#how i would write it

[sansacherie]

The Washerwoman's Daughter

I.

“For your trouble.”

The Queen placed a heavy purse gently into Dyana’s trembling hand.   She was used to carrying heavy things.  Dyana would help fetch the hot water needed for Princess Helaena’s bath and deliver her gowns to Pia for washing.  She’d carry breakfast trays laden with oat bread and burnt bacon to the Princess and her three children. Sometimes, Dyana would one twin while their mother took the other, and together, they bid Queen Alicent goodnight.   But since Prince Maelor was born Prince Jaehaerys decided it was beneath him to be picked up like the baby, so he and his shyer twin now often walked to their grandmother’s chambers, holding hands as they might have done so in the womb.

But never had Dyana held so heavy a purse that was meant for her keeping.   In the right circumstances, she’d be grinning like a little fool.  How could she not? True, she never had to trouble herself for rent and food as they did in Pigrun Alley thanks to her place in the Red Keep, but because of that her wages only went so far.  Still, it was enough coin for visits to Eel Alley with Joy and Liane on a day off.  It was enough coin to save a little, every month.  Joy and Liane lacked such a habit, and this baffled Dyana.  She herself was terrified of one day being forced to quit her position, and of leaving the Red Keep without anything simply because she was careless with her coin.

It was then that an ugly thought seized Dyana.   She had to convince the Queen otherwise, she had to. 

“Please, Your Grace.  Please don’t make me leave.” 

Queen Alicent furrowed her brow. “You wish to stay?”

“Please, Your Grace.  Please, don’t.” Dyana chokes, as a memory stabs her. Please, don’t-

Dyana cannot bear the thought of ever being in the same room as Prince Aegon, but what choice does she have? She could leave the Red Keep, yes.

Without opening it, Dyana knows she has enough to give her a room at an inn for a few months, but she could just as easily lose it in a single night.  The city crawled with thieves.  Thieves who were men, men who were bigger and stronger than Dyana, who could decide they weren't just satisfied with stealing from her-  

She could not suffer that again.  She would rather die. 

Even if Dyana didn’t have to fear such things, she had no magic to make it last. And where would that leave her? There was dear Tessa, of course. The older girl was a barmaid at an inn belonging to her family. 

Dyana could go to her.  She wouldn’t tell her everything because that would be too much.  The Queen, with her tender eyes and words, did not count.   People like the Queen have always been like the clouds to Dyana, a girl born in a lord’s castle but who was no lord’s daughter.   But Tessa wouldn’t need to hear anything, anyway.  She’d just sweeten her Pa into letting Dyana stay. Of course, she’d work for her keep. She is used to being on her feet all day in a large castle, an inn was nothing to that.    She has never fallen short in her duties.  She is not afraid of hard work.

But she was afraid of leaving.    The Red Keep was her home.  She was a girl of ten when she’d come here with Lord Hayford.  Ma was one of his washerwomen. Ma’s hands were never soft, Dyana remembered and rarely was her voice.   She used it like a slap.  Dyana had been slapped more times than she cared to remember. 

Still, she was proud when Lady Hayford’s good word gave Dyana a chance to be something other than a washerwoman’s daughter.  By then, the Hayfords had been living at King Viserys’ court for several years. Dyana was now twelve and still missed Hayford.   She wondered if any of the friends she left behind still remembered her.  She missed them.  Maddy with her jokes, Marei with her stories, and gentle Olly who kissed Dyana and said he wanted to marry her one day.  Olly, who was two years younger than she and lost a little tooth that week.

It was not just that, however. While she also didn’t really want to become her Ma again when she was grown, Dyana still liked listening to the gossip and the jokes that were traded between the women as they washed and mended.   She liked imagining that some of Lady Hayford’s pretty clothes were hers.  She liked the familiarity, of knowing what to expect and what was expected of her.

Ma would have none of it.  “You ain’t got a say, Dy.”

