HS - What's in a Name?
Title: What's in a Name?
Fandom: Homestuck
Characters/pairings: Dirk (Bro) Strider
Rating: PG
Summary: What's in a name? That which we call a Dirk
By any other name would be as awesome
Warnings: A few f-bombs.
Notes: So way back when I first started reading Homestuck, I giggled over Dave's last name. And ever since we found out that the Guardians were also meteorbabies, this headcanon has been forming.
Bonus: I actually know a guy with the last name The Magnificent. He won't tell us if he chose it or if his parents did.
o o o
Your name is Dirk, and Angie is stupid.
She's stupid and mean and bratty and she won't stop calling you 'Dirt' and laughing like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard and you won't cry, you never cry, but you might sit in the upstairs linen closet with Cal in your lap and pout for a while.
Mrs. Joscelin won't like it, she hates it when you hide in the drifts of sheets. Mrs. Joscelin doesn't like a lot of the things you do.
Mr. Joscelin doesn't mind, though. He comes in and sits on the shelf above you, idly kicking his legs and tapping out a beat against the door. He doesn't say anything, not until you crawl out from under the shelf and crawl up next to him. "Angie is stupid," you say.
"Angie is five," he counters, as if that explains anything. You fold your arms and glare at the door.
After a moment, you huff. "Why did you name me 'Dirk'?" you ask, and you're proud of yourself for not whining like a baby. Mrs. Joscelin doesn't like that, either; she says it's not right for a little boy to never cry. You don't like to cry. Crying is for babies who don't have words, and you don't know why anyone older than you would do so.
"Do you know what a dirk is?" he asks. You're silent. You don't like admitting when you don't know things. Cal doesn't know, either, and you hug him close. Mr. Joscelin raises a hand and you hope he isn't about to ruffle your hair, because you hate that. He doesn't. He drops his hand to your shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze, then motions for you to follow him.
He doesn't pick you up, because you don't like that, either. Instead, he slows his grown-up steps so that you can keep up, Cal's feet dragging along behind you, because even Cal is taller than you. You'll be tall some day, you know that, but you wish you were tall now.
Mr. Joscelin leads you to his study, and you hesitate only a little, because the Big Rule is don't go in the study. But Mr. Joscelin's inviting you in, like you're a grown-up instead of one of the kids, and you grin, delighted. Mr. Joscelin sits in his big rolly chair where he sits and talks to people who might become parents. You look around, then tuck Cal into one of the new parent chairs and climb up into Mr. Joscelin's lap, sitting on his knee.
Mr. Joscelin reaches back to a shelf and pulls down the biggest book you've ever seen. "Do you know what this is?" he asks, thudding the heavy thing to the desk.
You squint at the gold letters on the cover. You know your letters, and you know a lot of the sounds they make when they're put together, but this word is long, and the way some of the letters are put together confuses you. You stare at it for a moment, hoping it'll turn into a word you know, and when it doesn't, you shrug and give it your best shot. "Dictreeny."
Mr. Joscelin looks a little surprised, then he laughs. "Not quite," he says. "It's a dictionary." Not a story, a thing. You scoot down his knee to get a better look as he opens it up. He shows you a word, a 'definition', how you can find any word you know how to spell and look up its meaning. Your mouth is hanging open, and you don't even care. It's beautiful, the most amazing thing you've ever seen, and it never occurred to you that there could be books that weren't stories.
Then Mr. Joscelin turns the pages with a purpose, looks down at you. "Spell your name," he says, and you do, slowly, as he first finds D, then Di, then Dir-wait-k, right there, and it's one of the entries with a picture. You stand up on Mr. Joscelin's knee, your hands on the desk so you can get a better look. It's a sword of some kind, long and pointed, and your heart skips a beat. "You named me after a sword?" you ask. Oh man, Cal is so jealous.
"Dirk," Mr. Joscelin says, reading from the entry. "A dagger, especially of the Scottish Highlands. Not quite a sword. It's smaller. Sharper. Like I knew you'd be sharp, from the moment the police brought you to us. Could see it in your eyes."
You look at your hands, but you're pretty sure he's not talking about you being made from metal. Then it clicks that he means a sharp brain, that you're good at cutting through a problem, and you're pleased, because even if Angie and Bradley and Danny are older than you, they're not as smart, not as sharp, and you bet none of them have ever been in the study to look at giant books with Mr. Joscelin.
