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Damian

The benefit of hindsight, Damian thought to himself, was that it allowed one to realise that perhaps plugging eight different extension cords into each other to power the gigantic light-up inflatable snowman on the roof wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. 

“I’m sorry, Father,” Damian said, squinting through the dark to see his father’s figure sitting nonplussed at the dining room table. “There’s a possibility this might have something to do with Frosty.”

“Frosty?” His father’s voice sounded confused. “Did you get another pet that I don’t know about?” 

“Frosty the Snowman,” Damian explained in a slow, obvious tone. “You’re an American, Father. Surely you know who Frosty is.” 

“Oh,” his father said. “Right, of course.” There was another pause. “So, how has this power cut got anything to do with Frosty the Snowman?” 

Damian sighed irritably. For the World’s Greatest Detective, his father sure was being particularly slow this evening. “I spent the afternoon with Tim putting up the horrendously garish snowman sitting on the roof,” he said. “Surely you saw that monstrosity when you arrived home this evening?”

His father’s silhouette tilted its head. “You put a snowman on the roof… with Tim?” he asked. 

“Yes…” Damian said slowly, wondering whether Alfred had plied his father with his lethal eggnog already. 

“Okay,” his father said. “And why did you do that?”

Damian shifted in his seat. “We thought it would brighten up the manor,” he said airily, before hopping to his feet. “I believe there are some candles and matches in the dresser,” he said, moving around the table and definitely not stubbing his toe on one of the legs, thank you very much. 

“Did you check with Alfred first?” His father asked, appearing by Damian’s side to help him search through the messy dresser drawers to find the candles. “The electrics in the manor can be temperamental, so it’s important not to overload them.” 

Damian struck a match and his father’s face flared into existence beside him. “Yes…” he lied slowly. “I definitely checked with Alfred.”

His father gave a quiet chuckle. “That was believable, Damian,” he said, presenting a candle for Damian to light. 

Damian rolled his eyes and lit the wick. “What I don’t understand is why the manor isn’t connected to the Cave’s secret generator,” he sniped. 

His father used his lit candle to light a second one, giving it to Damian to hold. “Because then that would draw attention to said secret generator,” he said. “And then some city official might start to ask questions about just why a dusty old manor is burning quite so much energy.” 

“Oh,” Damian said, placing the candle in a holder on the table. “Well, still. It just seems inefficient to me,” he sniffed. “And, really, that’s the true villain of this story.”

“Right,” his father said in an amused tone. “And exactly how many extension cords did you use to connect Frosty to the power?” 

Damian grimaced and sat back down at the table, picking up the gift he’d been wrapping. It wasn’t his of course. He’d finished all of his wrapping days ago, but his father had been a little less organised. “Less than nine,” he mumbled. 

“So, eight then?” His father sounded as if he was repressing a chuckle. 

Damian rolled his eyes and violently cut off a small section of tape. “I guess you could number them as such, yes,” he admitted irritatedly. 

His father surveyed him over the table and Damian felt the weight of his gaze rest on him heavily. “Why did you want to put the snowman up, Damian?” his father asked quietly, but not unkindly. 

Damian stared stubbornly at the wrapping paper in front of him. “I thought it would be nice for our guests,” he gritted out eventually. 

“All of our guests, or one in particular?” His father asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling into a smile that felt far too knowing for Damian to bear. 

Damian fiddled aimlessly with the paper. The last time Richard had come to dinner at the manor as his usual, cheerful self had been over seven months ago. He’d silently pinged peas at Damian over and over again whenever his father’s and Alfred’s backs had been turned, until Damian had finally snapped and sent an entire forkful back. 

Alfred had been aghast at the sight of the peas bouncing off Richard’s face and landing over the table, the floor and the spare dining chairs. His father had fought to keep the knowing smile off his face as he’d gently reprimanded a scowling Damian, telling him to pick up every last pea from the floor. Richard had charitably offered to help, and when they’d met underneath the dining table he’d given Damian a wink and a grin that hadn’t dropped even an inch after Damian threw his handful of newly-collected peas square in his face. 

“Richard enjoys Christmas,” Damian mumbled to his wrapping.

