"Bruce Wayne is the mask, Batman is the real person" orrrrr, we do a fun and way more complicated thing where Bruce Wayne and Batman are masks but so are Bruce and B, and you never quite know which one you're talking to when you first walk into the Cave so all the Batkids preface their requests with "I need Batman on this" or "I need to talk to Bruce" and it gets to the point where those masks are only discrete, only become truly separate, via the needs of his children, what they need him to be in the moment, and how they need all those different parts of him, not just what he considers the mask, Not Just Batman. all of them.
It didn't take Stan long to realize he was different. Different from his mom. His dad. His teachers and peers.
From his brother.
Although, looking back on it, it was shocking he ever thought he was the same at all. No one else in his family was quite like him, and he never saw anyone in their beach side town that looked or acted like he did.
It was an awareness that crept over him like moss, then slammed into him like a tidal wave.
First, the whispers. Always constant, always there. Small voices that muttered with the voices of everyone around him. He would hear his mother talk to a client, then at the same time hear the little whisper of her voice in his mind mutter and chuckle as they soaked in her lies and clung to them like pearls of truth.
His Pa would sit silently at the table for every meal, barely talking as Ma chittered and chatted, and Shermie went on and on about his day. To anyone else he appeared a gruff, uncaring father, but the little voice in Stan's head muttered and grumbled about finances and luxuries, suckers and bills. A constant worry, a ever hanging stress.
How he cared, in his own way.
Shermie was the worst though. While Ma would drop lies like breathing and Pa only seemed to breath, Shermie would smile down at Stan, hold his hands tightly, and tell him how everything was going to be OK. That the kids of their neighborhood were just jealous. That one day they'd grow out of their childish insults.
But all his whispering voice ever muttered was how he couldn't blame them. Not when Stan was such a freak.
And Stan was. Even without the whispers that plagued him every hour of every day. No one else had six fingers on two hands. No one else saw the world the same way he did. Felt it the way he did. Experienced the world doubled and split, with four hands, four legs, four eyes and ears and two minds that flowed back and forth into and out of each other.
No one else was born with two bodies.
One of them, the one with six fingers, his ma had named Stanford. The other one, the 'normal' one, was named Stanley. It took him ages to realize that when Shermie or Ma called for Stanford they only wanted his sixer mouth to say words, and when they said Stanley they wanted the other, and if he got it wrong he'd get scolded for playing tricks.
(Only his Pa called him Stan, but even he seemed to expect one mouth to talk, and he hated it when Stan tried talking with both at the same time, or guessed wrong on which body he wanted Stan to talk with.
In some ways it was nice, having someone call him by the name that meant all of him.
In most ways he wished Pa would just call him by one of his bodies full names like everyone else)
By the time he was seven he insisted his bodies be called Lee and Ford. It was much easier to respond that way, even if he still stumbled and said 'My Ford' or 'My Lee' instead of 'My Brother' like everyone insisted he should.
It felt weird calling himself his own brother.
There was only one of him after all, even if he had two of himself.
When he was ten Pa signed him up for boxing lessons. It was there that he learned how to split his attention, so that his Ford could still study for school, even as his Lee was getting his teeth knocked out. From there he split his chores and homework with himself. He could get all his homework done with his Ford, while his Lee could help around the shop or cleaned up his room. Whenever he signed up or was put into competitions, he could shove all his nerves and exited energy into his Lee while his Ford focused on standing in front of crowds and showing off his smarts to the world.
Plus doing homework twice was torture, and bulking up two bodies exhausting.
Better to copy it over once, and have the other take all the heat from the bullies that roamed the school yard.
Stan didn't have friends, but that was fine too. Having someone else around meant explaining why he would stop a task with Lee and have Ford takeover, or why he would talk out loud to himself in two bodies, mouths bouncing sentences back and forth to help make sense of things.
(The only person he ever tried to explain the whispers and his bodies to was his brother, who smiled warmly at him and whispered about how he couldn't wait to get as far away from him as possible.
Shermie left the day he turned eighteen, and Stan didn't see him again for almost ten years.)
When Stan was twelve he found the most beautiful wreckage in the world, and made plans to fix it up and set sail. When he was fourteen he started high school, and slowly realized he couldn't sail away from his problems.
When he was sixteen he put all dreams of childish adventures aside, focusing purely on his studies.
(If his Lee kept wandering to the beach and standing on the prow of a half-finished boat, well.
His Ford was getting his homework done, and that was all that really mattered.)
When Stan was seventeen he realized doing all his schoolwork with one body meant the rest of the world saw his other one as a useless dead weight. Everyone around him kept telling him how he was hanging onto his coat tails and riding on his success, and there was no way to tell them that Lee was Ford and they were Stan, and he was only himself, split into two.
He wasn't sure he could leave a part of himself behind.
He'd never tried.
(He didn't want to).
So while WCT was the chance of a lifetime, it was also the risk of one. He knew if anyone ever found out he was two people they wouldn't understand, and one or both of him would get thrown into a loony bin faster than Shermie ran off into the night.
Better to go somewhere no one would notice how he would know things only 'Ford' should.
It was easy to have his Lee sneak in and break his own project. Easier still to sadly drag himself home and tell Pa with his Ford how WCT hadn't been impressed.
