Chapter 4 of my fic Stanley Queer: A Guide to Winning the Cup (Badly) uses a very scientific coincidentally predictive algorithm that may or may not be able to predict the winner of a game depending on each team's QF. So if you want to read a fic that has:
Sidney Crosby breaking journalists and the internet then walking off into the sunset
"hot Russians" becoming a requirement for winning the Stanley cup
Alex Ovechkin being the chaos godmother the league never knew it needed
cursed algorithms that work 😦
... hope to see you in the fic!
---
Alex Ovechkin stands at the grill, spatula in one hand, beer in the other, shouting instructions in Russian and English interchangeably. A banner someone made as a joke hangs between two trees:
WELCOME TO OVI’S MATCHMAKER BBQ
HOT RUSSIANS - NICE CANADIANS NORTH AMERICANS - CUPS GUARANTEED*
(*results not actually guaranteed, please consult your local GM)
3 times Ilya Rozanov's radar set the course, and 1 time it didn't have to do it on its own.
The additional chapter that didn't quite make the cut (mainly because it was too long and I couldn't figure out how to cut it, so here it is:
The kid is not a problem, Ilya keeps telling himself that.
He watches the rookie come off a drill, chest heaving, sweat darkening the collar of his practice jersey. He watches him nod at every instruction like he’s signing a contract, watches him flinch - just a little - when music in the rink spikes or someone shouts across the ice.
Ilya watches him leave first. Not in a sulk, or with headphones slammed on, or a door kicked. Just…helmet off, head down, skates unlaced fast and tidy, then gone down the corridor before the rest of the room has even started chirping each other about the last scrimmage.
“Something?” Wiebe asks quietly beside him, eyes tracking the same retreating back.
“I don’t know yet,” Ilya says. “That’s the problem.”
---
The kid’s name is Rihards Ozols, from a small town outside Riga, Latvian accent still softening his consonants. Defenceman, right shot, steady feet, good first pass. .
On the ice, Rihards is exactly what you want from a rookie. He listens, he adjusts, and he doesn’t freelance when he shouldn’t. He jumps into the rush when the system calls for it and stays on the right side of the puck when it doesn’t.
Off the ice, he’s…careful.
He sits at the edge of the room, not the middle. He laughs at jokes, but never starts them. He asks Dykstra and Park questions about gap control and stick positioning like he’s afraid of wasting their time.
He always, always refuses when someone says, “We’re going to the pub, you coming?”
“Next time,” he says, polite. “I call my family tonight.”
There is always a reason: video. Laundry, phone. One time, visa stuff. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d chalk it up to shyness and move on, but he does know better. He’s watched too many kids sand themselves down to fit into rooms that weren’t built for them and he’s watched what happens when you ignore that itch at the base of your skull that says this one needs watching.
So when Rihards is the first one out of the room again, Ilya’s radar pings.
He just…can’t tell what it’s saying.
---
It’s Shane who gives it a shape.
They’re on the couch, legs tangled, some cooking show playing on mute. Ilya is half-dozing, hand under Shane’s T-shirt, thumb drawing circles on his hip.
“Hey,” Shane says eventually, which means he’s been thinking for a while.
“Mm?”
“You got a read on Ozols yet?”
The question wakes Ilya up properly.
“Not full one,” he says. “Why?”
“He’s good,” Shane says. “On the ice, I mean. Reads plays, doesn’t panic when we get pinned. I like him.”
“But,” Ilya prompts.
“But he’s got that…look,” Shane says, searching. “Not the ‘I hate it here’ one - the other one. The ‘if I breathe wrong, someone loses their house’ one.”
Ilya opens his eyes. “What?”
Shane grimaces.
“I recognise it,” he says. “I played with a couple of kids who had that look for years, before Ottawa.”
He picks at a loose thread on the cushion. “We weren’t poor,” Shane says. “But minor hockey is expensive. Camps, travel, off-ice stuff - it adds up. I’m lucky because my parents never had to stretch for all of it. But I spent half my teens watching my teammates not eat when we were on the road because hockey was expensive enough and a Big Mac was too much of a luxury.”