“But Lady Hayford didn’t say I had to become a maid,” Dyana had protested.  "She just said I could be a good one, that’s all.”

Ma frowned.  "Sweetling, you'd be insulting her ladyship if you tried saying no and shaming your poor mother too."

She didn't want that.  "All right," Dyana sighed.

Ma beamed.  "You'll see. It'll be good for you."

Ma was right.  It was good.   Dyana got new dresses.  They weren’t fetching, but they were in red, and Dyana was always fond of red.   She got almost-new shoes as well.  She never had almost-new shoes before.    Of the two girls Dyana shadowed when she began her duties, Joy was friendlier, but Liane had a way of looking at Dyana like she smelled.  

“Don’t mind Liane,” Joy assured her.  “She’s just vexed at having to instruct, she ain’t got the patience, I swear.”

Liane had been even more vexed when years later, Princess Helaena had chosen Dyana to be her maid.   However, she forgot herself and along with Joy, congratulated Dyana on getting such an honorable position.  By then, Ma had long disappeared and now must lay in some unmarked grave.  But Dyana knew she would have said the same.   

It did make Dyana important, waiting on the princess.  The Hayfords were good and proud people.  But Helaena Targaryen was a princess, and her sons were in line for the throne.  Sometimes Dyana forgot that Princess Helaena had a sister, as Princess Rhaenyra had departed for Dragonstone years ago with her boys.   She liked seeing the orders she gave on behalf of her mistress followed promptly, for Helaena was a king’s daughter.  The only woman above her was Queen Alicent.   And it was Queen Alicent who held her fate. 

“No, I do not think it wise to let you stay as a maid.”  For a moment, Dyana cannot breathe, until she is rescued by the Queen’s next words.  “I must relieve you of your duties for my daughter.  But I am told you came from Hayford.  It is a lovely place.  If you wish it, I will see you safely there.”

Hayford.   Oh, Hayford!  But-

"Thank you kindly, Your Grace. But my Ma, she- she-," Dyana broke into fresh sobs.  Queen Alicent was startled until Talya spoke up. "Years ago, Dyana's mother went to the docks.  She was not seen again.  I suspect Dyana finds it hard to return home without her bones."

"Oh."  Even through her tears, Dyana could hear the world of understanding in Her Grace's voice.  "Rosey.  I remember.”   She sighed, then smiled gently.  “Well, I am always in need of a good maid.”

II.

It is not that much different,  waiting on the Queen.   Dyana does miss the children, though.  They were sweet things, if spoiled.  Dyana remembered the betting games she played with Liane and Joy over their sex when Princess Helaena went into her confinement.   Joy liked to bet over anything,  while Liane liked to turn everything into a competition.   Both times when the Princess had gone into labor,  Dyana had chosen wrong.

III.

It is not until her monthly comes that since that day with the Queen,  Dyana sheds tears again.  She hates herself for it,  for being so ungrateful when she should be on her knees thanking the Mother for her mercy.   It is because she is weak.  And tired.   She wants to sleep all the time.  She doesn’t remember when she sleeps.

We’ll all be on our knees soon,  Meri said grimly, who knew nothing about her shame.    Princess Rhaenyra will want her crown, and her son avenged. 

Perhaps, the gods will be good and listen,  Dyana thought bitterly.   When Tessa gushed about how splendid it was to see King Aegon fly on his dragon,  even though he was such a ‘fearsome beast’,  Dyana had wanted to snap and say that he was the beast.

Perhaps this is why she goes with Talya.

V.

Lady Mysaria is beautiful.    She is not truly a lady, of course,  but she is truly beautiful, and that is the first thing Dyana notices about her.   

“Dyana, welcome.”  She pours some wine for her.

“You know my name?”  She wants to hit herself.  Of course, she does.  Talya would have told her. 

“Of course, sweetling.”  Mysaria purred.  “You are important.”

“Important?”  Dyana stammered.  It felt strange, to hear that describe her.

