i have been in the anti-gojo coalition server for one (1) hour and this is what it has done to me. nerd gojo. EDIT TO SAY: OH MY GOD PHYSICS PROF GOJO !!
the physics professor grades papers in the campus library. way too late.
you're only there until nine, but gojo satoru always comes strolling through the doors sometime after seven with his book bag and sleek laptop, looking entirely too excited to care about quantum field theory. you suppose he always looks like that, though, especially in his classroom, in front of a whiteboard while droning on and on about infinities.
almost immediately after he sits down, he covers the entire surface of the table closest to the front (closest to you) with his belongings; blue and red sharpies, coffee from the shop around the corner, stacks upon stacks of paper. he even hums to himself — in a library — like he's just having the darndest time taking up all of yours.
it would be a lie to say it isn't amusing, though, even on nights like tonight. outside it's storming, albeit quietly, and the day has taken all it could from you; watching him with sleepy eyes as he mutters to himself is — cute, no matter how late it's getting.
"i have a question, professor,"
you're the only two left in the library at such an hour, but he still looks up with raised eyebrows, as if you could be talking to someone else. his grin spreads across his face slowly once he realizes, like a balm.
"and i have an answer."
you snort, tired and amused, when he wiggles his eyebrows. "is it possible for hours to sneak into the day? because it really feels like it's been more than eight today."
"hmm," he makes a show of thinking, tapping his pen against his pursed lips as if he really has to. you know he's full of it, though, because he's only twenty-eight and has more accolades than some of the oldest instructors. "each hour of the day corresponds to a specific duration based on earth's rotation and its orbital motion around the sun." he shrugs, smile dropping the more serious he gets, and — you kind of wish you wouldn't have asked, because you're too tired for this. "time dilation is a thing, but that's more...changes in the perception of time because of differences in realtive—"
gojo suddenly stops, and you can see the quick cut of his eyes over his glasses as he looks at you. when you raise a single eyebrow at him, he sticks out his tongue and blows a long raspberry, before turning to hunch back over his laptop.
"uh," he lets out a quick laugh and taps his pen against his forehead, a little aggressively. "short answer, no!"
and — you're sleepy. tired. the mascara you'd put on today is almost all dried out and flaking off underneath your eyes, you can hear the comfort of some sweatpants and your bed calling your name, but — gojo fiddles with the hair at the nape of his neck, angling his head away from you. embarrassed, maybe.
despite the heaviness to your eyes and the 9: 02 PM that shines in the corner of your computer screen, you ask,
"well, what's the long answer?"
his head snaps up to you again, but he doesn't respond, only watches with parted lips; the smartest man you've ever met needing a hint.
you glance towards the windows, the dark storm beyond them, before sending him a smile that spreads to his own face. "i think we might be here a while with the rain, if you wanna tell me."
he shakes his head at you and lightly clicks his tongue against his teeth, almost like he's disappointed, before reaching into his bag to pull out an umbrella. "should have checked the radar! though i'm happy to share, if you'd like." and despite how much of a dork you think he is, the little wink he sends you over his glasses has your tummy flipping.
but he's still — not getting it.
"satoru," you say, quietly, shaking your head when his playful expression drops and his cheeks turn a little rosy under the fluorescence. "sit here with me and tell me all about time, would you?"
you can see the gears turning in his big, fat brain, and another laugh slips out of him, light and yet full of nerves. after a moment, he runs a hand over his face, takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes, like he's tired, too.
but then he's blinking at you, excited, and you wonder if his eyes have always been so bright.
"well, time is a fundamental dimension in the universe..."
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the reason why nu52 Dick is so simultaneously messy and yet boring is because they don't let him be bitchy enough whilst simultaneously making him a little bitch
sdfsdfdsfs I don't totally understand what this means and yet I feel like I agree with the spirit, anon <3
Outsiders 21 - preboot Dick yelling at Bruce my beloved
Yeah, caveat that there's plenty of nu52 Dick stuff that I haven't read and I don't think it's all bad, but also... man, he is not for me. As far I'm concerned, the main good thing that came out of n52/Rebirth is some setups for sad!Dick fanfic. And yeah, "Dick is not bitchy enough" is actually a pretty good summary of my complaints sdfdsfs
The thing is, nu52 Dick has some similarities to preboot Tim, in that he'll sometimes be insincerely fake-cheerful even when actually upset, plus he periodically seems uncomfortable with direct confrontation so instead he lies to avoid confrontation. And mmm I mean, I like these qualities in preboot Tim, so it's not like I think these are terrible traits to have!!
