close. He barely even noticed.

He was being carried across the cave and then upstairs, and then to the first floor, and then to the guest bedroom on the right of the landing.

The bedroom had a walk-in closet. Not much bigger than the size of a small elevator, but big enough for them to both fit. Bruce sat down on the wooden floor of the closet, and pulled the door shut behind him. There was only a narrow beam of light coming in from the tiny crack between the door and the wooden frame of the closet.

Then Bruce pulled Dick onto his lap, and just held him there, rocking back and forth. There, under the soft, fur coats and heavy jackets, it felt like they were in a little cocoon of their own. In a small world, without any one else. Just the two of them.

Bruce was saying things to him, whispering words and consolations, but Dick tuned them out, tuned everything out except the small space and the arms around him, rocking him back and forth. Back and forth. Rhythmically. The four bare walls calmed him down. Outside, everything had been too much. In here, things were. . . simpler. Quieter.

Eventually his breaths slowed down enough to sync with Bruce's movements, and then he felt a hand smooth back his sweat-damp hair, and the prick of a small needle on the inside of his elbow.

“Just a sedative,” Bruce murmured. They hadn't developed the antidotes, back then. When you got hit with the gas, you just had to tough it out.

Bruce didn't stop smoothing back his hair, or rocking him back and forth. They must have stayed in that closet for an hour, and Bruce never once complained. He stayed in there with him until Dick fell asleep, his face covered in dried tear tracks.

“How did you know I liked small spaces?” Dick had asked him, years later. It had been one hell of a risk to take. Most people under the influence of fear toxin got claustrophobic. Dick could have hurt himself in his panic. Could've hurt Bruce.

“You grew up in a trailer. And I always found you under my desk when you were upset, remember?” Bruce said. “You used to say that it was your real bedroom.”

Dick smiled. They didn't call Bruce the world's greatest detective for nothing.

“Yeah,” he said, “I remember.”

*

When he got to the cave, Bruce was sitting up on the stretcher and looking up at the ceiling, breathing really fast.

“The fan,” Bruce said, the moment he came in, “it's going to drop on you.”

Dick looked up at the ceiling fan. It was directly above him.

“That's not going to happen, B,” Dick said, although he stepped out from underneath it. He went over to the stretcher instead.

“Did Al give you the first dose?” He asked.

Bruce shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He was wearing a hoodie and sweats. They must have gotten him to change out of the batsuit, somehow. That was good.

“Where's Damian?” Dick said.

“Went upstairs,” Bruce said. He was still looking at the ceiling intently. “Angry.”

“I'll speak to him, okay? He's just shaken up.”

Bruce didn't say anything. He was clenching his first real hard. There was blood leaking out of it.

Dick frowned, grabbing his hand and opening it. Bruce had dug his fingernails hard enough into his palm to draw blood.

“Bruce, you can't do that,” Dick said, softly.

Bruce looked at his hand like he was noticing it for the first time.

“Oh,” he said. Then he started to look at the ceiling fan again.

Dick sighed. “Where's Alfred? I'll go get some bandages for you.”

Bruce pointed wordlessly to the console room. Dick walked in that direction.

In the console room, Alfred looking at something under a microscope, while the centrifuge besides him was running. It was filled with test tubes of blood, Dick realised. Bruce's blood.

“Jesus,” he said, “how much blood did you take?”

“Only a few syringes,” Alfred said, “some of them are old. Blood uncontaminated by the fear toxin, to serve as the control for the experimental antidote.”

“Experimental?” Dick said, “is this one new?”

“The fear gas? Yes, I'm afraid it is. It seems to be a new strain altogether. Something that's resistant to the antidotes. I gave master Wayne a sedative to stop him from going into shock, but the panic is still there. I was testing against the blood to see if a mixture of C-12 and F-01 might work, but–”

There was a loud, thunderous crash from the other room, and Dick ran back to where he'd left Bruce, his heart pounding.