“Perhaps the most important person in this room.  In the city.” 

That was treason,  but Mysaria showed no fear in saying it.  “What do you mean-,”

“She means,”  Talya took her by the hand.  “That you can help bring justice for our queen.”

For a minute,  Dyana is confused.  What Queen is she talking about?  The Dowager Queen, or Queen Helaena who now bore her crown? Then the truth dawned on her.  They are talking of Rhaenyra Targaryen.   “The throne belongs to His Grace,”  she says stiffly.   Whatever he is to Dyana, that is the truth of it.

“The throne belongs to Queen Rhaenyra,  and has since the moment their sire breathed his last,”  Mysaria replied.

Dyana ripped her hand away from Talya.  “And you are of the same mind, I take it?”  She shook her head.  “But Queen Alicent-,”  She does not understand why Talya would do this.

Talya looks uncomfortable.  “She was a good queen and a fair mistress.  But even queens can choose wrong.   Mysaria is right.  The throne does not belong to Prince Aegon.”

My maidenhead didn’t belong to him, either.

She locks eyes with Mysaria.  “Tell me what you want.”

VI.

She gives the necessary information to help Mysaria cement her plan.  A plan is to steal both Prince Jaehaerys and Prince Maelor.   They will be valuable hostages, who will stay their father’s hand and perhaps bring an end to the war by forcing him to surrender.   

Dyana does not look forward to this end but to the powerlessness he will feel. A king needed heirs, and he would lose both.  I will make him feel like I did.

VII.

She hears the words, but she does not understand them. 

Helaena Targaryen does.   She wails and begs for them to slay her instead.    

The men with no name simply laughed.  “Aye, but we like to do our work right see,” The shorter of two taunted.  “A son for a son.”

“No!” Dyana blurts out.   She has been frozen until now.  “Please,  no-  This was not the plan, it cannot be, please-.”   She was desperate to try anything,  to move them.  “Please,  they are worth more alive-,”

The bearded one shrugged.  “Only worth dead.  She must choose.”   He clutched Maelor, while his friend clutched Jaehaerys.    The seven-year-old was struggling vainly to break free.

Queen Helaena continued to plead.   Dyana joined her until the bearded one took a deft hand and slapped her,  gagging her as they had done Queen Alicent.   They did not need to gag Talya.  She lay dead on the floor.   Dyana should have known it then,  nobody needed to die-

Dyana did not know how much time passed.  It felt like a thousand years.  Surely someone must come,  surely! 

She hears the words rape and daughter,  and suddenly, she knew no more.

VIII.

Dyana guesses that she’d been here for a while now.   She is not alone, though.  Her guilt is with her.   But guilt was too little a word for her sin.  If she were to hold a holy book, would it blacken at her touch? If she saw herself in a looking-glass,  would she see a demon and not a woman of nineteen?

They will tell her nothing.     Nothing about the children.  Nothing about the queens.

Of course, she has been told nothing.   Just as Mysaria told her nothing about her true intentions.  “My queen is no murderer of children.   She will not harm her nephews.”   What would Mysaria say,  if Dyana could confront her?  Would she deny that she lied,  or would she try to defend herself by saying that she had spoken truly-  After all, it was not Rhaenyra who killed her nephews.   Oh gods,  not knowing which one of them they slew,   Dyana could not bear it-

She wept and wanted.    She wept for herself,  for her wicked heart that led her into these vile schemes.  She wept for the children and their mother.   She wept for Queen Alicent, who had been so kind to her.   As Mysaria plotted Dyana made herself forget about that kindness.   She even wept for Aegon Targaryen.

She wept for Joy and Liane and was terrified that harm would come to them because of her folly.   She wept and cried “Mother” as she rocked herself.  But whenever she was calling for the Mother above or her dead Ma she was too lost to know.   She wept for Hayford.