“Yes, he does,” His father said quietly. 

“I thought it would make him happy,” Damian said irritably. 

“I think it will,” His father said, putting down his own wrapping paper and looking at Damian seriously. “I think Dick will love it, Damian.” 

“But he won’t see it,” Damian scowled. “He’s due to arrive at any moment, and it won’t be there to greet him.” 

“What won’t be there to greet who?” Richard’s voice sounded amiably from behind him. “Also, what happened to the lights?” 

“Richard,” Damian scrambled out of his seat and resisted the urge to run over so that Richard could scoop him into his arms. “You’re here.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not the only one,” Jason grumbled from behind him, holding his phone aloft with its torch on. “Hi, by the way.” 

Damian ignored him completely. “Did you make it in before the power cut?” he asked earnestly. 

Richard shook his head. “Nah,” he said with a chuckle. “We thought no one was home at first when we pulled up, so we figured we’d break in and sneak a look at the presents.” He shot Damian a wink. 

Damian rolled his eyes and punched Richard lightly on the arm. “You fool,” he said. “They’re not under the tree yet. There’s nothing there for you to find.” 

“So you didn’t see anything on the roof then?” His father’s voice sounded from the table. 

Damian watched Richard’s eyes flick up with an inscrutable expression, but when he spoke it was with the same even, amiable tone as before. “Nope,” he said. “Was there something I should have seen?” 

“Alfred put up some Christmas lights,” Damian said quickly before his father could reply. “He was quite proud of them this year.”

Richard’s face broke out into a smile. “Aw, I’m sorry to have missed them,” he said. “I’ll head out and look at them when the lights are back on.” He turned to the table. “Will Alfred need any help with the electrics?” Richard asked Damian’s father. “I know they can be tricky.” 

“I’m about to head down there,” his father shook his head as he stood from the table. “You two stay and make yourselves comfortable.” As his father walked to the doorway, Damian watched Richard’s eyes follow him, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as he disappeared. 

“Would you like a candle?” Damian asked, picking up the half-full pack lying on the dresser. 

“Are you telling me that Bruce “I’m prepared for everything” Wayne doesn’t have head torches?” Jason said in disbelief, as he walked past Damian to rifle through the dresser himself. 

“He will in the Cave,” Richard supplied helpfully. 

“Well, that’s not exactly useful,” Jason griped. “I’ll probably trip over and break my neck before I get anywhere near the Cave.” 

“Bats are supposed to operate better in the dark,” Damian sniffed. “Not stumble around like blind fools.” 

Jason shot Damian an unimpressed look. “Who asked you, brat?” he said grumpily. 

“Jason,” Richard said in disapproval, elbowing the giant oaf in the side. Before he turned back, Damian shot Jason a smug look, who rolled his eyes in return. “I’d love a candle, Dami,” Richard beamed at Damian, holding his hand out. 

Damian carefully withdrew one and deposited it in Richard’s hand dutifully. “The matches are on the table,” he said. 

Richard passed by, ruffling Damian’s hair fondly as he did. Damian shrunk his head away and tried to pretend that he wasn’t secretly pleased at the egregious assault. 

“I guess I’ll take a candle as well,” Jason sighed, holding his hand out too. 

“Here,” Damian said, shoving the pack at Jason and turning back to the table where Richard was placing his candle in one of the previously empty holders. “Did you have a pleasant drive?” he asked, suddenly mindful of the manners that Alfred kept harping on about. 

Richard gave him an amused look. “Well, Jason did the driving-” he began.

“And it was fine, thanks for asking,” Jason interjected sarcastically as he held out a candle for Richard to light for him. 

“-And the drive was fine,” Richard continued with a grin, striking a match and lighting Jason’s candle first and then the one he’d just placed in the holder. 

“Good,” Damian nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels as he watched Richard pick up the candle. “That’s… good.” 

“Have you had a nice day?” Richard asked. “Did you manage to wrap all of your presents?”

“Yes, of course,” Damian scowled. “I’m not a child, Richard. I know how to wrap my gifts by myself.” 

