Here is chapter V from In Ice We Trust the fanfic I’m looking for written around 2020
I saved it onto my google docs on july 15 2020 so it should be from that year: here’s what i have: In Ice We Trust V Jason Tod
PS: ITS BEEN FOUND https://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/post/190130128854/in-ice-we-trust-masterlist-a-fake-dating
https://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/post/190130128854/in-ice-we-trust-masterlist-a-fake-dating
Unfortunately the writer isn’t on tumblr anymore…Thank you @littleredwing89 but you can find some of the posts on the way back machine https://web.archive.org/web/20230302210852/https://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/
✨ ari/ / 20 // bi // west indian✨taking a break from requests✨ masterlist / thirst tag / kofi
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“When Jason was about two years old, he was put in a pair of custom skates and a tiny replica of his dad’s Gotham Knights jersey and he was taught how to navigate the smooth plains of an ice rink.
Naturally, he was an ace from the get go.
By the time he was nine, he was the best centre forward on his team.
By the time he was twelve, he’d realized that having a crush on one of his rivals, teammates and best friends was a terrible idea— he put that on the back burner though. No time for fickle feelings on the ice.
By the time he was fourteen his older brother had made up his mind to give up on hockey and his younger siblings were just getting their footing. They were a generational imbroglio of hockey history— children of the infamous Bruce Wayne, carriers of his legacy, his legendary, his sheer greatness.
Bruce was King of the ice. And when he was backed by big league names like Clark Kent and Hal Jordan, he played like a nightmare. Fast. Sneaky. The Dark Knight of Gotham with a dashing smile and three Stanley Cup rings like crowns to mark his kingship.
By the time he was sixteen, Jason had grown boringly comfortable to the presence of hockey royalty in his life. He got birthday presents from Wayne Gretzky and get-well cards signed in the ink of greatness from women’s league champions like Diana Prince and Dinah Lance.
By the time he was seventeen, Jason had his mind set on making it to an NHL, first draft. His upbringing was seeped in hope and hazardous plays and rink time and wrapping tape around sticks and skating better than he ran. There was nothing else in the world for him. He wanted to play on more than just his father’s name. More than just the passing whispers and favors from family friends. It couldn’t be something given to him— no, it would be earned.
And so with Tim nipping at his heels with enough talent to get scouted right after he graduated high school, droning on and on about the Ivy Leagues and his GPA and legacy spots, Jason decided his destined future could be gained while he played alongside his friends.
Choosing a major was a piece of cake smothered in frosting and if Jason didn’t live and breathe stick, puck, skates and ice, he would live and die by words. His plans were set in stone. He was an ace. He had it made.
He did not plan on his twelve year self yanking on his ear to remind him that he was still sorta in love with someone he had no business being in love with. Nor did he imagine that he would hedge his well being on a tragic pipedream idea born from desperation.
But alas, here he was— a white knuckled grip on his future and loose chain closed around his heart’s self preservation. All his faith, laid in ice.
****
The direct flight to Gotham is delayed by an oncoming snow storm. The winds are frigid and full of buzzing holiday excitement. It’s almost cozy at the busy boarding area— families huddled together and lone passengers making conversation under strings of warm fairy lights and golden baubles on hanging garlands.
Jason buys you a peppermint hot chocolate despite your protests and hunkers down next to you to entertain your brave attempt at keeping awake. It’s adorable to watch stifle down your yawns. Your eyes grow droopier by the second, your speech slower and softer until you’re nodding off on his shoulder.
You’re a sleepy little thing and he practically preens in your entrusting of him as a pillow. The flight’s not that long. He spends most of it shaking with worry while you attempt to distract him with a play by play of a few highlight reels that you thought he would like. When you realize that tactic isn’t working, you put on your determined, squared-serious brave face and hold out a hand to him. For a moment, he thinks you want him to hold it.
“Rock. Paper. Scissors.”
“What are we playing for?”
“Hmm,” Your head cocks sideways while you mull over prize ideas. “Winner gets first dibs on any baked goods for the next week.”