She wanted so badly to go back.   To choose different.   To never go with Talya.   To accept the offer the Queen had given her that day and return to Hayford.  She wanted to know if the old swing was still there, if Maddy and Marei’s Pa the cook still made the finest apple cakes.   She wanted to return and be Olly’s wife.   A wife and mother with no blood on her hands.   She wanted to be just fifteen again, watching a show with Joy and Liane.   

She wants, she wants, she wants.

IX.

It is Queen Alicent who sees her,  accompanied by Ser Criston Cole.  The look he gives Dyana does not frighten her so much as his lady’s.

Dyana sees hell on the Queen’s face.   She says nothing,  while Dyana pleads.   For mercy.  For understanding.  For forgiveness.

“Please,  Your Grace.  I never agreed to what they said.  I would never,  you must believe me.   You must.”   Ser Criston scoffed.

“But you knew that there was a plan, of some kind.”     Her Grace’s voice was hollow. 

“I did.”  Dyana’s mouth was dry.  “I was told that H-His Grace’s sons were t-to be hostages.”   She began to shake.

Ser Criston sneered.  “Did you not realize whose hands you would be delivering them into?  Damon Targaryen, who once boasted that he remained heir when Prince Baelon died?”  

“Dyana would not remember that Ser Criston,”  Queen Alicent said softly.  “It was a long time ago.  Before she was born.  In all her time here,  Prince Damon has never been at court.” 

But she would have known his reputation,  her eyes said. 

“Prince Maelor Targaryen is now heir to the Iron Throne,”  Queen Alicent says quietly.   Dyana shoves a fist into her mouth.    That means Queen Helaena chose Jaehaerys.  But why?   It was an impossible choice,  but Dyana had thought that as Maelor was so young….

“My daughter did say Maelor,”  The Queen says as if she is reading Dyana’s mind.  “A child of three just beginning to understand his colors would not understand what- what they were demanding.”  

Queen Alicent’s face crumpled.  “And instead they killed our Jaehaerys, even though they were the ones to force my daughter to choose!” 

Her Grace composes herself.  “You know the penalty you must face.”   Dyana does,  but it does not stop her from feeling cold all over.

X.

Dyana does not want to die,  but she does not deserve to live.    And she wants this to be over.

As she is marched to her end,  she thinks of Joy and Liane.   She would not have been allowed to see them,  even if she wanted to.  What would they think?  Would they condemn her?  Would they mourn her?

At least Dyana had no mother anymore to mourn her.

As she laid her head on the headsman block,  she thought of the thousands other girls like her who would die in this war.   Or maybe the gods would be good, and it would not come to that.

She closed her eyes,  and began to pray.   Please, Gods, have mercy.  Please, Gods, have mercy.

Please, please, please-

[canonkiller]

but you can't keep holding on like this.

[saixria]

Somewhere in Apollo’s hospital on Olympus

[ratlingrun]

I don’t care whether you like rooster teeth or not the idea of deleting 21 years of media should be incredibly concerning

[hinamie]

unconditionally

[noknowshame]

always a fun time when real life people are doomed by their own narratives. like guys you know it doesn’t have to be like this right? this isn’t a stageplay the foreshadowing isn’t real until you make it real

[ghostbsuter]

He'd been flying above Metropolis.

Like a good ghost! Doing nothing but relax! Enjoying the weather, really.

It was so cool, Superman came up to him, they talked even! Superman was very, very, uncomfortable when Danny mentioned he was kinda dead.

It was really awesome.

Yeah, the keypoint being was.

Now? Now he is in Superman's arms, very much alive after being hit by a stray beam from Lex Luthors newest invention, quite literally hit from the sky when he didn't expect it and out of f reflex turned back human.

"I'm... alive?" He jokes weakly, smiling awkwardly at Superman's stare.

Danny considered this awkward.

Clark was processing the fact Lex Luthor somehow managed to bring back someone from death, his hands now full of said miracle and—

Shit, does the kid even have family left? What's he going to tell Lois!?