Jason opened his mouth to say something inevitably mind-numbingly stupid, but Richard drove a quick elbow to his ribs before he could voice it. “I know you can, Dami,” he smiled. “I take it these are all Bruce’s disasters then?” he snorted, gesturing at the half-wrapped gifts on the table. 

“You need not worry that you’ll accidentally see your presents,” Damian sighed. “These are Alfred’s gifts that I’ve been helping him wrap. Father is a great many things,” Damian frowned at the messy table. “But a prompt and organised gift-wrapper, he is not.” 

“That’s not all he’s not,” Jason mumbled to himself. 

Richard gave him a strangely sharp glare, and Jason looked far more sheepish than Damian would have expected considering that such a comment was fairly rote as far as Jason was concerned. When Richard turned back, Damian tried to pretend that he hadn’t been scowling in curiosity at the two of them. “Well, we can’t all be good at everything,” Richard joked. “Not even Bruce.” 

Damian folded his arms and sniffed. “I believe that I’m good at everything,” he said. 

Richard laughed and gathered Damian into the hug that he’d been waiting for since Richard had first arrived. “Of course you are, Dami,” he teased. “You can do anything you turn your brilliant little mind to.” 

“Hm, I suppose ‘little’ is the word I’d use to describe his mind,” Jason snorted as he wandered just out of kicking-in-the-shins range. Damian half-considered breaking out of Richard’s hug to do it anyway, but he decided that Richard had probably been looking forward to this embrace, so breaking it off early would just make him a poor host. 

“Probably because that’s the largest word your pea brain can understand,” Damian sneered from inside Richard’s arms. 

“Now, now,” Richard said lightly, giving Damian a squeeze and letting go. “No arguing on Christmas, those are the rules.” 

“That wasn’t arguing,” Jason laughed, rummaging through the fruit bowl (did the man ever stop eating?). “That was just how we say hello.” 

“He’s not wrong,” Damian sniffed reluctantly, eyeing up the frankly enormous bite Jason took out of his found apple with distaste. 

“Okay, well, no ‘saying hello’ on Christmas then,” Richard rolled his eyes good-naturedly and gestured for Jason to throw him his own apple. 

“You’ll spoil your appetite,” Damian said primly. “Alfred made your favourite.”

“Ooh,” Richard’s eyes lit up. “Did he make sarma?” 

Jason groaned. “Oh god, not sarma,” he said. “I hate cabbage.” 

“Ignore him,” Damian snarked. “He’s just jealous because his only cultural food is white bread.” 

“Every Christmas Eve Alfred makes those damn cabbage rolls,” Jason whined, completely ignoring Damian. “And every Christmas Day I get the shits.” 

Damian and Richard turned to Jason with identical looks of disgust. “ Ew , Jason,” Richard said exasperatedly. “And also, Alfred always makes plenty of other stuff too. If cabbage doesn’t agree with you, then just don’t eat it.” 

“Well, that’d be rude,” Jason mumbled. “Alfred works so hard on them.”

Richard rolled his eyes, but he had a fond smile that he couldn’t quite hide. “And you can’t help yourself from eating everything in sight,” he added, elbowing Jason in the side good-naturedly, causing Damian’s stomach to flip in an ugly twist of jealousy. 

“Well, that too,” Jason grinned, grabbing a pear from the fruit bowl. Damian watched him with a growing sense of irritation. Jason got to see Richard everyday now that they were living together, but he still didn’t have the tact or decency to disappear and let Damian have Richard’s undivided attention on the rare occasion that they got to see each other. 

“Are you going to eat the entire fruit bowl, or did you feel like leaving anything for anyone else?” Damian snapped, folding his arms. 

“What’s it to you?” Jason rolled his eyes as he mumbled around his mouthful of pear. 

“I wanted that pear,” Damian lied spitefully, narrowing his eyes. 

“Like fu-” Jason caught Richard’s eyes and swallowed. “Like hell you did, kid.” 

Damian opened his mouth to spit something nasty back, but Richard interrupted quickly. “Jason, maybe we could do with those head torches after all,” he said. “Would you mind taking a candle down to the Cave and getting them?” 

Jason let out a childish whine unbefitting a man of his age and size. “Why do I have to go?” he said.