He rubs his thumb over Ilya’s knuckles.
“I watched Ozols the other day,” Shane goes on. “Per diem came out, he checked his banking app three times before he put it in his wallet. On the plane he had some government website open - visa rules, tax treaties, both languages. In the hotel? Skipped the team dinner, ate instant noodles in his room.”
“Maybe he likes noodles,” Ilya says automatically.
“So does Lindy, but not even he eats instant noodles that often.” Shane pauses, says. “I also know the face of someone converting euros to dollars and back every time he looks at a menu.”
He shifts, voice softer.
“I don’t think he’s uncomfortable with us,” he says. “Or with the queerest team thing, or with us being us. I think he’s terrified of being a problem. Especially to you.”
“Why to me?” Ilya asks, genuinely puzzled.
“You’re his captain,” Shane says. “And you’re you. He grew up watching you on TV.” He snorts. “If you breathe in his direction, he looks like he’s going to ascend.”
Ilya winces, because it’s true.
“The last thing a kid like that wants to do,” Shane says, “is walk up to his idol and say, ‘hey, I’m overwhelmed and scared and my visa paperwork makes me want to puke.’”
Ilya’s radar, which had been quietly humming, spikes.
“So something is off,” he says. “Just not the way I thought.”
“How did you think?” Shane asks.
Ilya hesitates.
He thinks of the kid leaving early, avoiding cameras, going very still when reporters crowd near the “queerest team in the NHL” graphics. He thinks of small-town rinks and what gets said when no one from the Gazette is listening.
“I thought maybe he was…uncomfortable,” Ilya admits. “With us. With Pride. With attention. Not in ‘I hate you’ way. Just…thinking we are too much. Or dangerous for him back home.”
Shane’s expression softens. “Like Mark.”
Ilya nods.
“That’s not nothing,” Shane says. “But I think the louder alarm is ‘I can’t afford to fuck this up.’”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “So. What do we do?”
Shane huffs a tiny laugh. “Look at us, two of the most famous men in hockey, and the answer is still ‘tell Wiebe and ops and pick someone who is not us to talk to him first.’”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “We are not subtle.”
Shane leans over and kisses his forehead.
“Your radar’s working,” he says. “You just need more data.”
---
The next day, Ilya corners Wiebe outside the video room.
“Ozols,” he says.
Wiebe raises an eyebrow.
“Good morning to you too,” he says. “What about him?”
“He is good player,” Ilya says. “You know this. Smart. Quiet. Does not cheat. Works hard.”
“I sense a ‘but,’” Wiebe says.
“But he is not…relaxing,” Ilya says carefully. “He leaves early every day. He never comes to dinners. He looks like he is going to throw up when cameras get too close. I do not know if it is culture, money, family, or visa. I just know if we ignore it, it will become problem later. Maybe for him. Maybe for room.”
Wiebe folds his arms.
“You think he’s…bigoted?” he asks, direct but neutral. “About Pride, about you and Shane?”
“I don’t know,” Ilya says. “He has not said anything bad. He does not flinch at us. He flinches at attention. But he is from small place. The world has not been kind to kids like us in small places.” He shrugs, frustrated. “My radar says ‘watch him.’ It does not say ‘why.’”
Wiebe nods slowly. “Who else sees him?” he asks.
“Karlsen,” Ilya says. “They play together a lot. Shane sees things too.”
“Okay,” Wiebe says. “I’ll talk to them. Last thing we want is you stomping through his anxiety with all your…presence.”
“I am very delicate,” Ilya says, offended.
Wiebe snorts. “Sure you are. But let the quieter weirdos go first.”
---
Karlsen gets there on a bike.
They’re side by side in the gym, both on stationary bikes, sweat beading on their foreheads. The TV is muted, some midday sports show rolling B-roll of Haas highlights.
“You know we don’t get a bonus for doing extra ten minutes every day, right?” Karlsen says eventually.
Rihards keeps his eyes on the display.