You turn around and hug Mr. Joscelin. He's surprised, because you don't hug hardly anyone, but he hugs you back with one arm. You climb down a minute later, and grab Cal and drag him off so you can talk to him about what your name really means.
At the next holiday, your tiny Easter basket has all of the candy everyone else does, but no toy, no bouncy ball or kite or stuffed dolly. Instead, there's a book with a blue cover with a dinosaur and that word again, 'dictionary'. Ms. Amy protests that three is too young to give a child a book on Easter, especially a dictionary. You let Mr. Joscelin handle her and sit Cal in the corner as your chair so you can teach him to read. This dictionary doesn't have your name in it, and you're a little sad, but it's a small one, and you know where the big one is, and you decide to start with A.
o o o
You put down the book, feeling feverish and chilled and like your guts are all tied up in knots. You also may be grinning like a nutcase, but that's okay because you're forty feet off the ground in a huge hoary old oak and no one can see you. You swallow and rake your fingers through your hair and look down at the book again, the flaking gold leaf cool under your fingers.
Return of the King.
You let your head fall back against the trunk of the tree, giving yourself permission to indulge. Every foster kid has thoughts like these, you're pretty certain. Painful, wistful fantasies about your blood family, about them finding you, taking you in, no, no, they didn't abandon you, you weren't left in a collapsed building, they lost you, you were taken, it was a mistake that they're going to start to fix right now, right here and now by claiming you as their own.
You allow yourself this, because you know your fantasy is just that. Isildur's line doesn't exist, is the product of the imagination of a man long dead. But how cool would it be, how absolutely fucking amazing, if a man knocked on the door to Mr. J's rambling home full of unwanted brats and asked for a boy with gold eyes and a sharp mind, last seen in a broken down building outside of Dallas and bearing the distinct freckle pattern of Isildur's line. A powerful, wiry man, a modern day ranger protecting the American people from threats they didn't know existed. Araveil son of Araben or something like that, come to reclaim the long-lost Arasicil son of Araveil.
But rangers don't go by their real names, right? So you'll keep Dirk. But Dirk Smith just screams 'I'm using a cover name' so yeah fuck that. You'll come up with something. Something better, something not so secret-agent-ish. And when he shows up, you'll pass on the tradition, give him a nice normal name and whisper his real name in his ear, Aralume son of Arasicil though he won't be your son, not quite, he'll-
No. You'll think of him later. When you're older. When the thought doesn't scare you. When you're not nine and in a tree. You tuck his secret name away and look back down at the book in your hands. Then you flip it open, and look for the part where Strider summoned the men of Dunhallow.
o o o
"All right, your turn."
Your stomach does a slow loop-de-loop as you step up to the counter. You and Bradley saved up for weeks for this. Mr. Joscelin stands behind you, grey and starting to bend, but his eyes are wicked-bright as ever. You're sixteen and the likelihood of adoption has pretty much bottomed out, so he brings you and Bradley down town to the courthouse. There's a lot of forms and forty dollars gets passed over from each of you, and now you're staring at a blank form that's politely requesting your new name.
Bradley's going to be obnoxious about it, changing his name to first name: Brad last name: The Magnificent, and Mr. J laughs but signs the forms anyway, you're men now, you can pick your own life of showing people your ID and ensuring them that, yes, that is your name.
You stare at the blank page. You've known for a long time what your last name is going to be, but the idea of changing your first name sticks. Dirk is an awesome name, sure, but you could change it to something mild, something normal as a contrast to your eccentric behavior, oh holy shit who is that rad as fuck guy over there, he's too fucking cool for a normal name whoops so sorry to disappoint honey but this is just plain ol' Dave right here-
No. No, not Dave. Dave is his name, not yours. And for the first time, you really, no shit, absolutely believe you're going to find a baby sometime in the next few years and raise it as your own. Because his name is there, written across the inside of your head like a neon banner. Because you can almost see him standing next to you. Christ.
Not Dave. Besides, Mr. J named you Dirk, and he's one of the very few people on this planet you actually like. You'll keep it.
You apply pen to page and briefly remember being a little kid in a tree with a wish in your heart and a book in your lap. Most dreams don't come true, but you can make part of this one happen.