Richard gave Jason a hard stare that Damian pretended not to notice. “Because I asked you to,” he said in an obvious tone. 

The penny finally seemed to clunk home in Jason’s head as understanding dawned over his face. “Ah, right,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll just go, uh, do that then.” 

“Try not to break your neck on the stairs,” Damian couldn’t stop himself from adding as Jason left the room. 

Jason didn’t reply directly, but Damian could hear him grumbling all the way down the corridor. 

Richard turned to Damian with a distinctly concerned expression. “Is everything okay, Dami?” he asked softly. 

“Of course it is,” Damian replied, crossing his arms and looking away. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Because I haven’t seen you be that rude in quite a long time,” Richard said gently, crouching down so that he was at the same height as Damian. 

“I wasn’t being rude,” Damian tried half-heartedly. “I was just pointing out that other people might want fruit as well as that obnoxious oaf.” 

“Damian,” Richard’s voice was calm and quiet in its admonishment, but Damian felt the shame all the same. He tightened his arms around himself further, avoiding Richard’s eyes studiously. 

“I think you should probably apologise to Jason when he gets back with the head torches,” Richard said, peering into Damian’s eyes. “Don’t you?” 

“No, I don’t,” Damian said stubbornly, turning his head away from Richard and towards the shadows so that he couldn’t see his face. 

For a moment, the silence stretched out between them, broken only by the flickering of the candles. Richard sighed and his hands came to rest on Damian’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Dami?” he asked again. 

Damian stared stubbornly at the wall, watching the shadows move restlessly with the candle’s flame. If this had been his father or Alfred, he wouldn’t have had to wait much longer until they gave up and awkwardly left him to his own thoughts. If it had been Tim or Jason, they would have never even asked the question. 

But it was Richard, who drew Damian gently into a hug and cradled the back of his head in one of his warm hands. “What’s wrong?” Richard whispered into Damian’s hair. 

Damian shyly wound his arms around Richard’s chest. “I wanted you to have a good Christmas,” he said quietly. 

“I am having a good Christmas,” Richard said, sounding a little confused. 

“No, I wanted you to have a perfect Christmas,” Damian said, clenching the wool of Richard’s Christmas sweater tightly in his hands. “Something good enough to erase the pain of the past year. Something to make you happy. But the power is off, and Father isn’t finished with his wrapping, and Jason was eating all the fruit, and-”

“Damian,” Richard’s voice sounded strangely throaty. “You sweet, silly boy, none of that matters.” 

“I’m not silly,” Damian said, affronted even as he tightened his grip on Richard’s sweater. 

“No,” Richard laughed. “No, of course you’re not. But you are very sweet,” he said, pressing a kiss into the side of Damian’s head that Damian pretended not to notice. “I’m already having a perfect Christmas,” he said. “Do you know why that is?” 

“Why?” Damian asked in a small voice. 

Richard drew back and placed his hands on Damian’s cheeks, rubbing his thumb gently along his cheekbones with a fond smile. “Because I’m celebrating it with you,” he said. “And there’s nothing that could ever make me happier.” 

“Really?” Damian asked hopefully. 

“Really,” Richard confirmed, his eyes creased with mirth and love. “My little Robin,” he teased gently.

“My Batman,” Damian whispered back, not so loud that anyone else would be able to hear if they were walking past. 

Richard’s face broke out into the kind of bright, sunny smile that Damian had missed so dearly over the past six months. Being bathed in its light was what sunflowers must feel when the sun is at its equinox, Damian thought as Richard gently guided his head down so that he could press a kiss on his forehead. 

“Eid Milad Majid,” Richard murmured in Arabic against Damian’s forehead. 

“Bahtali Karachonya,” Damian replied in Romany. 

Richard rocked back on his heels, his eyes looking suspiciously bright in the candle light. He sniffled and drew his hand across his eyes as Damian looked politely away. He clapped his hands on his knees and sprang to his feet. “Right then,” he said, his voice still sounding a little wobbly. “Shall we save Bruce from himself and finish his wrapping?” 