BUT :
1) Preboot Tim has no authority. But preboot Dick does, and it's frustrating to take it away from him in nu52.
There's some post-2011 panel where Dick lies to Batman and is cheery about it, a la Tim bragging to his friends about lying to Batman in Teen Titans, and I had to stare at it for ages trying to figure out why it felt like such a record scratch moment to me.
But it's because there is a huge difference between a presumably independent superhero lying to another superhero vs. a sidekick and his sidekick friends secretly joyriding in Batman's car.
Like, Tim lies to authority figures more-or-less constantly, because he doesn't want to be told what to do, but also because - importantly!! - those authority figures reasonably assume they have authority over him that he has to evade. Of course he tries to avoid direct confrontation with the JLA / Batman / Red Tornado / Starfire - they're not his equals and a direct confrontation would end badly!
Whereas Nightwing lying to Batman feels like putting him in a subordinate position in a way that preboot Dick never is. Preboot Dick always tells Batman off to his face, because preboot Dick cares about being equals and refuses to accept being subordinate. He doesn't sneak around behind Bruce's back - he fights back! If he doesn't agree with Bruce's position, he tries to argue Bruce into his own. He'll do stuff without asking Bruce's permission, but he won't conceal it; he'll make a point of making sure Bruce knows what he did and also that he isn't sorry.
2) Preboot Tim's lying / tendency to be fake with people is a consistent personality trait that's also consistently problematized. nu52 Dick's characterization is wildly all over the map.
In preboot, Tim is a liar and obsessive compartmentalizer, which is both a strength (disguises, sneaking around authority) and a problem (loved ones who are hurt by it). He's self-aware about his lies, periodically resolves to lie less, and generally fails at it.
Tim's consistent enough that you can track this character trait in all his relationships: he lies to his dad. He lies to Batman. He lies to his girlfriends. He refuses to tell Babs his real name for ages for basically no reason. He stalks Dick and then tries to run away from him in his origin story and then tries to avoid telling Dick his name. And this evasiveness consistently causes him problems!! Dick's suspicious of him. Ariana's suspicious of him. His dad is suspicious of him. Young Justice and Steph get annoyed with his secret-keeping. Young Justice want him to take off the mask. Steph wants to know his real name. When she finds out and calls him by his real name, he has a panic attack and literally runs away. When upset, he insists he's fine and fake-smiles at people. In Teen Titans, when Tim's busy being fake-cheerful and Conner is startled to see him there right after his dad died, Tim gets upset and angry at Conner and demands that he not tell anyone about Jack. Fine, Conner says, I guess it's another secret. In AC 3, he's lying to Conner again and Conner accuses him of having an insincere "Starfire voice," which is a hilarious callback to Tim being fake-agreeable-yet-secretly-bitchy at Kory when he first meets her. I feel like I get that the lying is a Tim Character Trait which is sometimes endearing and sometimes less so and which all the people who love him are gonna have different feelings about.
By contrast, nu52 Dick spends a ton of time lying but it's hard for me to model his characterization in the same way? He's sometimes fake and ... sometimes that's totally cool and sometimes people punch him! also, does it say something about him? ehhhhh maybe? no? who can say!! At the end of nu52 Nightwing, he doesn't want to go undercover and Bruce beats him up, but then in Grayson he seems totally on board with his mission and willing to actively lie to everyone, and then in Batman and Robin Eternal he carries out a whole secret mission behind nuTim's back because he thinks nuTim is maybe a spy and is scared (?) of confronting him directly, but also he's so sloppy about it that he gets followed and the bad guys find nuTim's parents. Oopsie! He represents The Heart and is super-caring but also somewhat ditzy with a tendency to leap before he looks, and also he's very very very goodlooking and Grayson would really like you to know that.
You can try to make sense of this character's internal motivations and I have read various enjoyable fanfics that do, but in the comics I don't feel like he's clearly characterized.
3) Dick should be a convincing team leader
I know I kind of talked about this earlier but it bothers me SO MUCH that I have to talk about it again dsfdsfds
Preboot Dick is a natural leader: he seizes control of the feuding personalities in the Fab Five; he does the same thing in the NTT; he stands up to Bruce. He can overrule strong personalities like Pantha and Roy; he can hold his ground against the Outsiders. He doesn't back down and he doesn't quit. He's got instinctive authority, and he's a forceful and aggressive enough leader that he can lead teams even when his teammates are feuding or difficult or arguing with each other. Sometimes he's a little too forceful and it backfires on him, but for the most part, it works!