Bruce was standing in the centre of the room. He was looking down at something near his feet. There was a grapple gun in his hand. The grapple was attached to the rotors of one of the ceiling fan’s blades, which was currently on the floor. Bruce had wrenched the whole entire thing down from the ceiling. Its blades were still spinning lazily. The fan was hissing and clicking intermittently, its exposed wires sparking.

“Bruce,” Dick said, very softly, “you should probably step away from the fan.”

Bruce jumped a little, and whipped around to look at him, like he'd forgotten that he'd even come in the first place. His eyes were wide. They looked hunted.

“The sparks, master Bruce,” Alfred said. He'd come to the medical room too, and he was standing at the doorway, “they could burn you.”

Bruce stepped back, warily. His hand was shaking. It was still around the grapple gun.

If Damian had heard the noise and came down now . . . he didn't know how Bruce would react to that.

“Why don't you drop the grapple gun, Bruce,” Dick said, his voice easy, “you don't need it anymore, do you?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Just hand it over to me, okay? Nice and slow,” Dick said, going up to him carefully.

Bruce watched him, an unreadable expression on his face. Dick tried to go for a smile. “It's just me,” he said, “just Dick. I'm not going to do anything, okay? Just going to take the gun.”

He reached ever so slowly towards Bruce's hand, and took the gun from him. Bruce just watched him.

Dick put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. “Let's get you back in bed, okay? And let's get that hand wrapped up.”

Bruce let Dick lead him back to the stretcher, where he sat and watched him as he taped up his hand. Alfred watched Bruce for a moment, and then went back to the console room, telling them he was going to call Leslie and see if she had any ideas about the antidote.

Bruce was just staring at his hand. He blinked a couple of times, like he was waking up.

“I'm bleeding,” he said, slowly.

“Yeah, Bruce,” Dick said.

“Did someone hurt me?” Bruce asked. He seemed confused. That happened, sometimes. The gas made you disoriented.

“No, it was just an accident.” Dick said, “Everything's okay, now.”

“Did someone hurt Damian?” Bruce said, and his breathing was starting to pick up again.

Dick looked up. “No, Bruce. Damian’s fine.”

Bruce was getting up already, pushing off of the stretcher. “I have to check on him,” he said, “I have to see if he's– if he's okay. He was sick last week. Shouldn't have let him–”

“Bruce,” Dick said, forcefully, “Damian's fine. Nothing happened to him. You're the one that got hit with the gas, remember?”

Bruce shook his head. “No, it was Damian,” he said, and he sounded so sure that even Dick wavered, for a second. Maybe Damian had got exposed too, and he was just hiding it. Then he discarded that theory. You couldn't hide being hit with fear gas. Not even Batman could.

“Bruce,” he said, quietly, “it wasn't Damian. Damian's fine, I promise.”

“Why isn't he here?” Bruce was saying, looking around wildly. “I told him not to leave my side when we're at patrol. Isn't safe.”

“You're not patrolling anymore, B,” Dick said, getting Bruce to sit down again. “Damian's upstairs, in his room. He's alright.”

Bruce sat down. Dick started taping the rest of his hand, pulling up a chair next to the stretcher. It wasn't shallow; Bruce had really dug in his fingernails.

There was a hand in his hair, and Dick looked up.

“You'll stay,” Bruce said, his voice thin. It was a question.

“Of course,” he grinned. “Who else’ll clean up that mess you made, huh?” He said, pointing to the fan that was lying on the floor, still sparking occasionally.

Bruce looked at it. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Aw, that's okay, Bruce. It's not your fault. Lie down for a sec, kay? I'll go get Zitka.”

Bruce smiled at that. It was a small, but it was still a smile.

He reached into one of the cupboards above the medical workstation, and pulled the little, stuffed elephant out of it. It was looking slightly threadbare, and had definitely seen better days. Alfred had patched it up countless times for him, when he was still a boy. He used to cuddle with Zitka when he was sick, or feeling upset, and then over the years it had become a running joke to give Bruce the elephant when he got banged up on patrol.

Dick didn't care what Bruce said; he knew Bruce secretly liked it.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, dryly, when Dick held it out to him. Bruce took it, and put it next to him, so its head was propped up on the pillow.