Damian felt a small smile spread over his face. “If you insist, Richard,” he said. “If you insist.”

Tim

“Okay, how on earth are the manor’s electrics even still functional?” Tim said in disbelief as he trained his torch on the mess of wires and switches that made up the fuse box.

“Some may posit the argument that they aren’t, Master Tim,” Alfred said wryly as he peered delicately into the fuse box. “But far be it from me to criticise Master Bruce and the decisions he makes regarding the manor’s source of power.” 

Tim snorted. “Of course,” he said. “But doesn’t the Cave run on its own generator? Why can’t we just hook the manor up to that instead?” 

Alfred let out a painstaking sigh. “Master Bruce made the excellent point that this might draw the city’s attention to said generator,” he said, carefully prising two inter-tangled wires apart. 

“Huh,” Tim said. “I guess that makes sense. But surely we could just get an electrician in to sort all of this out instead then?”

“Another logical assumption,” Alfred said, gesturing for Tim to move his torch closer. “But, as you know, Master Bruce doesn’t like strangers snooping around the manor.” 

Tim angled the torch to shine light into the particular cranny that Alfred was exploring. “So we’re basically just left at the mercy of this absolute fire trap then?” he asked with a note of disbelief. 

“Apparently so, Master Tim,” Alfred sighed. “But, not to worry, Master Bruce with his vast experience with engineering has repeatedly assured me that we’re not in any danger.”

“Right,” Tim said amusedly. “I feel so much safer now.”

“Quite,” Alfred quipped, sneaking Tim a wry smile before turning back to the wires. 

Tim watched Alfred carefully pick apart the wires to peer at the switches hidden underneath. “Alas,” he sighed. “It’s not this one unfortunately.”

“There’s more than one fuse box?” Tim asked. 

“There’s five in total,” Alfred said, straightening up and turning to the opposite wall. “But let’s just hope that we find the tripped switch in one of the boxes that don’t need a ladder to access.” 

Tim sighed. “I knew it was a bad idea to put up that stupid inflatable snowman,” he muttered, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Master Damian is thirteen and hasn’t had the misfortune of living through a manor power cut as of yet,” Alfred said lightly. “As such, I’m more inclined to understand why he thought attaching eight extension cords together was an acceptable idea…” 

As Alfred trailed off with the silent insinuation that a twenty one year old Tim should have probably known better, Tim coughed awkwardly. “Damian just seemed so determined,” he said. “I didn’t want to disappoint him.” 

Alfred shot him a curious look. “You seem to be getting on a little better with Master Damian recently,” he said. 

Tim cleared his throat. “Yeah, um, we’re getting on fine,” he said, looking away from Alfred’s eyes. “I think he… I think he’s been missing Dick,” he said quietly. “He’s always asking me how he’s doing.” 

Alfred didn’t reply, but his fingers began to minutely tremble as they sorted through the wires. 

“Alfred,” Tim said, stricken. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m quite alright, Master Tim,” Alfred said, his voice tight and strained as he peered into the fuse box. “Hold that light straight, would you?”

“Oh, of course,” Tim said, moving the torch closer. He bit his lip and looked at Alfred. It’s not that he’d forgotten that Alfred cared about Dick too, but the stress and grief of the past few months had been so overwhelming at times that it hadn’t felt like there had been any room in Tim’s head to care or think about anyone else. Every day had passed in a blur of ‘is Dick okay?’, ‘is Dick eating?’, ‘did Dick go out last night?’ and ‘Dick can’t possibly get any worse, can he?’, with work and patrol taking up every spare moment inbetween. 

As Alfred gingerly moved a tangle of wires aside, Tim felt a stab of guilt. Alfred had known Dick for far longer than any of his brothers had, but none of them had shared anything beyond the barest of details with him. He’d been protecting Dick’s privacy, Tim had told himself. He’d been making sure that Alfred wouldn’t worry, he had reassured himself. But, as he watched Alfred’s hands tremble with emotion, he just felt like an asshole. 

“He’s doing better, Alfred,” Tim murmured quietly. “I promise.” 

Alfred’s hands stilled their movement, freezing in place amongst the mess of wires. They stood there together in silence, their breathing the only sound in the vast, empty basement.

