Moderns who wanna be trad, really shouldn't pick the 50s to do it about if they wanna call themselves trad.
There was nothing "trad" about the 50s. First of all, the idea that women don't work and aren't involved in actual *production* let alone household production, was relatively new and... to a large degree, downstream of much of pre-war household production being augmented by technology and mass production.
the idea that a household of five people could be supported on 40 hours a week, without the wife and children also being involved in production, was absolutely downstream of technology. So was a woman running a house without having to have a team of servants.
The "nuclear family" was a stepping stone toward atomization, in an economy that lasted for about... five minutes. It literally was a cultural artifact lasting twenty years only.
And it was futuristic as fuck, and downstream of technological innovation, not a return to the golden days, which most people actually remembered as quite horrible.
If you really wanna live in the spirit of the 50s for any reason but the shittiest and most sexist/racist parts of it, you'd want several Roomba's and a self driving car and would be the world's most annoying space nerd.
And you'd be great with stronger unions and you'd probably be okay with vaccines
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strap in for this week's fic flavor: the failsafe episode of season one of the young justice cartoon except the simulation just won't. fuckin. end.
(fics that inspired this at the end)
If I ever did sit down to make my own fic, I'd split it in 3 parts:
The Simulation: bits and pieces of the 40 years Dick lives after most everyone he knows has died
The Return: the immediate aftermath and healing from the trauma of having not-quite-actually lived a whole life only to wake up and find out it was all fake. nothing traumatizing about that whatsoever.
The Unintended Consequence: aka the twist I'd love to add and would hint to in the second part - finding out the simulation, through martian mind fuckery, pulled from the real world (and in many cases, from real minds). Dick meets a bunch of people he didn't think were real outside the confines of his simulated life. A bunch of rowdy, heroism-inclined teens across the years get to meet the sibling/friend/mentor figure they all dreamed up one night.
(actual idea snippets under the cut)
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Dick Grayson is 14 and most of the world's heroes have died. He planned a suicide mission that left him the sole survivor of a doomed team he helped found. The invasion may have been stopped, but is this really the price he wanted to pay?
The first face he sees in the infirmary is Roy's, and he has to close his eyes and just breathe for a few minutes because for one painful moment he'd thought it was Wally. But this isn't the world where his best friend miraculously survived alongside him. This is the one where he got his best friend killed and didn't even give him the courtesy of following behind him. Behind them.
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Dick Grayson is 27 and has lived longer without Bruce than with him. The invasion's anniversary is always a tough day for him, but that morning seems especially harrowing. He'll get shit for it later, but can't resist stepping out onto the balcony of the manor's master bedroom (Bruce's old bedroom) for a smoke -- his first since he'd promised to quit if Jason, just 15 then, did too.
"Bad habits tend to pile up," he'd said, a rueful quirk to his tired grin. He'd tapped the cigarette twice on the railing and added, lower, "and this one's especially nasty, huh."
He inhales, watches the sun creep across the horizon, and lets acrid smoke burn through his lungs for a long moment before blowing it out in a small cloud. His eyes water, but he doesn't cough. It tastes just as bad as it did the first time he smoked one, not even a year after the invasion and treading water as Robin proved insufficient.
There hadn't been enough heroes to go around then, and Dick had been trained by one of the best. It hadn't been fair, but it had been his plan that had ultimately stopped the invasion. His shoulders everyone's expectations fell on.
He takes another drag, then smudges the lit end against the rail he's leaned on when he hears a boot scuff purposefully against the roofing above him.
"Todd and Pennyworth will be upset with you."
He doesn't turn around. Damian doesn't jump down to join him.
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Dick Grayson is 54 and wakes up in a room full of ghosts. He hears his long-dead father-figure tell his long-dead team about a simulation they weren't meant to win. A training exercise gone wrong and only half a day spent under their mentors' careful, if slightly panicked, supervision.