Harder to control himself when Pa threw his Ford out about.
Easy to have his Lee follow.
When he found Gravity Falls, Stan was sure this was the place he'd finally belong. No more pretending to be one whole person staying in the library for long hours. No more struggling to feed two mouths and keeping on top of a course load meant for two but manageable if one person could be in two places at once. No more shoving one body into the backseat of a car while the other got a nice warm bed. No more migraines from trying to block out the whispers pressing in around him.
No more pretending he was anything less than he was.
Stan Filbrick Pines was one mind, born across two bodies. One Ford, one Lee, one Stan.
It was like breathing fresh air for the first time. There weren't any more eyes on him, he could finally relax and do things the way he wanted to, when he wanted to. Ford could start a task, and Lee could finish it without saying a word, because he didn't need to say a thing. Ford could stay in the cabin and write about everything Lee saw in the woods, Lee could clean up the house while Ford trekked into the mountains and did field notes. One of him could go into town and get groceries, while the other slowly walked around the kitchen to see what he needed.
There was no one around to give him odd looks.
Or if they did, they knew better than to say anything.
It was perfect.
"Well Well Well," Bill said, as Stan blinked into a starry night sky full of seagulls and glittering like the beaches of his childhood, "What do we have here?"
"I'm-" Stan coughed, then blinked down at his two hands. His right hand had six, his left five.
He couldn't find his other body. Couldn't feel it at all.
Like he'd only ever been one whole person.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
"I'm-What is this?" Stan looked up at the smiling triangle floating around him, then moved to stare in awe at the swirling ocean of stars around him. Glistening starlit fish swam in dizzying patterns, books flapped and called out with the voices of gulls.
Equations floated past him, along with gold coins.
"This," The triangle said, drawing his attention, "Is the start of a great friendship. The names Bill Cipher, and you Stan, you've caught my eye."
Its eye curled up, almost like it was smiling. A snap of its black fingers brought forth a pair of cushioned chairs and a chess set. The triangle sat down on one, then gestured for Stan to take the other. He did, still gaping at the twilight world around him.
"Tell me you what Stan," Bill said, propping its side up with a hand and lazily waving a glass into the other, "I'm amused! You're whole-" It gestured to him with the hand holding the glass, "-That!"
"That?" Stan asked. His mind was still struggling to come to terms with his limited mobility, and he kept trying to poke at floating books with an extra set of hands he didn't have.
Sometimes he poked it anyway, much to his delight.
"Your mind!" Bill threw his hands wide, his eyes definitely smiling, "This things a gold mind! You've caught my interest, which means I'll lend you a hand. What d'you say,"
Bill leaned forward, his singular eye intense.
"Want some help with your research?"
"Wouldn't it be easier if you didn't have to sleep? Imagine the work you could get done!"
"I already get a lot of work done Bill."
"Yeah, but your meat sacks still shut down at the same time. Think about it, just let me in, then I can get the portal up and running even faster."
"I don't know..."
"C'mon Stansy, don't you trust me?"
"I do! I do, I just... two bodies is a lot to handle, even for me. And with Fiddleford-"
"Ugh. Just say you don't want me working on our project already. I'll just leave you two to figure it out and-"
"No! No- I do- I trust you! Please don't go, I really appreciate all the help, I.."
"Hmm? What was that?"
"How about just one. Would that suffice?"
"One what Stan?"
"One body."
It was all falling apart, slipping through his twenty two fingers faster than he could blink. First Fiddleford, now this.
It had been a lie, all of it.
And now the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and there was no one left to turn to. No one he could trust.
Four shoulders, and they still weren't enough to bear the weight of his foolishness.
Thankfully he hadn't been so taken with Bill that he'd surrendered himself completely.
"Come on Stan!" Bill groaned, flopping his head back and forth, "Whats a little dimensional conquest between buds!"
"We aren't buds." Stan slurred back. The two of them were in the living room, Stan laying face down on the couch in his Lee while Bill was tied to a chair in his Ford, where he'd been every night since Stan learned of his betrayal.
Where both of them had been, since Bill had done something to his connection to his Ford the second night. He could still control his Ford when his Ford was 'awake' but so long as Bill was puppeting it, his Lee was as awake as the demon was.
He had never been awake in one body before, and he had quickly learned to hate the feeling. His mind felt sluggish and slow, exhaustion heavy on his everything. He could feel the fog of his connection to his Ford on the edges of his mind, and the spiky tendrils of Bill's control.
Laying on the couch talking into the cushions was the best he could do like this.
The worst was that having his Ford wake up wouldn't make it better. The once easy control he had over his body was starting to stutter and strain, and neither body felt well rested. He'd be twice as exhausted, twice as foggy, and still tied to a chair.
How long had it been? How long since his Lee lost the energy to drag him into the kitchen? His Ford could sleep all it wanted, but if his Lee closed its eyes then he'd fall asleep and if Lee slept then Ford slept because Stan was sleeping but then Bill would be there and Ford would wake up and that would wake up Stan because he was Ford and he was Lee and he'd be back on the couch.
He was so tired.
A sharp stab to the back of his mind jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Stan blinked his eyes back into focus, then turned to squint at the demon.