“I need to work,” he says. “I am not-” He cuts himself off. “I just need to work.”
Karlsen watches his legs, not his face. “You ever been on a team that didn’t need you to be perfect to keep you?” he asks.
Rihards’ jaw tightens. “Perfect is not possible,” he says. “Just not bad enough to send home.”
Karlsen hums. “Latvia, yeah? Small town? One rink?”
“Yes,” Rihards says warily.
“Hockey’s not cheap there either,” Karlsen says.
Rihards laughs, a short, bitter sound. “My parents still pay loan for first academy. My uncle co-signs visa for junior. My grandfather sells car so I can go tournament in Sweden.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I get drafted? Good. But contract is not big number like Haas or Hollander. It is…enough. If I keep it.”
He stares at the numbers on the bike.
“If I go back with nothing, it is not just ‘oh, unlucky, try again,’” he says. “It is my family having less house, less car, less…everything. I cannot be problem here.”
Karlsen nods, something in him recognising the shape. “I’m from here - Prairies. My family’s been in Canada forever. Names still Scandinavian, bank accounts not so much.” He gives a small smile. “We remortgaged the house for my last year of AAA. My dad still jokes about it when he wants me to buy dinner.”
Rihards glances over. “You do not look like you worry,” he says.
“I do it quietly,” Karlsen admits. “And I talk to people now so it doesn’t eat me alive.” He wipes his face with a towel. “You know that’s allowed, right? Talking.”
“To who?” Rihards asks. “Coach? GM? ‘Hello Mr. Lemaire, I am scared about visa, please do not think I am stupid?’”
Karlsen snorts. “Maybe not like that, but we have people. Hockey ops, team services, HR. Their whole job is to keep our lives from falling apart so we can play.” He leans on the handlebars.
“And you have us,” he adds. “You think you’re the only one who came here on other people’s sacrifices?”
Rihards looks away. “If I say I am scared,” he says, voice low, “maybe they think I cannot do job. And then I lose spot anyway.”
“Or,” Karlsen says, “maybe they fix the part that’s scaring you so you can do the job.”
He nudges Rihards’ shoulder with his own. “Ottawa is weird, in a good way. They’d rather you say ‘I’m overwhelmed’ than pretend you’re fine and implode in March. Ask half the room.”
Rihards’ mouth twitches. “I would ask, but everyone I want to ask is…big.”
“Big like Hayes,” Karlsen says. “Big like Barrett. Big like Captain.”
“Yes,” Rihards says, embarrassed. “They already did so much. I do not want to add my stupid feelings.”
“Newsflash,” Karlsen says, shaking his head. “They want to be added to. That’s the whole point of this place.”
He takes a breath. “How about this. Tomorrow, you and I go see team services together. We ask them to walk you through your visa, contract, taxes. What’s real risk, what’s just your brain doing Latvian efficiency. You don’t have to go alone.”
“Team services,” Rihards repeats, like it’s a spell.
“They already helped Park and Lindholm and half the Swedes figure out their paperwork,” Karlsen says. “It’s literally their job.”
Rihards is quiet for a long time. “Okay,” he says finally. “Tomorrow.”
“Good,” Karlsen says. “And if you bail, I will tell Shane. Then you really have problems.”
That gets a startled laugh. “Okay,” Rihards says again. “Tomorrow.”
---
Shane picks his moment in the video room.
“Hey,” he says when Rihards pokes his head in. “Come in. Close the door.”
Rihards obeys, stiff. “Am I late?” he asks with a slight hint of panic. “Coach said-”
“You’re fine,” Shane hurries to assure him. “This is just us. Hockey first, then the other thing.”
“The other thing?” Rihards echoes.
“Yes. The part where we talk about all the stuff in your head that isn’t rush patterns.”
He lets the kid squirm for a second, then hits play. They go through clips. Gap control, stick angle, what to do when Haas is flying and looks like he’s going to try something ridiculous. It’s easy; this is Shane’s native language and, judging by the way Rihards’ shoulders loosen, his too. He probably thinks it’s weird that it’s Shane doing this and not Spencer and his team, but they’d had a plan to talk to Rihards, and Coach okay’d it
Then Shane pauses on a neutral zone freeze frame and turns in his chair.