“I’ll take that action. And, loser—”
“It’s ok, Jason. You can admit it’ll be you.”
“Loser, gets to be on the team that plays against Damian’s on family game night.”
You huff a small gasp of disbelief. “That’s harsh. Alright, nimrod. You’re on.”
***
Dick’s waiting at the arrivals gate, bundled up in a navy coat and looking every bit the part of a rich socialite he pretends to be for the local press. Jason does a quick sweep of the area at that thought. Lying to his family is enough, he doesn’t need tabloids involved in his relationships (even the fake ones). Sure that it’s clear, he tucks you into his side. You go easily, smiling up at him. He knows you must make quite the picture and by the starry-eyed look on Dick’s face, he lets himself fall into the idea that maybe you both have this rouse in the bag.
“Baby brother!” Dick’s voice carries a sing-song lilt of teasing that grates against Jason’s nerves even though he’s a good distance away. He ignores your snort of amusement and the intense steers of curious passersby, shouldering forward and guiding you along.
“Dick,” he leers, making his brother’s treasured nickname sound more like a teasing insult.
Dick smiles in response, turning up the charm as he spreads his arms wide. To Jason’s surprise you move forward to accept a hug before him.
“I actually think you grew a little, Y/N.”
“Don’t be fooled. You just haven’t seen me in ages.”
“Now, whose fault is that?”
You shrug, walking backwards and smoothly catching Jason’s hand. The move looks natural. Familiar. Like you’re both so in tune with each other’s bodies and not just having beginners luck. He fights hard to keep a smug grin off his face.
“Before there are any witnesses,” he says. “I’m going to admit that I missed your stupid face, big bro. That’s it. That’s all you get. Merry Christmas.”
Dick engulfs him in a one armed embrace. “I’m telling everyone you said that.”
“No one will believe you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he sniffs. “You guys good, right? Clear to go?”
The drive home is chock full of Dick’s warm, proud commentary of all the things Jason’s missed. He’s practically running a one man show, a hand on the wheel and the other gesturing wildly as he thrills through antics filled stories. It’s easy to hold onto you and laugh along with him. There’s no tension, no expectations of watching eyes and loaded questions.
Jason spares a quick glance at the rearview mirror; Dick looks pleased as a peach at the arm Jason has secured around you. He can tell he’s in for a nice, long brotherly chat about emoting. But the thought doesn’t bother him entirely, he finds. He needs a safe space to rattle off all his feelings for you because just sitting quietly next to you or catching your gaze or watching you smile makes him feel like he’s going down the ice at mach 2 and he’s going to do something incredibly stupid if he doesn’t let any of it come to the surface soon.
***
Titus and Ace are the first to greet him at the door with wagging tails and excited yips. They’re both wearing matching red collars adorned with delicate silver bells. Damian’s standing just behind them. Jason can tell he’s only just been dragged out of bed and ushered down to play the part of a doting baby brother. His thick, dark hair is mused, sticking up in several directions and his clothes are recognizably items that he’s pilfered out of the closets of their siblings. Still, despite the pained look on his littlest brother’s face, Jason cannot fight the urge to wrap him up into a hug. He’s not surprised to feel Damian returning his heavy embrace, even less so when he finds that his strong grip is matched.
“Can’t believe it,” he admonishes. “I’ll walk in here one day and you’ll be as big and tall as Bruce.”
“As long as I’m not as dainty as Timothy, I’ll be fine.”
Damian’s amused response reveals that his voice has finally deepened and he’s still fully committed to making Tim’s life a living hell.
“I’m not sure if I’m offended by that,” comes Tim’s voice.
Jason watches Tim embrace you with something a few shades shy of jealousy creeping into his chest. He wonders if it shows on his face, because the second you catch sight of him, you’re sliding right back to his side and placing a gentle hand on his lower back. It’s terrifying to feel like his body is betraying all his thoughts to you— even brief contact sends his mind spiraling and he knows at some point his ears have gone pink. He expects you to resolutely ignore it, but instead you look as shaken and stirred as he feels.