“Just stay still,” Dick said, grinning and taking his phone out, “I have to send a photo of this to Babs.”

Bruce smiled ruefully at the camera, with Zitka sitting next to him. Dick took the picture.

“I've got blackmail material on you now,” Dick grinned, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Jason has a picture of me in a superman t-shirt,” Bruce said, lying down on the stretcher. Zitka was next to his head. It was only about the cutest thing ever, “I don't believe anything can get worse than that.”

“Nah, this is worse,” Dick said, and he sat back down on the chair next to the stretcher.

This was one of the lucid stretches Bruce was having, Dick knew. Five minutes later, he'd be trying to rip fans from the ceiling again.

He really hoped Alfred was working on that antidote quick.

“So,” Dick said, propping his chin on one of his hands, “what's been going on in Gotham?”

Bruce shrugged. “The usual,” he said. He was looking off to a side, like he was somewhere far away. Dick knew that things had been. . . rough, after Selina had left.

“Hey, Bruce,” Dick said, “you know I'm always here if you need to talk, right?”

Bruce looked at him, his eyes slightly unfocused.

Dick grabbed hold of his hand. “I'm here,” he said again.

Alfred came into the room, an ampule of a pale, translucent yellow liquid in his hands.

“This may work,” he said, “but I have my doubts.”

Dick went to go get a syringe, and a fresh needle. It was on the worktable next to the stretcher.

Bruce's eyes followed him as he moved.

“So anyway, what's this I'm hearing about Damian taking up theatre, Alfred?” Dick said, good-naturedly. Maybe he could lighten things up a bit.

“Master Damian seems to have quite latched onto the idea of playing Macbeth in the school play,” Alfred said, taking the syringe that Dick handed to him. He filled it with the antidote, and then tapped it with a finger.

Bruce rolled up the sleeve of his hoodie slowly. His breathing was quickening again. He was looking at Alfred warily.

“Macbeth, for middle-schoolers? That's kind of heavy, isn't it?” Dick said, lightly. He was quick, but Bruce had always been quicker. If he wanted, he could lunge for the syringe and stick it in Alfred's eye in three seconds.

Dick patted Bruce's arm. “Hey, are you listening?”

Bruce looked at him, swallowing. “What,” he rasped.

“I said Macbeth is a little heavy for kids Damian's age. Don't you think so?”

Alfred injected Bruce with the antidote, and Bruce closed his eyes, exhaling.

“It's an abridged version,” Bruce said, finally. “No one dies.”

“Oh, Dick said, “that's a shame. I'm pretty sure Damian's disappointed.”

“He is,” Bruce said. He was rolling his sleeve back down like he couldn't do it quick enough.

Alfred covered his mouth to yawn politely. It was pretty late. Almost one in the morning.

“You go to bed, Al,” Dick said, “I'll sit up with B.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said, “and good night, master Dick.”

“Good night.”

Alfred went over to Bruce, and for a moment, he just rested a hand on Bruce's head. Warm and protective.

“You'll be quite alright, master Bruce,” Alfred said, quietly, “just like you always are.”

Bruce nodded, looking down. He was pretty much leaning into Alfred's hand. Alfred gave him one last fond look, and then he went upstairs.

That left just the two of them in the cave.

Dick checked the wall-clock. “So I have an idea,” he said.

“Hmm,” Bruce said. His eyes were still closed, and he was taking deep, controlled breaths. He was meditating. Bruce called it 'centering himself’. Jason called it 'Bruce’s feng-shui chakra aligning shit’.

“You, me and the kiddo. Let's go to your room and watch some movies.”

“Or, we could not,” Bruce said, “and I could just sit here and finish tonight's report.”

“Bruce, I bet you can't even type anything right now. No way you're doing paperwork. We're going to watch a Pixar movie that makes us cry, come on.” He said, holding out a hand for Bruce.

“A Pixar movie that makes you cry,” Bruce said, but he took the hand, getting off the stretcher. So that was a win in Dick's book.