“Okay,” he says. “Now the other part.”
Rihards grips his water bottle a little too hard.
“I talked to Karlsen,” Shane says. “And to Wiebe. And, you know, my husband. He worries. It’s cute.”
A tiny, startled snort escapes Rihards.
“We’re not here to tell you you’re wrong to be scared,” Shane says. “We’re here to tell you you don’t have to do it alone.”
He leans back. “I know what it’s like,” Shane says. “To feel like one mistake means you’ve wasted your family’s sacrifices. To have everyone call you a ‘great story’ and ‘golden boy’ and think, okay, so if I screw up, that’s it.”
He taps his fingers against the armrest.
“I also know what it’s like to be the guy who came out and watched trust evaporate in a room that said it loved him,” he adds. “Different kind of fear, same tightness in your chest.”
Rihards stares at the frozen image on the screen.
“In my town, hockey is…” he gropes for the word. “Luxury. Only rich kids, usually. We are not rich. My parents say, ‘we cut everything else for this.’ New clothes, holidays, restaurant. My grandfather still work when he should be retired.” He swallows. “If I come back with nothing, I do not know how they fix it.”
He glances at Shane and then away.
“And now I am here, with you,” he says. “With Rozanov. With Barrett. With Haas. This team is…” His hand flutters, meaning queerest team, Pride, all of it. “My coach back home jokes, ‘if you go there, you must be tough. They are very open.’ I think, okay, I will be tough. I will not cry, not complain, not ask. I will not be problem to my captain who already did so much.”
Shane has to exhale carefully. “Hey, you idolise Ilya. I get it. I did too. But here’s a secret: he does not want you to be quiet and hurting to impress him. He wants you to be here in five years, not just this one.”
He folds his arms. “There is a difference between being ‘a problem’ and ‘having needs,’” he says, gentle. “This organisation is built on the idea that people are allowed to have needs and still belong here. If that wasn’t true, I’d still be shutting up in Montreal and Ilya would have retired on a yacht somewhere.”
Rihards huffs a watery laugh at that.
“Team services, HR, operations - those people exist so we can play hockey and not become immigration lawyers in our spare time,” Shane goes on. “Karlsen already set it up. Tomorrow, you two go in. They explain exactly what your visa situation is, what would actually get you in trouble and what wouldn’t. They help you with the boring forms. That’s not you being a problem - that’s them doing their job.”
He pauses.
“And on the hockey side,” he adds, “if media is overwhelming, we adjust that too. Harris is in comms; he’s already used to wrangling me and Ilya. If you need fewer scrums on back-to-backs, or smaller settings, he can structure that. That’s his job.”
Rihards blinks. “Harris…will not think I am weak?” he asks.
“He’ll be thrilled you didn’t wait until you blew up on live TV,” Shane says wryly. “He loves proactive problems.” He leans in a little. “Look, being honest about what you need is not being ungrateful - it’s being professional. You can’t play your best if half your brain is picturing your grandfather’s car every time you miss a pass.”
Rihards’ fingers tighten and then loosen on the bottle. “I thought you needed me to be tough and quiet,” he admits, voice very small. “I did not know you wanted me to be honest.”
“I want you to still be here in five years,” Shane says. “Tough and quiet doesn’t get you that by itself. Talking helps.”
He smiles, crooked.
“And if you don’t talk?” he says. “Then I talk at you until you give up and come with me. I’m very annoying.”
“Karlsen said this,” Rihards murmurs.
“Smart guy,” Shane says. “We’re keeping him.”
He reaches for the remote again. “Tomorrow: team services and HR,” he says. “Today: stop overcommitting on the PK when Haas is lurking on the weak side.”
“Everyone overcommits when Haas is lurking,” Rihards mutters. “He is menace.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Shane says, and hits play.