Tim’s rasp of a question— something nerdy and leagues beyond concepts he cares to understand— breaks the silent hypnosis you’ve pulled over Jason. Just like that, he’s back in the foyer, being scolded by Damian for letting the cold air in and ushered to the nearest fire by Dick.
He’s pleased to see that halls have been decorated with the same yards of greenery and baubles that they’ve been keeping in storage since before Dick was born. It’s nice, the contrast of brown neutrals and gold and red accents and splashes of green. The nostalgia twinge of Christmas past warms Jason down to his toes and he leans into your light touch to stay grounded.
Alfred appears somewhere between Tim’s regalling of Damian’s last home game (the subsequent fight that follows between them being triggered by Timothy’s overzealous relay of Damian taking a spectacular fall in full goalie gear) and Dick’s near teary admonition of how well Duke is doing in school.
“He won’t let me say anything in front of him, you guys,” Dick simpers. “I’m just getting it out of my system.”
“Always and forever a sap.” Jason teases, feeling incredibly pleased at the amused giggle he spurs from you.
He’s trying very hard to feel settled and at home within the walls of the manor, surrounded by most of his brothers while you’re plastered to his side. Your presence is not as overwhelming as he’d anticipated— he clocks the press of your shoulder to his, his thigh to yours, the ease of where his thumb is resting against your wrist bone— and has to take a stilling, meditative breath like Roy had once taught him too.
Logically, there is nothing to be nervous about but there’s a whole world of responsibilities laying on the other side of winter break and the chasm of regret laying before him because he knows— oh he knows— that he could possibly screw things up with you. And on top of that, he’s going to have to sit through a lecture from his father about choosing teams and he’s already dreading the hopeful look on Bruce’s face.
He all at once wishes that he had his own team behind him, cheering and being supportive idiots.
“Where’s everyone else?” You ask gently, steering the conversation out of hockey territory. He squeezes your wrist gratefully, gladdened that you picked up on his swelling anxiety.
Damian snorts. “Late, as usual.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“You know what Timothy, I’ll tell you what’s rich—”
It devolves into an old tussle of words and half-hearted nudging from there before Dick drapes himself bodily over both of them and Jason has no choice to follow because for a mere moment, he allows himself to remember that he misses home. He has a great team waiting for him, wonderful friends and you….whatever it is you are to him, whatever it is you want to be— and that’s the family he holds onto in between the moments that he gets to come back to Gotham and be pressed face first into expensive floors by lovingly, stinky feet and devious hands. The world is heavy, but he isn’t carrying it alone.
He’s aware of your laughter above the fray of chaos. Growing voices join and a delighted preamble of conversation cuts through Tim’s cursing and Damian mocking but he’s still nosing the ground so he’s unable to truly enjoy the disappointed looks on Cass and Alfred’s faces, nor Duke and Stephanie’s glee.
And then, Bruce appears behind them all. This, Jason gathers, because Damian and Tim and Dick scramble to their feet with electric energy to feign innocence.
Bruce holds his position, leaning casually against the doorframe. He doesn’t seem to change no matter how much time Jason spends away, that’s one thing he’s grateful for. His dad’s continuing good health and prospering wellbeing makes him feel a little safer in the world, a little more secure in himself when the cruel tentacles of darkness come his way.
“Boys,” Bruce says fondly.
Steph snorts, “Idiots.”
Cass places a hand on her shoulders, “Imbeciles.”
****
Alfred implores everyone to take a moment to themselves and settle in before dinner. Under the guise of a tour, you whisk Jason into one of the quieter corridors with seething concern painting your features and a touch that’s so gentle he could almost cry.
“What’s the verdict, captain?”
An involuntary laugh burts out of him against his better judgment at the seriousness in your tone. You glare. He grins back.
“I’d say we’re doing well so far but I don’t want to jinx it. It’s good. We’re good.”
The distinct sharpness of the unsaid “Together,” cuts through him like a knife. He aches for something to relieve the pain.
You’re quiet for a moment, analyzing. “Then why do you look like you took a stick to the face?”