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[k1d1c4rus]

thinking about how armand was turned bc he was dying from being stabbed by a scorned grown man who was in love with him. he nearly died from rejecting unwanted advances. its such a key explicit detail of his origin that teaches him yet again that what he wants is utterly unimportant and even deadly in the face of survival. everything about his character is informed by the fact that he adapts entirely to the situation he is forced into because that's the only way he can survive. he adopts the satanic doctrine for 200 years not because he believes in it but because he knows that is the only way he'll survive and as soon as lestat arrives he knows he can abandon it. for half a millenium he believes he can't get what he wants and also survive, he has to choose one or the other. God.

[unicornpopcorn14]

So we all know by now that Dazai is comfortable enough around Chuuya to show nervousness/worry.

Enough times for Chuuya to pick up on that pattern. The pattern, may I remind you, that doesn't have evident correlation to either nervousness or worry to most people. One that can even be interpreted as misplaced given the situation.

Which means that Dazai has done this in front of Chuuya so often, that Chuuya at first was hella confused, before he finally made a connection between when and why it happens. And still remembered that connection after four years of separation. Which gets us to my point:

What if this isn't the only emotion Dazai displays weirdly?

What if he has multiple unconventional patterns he displays for sadness, frustration, content, or disgust? The times he really feels them, and they become too strong for him to just deal with normally? What if these are the only times he's actually being genuine with his emotions?

And Chuuya is the only one who is familiar with them all?

Dazai would be jumping rope and Chuuya would be like, "quit sulking, let's get icecream"

Dazai hanging upside down on the couch and Chuuya going, "It's okay, mackerel. You can cry."

Dazai actually crying, full on heart-wrenching sobs, and Chuuya unironically going, "What, good news?"

It's just... comforting, for one person in Dazai's life to read him like a book. Everyone else would look at him like he's crazy, displaying wrong emotions/behaviors at the wrong time, but Chuuya knows that it's just how he processes feeling properly, and thus he's the only one Dazai can count on to put things into context and understand, which makes him display them even more openly.

Because Chuuya never shamed him for his quirks, as much as Dazai never did his.

[paradox-n-bedrock]

me in big fandoms: oh cool, it's so active and there's so many people to vibe with, this is amaz-

*finds my niche angle that appeals to approximately six people*

me: okay, folks, it's you and me now

[cuntylestat]

I woke that night to the sound of chaos. Claudia... she was dreaming. Her head, twitching like you would. I can feel her. I can feel her next to me. She's having a nightmare. What's worse than a nightmare? If your soul's projecting out its fears, at least it's up and running. But the absence of anything? The void. The nothing. Pieces... coming back. Hours, nights. Objects surfacing in water.

[aerequets]

but we both know you can't.

I was thinking about the wheeler arc and how twilight was unable to kill yuri because he knows it would break yor. and then i thought that if yuri was the one to find out who twilight was first, it would probably be the same situation but reversed.

many implications .......

[astearisms]

fionna and cake drawings before and after watching the episodes so far. it’s nostalgic and somehow cathartic and poignant and relatable and—it just started

[tourettesdog]

I am begging people to be normal about completed fics, and in particular one shots.

I am begging people to stop demanding more from authors, and insisting that one shots need to be longer or have sequels.

I don't think yall understand how many fanfic authors are one more "where's the rest of it?" comment away from throwing out any plans they might have had to continue an idea.

Unless an author like specifically says they might write more for an idea, just-- assume something marked as completed is complete, and respect it as it stands, please.

[hailsatanacab]

Family Dinners - dpxdc

"Holy shit, you're Bruce Wayne!" Danny gaped, jabbing a finger at the man sitting at the head of the table.

The bustling dining room goes silent as everyone turns to look at him.

"Danny, who did you think was going to be here?" Tim asks, disbelief plain in his voice and Danny feels his face flush red.