Bill was grinning back, looking far too pleased with himself.
Not a great sign.
"Well look at that!" Bill crowed, smile so wide Stan could see every one of his own teeth, "That's were that is! I should of guessed the two of you had it buried pretty deep, but wow was I surprised to find it all the way down there!"
"What are you talking about." Stan sighed, closing his eyes, "Two of... where."
"This!"
The jolt went through him again, and he snapped his eyes open with a gasp. Energy was starting to buzz under his skin, buzzing and painful. He sucked in another gasp when it shot through him a third time, then hissed and rolled over at the fourth.
Bill was staring straight at him, smile as stiff and corpse like as it always was.
"Let me tell you, this wasn't easy to find!" Bill said cheerily, and Stan would have snapped something back if it didn't feel like electricity was running up and down his spine, "I mean, wow! You really did think you were one person, didn't you!"
"I-" Stan gasped, cold sweat breaking out over his skin and fingertips slowly numbing, "I am- I'm just- I'm Stan!"
"No."
There was a knot forming at the base of his skull. A pressure that had always been there, wrapped around and through his brain. Roots he didn't realize had grown with him sharply made him aware of their paths in his mind, tugging at feelings and memories, tearing at the very foundation of himself.
Stan would have screamed if he had the energy for it. All he could do was gasp and clutch his head, try to press himself back down.
"You're not."
There was a flash of light, then dark.
Before he knew what was happening, he was gone. Far away and deep inside himself, staring at and one with the a giant, twisting tree. Its roots were twisted deeply into sandy soil, its branches tangled with the stars.
As he stood there, crystal blue water lapping at his feet, he could feel it splintering. Dark tendrils were wrapped around the center, tearing at the bark. Small hands that swung down from-
Up from-
They were-
HE was-
He was standing on stars, roots tangled with galaxies, and above him the branches were tangled in an inverted sea, holding it up. Black hands were twisting from the midnight earth, up to the trunk and tearing into it and-
But he was looking-
The hands were hcalnigmibning-
The roots were-
branches tangled with the starswaves, rooted in place by sandsky
Stan looked up and saw-
Himself.
He was staring updown at a endless nightbeachsky, the tree bridging them together. Thicker than anything, holding doors and windows and memories and weight.
That's me, Stan thought, and Knew, and it was, that's Stan
Not just a tree. Not just the roots and the branch's. Its went down and connected every part of himself to himself. It was him, everything he was, had been, would be.
The thing Bill was tearing to pieces.
"Stop!" Stan shouted, lunging forward to try and tear the arms away from the tree. He didn't understand why or what it was, but every torn piece that was flung aside sent a jolt of agony through him. The demon was tearing him to pieces, and if he didn't stop him-
He didn't know.
He'd never been anyone other than himself.
"Get off" Stan jumpedgrabbed at the-
had the arms in his and they were-
too far away to reach he couldn't-
strong but this was his mind and he-
could feel himself tearing apart losing parts that-
was losing focus. It was getting hard to-
concentrate. he had to concentrate and-
There were so many. too many to count, endless as more shot out and he was-
So
Tired
Stan looked downup at himself, fear clear in his own face as something
Cracked
And
The
Tree
Snapped
In
TWO
It was fuzzy.
Everything was fuzzy. Soft.
Buzzing.
Buzz buzz buzzing
Grey. Gray.
Dull.
Then.
Hurt. Every part of every was hurting. Dull and throbbing.
And also.
A sound.
That hurt too.
He didn't want to be hurting. He wanted to sink back into the not feeling, where he didn't feel anything.
That was nice.
But the sounds kept sounding, and maybe if he made them stop, he could go back away.
Away away.
Back to the nothing.
It took a minute to remember he had to do things to make his body do things. Suck in air. Push it out. Suck it in. Let out a groan.
Or maybe a wheeze.
A sound.
One eyelid struggled to open. It hurt, and was heavy, and really, nothing was worth this amount of effort.
Best to go away.
Away away away.
He was so tired.
He was...
he was....
Who was he?
Memories, hazy and quiet, were pushed towards him.
Pushed, pushed at-
And it hurt. It hurthurthurt
but.
He was Stan.
Stan. That was... his name.
He was pretty sure.
Stan took in a steadying breath. Then another. And one more, before he found it in him to drag an eyelid open and squint out into the world.
He was already staring back at himself.
Weird.
Less weird, and more concerning, was the way the relief that had been clear on his face vanished, replaced by horror.
He felt the face he was attached to twist, but he couldn't-
He couldn't see out of his-
Something was wrong with his body.
His other body too. It was whispering to itself, head shaking and tears pouring down the sides.
"Stop that," he told it, making it flinch, "Why are you.."
Stan's brows furrowed, but the words he wanted were already sinking back down into the mist that was his brain.
Something was wrong.
He couldn't feel the rope digging into his Ford, couldn't see out of his Fords eyes, or taste his awful Ford breath.
He only felt like this when-
Right Bill.
Bill was here so he needed...
Sleep. He needed to sleep.
He was so tired.
Next to him his Ford shouted and raged, but it was fine.
it was fine.
He'd figure it out in the morning.