“Nervous,” he admits.
“About?”
“Its just….I forgot about—it’s stupid. Really. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
It’s then he realizes that you’re still holding his hand, looking up at him with an incorrigible grin and he can almost let himself pretend that this— whatever this moment is— is real. Not something knitted together by deception and necessity.
“Insufferable,” he matches your grin. “Bruce is….”
“A legend?”
“Sure. But he’s also my dad. A good dad. And hockey— well sometimes it feels like hockey is all we have. And now that I’m being scouted and everyone else sorta bailed and gave up on, you know—I just….”
“Take a deep breath, Jay.”
He does, exhaling slowly. “It’s just me. Carrying his legacy. And— don’t get me wrong I don’t think there’s anything else in the world that would make me happy as this does.”
“God, you’re such a hopeless junkie.”
“I’m spilling my guts, could you please?”
“Sorry,” you say, squeezing his fingers. “You’re stressed because it’s a lot? Because you’re scared to mess up?”
“I want to make him proud but like you said, he’s a legend. And he got to where he was by being intense and determined and maybe if all of his kids wanted the same thing it would be easier to not take every one of his critiques as life or death. But it’s just me,” he takes another shaky breath. “It’s just me and I know he means well but it’s—”
“Overwhelming.”
He nods, throat too thick to keep up with his words.
“I’m not going to say I get it, because I don’t. But hey,” and then your thumbs are on his cheekbones, your eyes boring into his. Soul to soul, each breath shared. “I’m here for you, yeah? Whatever you need.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t—”
He claps a hand over your mouth and you bite at his palm.
“Hey! Ow! Consent and shit, Jesus.”
“Oh, we should talk about that while we’re on the topic. Hand holding, the—” you make a circular gesture between his body and yours. “Cuddling and shit. That’s fine. I can do that.”
“But?”
“But I think we should talk about kissing.”
“I—”
“After. After you talk to Bruce, okay?” You punch at his shoulder lightly. “Dick’s coming this way, I’m pretty sure I’m about to get a shovel talk soo….”
Dick, all lecherous smiles and perfect hair, is indeed trotting down the hallway with purpose.
“Sorry to pull the plug on your make out session, kiddies but Bruce wants you to check in with him,” he points to Jason with a waggling finger. “And we,” he shifts said finger towards you, “Are going for a walk.”
You spare Jason a quick glance before walking towards Dick’s beckoning wave. It shouldn’t mean anything significant, but from you he knows it’s a concluding check in— a small, see, you’re ok. I’m ok.— and just as it did seconds before, your careful concern steadies him. Enough so that he manages to walk firmly into Bruce’s study with his head held high.
Jason wants this over as soon as possible.
That way, if it goes badly he can sulk through dinner and complain into your arms later.
There are a plethora of pictures littering the neutrally painted walls of the study, all arranged in an artful manner; snapshots of him and his siblings growing up, a young Bruce and his parents, Alfred in casual clothing and few of Bruce on the ice, grinning. His cup photos are held in large antique frames in the middle of it all. Mahogany shelves store olympic medals and other awards that Jason itches to achieve. It’s just short of a shrine to the outside world, but he knows that to his father, it’s a reminder. He’d always said that if he could do it, then so could his children. That sort of belief held Jason together for long before it started tearing him apart. Because in the wake of all of it, he’s the one being handed this legacy to live up to.
Jason remembers the day Dick came home and dropped his skates on the dining room table, uncaring of the proximity of expensive mahogany and sharp silver razors. He’d watched his father and brother have a tense, circular conversation about the highs and lows of hockey and how much it shaped all of their lives. Dick was tired, Jason knew how that felt. Bruce was disappointed, not mad; Jason knew how that felt too. Dick couldn’t stand hockey anymore and he was going to quit; Jason couldn’t ever dream of knowing that feeling.
The weeks that followed had felt like a turf war, with Jason stuck in the middle in his refusal to pick sides. But eventually, the dust settled and the world righted and all was forgiven. Dick picked up figure skating and couple peewee coaching gigs because he— like the rest of their family— loved the ice too much to let go.