---
A couple of weeks later, Ilya notices two things.
One: Rihards is still more likely than not to leave on the early side, but he’s not sprinting for the door anymore. Sometimes he’s at Park’s stall, arguing about exits; sometimes he’s at Lindholm’s, trading Scandinavian swear words; sometimes he’s sitting with Karlsen, just breathing.
Two: he walks over to Ilya’s stall before he goes.
“Captain,” he says.
Ilya looks up, surprised.
“Yes?”
“I…wanted to say thank you,” Rihards says, cheeks pink.
“For what?” Ilya asks.
“For seeing something,” Rihards says. “Even if you did not see…why. If you had not told Coach you were worried, maybe Karlsen does not talk to me. Maybe Shane does not drag me to team services and HR. Maybe I keep thinking I have to be robot until something breaks.”
He shrugs, embarrassed.
“I am still scared,” he admits. “But less. Now I know my visa does not explode if I sleep eight hours. The woman in HR even laughs when I bring colour-coded questions.”
Ilya huffs a laugh.
“They like colour-coding,” he says. “It makes them feel useful.”
“And Harris…” Rihards hesitates, then smiles. “He said I can ask for smaller scrums after back-to-backs. That was allowed. I did not know it was allowed.”
Ilya feels something unclench in his chest.
“Good,” he says. “It should have been clear it was allowed, but it was not. But now, we are fixing it.”
Rihards takes a breath. “I also want you to know,” he says, stumbling a little, “I am not uncomfortable with you. Or with Barrett. Or with…this.” He gestures vaguely at the rainbow tape, the Hollanov photos, the framed article about the queerest team in the NHL. “In my town, some people say things. They already say things because I am here. But I…choose you. If that makes sense.”
Ilya’s throat goes tight. “Yes,” he says quietly. “It makes very much sense.”
He rests a hand briefly on the kid’s shoulder. “I was half right,” he says. “You did need watching. Just not because you were danger. Because the world had already put too much on you.”
Rihards exhales, like he’s been holding that breath since camp. “It feels lighter now,” he says. “Not easy. But lighter.”
“Good,” Ilya says. “We built this place so kids like you do not have to carry it alone.”
He pats his shoulder once and lets go. “Go eat with the others,” he orders gently. “If you want. If you do not, that is fine too. Just know you are invited because they like you, not because they feel sorry.”
A small, startled smile flickers over Rihards’ face. “I’ll come. Maybe not every time. But today, yes.”
“Today is good place to start,” Ilya says.
As the kid walks away, Karlsen catches Ilya’s eye and gives a little nod. Shane, passing behind him, squeezes his wrist once - a quiet see?
Ilya leans back on his stall, listening to the low buzz of voices.
His radar wasn’t wrong.
It just needed help filling in the map.
And in a room like this - where Karlsen and Shane and a whole infrastructure now exist to catch what he can’t name - he can live with that.
I'm back to writing, and being the type of writer who will do 2 weeks worth of research followed by another 2 weeks of world building before posting anything, i have So Much unposted work... mainly the socmed takes that didn't make it into the final cut.
So if you are NOT into Game Changers - Heated Rivalry, you might want to unfollow me now since it will be a lot 🤪
If you are, and would like to read my Empire universe, would love it if you could join me on AO3 as well 🥰
https://archiveofourown.org/series/5891921
This is how the Centaurs built an empire in seven years, and why they look ready for the seven after that
And here's chapter 2 of the main universe story for your reading pleasure 😊
(Will contain minor spoilers, but also hopefully intrigue you enough to keep reading 😉
POSTSCRIPT: A Thank‑You From a No‑Longer‑Long‑Suffering Fan
There was a time when covering the Centaurs meant learning to write the same story 82 different ways. Another missed assignment, another 5–2 loss. Another night when the tickets were selling for half price and the loudest sound in the rink was the refrigeration.
Then a few people made decisions, some seemingly small and inconsequential, but it was in those decisions that history was made.