(Hey what if Stan and Ford had psychic twin powers and were so wrapped around each other they thought they were one person? And then Bill came around and chopped that connection to the ground?
Yes that is Ford screaming 'at himself' and freaking out because while 'his lee' was used to not feeling half of himself, his Ford was not. Neither are Stan or Ford in the traditional sense, as their memories and knowledge are split between them, but its not an even split (Bill made sure to nab all the parts he thought were important and keep them on the 'Ford' side of the divide) and so Fords still got most of their schooling in his mind)
i think the reason i relate to arthur so much has less to do with him as a king and more to do with how he was raised, especially with his dad.
growing up with a parent like that—someone who sets the standard for everything, who decides what’s right and wrong so absolutely—you don’t really get the space to figure yourself out. you just learn how to meet expectations. or at least how to try. and when you fall short, it doesn’t feel like you made a mistake, it feels like you are the mistake.
arthur was basically taught that love is conditional. that approval comes from being strong, being controlled, being “right.” there’s no room for doubt, or softness, or questioning anything. so of course he grows up rigid, defensive, sometimes harsh—because that’s what was modeled for him.
and i get that. like, when you’re used to being judged or corrected all the time, you start doing it to yourself. you second guess everything. you overcompensate. you either shut down or get defensive because it feels like you’re always one step away from being told you’re not good enough.
and then there’s the part where you still want their approval anyway. even when you know they’re wrong, even when they’ve hurt you, there’s still that instinct to prove yourself to them. to make them proud. and it’s frustrating because it keeps you tied to them in a way you don’t always want to be.
arthur carries that constantly. you can see how much of what he does is shaped by trying to live up to his father, even when he starts to realize his father’s worldview is flawed. and that kind of shift—when you realize the person who raised you isn’t always right, or maybe even caused harm—that messes with your sense of everything. because if they were wrong about that, what else were they wrong about? what does that make you, when you were raised on it?
i think that’s why he struggles so much with change. not because he’s incapable of it, but because changing means admitting that the foundation you were built on isn’t solid.
and i relate to that a lot. the unlearning. the guilt that comes with it. the feeling that you’re betraying something, even if that something hurt you. the way it takes time to separate who you actually are from who you were told to be.
arthur’s growth feels real to me because it’s not instant. he messes up. he clings to old beliefs. he has to be shown things more than once. but he does change, slowly, and it comes from questioning what he was taught and choosing something different, even when it’s hard.
and i think that’s the part that sticks with me: the idea that you can come from something rigid, something damaging even, and still choose to be better.
Sri Lankan Fairies and Senegalese Goddesses: Mixing Mythology as a Mixed Creator
[Note: this archive ask was submitted before the Masterpost rules took effect in 2023. The ask has been abridged for clarity.]
@reydjarinkenobi asked:
Hi, I’m half Sri Lankan/half white Australian, second gen immigrant though my mum moved when she was a kid.
My main character for my story is a mixed demigod/fae. [...] Her bio mum is essentially a Scottish/Sri Lankan fairy and her other bio mum (goddess) is a goddess of my own creation, Nettamaar, who’s name is derived from [...] Wolof words [...]. The community of mages that she presided over is from the South Eastern region of Senegal [...] In the beginning years of European imperialism, the goddess basically protected them through magic and by blessing a set of triplets effectively cutting them off from the outside world for a few centuries [...]
I was unable to find a goddess that fit the story I wanted to tell [...] and also couldn’t find much information on the internet for local gods, which is why I have created my own. I know that the gods in Hinduism do sort of fit into [the story] but my Sri Lankan side is Christian and I don’t feel comfortable representing the Hindu gods in the way that I will be this goddess [...]. I wanted to know if any aspect of the community’s history is problematic as well as if I should continue looking further to try and find an African deity that matched my narrative needs?
I was also worried that having a mixed main character who’s specifically half black would present problems as I can’t truly understand the black experience. I plan on getting mixed and black sensitivity readers once I finish my drafts [...] I do take jabs at white supremacy and imperialism and I I am planning to reflect my feelings of growing up not immersed in your own culture and feeling overwhelmed with what you don’t know when you get older [...].
I’m sorry for the long ask but I don’t really have anyone to talk to about writing and I’m quite worried about my story coming across as insensitive or problematic because of cultural history that I am not educated enough in.
Reconciliation Requires Research
First off: how close is this world’s history to our own, omitting the magic? If you’re aiming for it to be essentially parallel, I would keep in mind that Senegal was affected by the spread of Islam before the Europeans arrived, and most people there are Muslim, albeit with Wolof and other influences.
About your Scottish/Sri Lankan fairy character: I’ll point you to this previous post on Magical humanoid worldbuilding, Desi fairies as well as this previous post on Characterization for South Asian-coded characters for some of our commentary on South Asian ‘fae’. Since she is also Scottish, the concept can tie back to the Celtic ideas of the fae.
However, reconciliation of both sides of her background can be tricky. Do you plan on including specific Sri Lankan mythos into her heritage? I would tread carefully with it, if you plan to do so. Not every polytheistic culture will have similar analogues that you can pull from.