This however, left Jason to fulfil the role of primary hockey prodigy in the Wayne family and whatever hopes Bruce had for Dick, they all passed down to him. For a little while, he carried the weight around his shoulders like a crown, depicting himself as the prince of hockey that the media houses claimed he was.
And then the crown turned into a noose and the kingdom began to fall.
Cass put her goalie pads into storage the day before her Bantam season was supposed to start. Bruce hadn’t made a spectacle of it. Cassandra was freshly fifteen and angry at the world like most teens were and she wanted more. Bruce had learnt from his trivial reaction to Dick and set off in assisting her in establishing fundraisers and charity work and taking her on UN trips. It was better, sure. But it added another layer for Jason to carry. And he did.
Tim quit verbally and publically after he got his first college acceptance letter. He’d quit privately in the crowded med bay of the Gotham City rink with a concussion to his name and blood in his mouth.
“Fuuuck the shit, dad.” Bruce was only ever ‘dad’ when he wanted something. “I’m going to fucking Harvard,”
“Darn right, Timmy.” And his voice was crinkly over facetime but he was smiling.
And then another layer was added to Jason’s potential expectations.
Duke, thankfully, played straight up to the Juniors with him. Jason would be forever grateful to have his brother at his side through every stricken panic attack and reckless bad decision that took them to victory. They’d taken the Q by storm and by the time they got back, Jason had been captain of a Division 1 NCAA hockey team and Duke had shuttered his skates away for a well deserved break.
It was both a burden and a curse that Damian had taken to being a kickass goalie like a duck to water. He was a weird sapling of a boy off the ice and terror on it and unlike the rest of them, he only really played for his friends. Jason was proud to say that his youngest brother had a better grasp of healthy mental capacity in proximity to hockey than he did.
But all in all, he was still left first in line to take the fall. Gold star center forward, same position Bruce played.
The descent would begin with whichever professional team he chose.
So, he waits for it.
The sly comment on something he’s been doing wrong— with his captaincy or his grades or his clothes or his reluctance to come home— but it doesn’t come. Instead, his dad claps him on his shoulder with one hand and uses the other to poke at his side, just like when he was a nerve-wracked kid standing in a locker room, inches from an anxiety attack.
“I keep thinking, one day, I’ll get used to the fact that you’re so grown now. But in my head you’re always like,” He waves a palm in front of him, waist high, “This height and still refusing to brush your teeth.”
“I’ll have you know, I have great dental hygiene now.”
“Of course I know. I paid for all your fillings.”
He jostles him. Bruce pushes back. It’s so easy that Jason wants to sob. He releases a gust of breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“So what do you think?”
He’d taken to faxing over all his offers as soon as they came in. There’s a list in his head— and also on a few neon green post-its that Garfield had given him, they sit in his wallet between his credit cards and his student id— of the teams he has to choose from (The Pens, The Habs, The Bruins, The Sharks and The Avs), and the pros and cons of each. What he expects from Bruce, is a rundown of the elements that he’s already agonized over. What he gets instead is:
“I think you waited far too long to start dating Y/N when you could have been happier sooner,” Bruce drops into his large leather office chair with a huff. “But you’ve always been a pining romantic and all my relationships burn fast and bright, so what do I know?”
Everything, Jason wants to say. But also, nothing.
“What do you mean pining romantic?”
“You’ve been in love since you were twelve years old and you smashed head first into the boards and came home delighted to have Y/N on your line anyways.”
“It was a good play. We won the game.”
“And some shiny fake teeth.”
Jason coughs out a chuckle. He’s thoroughly weirded out. But more than that, he’s relieved.
“I meant about the teams though. What do you think?”
“What does it matter? You’re a smart kid with a great deal of talent. Wherever and whomever you choose, I’ll be in the stands wearing those colors and being embarrassing.”
There’s so many things he wants to say. Confess, really. Relief soaks into him like summer rain and he’s drenched, brain cottony and words all choked as hope grows within him. Finally, after the comforting silence begins to drag and his tongue returns, he says, “Do you do that with Damian?”