"Sorry, I, uh, I guess I just never put it together. Tim Drake-Wayne. Wayne Manor. It, uh, makes sense now." He laughs sheepishly and scrubs at his neck before slumping back down into his chair.

"Well," Tim says with an indulgent sigh, "at least I know you're not just friends with me for my connections."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry, I just never thought about it, I guess."

Danny sinks lower as everyone around him laughs. Come to dinner, he said, the food is the best, he said, ignore the family, he said. Danny really wishes he'd listened to Tim and just ignored them—almost as much as he's regretting accepting the offer in the first place—but... he's having dinner with Batman.

Ancients, that's so weird!

The last time he saw Batman was in the future and, suffice it to say, it was not going well. There hadn't really been time for family dinners there.

Wait. Family dinners?

He peers around the table, openly gawking at everyone as it all clicks into place.

"Everything alright, Danny? Now realising who everyone else is?" Tim asks with a roll of his eyes.

"Uh... something like that..." Danny mumbles as everyone laughs again.

From further down the table, the smallest Wayne scoffs and clicks his tongue.

"I thought you said he was smart, Drake?"

"So, you all do it, too, then?" he asks, ignoring the jibe. Danny's only a little bit jealous as he thinks of how much easier they must have it, how much easier it'd be if his family had been on his side, too. "You all work together?"

"Nah," Dick says from across the table with a brilliant grin. "Tim's the only one that works with Bruce, we all have different jobs. I'm a police officer in Bludhaven."

"Disgusting." Danny blurts out without thinking—because seriously, what kind of self-respecting vigilante would also be a police officer?—before clapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry."

The whole table laughs again, the loudest being the blonde girl a few spaces down from Dick. Look, Danny wasn't really paying attention to names when they were all paraded in front of him. Dick only gets remembered because his name is a joke.

Come on, Danny, recover!

"That's, uh, not what I meant, though."

"Oh?" Dick asks, cocking his head slightly to the side. Is it Danny's imagination or does his smile tense slightly?

"Yeah, I mean like, you know, in costume. It must make it so much easier to have everyone together like this."

"Costume? What do you mean?"

Yeah, Danny's not imagining it, everyone tenses up at that. It's really only now that he's realising that this probably isn't how he should bring up that he knows about their... night time activities. In fact, he probably shouldn't be bringing it up at all.

"Uuhhh..." Danny looks wildly around the table as he continues making his stupid noise. Think, think, think! There must be a way out of this!

"Danny?" Tim asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, Ancients, this isn't how I wanted it to go at all," he mutters, slipping even further into his chair. He's almost on the floor now and he so, so wishes it could just swallow him up.

His real first meeting with Batman was meant to be cool! He had planned to be Phantom, maybe save them from a tight spot, prove his worth as a mysterious and powerful ally as thanks for the help Batman gave him in the future.

"Danny, what are you talking about?" Tim starts tugging on his sleeve in an attempt to pull him back up from his pit of despair.

Eventually, Danny relents and sits up straighter, hiding his face in his hands and whining all the while.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't expect him to be here and it threw me off so now I look stupid and it's so embarrassing!" he wails, flailing his arms wide. "Why wouldn't you warn me that Batman was your adopted dad, Tim? Couldn't you have let me know?"

"I'm sorry, what? Danny are you alright? There's no way Bruce can be Batman, look at him!"

"Yeah," the blonde girl laughs from the bottom of the table, "look at him! That's a wet noodle of a man! Batman can actually do things, B is incapable of pretty much everything."

"Thank you, Stephanie," Bruce sighs, massaging his forehead.

It's... Those are the first words Danny's heard Batman say since everything went down and it's enough to knock him out of his embarrassment.

It's really good to hear his voice again. Especially now, when it's strong and healthy and full of personality—even if that personality is little more than a tired father right now—far better than how it had been, at the end.

Danny sits up, back straight, and grins. He's got this. He remembers it perfectly. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, Danny repeats his mantra to be certain that he'll never forget it.