Harris Drover got hired and walked into the building expected to shape the Centaurs' public image without having to pretend the rainbow pins on his jacket meant something it didn’t.
Ilya Rozanov chose Ottawa when he could have gone anywhere, talking about “wanting to build something” in a way that sounded like PR until he actually did it.
(Yes, now we know that he moved for romantic reasons, but at the time, nobody in Ottawa had a clue.)
Troy Barrett came out and was met, not with half‑hearted statements, but with an organisation that staked its own reputation on backing him, not just in his sexuality, but in his support for victims of abuse.
Shane Hollander, outed on fan video and worn down by subtler shifts in an old room, walked away from comfort and history and big‑market certainty to come home on a discount that made no spreadsheet sense.
A locker room that by and large decided that team was family, and they had each others' backs.
As fans, we got to see the dividends.
We watched Rozanov and Hollander pull off that jump shot and laughed, then realised no one else’s team had players who could do that. We watched the first Cup get raised and thought, “If it’s only this, it’s enough,” and then watched a second one go up a year later with half the roster taped together and other half running on fumes and a refusal to stay down.
We watched Haas go from the file name on a draft card to the kid every ten‑year‑old in the region pretends to be. We watched Karlsen, Lindholm, Park and Jónsson arrive and somehow never look lost for long. We watched LaPointe, Young and Holmberg go from “who? from Ottawa you said? Who cares?” to “oh no, we have to play against them now?” on other teams.
We watched a team that once felt like a waystation become a place players talked about retiring in. We watched stars take less money and less term at the end, not because they couldn’t get more, but because they didn’t want to put on another jersey.
If you strip it down, the Centaurs did all the hard, boring things right: they drafted well, they paid their stars when they could and rewarded them handsomely at a later date for their loyalty when they couldn't. They handled the cap creatively, they made smart bets on staff and systems. But they also did something harder to measure: they treated love and friendship as assets, not distractions; they assumed that if you built a room where people were safe and seen, they’d stay, and they’d play their best longer than the models predicted.
Some-die hard fans argue that you need systems, that you can’t build a team on the power of love and friendship; the younger fans joke that you can, however, do it with vibes and queer love. My opinion is an age-old wisdom: por qué no los dos? You still need talent, work, and ruthless decisions. You still have to trade friends and say hard goodbyes and block shots that break hands - but you also need what we’ve had here: a captain who uses his influence to widen the circle, a superstar who leaves one empire to build another in a place that will have him as he is, a front office willing to look at someone like Dan McLeod and see genius where other people saw “too much,” a fanbase that kept showing up through the bad years so they were here to make noise in the good ones.
The proof, they say, is in the pudding.
As someone who sat through the empty years, who wrote about seemingly endless losses in front of half a crowd, I don’t have anything sophisticated left to say. Just this: thank you. If this is the end of our only dynasty run, we'll still treasure it for the gift it is. But if, like I suspect it is, this is the start of something new, then thank you feels small, but it’s what I’ve got. Thank you for the Cups, for the late nights, for the ribs nobody talked about until the parade, for the rookies who stepped in when they had no business being ready, for the way the building sounds now compared to what it used to.
However this particular spring ends, those of us who were here at the beginning - and the middle, and the scary bits in between - will always know what we saw: an empire built in seven years, and the foundations of the next seven already laid.
As Ottawa's no longer long-suffering fans, we have become custodians of proof that in a league still suffering from bigoted traditions and designed for parity, an empire is still possible - and that you can build one without losing the parts of yourself that matter most.
Thank you
By Jenna Ritchie, Centaurs beat reporter, Ottawa Gazette
The concept of the NOTP as a larger part of fandom etiquette. No moralizing tirades, no condescending screeds about media literacy, no trying to equate shipping or not shipping something with being better than someone else. Just...oh, that ship? Nah, that's a NOTP for me.
Your Batman as king, children as princes thing has me THINKING. There’s a very teehee funny angle here but there’s also an angle of the kids trying over and over again to place that power in his hands. The kids protecting Batman first no matter what. The play of frustrations there… when Bruce rejects that position what does it say about them, as the “princes”? When Bruce won’t let them protect him, what does that mean about their positions and their relationships to Batman?