To put it plainly, if you’re worried about not knowing enough of the cultural histories, seek out people who have those backgrounds and talk to them about it. Do your research thoroughly: find resources that come from those cultures and read carefully about the mythos that you plan to incorporate. Look for specificity when you reach out to sensitivity readers and try to find sources that go beyond a surface-level analysis of the cultures you’re looking to portray.
~ Abhaya
I see you are drawing on Gaelic lore for your storytelling. Abhaya has given you good links to discussions we’ve had at WWC and the potential blindspots in assuming, relative to monotheistic religions like Christianity, that all polytheistic and pluralistic lore is similar to Gaelic folklore. Fae are one kind of folklore. There are many others. Consider:
Is it compatible? Are Fae compatible with the Senegalese folklore you are utilizing?
Is it specific? What ethnic/religious groups in Senegal are you drawing from?
Is it suitable? Are there more appropriate cultures for the type of lore you wish to create?
Remember, Senegalese is a national designation, not an ethnic one, and certainly not a designation that will inform you with respect to religious traditions. But more importantly:
...Research Requires Reconciliation
My question is why choose Senegal when your own heritage offers so much room for exploration? This isn’t to say I believe a half Sri-Lankan person shouldn’t utilize Senegalese folklore in their coding or vice-versa, but, to put it bluntly, you don’t seem very comfortable with your heritage. Religions can change, but not everything cultural changes when this happens. I think your relationship with your mother’s side’s culture offers valuable insight to how to tackle the above, and I’ll explain why.
I myself am biracial and bicultural, and I had to know a lot about my own background before I was confident using other cultures in my writing. I had to understand my own identity—what elements from my background I wished to prioritize and what I wished to jettison. Only then was I able to think about how my work would resonate with a person from the relevant background, what to be mindful of, and where my blindspots would interfere.
I echo Abhaya’s recommendation for much, much more research, but also include my own personal recommendation for greater self-exploration. I strongly believe the better one knows oneself, the better they can create. It is presumptuous for me to assume, but your ask’s phrasing, the outlined plot and its themes all convey a lack of confidence in your mixed identity that may interfere with confidence when researching and world-building. I’m not saying give up on this story, but if anxiety on respectful representation is a large barrier for you at the moment, this story may be a good candidate for a personal project to keep to yourself until you feel more ready.
(See similar asker concerns here: Running Commentary: What is “ok to do” in Mixed-Culture Supernatural Fiction, here: Representing Biracial Black South American Experiences and here: Am I fetishizing my Japanese character?)
- Marika.
Start More Freely with Easy Mode
Question: Why not make a complete high-fantasy universe, with no need of establishing clear real-world parallels in the text? It gives you plenty of leg room to incorporate pluralistic, multicultural mythos + folklore into the same story without excessive sweating about historically accurate worldbuilding.
It's not a *foolproof* method; even subtly coded multicultural fantasy societies like Avatar or the Grishaverse exhibit certain harmful tropes. I also don't know if you are aiming for low vs high fantasy, or the degree of your reliance on real world culture / religion / identity cues.
But don't you think it's far easier for this fantasy project to not have the additional burden of historical accuracy in the worldbuilding? Not only because I agree with Mod Marika that perhaps you seem hesitant about the identity aspect, but because your WIP idea can include themes of othering and cultural belonging (and yes, even jabs at supremacist institutions) in an original fantasy universe too. I don't think I would mind if I saw a couple of cultural markers of a Mughal Era India-inspired society without getting a full rundown of their agricultural practices, social conventions and tax systems, lol.
Mod Abhaya has provided a few good resources about what *not* to do when drawing heavily from cultural coding. With that at hand, I don't think your project should be a problem if you simply make it an alternate universe like Etheria (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power), Inys (The Priory of the Orange Tree) or Earthsea (the Earthsea series, Ursula K. Le Guin). Mind you, we can trace the analogues to each universe, but there is a lot of freedom to maneuver as you wish when incorporating identities in original fantasy. And of course, multiple sensitivity readers are a must! Wishing you the best for the project.
Title: Hell Called Home
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types
Pairing: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
TW: None presently
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences - For references to drugs, references to alcohol and alcohol consumption, references grave robbing, murder/killing, references to canon typical violence, m/m romance, contemplation of homophobia
It was the day. The one Dick had been dreading for two years. The one he had been dreading since the boy he'd been waiting to court was killed and taken away from him. The event staff, caterers and security were down in the foyer setting up and Alfred would be locking doors so that guests wouldn't have the ability to snoop into anything more interesting than family portraits. He sighed, it was all for him. It was supposed to be a grand event. A grand event to auction off his hand in marriage. A grand event that should have been an engagement party.
Dick braced a hand against the shower wall and took a deep breath, as he exhaled he pushed the familiar rage back down into its box. He couldn't afford to lose his temper today of all days. Not when Bruce was counting on him to uphold the Wayne Family name. He finished showering and moved to the vanity to continue getting ready.
Absent-mindedly his fingers twisted the clasp of the necklace around to the back of his neck, running a hand over it to feel the signet ring held there. The one he'd had made when he decided that soft green eyes and dusky auburn curls were it for him. It was his only reminder of happier times. Of a boy who looked at Dick like he'd hung the moon in the sky. Of a boy who taught Dick what it was to love and be loved. He'd had rings made, rings which had never left their box, rings which he had slipped into a suit pocket before they'd buried him.