Bruce sighs, ruefully. “No, I’ve been banned.”
****
Dinner is a loud affair. It makes Jason ache for team meals in dining halls but it also bolsters him. His nervous frenetic energy dissipates as he watches Duke and Cass make snowmen out of mashed potatoes (“We need more butter here cuz it looks like a lumpy butt”/ “You see a lot of those in your personal time?”)and listens to Damian give a rundown of NHL goalie stats that he’s been keeping up with. At his side, elbow grazing his abdomen, you listen intently whilst occasionally flicking grinning glances at him and that catastrophe of potato art on the other side of the table.
Afterwards, he sticks around to watch you needle Alfred into helping with clean up. You’re persistent where he’s stubborn and it’s highly entertaining to watch you putter around the kitchen that Jason holds such fond memories of.
It isn’t until Alfred is handing him an extra toothbrush, linen and towels does he think to ask.
“What are the sleeping arrangements?”
“Come again?” the older man blinks. “As in, where are you sleeping? Or, as in are you allowed to sleep with your partner?”
Honestly, Jason shouldn’t blush as furiously as he does at the turn of phrase because it’s coming from Alfred and it’s perfectly innocent but his ears go pink at the tips anyways.
“The-uhhh, the second,” he waves the pile in his arms airly. “You know what I mean.”
Alfred has the guile to laugh. Jason is positive the universe has it out for him.
“I’ve taken the liberty to assume that you are a perfectly responsible adult, in an adult relationship and would like to be treated as such,” he drops another few extra towels into Jason’s hands. “If not, there are several other guest rooms prepared. You can take care of moving over the luggage.”
Jason swallows the weight of those words and Alfred’s knowing little smile. He wonders if it’s the years of Bruce’s rookie bullshit that’s made him so perceptive or was it simply because he could tell that Jason was hemorrhaging with emotions.
“Thanks, Alf.”
He shoves at his ajar bedroom door with his hip, startling slightly when he comes upon the sight of you standing under one of his large windows, nose pressed against the glass so that it fogs under your breath. The navy curtains that frame each of the three glass panels are the only new addition to his room. His sheets are familiar and clean, books on nightstands and overflowing shelves across every open space of wall are dust free but still dog-earred and bookmarked. The basket of pucks next to his bathroom door is still there, albeit lessened in quantity. That he chalks up to Damian.
“It’s snowing,” you say in lieu of hello.
He drops the towels and linen onto the edge of the california king bed, tampers down the vaguely warm thoughts that prods his mind. “That it is.”
“It’s pretty.”
“So am I.”
“Humble, too.” You’re smiling when you look at him. “So.”
“So?”
“Twenty bucks Roy cries with laughter when you tell him about the bedsharing.”
“You're…..we don’t….I can— you want to?”
“I mean, if you’re cool with it.”
“Are you?” he tries again. This situation is more than borderline weird, he’s aware. He doesn’t want to make it any more uncomfortable for you than it already is. “Really? Because there are guest bedrooms—”
“I”m good. I’m sure. We’re a normal, romantic couple, remember?”
“Right.”
He watches you unzip your carry on and root around for pajamas. Gracefully, you stack them next to the towels on the bed and begin the process of tucking a few of your things away. If seeing you at home in his apartment makes him burn up inside and out, seeing you at home in his childhood bedroom turns him into a nuclear time bomb.
Time weighs on him, sliding down is bones like cursed metal. Each chink of spine aches, pressured physically and emotionally. He watches the snow fall with tender grace, drops himself onto well known sheets and counts the minutes until the bathroom door cracks and you floo down next to him. Here, he braces himself for a tense conversation that’s clinical with plans and warnings. Instead, you say nothing. In that silence he finds a comfort he didn’t know he’d been longing for.
His whole life is a wretched wonderment of high stakes moments. Even his family drives his adrenaline up.
But lying there with you, shoulder to shoulder, as the stars glint against fresh snow and the moon slumbers dutifully above— he feels calm and at ease.”