Yeah! I was rambling a bit in the tags of that post so I'll try and clean them up into coherent sentences here. Jason can be the Prince of Gotham and Bruce can be pissed about that, but what it really means is that, by default, Bruce is the king now. He just doesn't realize it. Bruce Wayne, the figure, is still the Prince of Gotham because he hasn't raised a successor up. But Batman? He's a King, in all but name. There's some things you outsource, at a certain point. Him delegating Gotham (in part) to his children is one of those interesting transfers of power, subtle as it is. A lot of Bruce's issues come from him still trying to play Prince right against his own kids. He has so much power, so much respect and deference from them, but he doesn't understand. He doesn't see how, even as Jason claws at his own power, there's so much of it he wants to give back to Bruce, if that makes sense. All of his children want to give it back to him -- they do the groundwork and bring back issues and patrol routes etc for his audience. They counsel him, but they still look to him for a final decision. They might not fully abide by the decision, but it's still his city. And there's a certain amount of respect that title begets. Even from prodigal sons like Jason and Dick, with their own loyalties.
ouch so sorry to overstep but this has too much meat on the bone not for me to gnaw-
(idk what yall are talking about specifically but the idea of Bruce as King and his kids his Princes/Princess's is everything to me)
Because Bruce is King. He is regal and demanding of respect- when he speaks gods listen. Others bow to him, to this otherworldly, of their world man.
He will never claim the title, never dare to say the words aloud, never dare to ever take power for himself.
He is Gotham's Prince, he exerts her will. That is all. He will never overstep that boundary, never dare to spread his reach to another city- without realizing that he already has.
Bludhaven is one of Gotham's territories whether or not the people know it- because they are protected by one of the King's Princes. Dick will never admit to Bruce this fact. Will never say he mutters "what would Bruce do?" under his breath when a case gets hard.
But he does. They all do.
They will contradict him and argue and refuse and draw lines in the sand- but at the end of the day they will all lower their heads and submit. They can't help it. It's an instinct so utterly ingrained in them- so utterly written into their very bones and DNA.
Bruce is their King- they may offer counsel and may correct errors, but when it comes down to it they will all fall in line behind him. Not at his side.
They will try to push in front of him, try to diminish their own power even further to mere knights at the King's abet and command- but Bruce will never allow it. He is King even if he'll never say the words, never even think them, but he cannot let his subjects children die under his subjected rule.
Its a battle he faces everyday. Its also most likely the reason why they have such issues. Because if Bruce would just take power and stop refusing it, stop being a Prince and accept his title as King, then it'd be so much easier.
Because he tries to be one for the people. Bruce is the Prince that rides around the countryside and gets invited into homes for dinner and gives coins and chocolates to children and charms the public.
But its not his job anymore. That job has fallen to his children. Because now he has the crown.
Bruce is for the people and he's supposed to be for the greater good. Not for the individual- but for the majority.
That's why his kids exist. To be for the individual. But Bruce doesn't tick that way. He can't hear a scream and turn away. Can't look at his advisors and say "check it out" He has to be the one on the scene. He has to be the first drop of blood split. The first bruise. The first one out the door to get shot. The first line of defense.
Even as they try so hard to tell him he's not. That he isn't the protector. Not now. He's the protected. That when shit gets hard and real- that he's the General at the back of the rows and rows and rows of soldiers- delegating and shouting orders. Not on the front lines.
But Bruce doesn't work that way. And that's the problem.
The Gotham gangs all pigeonhole Red Hood as a guns guy, so they think they’ve won when they corner him during a firefight and he finally — finally — runs out of ammo.
Jason just shrugs, flips his pistols around in his hands, and starts using them as clubs until he loses them and reverts to straight-out, Gotham-dirty brawling as the goons suddenly realize that, yeah, this 6’4 260 lb freak was trained by Batman “the teeth obliterator” himself.
dededos
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
annaxmalina
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