Dick had been told that his boy had been sent out on a night raid to assess his leadership capabilities, a standard time honored tradition in all of the Families to determine if an heir candidate was worthy of the mantle. He'd been told that something went wrong, that the minor gang had been more competent than expected and his sweetheart had died in the line of duty for the Varaver Family. Dick didn't know if that was actually true or if their trysts had been discovered and the ages old intolerance had played a part in the hand that had been dealt. Dick hadn't thought the Varaver Family would condeem their chosen heir for loving another man which had led him to wondering if it the issue had been Dick himself instead. Why he would have been found lacking Dick couldn’t fathom. He'd already been accepted as Bruce Wayne's heir to the Wayne Family at the time of the raid. There weren't many accolades in their world that would have made him a more suitable partner. As far as Dick knew it wasn't like gender mattered to the Families, blood ties to children weren't taken into consideration. Just competency. Since that night thought he'd wondered if that was an idiosnycosy of Bruce rather then a general opinion.
Shaking his head, Dick slid on his exquisitely tailored suit, ignoring the provided tie and pocket square for the only ones he would wear. A Wayne blue textured field with one fine electric blue line and one fine red line in a loose plaid pattern. It had been a birthday gift and Bruce had given up punishing Dick for wearing it instead of the more traditional solid blue ties with the Wayne crest on them. Dick did consent to the monogrammed cuff links and tie pin. Looking over his appearance in the full length mirror Dick sighed. He was officially 21 today, and as a fully fledged adult it was no longer permissible for him to sneak off half way through an event. It was his duty to stand beside Bruce as the faces of the Wayne Family. Just like it was his duty to find a partner.
Giving his appearance one more once over he turned on his heel and made his way to Bruce's study where his adoptive father would be going over last minute security checks and reviewing the most recent intel reports. He would then use those reports to brief the security detail on who was most likely to cause a problem and have a stern warning provided to their Family head should anything pop off. If this hadn't been so important for their Family's image Dick would have been hoping that one of the minor Families would cause a scene so he'd have a reason to be sent out. Would have a reason to let his anger and rage out. To sooth the beast in his chest with fear and blood. He wouldn't hold his breath though, not with how cautious Bruce always was when inviting the crime families. If there was one thing that Bruce prided himself on, it was putting on an event where all were welcome and all were safe. A rarity in their lives, but Bruce was an odd duck Dick knew. Losing his parents at such a young age ensured that Bruce didn't have anyone around to ensure he followed the handbook and the Wayne Family's reputation had taken a hit. One Bruce had corrected through violence and terror but a hit none-the-less.
Which all boiled down to Dick not getting any leeway as he was walking through the traditions.
His adoptive father looked up as Dick leaned against the door frame of the study. He watched a slew of expressions flit over Bruce's face before the man sighed and said, "I know this isn't what you want and I don't know how to fix it."
Dick shook his head ruefully and said, "Unless you've managed to figure out how to bring the dead back to life, it is what it is."
He watched Bruce give a negative shake of his head before saying, tone full of regret, "I have not."
Which Dick knew, there wasn't a single secret that was kept from him. A perk of being the confirmed Heir. He also knew that if this had been any other function, Bruce would have allowed him to keep to the shadows and run the security details. Unfortunately for Dick, the gala was specifically for him so he could be seen by the families who were interested in forming alliances or gaining additional political power from being associated with the Wayne Heir. Gifts had been showing up all week, a ploy to tempt his benevolence. Dick hadn't opened a single one yet and had a tentative plan to rope both Bruce and Alfred into helping him open them so he would have company while he mocked their attempts. He had no mercy, he had no benevolence, he had no kindness. Dick had buried all of that with his sweetheart.
He had also put in an order for rejection notes from their stationers, not the normal outgoing mail item from the Wayne household. But while they had to hold the gala, Dick was thankfully not required to actually accept any of the offers he might get tonight. It was all for show, to uphold tradition. Eventually, Dick supposed, he would need to find a partner of some sort. But until Dick chose someone, Bruce was willing to concede on this aspect of tradition. It was the best compromise Bruce had been able to offer him and Dick had definitely been smart enough to take it as the olive branch his adoptive father intended it as, so as much as he detested the opulence, he would comply.
Bruce held out a tablet to him, and Dick took it to look over whatever Bruce thought he needed to know. He frowned when he was met with the guest list and scrolled through the list of accepted, and the rare declined, reservations. One Family name didn't have a check next to it. The Varaver Family had neither accepted, nor declined. Which was odd, they had been patrons of Wayne events for nearly seventy years. Dick looked up and asked, "William isn't coming? He never misses a chance to drink your whiskey."
Dick watched as Bruce's eyes did their little crinkle at the corners showing the man was amused before saying, "No one, not a single Family, has heard from William Varaver for six months and a new Head hasn't stepped into the spotlight from everything I've been able to find."