He looks at his hands, watching the way his gloves crease when he flexes them in and out of tight fists. He looks at his team, their eyes a little haunted but shoulders slumped with relief even as they grumble. Batman's heavy, gloved hand settles on his shoulder and the weight of it is a nauseating mix of foreign-familiar.
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
Tears prick his eyes behind his domino mask, and he tells himself the suffocating, acidic void building in his chest is just some leftover side effect of the ordeal and not the grief-guilt of outliving yet another family (no matter that they hadn't been real in the end).
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Dick Grayson is 16-going-on-56 and well used to the coincidences piling up between his simulated life and the real thing. Some of it -- missions and villains he remembers cropping up -- he's marked for Bruce to review and sort as he pleases. Some -- security for the cave, team building anecdotes, and training regimens -- he's shared with the team. And some he keeps only for himself.
Tim is one of those. He knows it's not fair to the kid (so much smaller now than he ever was when Dick lived his simulated life), but he can't help being selfish just for this. Tim is the one kid he's sure he didn't make up, and if Dick's taken to babysitting the kid just to be near at least one member of the family he built for himself in the wake of the worst days of his life .... Well, anyone who says shit about it can happily stand in line to have their teeth kicked in.
Despite this, it still catches him off-guard when he sees a familiar face pop up in one of Bruce's reports.
Jason Todd, caught boosting tires off the batmobile, is nearly the same age now as he was when Dick met him. He stares at the words, but none of them really sink in beyond the kid's name and address. He's moving before he's even made the decision.
He's used to the world kicking him when he's down - lived it for 40 frustrating years. But he has Bruce again. And things with Tim have been so good. And he's always been selfish when it comes to family. If he could just see Jason. If he could just meet him. If he could talk to him.
If if if if if--
.
Inspirations:
Circles in Shattered Mirrors by InfinityIllusion
Fine (But Not Okay) by CharlotteDaBookworm
Verisimilitude by mutemelody
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I've been scrolling through your psychic Dion headcanon and I saw the chronic migraines idea and I just thought of the cutest fluff idea of Dion's polycule trying to take care of him before Morris realizes that his psyonics being on the fritz is connected to his migraines!
The sun is setting behind the tree line when Dion feels a tingling behind his eyes, like fingers pressing on his optic nerves.
Not now. Please, not now.
He's sitting on the roof of the brain-shaped building he's grown so familiar with over the summer, his feet dangling twenty feet over the Quarry's lake.
Gisu's pressed to his left side, her hand linked in his as they watch the sky turn gold. Morris is on his right, his chair resting on the ground for once so he can rest his arm on Dion's shoulder. It's the end of the day and he just wants to spend his precious free time relaxing with his partners.
It's the water. It's always the water. He should have known better than to get so close to so much water, but the weather is so nice, and he's been doing better. He doesn't even get dizzy looking down at the lake.
Gisu and Morris's chatter floats over his head. The words garble together, bleeding into long strings of nonsense. Sunbeams bouncing off the water grow brighter, trailing in long wispy lines as he moves his head. It almost looks pretty.
The hand on his shoulder shakes him. He hunches over, neck muscles tightening like stretched rubber bands. Oh god, it's starting and he can't stop it. The pressure in his head builds slowly, like air filling a balloon.
"Dion? Awoka eenu ehligh?"
It takes a second for him to register his name. "Mmmph. I'm fine," he says automatically. He turns to look at Morris, and catches the sun behind his head, burning directly into his retinas. Red, green, and yellow and lights flash behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut.
"Dion, abuu habing norah?"
He tries to focus on Gisu's voice. Her tone is full of concern, even if the meaning is hard to puzzle out.
His skull feels too small, like his brain is swelling up with water, threatening to crack the bones and explode like a horror movie prop. He presses his palms to his temples as a dozen little invisible needles pinprick his skull.
Warm hands hold his chin. They press against his jaw, coaxing him to unclench his teeth.
A hand pressed to his back, two more on his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. He wobbles, his legs tingling and half-asleep, but Morris and Gisu steady him.