By contrast, nu52 Dick often comes off as kinda... hapless? He's definitely not a force to be reckoned with.
Like, just to take one small example, in post-Crisis's Red Robin 14, Tim and Damian are fighting and Dick wants them to cut it out, so he throws a batarang at Tim's staff and snaps at him, and the fight stops immediately. By contrast, in nu52's Batman and Robin 10, Tim and Damian are arguing and Dick wants them to cut it out, but nuDick is incapable of confronting anyone over anything so he just sighs about it, passive-aggressive and ineffectual.
And "ineffectual" is too often the vibe I get from n52 Dick in general. You put that man with Pantha, and he'll probably be bemused, but he won't be able to make Pantha do anything, and he wouldn't be able to make Danny Chase do anything, and he can't or won't stand up to Bruce so he has to lie the way Tim does, and he would never have a fistfight with Roy over the proper way to lead a team.
And in a lot of ways this makes sense, because n52 Dick isn't a team leader, because they've deleted the Titans. He's just a guy. He's nice, I guess.
But even though he gets all kinds of excellent woobie plotlines that I'd normally enjoy (an evil organization is stalking him personally! his dad is beating him up and forcing him into becoming a spy! he's losing his memory!) his personality is usually so far off from the character I like that I struggle to get invested.
Because the thing is, Dick's leadership instincts aren't incidental to what I like about him. They're all wrapped up in his outsized sense of personal responsibility and instinctive belief that if anything is going wrong anywhere near him then it is his obligation to handle it and if anything goes wrong then it's his fault if he was involved and also his fault if he wasn't involved and actually if you have ever gotten within five feet of him and unrelatedly something bad happened to you then it's probably his fault and he FAILED. This belief gives Dick a lot of control issues and makes him bitchy sometimes and is not great for his mental health, but it's also very endearing and an outgrowth of how much Dick cares!
Anyway, re:bitchiness, I have similar feelings about various choices in Batgirls and in Tim Drake: Robin and in current Nightwing; like, I don't think any of these stories are bad ipso facto, I don't begrudge anyone who likes them, and I certainly enjoy fluffy fanfic sometimes - I don't always want the same things in transformative fandom that I want in canon.
But in comics, I often want the characters to have a bit of edge, to be cranky and difficult and just... y'know, clearly the kind of people who would choose to be vigilantes. I want them to care enough to be bitchy about it. And I often feel like I'm missing that, post-2011.
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The message comes from the constantly-running humidifier in the darkest corner of his cabin.
(It’s an eyesore. That’s why it’s there. It’s a bright, shiny pink, decorated with painted yellow suns and silver stars and random other doodles. At the bottom, there’s a messily painted signature next to a black heart. Will presented it to him proudly one random day, beaming that stupidly wide grin of his: “I made it in Arts and Crafts! It’ll help with your lungs, swearsies.”)
(It works wonders. When he breathes and feels like the air won’t settle in his chest, he stands close to it and clears up. When he’s hacking up a lung and smelling the phantom scent of acrid, monster air and the bronze staleness of his own recycled breath, it clears his throat. When he wakes up hyperventilating, eyes wide and unseeing, the soft bubbling of the steaming water and rhythmic pulsing of the glowing light gives him something to focus on.)
(If anyone asks, Nico threw it out the day he got it.)
He startles when his name is called, dropping the breastplate he was polishing with a clang. The sound makes him wince, and the Iris message flicker.
“This a good time, kiddo?”
Nico’s tongue feels like lead. Sally Jackson watches him carefully from the projection, small smile on her face, greying hair curling around her temples. Her brown eyes remind him of Bianca and how she would sometimes look at him, when he was fidgety and overwhelmed. Patient. It doesn’t help with the ache slowly spreading from his chest.
“Hi, Mrs. Jackson,” he manages, finally. His voice is more of a croak than anything.
Her smile widens, even as her face turns chastising.
“Sally, Nico.”
“…Mrs. Sally.”
She laughs, although Nico hadn’t meant it as a joke. Her laughter is twinkling and calming, like the rustling of leaves in a summer breeze. Nico’s shoulders relax without him realising, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll take what I can get, I suppose. How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in too long.”
Nico winces. The last time he’d seen her was an Iris message similar to this, only her eyes had been red-rimmed, and she hadn’t been smiling. Nico had pushed past the lump in his throat to report that he hadn’t heard anything about her missing son, either, although he’d promised he was looking, and then a few weeks later he felt like the worst person ever when Percy showed up in the Little Tiber and he said nothing. He’d clenched a drachma in his hands for hours after, guilt eating him alive.
