Chapter Text
Wayne Manor, like many of the old stately homes in both Britain and America belonging to newer money, is littered with curios and beautiful antiquities. Among the most obvious of these are the ornately framed mirrors mirrored cabinets displaying valuables scattered through the warren-like halls, obscure art deco pieces dripping down staircases, backlit mirrors clinging to marble walls in guest bathrooms for all the pretty rich visitors. All of these mirrors are in perfectly sensible and practical places. All of these mirrors are maintained at optimum condition.
The private rooms are a different matter.
Bruce has to know how he looks, exactly, down to every misplaced hair or shadowy bruise, how the colours of his outfits work together. The effect of Bruce Wayne, businessman and playboy and father, must be carefully monitored, and for this reason he has mirrors in both the bathroom and wardrobe. But. The standing mirror in the corner is turned to wall, scuffed carpets showing regular movement. The mirrors in the bathroom have gauzy nets thrown over them. Bruce hasn’t got much of a problem with his body, his skin. He’s clinical. His children are not.
His eldest son spends hours in front of his mirrors, rubbing ointments and moisturisers into his skin, tracing the mountains and valleys of his muscles. Bad days leave marks, fingers dig deep into muscles, testing the proof of himself and his endless training, proving to himself he is strong enough. Enough for what? For everything. Dickie Grayson is as carefully cultivated as his adopted father; Dick takes after B, perhaps without the slightly disassociated immunity to new and old scars. If you asked, Bruce could tell you only half of his own scars, but he would be able to list every single one of Dick’s.
Jason is the opposite. No mirror lasts in his rooms beyond a week, no mirror in his vicinity survives a bout of the furious pain his flashbacks and nightmares cause. The scars from his death remain – the surgical scar of his autopsy most obviously. But, he can’t find some of his old scars. The mottling on his elbows from grazes resulting falling off his bike when he tried to cycle down the Manor stairs. Or the thin line across the meat of his forearm from bouncing off the corner display in a shop while chasing a kid he’d been babysitting – he can’t even remember the kid’s name, now. There was a scar down his palm, burns and cut-marks from his childhood and time as Robin. All gone. His nose shouldn’t look like it does, nor his jaw – whose jaw is it? His mother’s? Father’s? He wishes it could be Bruce’s. It sure doesn’t feel like his own – it’s missing the thin lines down his chin from old punches and shaving incidents.
New scars have taken their places. Scars he can’t remember the origins of, maybe from his time spent catatonic before Talia dipped him in the pit, maybe from the training he received after – maybes are not the answers he needs to reclaim his skin. This body isn’t his, not truly, not the body he should have grown into had he stayed with Bruce and Alfred and Dick. He can’t stand the white streak, some days. His eyes are greener than they used to be, and when he’s Pit-maddened they seem to glow poisonous jade. Mirrors only make him sad on good days and downright depressed on bad ones. This is why Jason has no mirrors: he doesn’t want to look at the man parading as Jason Wayne.
Timothy doesn’t really mind the mirrors. If he’s really having a crap time, he’ll tack a poster or towel or something over his, but he’s good at just not bothering to look. He’s young enough he doesn’t shave often, familiar enough with himself to do his hair and dress up so that he only needs a cursory check before heading out to work. The responsibilities of WE are evenly split between him and Bruce now, with the option of Tim dropping things onto subordinates if needed. It’s nice not to have to pay such close attention to his appearance. He just can’t be bothered with all this fashion nonsense. Going shopping for suits with Bruce and Alfred and sometimes his other brothers is always fun, though. It’s one of the only occasions he enjoys mirrors. Putting together outfits is a good use for the odd free weekend.
As for their sister, well, she doesn’t like mirrors either. There are three little compact mirrors tacked onto the wall in her room so she can make sure she’s presentable, but other than that she’d much rather not have to look at the broken skin her biological father left her with. So many scars, and all so old. Cass would much rather not see the visible reminders of a childhood of horror. Secretly, though, even unbeknownst to herself, she hunts out the worst patches. One day she’ll tattoo over them.
Stephanie is like Dick. Her appearance is something she has control over. She couldn’t tell you the location of every scar or bruise like some of this city’s children can, but she’s a Gothamite through and through, bearing her wounds with the pride of survival (not that you’ll get the stories of her scars from her). Everyone knows that skin tells a tale whose meaning is private and precious.
And his youngest, Damian, doesn’t like to look at his scars, but he likes to seek out the traces of his mother and father in his face, to dress in suits practicing the Wayne Sneer TM. Damian wants to make his father proud. For him that means being as close an imitation as he can – Richard may be softer and provide more support, but it’s Bruce who is his hero and model. Ask and he’ll deny it, but Bruce thinks it’s too cute for words that Damian practices being a Wayne.