Dick felt his eyebrows raise up in surprise, that was new. The Varaver Family had been established for nearly a millennia and had close ties with the oldest Families in Europe; ones even the Wayne's hadn't managed to form alliances with as of yet. He'd never heard of their succession rites ever turning out an incompetent Family Head. And if he remembered his history correctly, they'd never had a gap in succession either. Varaver also had a reputation for having the longest serving Family heads of any Gotham Family with several Heads serving for nearly a hundred years. Taking a breath he handed the tablet back to Bruce and asked, "You think they are going to try something?"
He watched Bruce see-saw his hand back and forth in a so-so motion before saying, "Possibly, but what the message might be I don't know. To the best of my knowledge we have done nothing to the Varaver family, and when I didn't receive an RSVP I did go looking and couldn't find anything amiss. No interactions between our enforcers and theirs, no shipment disputes, no territory disputes, no political aspirations were interrupted. The last interaction I had with the Varaver's was to aid them in persuading the newest elected judge to remember whose donations it was that got them their gavel."
Dick nodded and said, "Well contrary to your expressed opinion, I am armed. I will be careful and no you will not be able to change my mind. I won't carry a firearm but I'm not going to trust my safety to just the enforcers."
Bruce gave him a Look that Dick shrugged off. Dick hadn't trusted his own safety to anyone but Bruce for two years now, it wasn't like his father was shocked, just disgruntled that his orders weren't being followed. This was something they'd had out over and over again. Dick was almost 100% positive that his sweetheart had been taken out by his own Family, so in retaliation Dick didn't allow anyone to be solely in charge of his well being. There was Kevlar woven into his suit and shirt, light weight armor plates placed strategically through his jacket that would stop anything smaller than a sniper round, and more pockets for hidden items then was possibly sane. Dick didn't care so long as at least one tracker(preferably more), his lock picks, and a small arsenal of knives could all be carried on his person while he was forced into the public eye. His tailor hated him these days. Dick didn’t care, as long as Bruce didn’t contradict his requests in formal wear Dick was going to protect himself. From their own people if he had too.
With another shake of his head Bruce closed down all the electronics in the study and locked them in his desk. The study door wouldn't be locked as the easiest access to the Cave was behind the grandfather clock sitting pride of place behind an out of tune grand piano. And down in the Cave they had their repository of weaponry, the cells for disobedient miscreants who thought they could get one over on Bruce Wayne by disregarding his rules, and the medical bay where Alfred could stitch them up in privacy if necessary.
Dick follows Bruce out and down to do final touches and orders before they would begin greeting guests. It was going to be a long evening.
~*~
Dick had been right, they were three quarters of the way through the allotted time for the Gala and he was already exhausted and ready to call it quits. Or shoot someone, preferably the debutant in the gauzy pink number that had plied Dick with no less than six glasses of champagne. None of which he'd even taken a sip from and had passed off to the security detail as he passed them. They would ensure that the beverages were checked for drugs and dispose of the alcohol. Dick didn't drink, which he'd thought was a well known eccentricity of his, except apparently to the woman in pink. Dick was just about ready to make the poor girl cry just to get her to leave him alone when the front doors of the manor were kicked in and standing in their gap was an unknown Dick had never seen before.
The man, Dick was assuming it was a man based only on how the other was at least two inches taller than his own 5'10 with a bulky musculature that would make any rugby player jealous, had a full face mask on in a parody of an owl face with red lenses and golden accents, a cape that split and trailed down his back to the waist and attached to each wrist concealing some of his silhouette. It would make it harder for anyone who wasn't a Wayne to get a good read on his physicality. Bruce, and subsequently Dick, had specifically trained to deal with caped and costumed assailants; a hazard of thriving in Gotham was occasionally dealing with super powered menaces. As the man walked towards Dick he could see a feathered pattern etched on the cape in the thinnest of thin red lines. The red color which was repeated in the lines accenting down the legs of the body suit. The only visible weapons were a set of six throwing daggers Dick was sure were sharp enough to cause problems, but not long enough to cause a fatality unless that was the aim.
Already resigned to the next act, Dick stepped forward in front of the gauzy pink number and simply waited. The owl man gave a bow that was all theatrics before producing a gold embossed invitation which Dick instantly recognized with how many of them he'd helped Alfred stuff into envelopes to be mailed out weeks ago. Dick merely raised an eyebrow. They had apparently discovered where the Varaver invitation had gone, that didn't explain where William was, but they at least had that piece of the puzzle. The owl man twitched and suddenly the invitation had disappeared and a small red gift bag was produced instead held out at chest height. The man cautiously stepped closer to Dick until the gift bag was held out for him to take, which Dick did without hesitation. There was something familiar about the man that Dick just couldn't place without either seeing him fight or seeing his face.
The gift bag was nothing special, something found at a dollar store with a few pieces of obviously used white tissue paper. Dick didn't smell anything from the bag, which was a good sign, and it didn't seem heavy enough to have an explosive big enough to be an out of the ordinary danger. He figured if it was anything it was most likely to be a smoke bomb.
Except the owl man merely executed another of those theatrical bows before pacing backwards towards the doors he'd entered by and left.