Sally looks fine, now. He fights the urge to apologise — it would only upset her. His guilt is something he simply gets to live with.
“I’ve been okay,” he says finally. She hums. “Uh, busy.”
“Saving the world again, I hear,” she replies, grin turning wry. “Carrying a forty-foot statue across the world.”
Nico flushes. He wonders who told her, Percy or Annabeth. Or both, or maybe someone else, even. He knows the Jacksons’ place is something of a refuge, in this day and age. He’s not sure how he feels about other people talking about him like he’s a hero or something. He had a job to do, and he barely managed still.
“That was Reyna’s quest.”
Sally hums again. Her eyes never leave him, piercing and soft as they are.
“Happy Birthday, Nico.”
For the second time in ten minutes, he jumps out of his skin. It’s been a while since he’s heard those words — he forgot that Sally is one of the few people who knows his birthday, that he told her, two years ago, when he’d crawled through Percy’s window when he was sure the boy was at school because he was bleeding and half-delirious and didn’t know where else to go, so soon after the Titan War. So soon after ditching camp, skin crawling at the stares of the other demigods, knowing how strange he was to them. Sally hadn’t asked questions. She’d cleaned the empousa scratch and wrestled him into staying for lunch, soft voice and kind, calloused hand prying answers out of him he hadn’t expected to give.
(She was aghast when she found out he was walking the streets on his own birthday, celebrations not even crossing his mind. Even more so when she noticed his cold-chapped hands and thin, ripped jeans. “Thirteen, you know, is a big deal,” she’d said, and when he’d insisted on leaving before Percy got home she sent him out with snacks and a pair of gloves.)
He clears his throat. “Thanks.”
“How’d you celebrate, today?” Her grin is wide and creases her forehead, eyes nearly shut. Her smile is identical to her son’s, only with less of the trouble attached. “First year at camp as a full timer! Annabeth has told me that Chiron usually brings you all to the city to celebrate, it must have been fun.”
Nico avoids her gaze, shrugging. He picks at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt.
“I didn’t — um, we didn’t do that.”
He can practically feel the face she makes, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned.
“…Something else, then? How did you spend your day?”
Nico shrugs. “Stayed in the infirmary.”
He looks up just in time to see her face crease in alarm.
“You’re hurt?”
“Oh, no, I’m — I’m not —” He stumbles over his words, rushing to assure her. “I’m not hurt. I was just cutting bandages, helping out. My friend —” his face glows, he knows it does, he pretends it doesn’t — “my friend says I have a magic touch. He’s full of it, because he actually does have a magic touch and does not need my help organizing nectar bottles, but. He’s stubborn. And annoying. And too lazy to organize it himself, probably.”
Sally’s grinning again. This time, the expression has just as much mischief as her son’s does, and despite himself Nico flushes darker.
“Sounds like your friend just wants your company.”
“Or something.”
“Or something.”
She watches him for a moment longer. Nico fidgets. He wonders what he’s supposed to say, if there’s an etiquette to talking to ex-crushes’ mothers who kind of mother you a little bit, too. Then he wonders who the hell he’s supposed to ask about that.
“Why didn’t you tell your friends about your birthday?”
It’s an odd thing for Nico to hear. ‘Your friends’. He has those now, he supposes. Will, and Nico, and Lou Ellen. Kayla. Austin. Cecil. Percy and Annabeth, even, and of course Hazel and Reyna and Jason. Maybe even Piper and Leo and Hedge. Mellie, too, ruffles his hair when she breezes by him, and Grover grins and waves when he catches his eye. Tyson beams at him when he visits camp. Sometimes Rachel picks the lock of his cabin for no reason and sighs dramatically in a corner until Nico snaps at her, then she grins and drags him off to do something stupid. If Nico thinks about it, about the list of people who insert themselves in his life, now, his head starts to hurt. When did he become so social?
Nico shrugs. “They’re gonna — make a big deal out of it. Will’ll probably try to — sing to me, or something.” He snorts just thinking about it. “He’ll break my ear drums. He’s a horrible singer.”
“I see.”
“Or, worse, he’ll write a poem or something. And it will be bad. The worst part about it, actually, is that he’s really quite good at poetry, but he thinks it’s funnier to write bad poetry, so he does and he recites it all the time and drives everybody crazy. One time I read a good one he wrote and he got all embarrassed because he is a walking indovinello, that’s what he is, let me tell you —”
“Hm.”