"Gamma alpha upsilon tau iota mu epsilon, 42, 63, 28, 1 colon 65 dash 9."

Once again, the whole table falls into silence.

"Holy shit..." breathes the other D name (Duke? Danny's pretty sure he's Signal) from opposite Stephanie. "Isn't that...?"

"The time travelling code." The littlest Wayne says stiffly. "We have met in the future?"

"That's not just the time travelling code, Dami." Dick says, looking between Danny and Bruce. "That's the family time travelling code."

Danny's grin freezes in place.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"1 colon 65 dash 9." Dick explains, still flicking between him and Bruce. "It means you've been adopted into the family and we should all treat you as such, no questions asked."

"Tell you what, I'm about to ask a question." Danny says, dumbstruck. "You just told me it was a code to identify time travellers, not anything about being adopted! What the hell, B?"

Bruce looks about as shellshocked as Danny feels.

"We must have been close," he says finally, after opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water a few times.

"No! Not that close!" Danny reels back, taking a deep breath ready to refute it all, but... "Well, I mean, you found me when I first got stuck, and you helped me get better despite being... And then we fought together against the, uh, bad guy, before he, um, he... before you couldn't."

An uncomfortable beat passes while they all pick up on what Danny tried so hard not to say.

"So, you're not from the future, then, you travelled there and came back?" Tim asks, breaking the tension and leaning forward with a glint in his eye.

"Yeah, it was a whole end of the world thing, but don't worry about it," Danny says with a hand wave, "It's all kosher now, won't ever happen."

"What did happen?"

"Seriously, don't worry about it, we cool."

"How long in the future was it?"

"About ten years? You were pretty spry for an old man, B," Danny laughs, wishing they'd get off the topic of what happened and get back to the adoption bit.

Everyone shares degrees of a cautious smile as they relax out of the shock, and Dick—whose grin is the biggest—says, "No wonder you got the family code, you're already riffing on him like one of us. How long were you there for?"

"A week, before I managed to get back to my present and stop him then."

"A week? Jeez, B, that has to set some kind of record, seriously."

"Oh!" Danny says, sitting bolt upright and blinking in surprise before pointing at Dick and bouncing in his seat. "You're Nightwing!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what Nightwing said when Batman told me the code! Makes so much more sense now."

Dick laughs and claps his hands, delighted.

"You were not formally adopted?" The grumpy small one—Dami?—asks, his face pinched.

"I didn't even know I was informally adopted."

"And your parents? Are they alive or dead?"

"Damian, stop—"

"They were dead in the future, but they're alive now." Danny says, looking down. He fiddles with the tablecloth, twisting the fabric around his fingers as he fights down the pang of sadness that he always feels when he thinks of them now. He forces a bright smile on his face and hopes it doesn’t look too strained. "I just, uh, can't talk to them much, anymore."

"Damian," Dick warns, "1 colon 65 dash 9. Treat them as family, no questions asked."

"This is Damian treating him as family, the little turd has no manners." Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he gently bumps shoulders with Danny to knock him out of his funk. Danny can't help but send him a watery smile.

"I have the most exemplary manners, Drake, unlike some people." Damian spits, crossing his arms with a pout. "I was merely ascertaining his status to see how he could possibly fit into the family."

"I know this is all a bit sudden, Danny," Bruce smiles, ignoring Damian and reaching out to lay a warm hand on his arm, "for all of us. But if I felt strongly enough to give you that code after spending a week with you in the future, then you are more than welcome in this family, if you so choose it. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we'd like to get to know you a bit more."

"I know a threat when I hear it, Bruce." Danny snorts. "But, yeah, I get it. I'm sorry this is all so weird, it really wasn't how I wanted to find you again, but... I'm glad I did."

"So are we, Danny." Dick says, with a warm smile. "And formally or not, 1 colon 65 dash 9 means you're family. Welcome to the fun house! No take backs or refunds, sorry. You're stuck with us."