Dick was left holding a cheap gift bag, and a bemused expression. Behind him gauzy in pink let out a whimper before collapsing to the ballroom floor. Dick rolled his eyes and gestured for the event staff to collect her to one of the sitting rooms set aside for such occurrences. Alfred would look her over before escorting her back to the Family she'd arrived with, hopefully with a stern lecture on attempting to court a Family Heir. If she couldn't handle random unexpected guests to major events she would never survive the training to be a spouse. Dick waited until she'd been picked up and gently pulled away before turning to survey the room looking for Bruce.
He found his adoptive father already storming down the staircase with a look of thunder across his usually stoic features. Dick was expecting rough hands to match the look on Bruce's face when he grabbed Dick's shoulders to look him over. He was mildly surprised at the gentleness of Bruce’s grip as Dick huffed and said, "I'm fine, the only thing that happened was I was handed a gift. A social faux pas but not a declaration of war."
He almost laughed at the look of disdain he received before Bruce snipped, "It could be a bomb."
Dick nodded and said, "Yea, but it's not heavy enough to get the heart pumping so it'd be just an itty bitty bomb."
He bit his tongue to keep from snorting at the look Bruce threw at him before he was being escorted by the security detail out of the ballroom, gift still in hand. Bruce shuffled him down into the Cave after whispering something to the head of security to pass along to Alfred. Once safely ensconced, Dick proceeded to double check for gasses and bombs. He sat in Bruce's chair while the tests were running staring off into space trying to figure out why the owl man seemed so familiar.
The ding of the tests completing startled him and he was shocked to find the scans had come back with no residue of anything harmful. Well, anything more harmful than a faint residue of cocaine at least. Frowning, he picked up the bag and stared at it.
"Are you going to open it?" Dick startled a second time and glared over his shoulder at Bruce. With one last glare he cautiously started to pull out the tissue paper.
He got the first piece out and sucked in a sharp breath. Turning the bag on end he dumped a ring box out of the bag. The rage he'd been doing so well at pushing down started to alight as he stared at a box he hadn't seen in two years. Hand shaking, face set in harsh angry lines, Dick opened the ring box.
It was the same box he'd buried. The same rings. He could just see the engravings peeking up above the padding the rings were nestled in. He set the box on the desk and pushed back. Giving himself space from the impossible, before he stood and paced. He was so distracted trying to figure out who knew enough about him and hated him enough to have gone grave robbing looking for a way to get under his skin that he didn't notice Bruce had come up to him before he'd thrown a punch. Bruce simply caught it and asked gently, "Are those the rings for..."
Dick was thankful Bruce hadn't said the name. Dick didn't think he'd be able to return to the party if Bruce had said his name. He already felt out of control and ready to snap, it would be a thousand times worse if someone said the name that haunted Dick's every moment. Not trusting himself, Dick gave a decisive nod and ground out, "The ones I put in his pocket at his funeral."
He watched Bruce nod before asking, "What are you going to do about it?"
Dick blinked and asked, "What do you mean, what am I going to do about it?"
Bruce smirked and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the desk before saying, "You are an adult Dick, it's long past time I let you make your own mistakes. So, what are you going to do?"
Dick narrowed his eyes and demanded, "What do you know?"
Bruce shook his head and raised his hands, "The same as you chum. This isn't a test, you've earned your place and I would never undermine that accomplishment."
Dick deflated and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He made a helpless gesture and said, "I don't know what I'm going to do about it. I doubt whoever he was will make it easy to track them down which means I'll have to work with Oracle to see if they were caught on camera leaving Bristol. I don't know what I'll do if it is him, but I'll kill all of them if it's not. His peace does not deserve to be disturbed. If that's the only thing I can give him, I'll see it done regardless of the cost."
Bruce nodded at him and mentioned, "Whatever you need, you have my support."
Dick shot a grateful smile at Bruce before pulling off his tie. He definitely wasn't going to go back to the gala now and it seemed like Bruce was willing to back that play instead of insisting on tradition. Frowning Dick turned to Bruce and asked, "Why aren't you ordering me back upstairs? After everything we went through to get this all set up."
Bruce gave him a wry look before stating, "As if I could get you to leave this alone to begin with, but mostly because I liked the boy too, thought he would be a good balance for your recklessness. If there is a chance he can be returned to you, I want to make sure you have the opportunity to pursue it. It's not like the brainless bints are going to go anywhere after all. Well, at least until they get your rejection notes of course."
Dick blushed and mumbled, "I thought you didn't know about those."
Bruce smirked and replied, "Perhaps you should remember I know everything, and what I don't know Oracle makes sure to fill me in on."
Dick shook his head, instead he shot off a ping to Babs to get her servers working on parsing the camera data from the city for the last twenty four hours while Dick himself took over reviewing the footage from the manor grounds and his grave.
~*~
Dick didn't know how long he sat down in the Cave working on picking through two years of archived camera footage. He did know he'd gone backwards about eight months when he found what he'd been looking for. Dick had no idea what time it was, he just transferred the four minute video clip to a tablet and went in search of Bruce.
He found Bruce in the dining room reading a report and sipping on a cup of coffee. Dick blinked owlishly in the sudden light of morning before he took his seat at the table, slid the tablet towards Bruce and asked, "Does it count as grave robbing if the body removes itself from the grave?"
Out of the corner of his eyes Dick catches Bruce's shocked face before the man plays the video. He plays it again once it's finished and then says, "Huh."