Former name: Dirk Smith
New name: Dirk A. Strider
Fandom: Homestuck
Characters/pairings: Dirk (Bro) Strider
Rating: PG
Summary: What's in a name? That which we call a Dirk
By any other name would be as awesome
Warnings: A few f-bombs.
Notes: So way back when I first started reading Homestuck, I giggled over Dave's last name. And ever since we found out that the Guardians were also meteorbabies, this headcanon has been forming.
Bonus: I actually know a guy with the last name The Magnificent. He won't tell us if he chose it or if his parents did.
o o o
Your name is Dirk, and Angie is stupid.
She's stupid and mean and bratty and she won't stop calling you 'Dirt' and laughing like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard and you won't cry, you never cry, but you might sit in the upstairs linen closet with Cal in your lap and pout for a while.
Mrs. Joscelin won't like it, she hates it when you hide in the drifts of sheets. Mrs. Joscelin doesn't like a lot of the things you do.
Mr. Joscelin doesn't mind, though. He comes in and sits on the shelf above you, idly kicking his legs and tapping out a beat against the door. He doesn't say anything, not until you crawl out from under the shelf and crawl up next to him. "Angie is stupid," you say.
"Angie is five," he counters, as if that explains anything. You fold your arms and glare at the door.
After a moment, you huff. "Why did you name me 'Dirk'?" you ask, and you're proud of yourself for not whining like a baby. Mrs. Joscelin doesn't like that, either; she says it's not right for a little boy to never cry. You don't like to cry. Crying is for babies who don't have words, and you don't know why anyone older than you would do so.
"Do you know what a dirk is?" he asks. You're silent. You don't like admitting when you don't know things. Cal doesn't know, either, and you hug him close. Mr. Joscelin raises a hand and you hope he isn't about to ruffle your hair, because you hate that. He doesn't. He drops his hand to your shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze, then motions for you to follow him.
He doesn't pick you up, because you don't like that, either. Instead, he slows his grown-up steps so that you can keep up, Cal's feet dragging along behind you, because even Cal is taller than you. You'll be tall some day, you know that, but you wish you were tall now.
Mr. Joscelin leads you to his study, and you hesitate only a little, because the Big Rule is don't go in the study. But Mr. Joscelin's inviting you in, like you're a grown-up instead of one of the kids, and you grin, delighted. Mr. Joscelin sits in his big rolly chair where he sits and talks to people who might become parents. You look around, then tuck Cal into one of the new parent chairs and climb up into Mr. Joscelin's lap, sitting on his knee.
Mr. Joscelin reaches back to a shelf and pulls down the biggest book you've ever seen. "Do you know what this is?" he asks, thudding the heavy thing to the desk.
You squint at the gold letters on the cover. You know your letters, and you know a lot of the sounds they make when they're put together, but this word is long, and the way some of the letters are put together confuses you. You stare at it for a moment, hoping it'll turn into a word you know, and when it doesn't, you shrug and give it your best shot. "Dictreeny."
Mr. Joscelin looks a little surprised, then he laughs. "Not quite," he says. "It's a dictionary." Not a story, a thing. You scoot down his knee to get a better look as he opens it up. He shows you a word, a 'definition', how you can find any word you know how to spell and look up its meaning. Your mouth is hanging open, and you don't even care. It's beautiful, the most amazing thing you've ever seen, and it never occurred to you that there could be books that weren't stories.
Then Mr. Joscelin turns the pages with a purpose, looks down at you. "Spell your name," he says, and you do, slowly, as he first finds D, then Di, then Dir-wait-k, right there, and it's one of the entries with a picture. You stand up on Mr. Joscelin's knee, your hands on the desk so you can get a better look. It's a sword of some kind, long and pointed, and your heart skips a beat. "You named me after a sword?" you ask. Oh man, Cal is so jealous.
"Dirk," Mr. Joscelin says, reading from the entry. "A dagger, especially of the Scottish Highlands. Not quite a sword. It's smaller. Sharper. Like I knew you'd be sharp, from the moment the police brought you to us. Could see it in your eyes."
You look at your hands, but you're pretty sure he's not talking about you being made from metal. Then it clicks that he means a sharp brain, that you're good at cutting through a problem, and you're pleased, because even if Angie and Bradley and Danny are older than you, they're not as smart, not as sharp, and you bet none of them have ever been in the study to look at giant books with Mr. Joscelin.
