batfam au where bruce gave up the batman costume when he became dick's dad, because he was mentally sane enough to realise that an actual child should not be fighting actual murders.
and the world carried on.
batman becomes a folktale, something that parents use to get their children to sleep, and something that every thug thinks about when the night just a little too quiet and things are going a little too well.
occasionally, some angsty teenager or some bitter man will make their own costume, and try to be batman. and it makes headlines, it keeps criminals in check. but these New Batmen never carry that mantle for very long.
Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass, Steph, Babs, Duke, everyone. They are never found, they are never rescued, they are never born. the villains never become villains. the joker disappears
sometimes, Alfred gets this feeling that there's someone missing, multiple someones, but he doesn't even know who. he mourns a family he's never had, and holds space for someone that he never knew.
but the world carries on
this all changes when two things happen very, very quickly.
One, some scrappy teenager flies to Ethiopia, looking for a mother he didn't even know and drops of the grid. completely unrelated to this teenager, a warehouse explodes
Two, dick starts poking around the manor, accidentally stumbling upon the remains of his father's past-- is father is Batman. was batman. and dick doesn't really know what to do with that information. so he does the only logical thing and tries to become the actual Batman.
At first, he tries to be batman without any training and immediately gets his ass handed to him. And, while he's dragging his broken body to the cave, he sees Alfred. Alfred, who patches him up and tells him that, if he's going to be batman, he needs to go back to the classics.
he needs to tell bruce.
he needs to tell bruce, or bruce is going to figure it out for himself. he isn't the worlds greatest detective for nothing, and it's better to tell him sooner rather than later.
when dick tells bruce, bruce... doesn't know what to think. he doesn't want his son -his precious son- to go out fighting the one-man war that he'd once tried to fight. but he also knows that there's probably nothing that he can do to stop dick.
the best way for Bruce to protect who he loves is to teach him how to fight. how to actually fight.
and so he does.
he trains Dick with everything that he knows. teaches him with the intensity and the drive that canon Bruce taught Tim. He will not lose his son, he will not let dick lose the one-man war. and he will not let his past as Batman be the thing that tears his family apart.
The Batman returns to the streets of Gotham. Criminal activity is at an all time low. the people who would have become villains have already moved on with their lives.
so the world carries on, bringing Batman with it.
end of part one (because this has been rotting in my drafts and I need to post this now or ill forget again)
81 notes
·
View notes
the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
10K notes
·
View notes