They walked past the wreckage of the broken fan, and they took the elevator upstairs to the third floor.

Bruce tipped his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Dick looked at him for a while.

“Dad?” he said, slowly.

Bruce opened his eyes, looking at Dick. Dick didn't use that word a lot.

“You're okay, right?” He asked.

Bruce looked away again. The door opened, and they stepped out.

“I don't know,” Bruce said.

Dick hugged him.

Bruce’s arms came around him automatically, but he definitely squirmed a bit there. “Dick,” he said, sounding a  little embarrassed.

“Shut up,” Dick said, his eyes shut tight against Bruce's hoodie, “you need a hug.”

“I'm fine. Really,” Bruce was saying.

“You will be after I finish hugging you. And after you tell me what's wrong. Is it– you know. What happened with Selina?”

Bruce frowned, shaking his head. “It isn't. . . just that.”

Dick pulled away, looking at him worriedly. “Then what?” He said.

Bruce was studying the carpet. He was brilliant at everything, fighting and gadgets and engineering and coming up with military strategy, but when it came to talking about his feelings, he was always stupid as hell at it.

“It's the house,” Bruce said, pausing a little, “it's always empty now. Damian leaves a lot to work with his team, and Tim and Jason have their own places. Cass is– she isn't one for settling down. It's quiet. And big.”

They walked down the hall, towards Damian's room.

“You know how I feel about big,” Dick said.

Bruce smiled, a little. “Not good.”

“Not good,” Dick laughed. He put an arm around his dad, “but seriously, if you wanted, I could start coming around more. Like, way more. They're setting up a new drug investigation force at the precinct anyway, and a lot of the work is out of Gotham. I could apply. Just say the words, B,” Dick said.

Bruce frowned. “I couldn't do that to you. You have a life there.”

“I have a life here too,” Dick said, “Babs lives here. Hell, my dad and my baby brother live here. All of my family, too. And what the hell’s Tim doing living on his own? How come that knucklehead got to move out at seventeen and I had to be dropped to the movies by Alfred until I was like, twenty one?”

Bruce chuckled. “No one dropped you to any movie theatres when you were twenty one. And Tim is living in his dorm at Princeton. He moved last week.”

“Oh, right,” Dick said, scratching his head. Now he felt like shit. “I missed him moving out?”

“You were busy with a case. I thought I'd call you afterwards to tell you. Then I got busy.”

He’d gotten busy with the Selina thing.

“You know what,” Dick said, firmly, “I’m missing too much stuff. I'll do it. I'll apply for the transfer. And I'll live in the manor till I'm old and senile. I'll never move out.”

Bruce laughed. “If you insist,” he said. But he sounded kind of glad.

They'd reached Damian's door. It was shut. Locked too, no doubt. Dick knocked on it.

“Hey Dami, wanna watch a Pixar movie?”

“Go away!” Damian yelled.

“Damian,” Bruce said, “open the door, please.”

A pause. Then footsteps across the carpeted floor. The door cracked open the tiniest bit.

“Father?” Damian said. His eyes were narrow. “You're okay?”

“I'm sorry I scared you like that,” Bruce said. The door opened all the way, and there Damian was, looking at Bruce, his face all pinched. He looked small.

“I wasn't scared,” Damian said. He sounded almost angry.

“Alright,” Bruce said, “I'm sorry I worried you.”

“Tt,” Damian said. “It is okay. I am. . . glad you are better.”

Bruce held out his arms then, and Damian wavered for a moment before he crumbled, and ran into them. Bruce had his arms around him pretty tight, and Damian was clinging on too.

“I was scared,” Damian admitted, his voice muffled into Bruce's chest.

“That's okay,” Bruce said quietly, “I was, too.”

Dick grinned. This was a shit day, and to be honest, probably a shit month for Bruce, but everything was going to be okay.

And then he took a picture of the two of them, before anyone could notice.

“So,” he said, “Ratatouille or Wall-E?”

Both of them groaned. Dick grinned again.

“Ratatouille it is,” he said.