You turn around and hug Mr. Joscelin. He's surprised, because you don't hug hardly anyone, but he hugs you back with one arm. You climb down a minute later, and grab Cal and drag him off so you can talk to him about what your name really means.
At the next holiday, your tiny Easter basket has all of the candy everyone else does, but no toy, no bouncy ball or kite or stuffed dolly. Instead, there's a book with a blue cover with a dinosaur and that word again, 'dictionary'. Ms. Amy protests that three is too young to give a child a book on Easter, especially a dictionary. You let Mr. Joscelin handle her and sit Cal in the corner as your chair so you can teach him to read. This dictionary doesn't have your name in it, and you're a little sad, but it's a small one, and you know where the big one is, and you decide to start with A.
o o o
You put down the book, feeling feverish and chilled and like your guts are all tied up in knots. You also may be grinning like a nutcase, but that's okay because you're forty feet off the ground in a huge hoary old oak and no one can see you. You swallow and rake your fingers through your hair and look down at the book again, the flaking gold leaf cool under your fingers.
Return of the King.
You let your head fall back against the trunk of the tree, giving yourself permission to indulge. Every foster kid has thoughts like these, you're pretty certain. Painful, wistful fantasies about your blood family, about them finding you, taking you in, no, no, they didn't abandon you, you weren't left in a collapsed building, they lost you, you were taken, it was a mistake that they're going to start to fix right now, right here and now by claiming you as their own.
You allow yourself this, because you know your fantasy is just that. Isildur's line doesn't exist, is the product of the imagination of a man long dead. But how cool would it be, how absolutely fucking amazing, if a man knocked on the door to Mr. J's rambling home full of unwanted brats and asked for a boy with gold eyes and a sharp mind, last seen in a broken down building outside of Dallas and bearing the distinct freckle pattern of Isildur's line. A powerful, wiry man, a modern day ranger protecting the American people from threats they didn't know existed. Araveil son of Araben or something like that, come to reclaim the long-lost Arasicil son of Araveil.
But rangers don't go by their real names, right? So you'll keep Dirk. But Dirk Smith just screams 'I'm using a cover name' so yeah fuck that. You'll come up with something. Something better, something not so secret-agent-ish. And when he shows up, you'll pass on the tradition, give him a nice normal name and whisper his real name in his ear, Aralume son of Arasicil though he won't be your son, not quite, he'll-
No. You'll think of him later. When you're older. When the thought doesn't scare you. When you're not nine and in a tree. You tuck his secret name away and look back down at the book in your hands. Then you flip it open, and look for the part where Strider summoned the men of Dunhallow.
o o o
"All right, your turn."
Your stomach does a slow loop-de-loop as you step up to the counter. You and Bradley saved up for weeks for this. Mr. Joscelin stands behind you, grey and starting to bend, but his eyes are wicked-bright as ever. You're sixteen and the likelihood of adoption has pretty much bottomed out, so he brings you and Bradley down town to the courthouse. There's a lot of forms and forty dollars gets passed over from each of you, and now you're staring at a blank form that's politely requesting your new name.
Bradley's going to be obnoxious about it, changing his name to first name: Brad last name: The Magnificent, and Mr. J laughs but signs the forms anyway, you're men now, you can pick your own life of showing people your ID and ensuring them that, yes, that is your name.
You stare at the blank page. You've known for a long time what your last name is going to be, but the idea of changing your first name sticks. Dirk is an awesome name, sure, but you could change it to something mild, something normal as a contrast to your eccentric behavior, oh holy shit who is that rad as fuck guy over there, he's too fucking cool for a normal name whoops so sorry to disappoint honey but this is just plain ol' Dave right here-
No. No, not Dave. Dave is his name, not yours. And for the first time, you really, no shit, absolutely believe you're going to find a baby sometime in the next few years and raise it as your own. Because his name is there, written across the inside of your head like a neon banner. Because you can almost see him standing next to you. Christ.
Not Dave. Besides, Mr. J named you Dirk, and he's one of the very few people on this planet you actually like. You'll keep it.
You apply pen to page and briefly remember being a little kid in a tree with a wish in your heart and a book in your lap. Most dreams don't come true, but you can make part of this one happen.
Former name: Dirk Smith
New name: Dirk A. Strider