They walk him back into the Motherlobe. Morris's levitation lifts Dion, supporting his weight as Gisu nudges him forward step by step.
He isn't sure how long it is they walk. Anyone they pass is sure to stare, but he can't tell with his eyes shut tight.
A door opens and closes behind him. A larger set of hands cup his head, fingers warm and rough. They rub delicately over his brows, the signal that it's safe to open his eyes.
The lights are off in the jr agents' dorm room, and it's getting darker as Gisu hurries to draw the blinds. Adam smiles down at Dion, cupping his cheeks.
"Apahhu nruv?"
Dion can't understand the words, but the tone of his boyfriend's soft British drawl brings his shoulders down from around his ears.
The dumpy couch in the dorms smells like Morris's cologne and Sam's woodland animal friends. He didn't used to like it, but now he relaxes into the familiar cushions, laying down and curling into a tiny ball. The dark helps. He can focus on breathing and not holding back vomit.
Gisu nudges him, and he lets her pick him up and deposit his head in her lap, careful not to jostle him. She pets his head as the others chat quietly.
He listens for as long as he can, holding on to the sound of their voices as his head splits down the middle. The pressure is the awful part. Something inside him banging on the inside of his head, trying to get out.
He might make a sound of pain— he can't hear himself if he does— because the talk around him stops. Gisu squeezes his arm as he wraps his hands around his head. The agony throbs with his heartbeat.
Someone else touches him. He tries to open his eyes, but the world is a swimming mess of color. Leaning into their hands, Dion lets them move him however they want.
They lightly touch his forehead, and he can feel cool breath on his face as his cheeks pinken. They're so close, and he doesn't need more blood rushing to his head from being flustered.
Then, miraculously, the pounding in his brain eases. Like air escaping from a leaky tire, the pressure in his head deflates. He gasps, nearly falling forward face-first.
When the touch pulls away, he whines, reaching back for them. His brain is still on fire, but it's more of a campfire and less of an incinerator. With relief so strong he can't keep himself up any longer.
The feeling is like cool water running over a blistering burn. It's enough that he can start to drift off. The only thing he can do is wait for the rest of the migraine to fade on its own, but now he can doze until it passes.
Gisu stares at the boy in her lap. His chest rises and falls steadily as he sleeps. Morris and Adam gape at Lizzie, kneeling in front of the couch, her hands hovering over Dion.
Lizzie's own shock is obvious. She closes her open mouth, one eyebrow quirked as she studies the boy in the center of them all.
"Lizzie… Did you…?"
"I thought a little ice would take the edge off. But then I felt his mind… there was so much energy, it's like a lightning storm in there. The static was gonna discharge eventually," she says, whispering.
"Psychic discharge. Hell, that means…" Adam kneels next to her and presses another kiss to Dion's forehead.
"Okay. Okay. I think we should talk about this when he's awake." Even with her mind racing on a superhighway of questions, Gisu can't help her own lips twitching up as she sees how calm Dion is. There will be a lot to talk about later, but for now it's enough that he's feeling better.
"Sounds good to me. Leave the serious stuff for later. I want to find some whipped cream and a feather." Morris rubs his hands together like a cartoon supervillain. He won't do anything, not when Dion is in pain, but the joke disperses some of their anxiety as Gisu whaps him on the hair.
Dion is psychic. It makes sense. The symptoms of psychic repression are weird, but the headaches and fatigue are classic. He's always been so firm and confident about it, and his family agreed that he never displayed any visible powers. But that's not a guarantee. People miss things, I should have considered the possibility….
Morris settles next to Lizzie on the couch while Adam slips under Dion's legs to sit in the middle. She puts the should haves away. For now, they'll keep each other company, watching anime without sound and texting each other memes until Dion wakes up.
When he does blink awake, Dion feels better than he ever has after an episode. His friends and partners are sleeping, flopped over him, limbs tangled together in such a mess he doesn't want to think about getting up.
Dion finds someone's hand and holds it tight, and he can almost feel his head clear even more. Love is funny like that.
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