“— and Cecil, gods, don’t even get me started, Cecil would do something stupid like — like — steal me a car, or something. Even though I’m not even old enough to drive! And Lou Ellen would probably help him. And who even knows what ridiculous thing Kayla and Austin would plan, and, Zeus’ beard, I know Jason would start crying about something —”
“Nico,” Sally interrupts, gently, grinning, “it sounds like your friends would be very happy to celebrate with you.”
“They would be — overbearing,” he huffs. “Well — not Reyna. Or Hazel. Maybe a little Hazel, but mostly not.”
“Have you told them?”
“…No.”
“Why not?”
“It just seems — off, I guess,” he admits softly. “I didn’t have to tell Bianca about my birthday. She knew. She —”
His voice breaks, and he looks down, embarrassed. He swipes the tear from his eye and hopes Sally doesn’t see, even though he knows she does. Sometimes he feels like the record his mother has that was so thin and played-out that it skipped on every track and always made the needle get stuck. She was too attached to throw it away and get a new one. Nico is that track, he thinks, worn out and bumpy and always making the needle stick, always coming back to the same thing. He used to complain every time his mother brought it out. He wonders how many people must roll their eyes at his own skipping, repeating track.
“Maybe you don’t tell them, then,” Sally says, hushed. Nico finally gathers the courage to look back up at her, and she doesn’t look annoyed at all — kind, only, and determined. “You mentioned your friend in the infirmary. Do they still have patient files?”
He tilts his head, confused. “Yes? I think so.”
“Do you have one?”
Nico grimaces, remembering his first stay in the infirmary where Will left forms out for him to fill and Nico balled them up and chucked them at him. Will had chucked them back on reflex before remembering Nico was his patient, blurting out a red-faced “Sorry! Gods, I’m so sorry!” that had Nico laughing until he cried, as Will cussed him out, practically glowing a bright tomato-red. They never did get back around to filling those out, despite the numerous times Nico has landed himself back under Will’s dorky stethoscope. The medic must be stuffing the injury reports in a random file somewhere.
“I. Will definitely get one.”
“Put your information in,” Sally suggests. “Percy’s told me about the head medic in passing — Will, I think? He mentioned he’s quite thorough, I imagine he checks the files regularly.”
Nico nods. He does. They get messy and cluttered fast, what with the sheer number of maimings and stabbings et cetera, so once a month Will sits on the floor in the middle of the room and organizes everything in some inane system that only makes sense to him. If Nico fills out a form and stuffs it in his file, Will will definitely notice.
“That’s — doable.”
Sally smiles. It’s kind of radiant and hard to look at, and Nico feels himself smiling back on reflex, if a little shyer.
“Good! Oh, Nico, I’m so glad. I’ve worried about you, kiddo. I’m sure Percy’s tired of me asking.”
Nico whips his head back up to stare at her, jaw dropping.
“You…ask about me?”
“Of course.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’d have to do it less if you visited more than once or twice a year.“
Nico opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t quite know how to say that he had no idea that he was welcome — that she wanted his visits, rather than dreaded them.
“I made cake,” she says casually, like she can sense his turmoil. “Blue, of course. The best kind.”
Nico snorts. She winks at him.
“I’d hoped I would see you today. But cake lasts, you know. It will still be good tomorrow, if you don’t have any other plans.”
He imagines asking Argus to drive him into town — Will has still banned him from shadow travel, although he has begrudgingly allowed other “less draining” magic, not that Nico has to listen to him or anything — and pulling up to the apartment in Manhattan. Climbing up the rickety fire escape; or, this time, knocking on the door. He imagines Sally’s wide smile, maybe even Paul Blofis’ charming grin, her kiss on both cheeks and strong hand guiding him into the warm kitchen.
He swallows roughly. “I’d like that.”
“Good. Consider it done,” she says lightly. “Come over when you have time, I’ll be home all day. I look forward to seeing you, Nico.”
Nico smiles at her. Some of the ever-present ache in his chest lessens. “Me, too.”
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
He swipes through the message, dissolving the connection. The billowing steam from the humidifier returns to its usual soft plumes, and Nico stands there for a few moments, breathing deeply, imagining it settling in his lungs, clearing out the lingering smoke he imagines has taken home in them. He breathes in, breathes out, and walks, trance-like, to his dresser, tugging on his PJs and feeling like he’s floating.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of sweet blue cake and sweeter laughter ringing through a small kitchen.
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