“I haven’t wished to pry,” Alfred said, his voice choked and throttled. 

“I didn’t want to break his trust,” Tim said, suddenly desperate to explain his silence over the past few months. “You know how private he is, how much he keeps bottled up and close to his chest. Otherwise I would have told you more.” 

Alfred shook his head. “Master Dick’s troubles are none of my business if he doesn’t wish them to be,” he said tremulously. 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Tim said, somehow feeling even more like an asshole than he had just a minute prior. “What you think is important to him. He loves you. I think he was… I think he was ashamed, Alfred.” 

Alfred turned his head to look at Tim, his eyes bright. “There’s nothing he could do that would make me ashamed of him,” he said in a throaty voice. 

“I know that,” Tim said, his own voice suddenly tight. “But you know what he’s like, the kind of pressure he puts on himself. I think, to Dick, there would be nothing worse than feeling like he’s failed his family. And I think he sees the past seven months as one giant failure.” 

“It’s not his failure,” Alfred choked out, looking back at the fuse box and burying his hands inside it again. “It’s not his failure at all.”

Tim shifted his weight and the torch light slid from the fuse box to their feet before he remembered he was meant to be holding it steady. “It’s not your failure either, Alfred,” he said, his voice slow with uncertainty. “You know that… right?” 

Alfred was silent, his fingers feeling each switch hidden behind the wires to search for the one that had tripped. “Of course,” he said eventually. “Of course I know that, Master Tim.” 

“Okay, good,” Tim said awkwardly. “Because it doesn’t matter how much we love someone, sometimes it’s just not enough. Sometimes they need to make their own mistakes.” He tilted his head to the ceiling and closed his eyes. “That’s what Dick says anyway,” he added quietly. 

“It might not matter how much we love someone,” Alfred said. “But I would suggest that the way we love them likely has an impact.” He withdrew his hands and turned briskly away. “It’s not this box either.” 

Tim shone the light on the floor for Alfred to walk his way to the next fuse box. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. 

Alfred shook his head firmly. “Nothing, Master Tim,” he said as he opened the next box’s door. “Be a good lad and point that torch a little higher, would you?” 

“Oh, sorry,” Tim said, doing as Alfred had asked. “But, please Alfred, what do you mean?”

Alfred was silent for long enough that Tim thought he was just ignoring the question. But eventually he sighed. “I have always wished to be an unobtrusive presence in you and your brothers’ lives,” he said, studying the new fuse box carefully. “I assist Master Bruce where I can, and I give my guidance where I think it appropriate. But I leave the ‘parenting’, as such, to him and him alone.” 

“Okay,” Tim said slowly, wondering where Alfred was going with this. 

Alfred’s hands stilled and he stared blankly into the fuse box. “I wonder now whether that was an error of judgement,” he said quietly. “I wonder whether Master Bruce could have benefitted from more guidance.” Alfred gave a humourless chuckle. “Then again, I now wonder whether I would have been the right man to give him it.” 

“Alfred,” Tim said, stunned. “That’s… don’t be silly. You’re amazing, and I know Dick, Jason and Damian all feel the same way. And, as for Bruce…” Tim hesitated for a moment. “Bruce is who he is, and we all know that. He can be hard on us, and he can be rude and abrupt, and he can focus so much on the mission that we all fade into the background. But we all know that he loves us,” Tim said emphatically. “Even Jason,” he added. “It’s not Bruce’s fault that Dick’s had a tough time this year,” he said. “And I know that Dick doesn’t think that way. He’s never even mentioned Bruce to Jason or I over the past few months.” 

Alfred turned a tired gaze at Tim, the torch’s indirect light casting long shadows across his face that suddenly made Tim realise that Alfred was really getting quite old now. Alfred looked into Tim’s eyes with a weariness that made a stone turn over in his stomach, uncertainty prickling his veins for a moment as the thought occurred to him; was there a reason that Alfred thought this was Bruce’s fault?

But then Alfred smiled kindly and tapped Tim on the shoulder. “Of course you’re right my dear boy,” he said, no trace of his earlier fatigue on his face. “Forgive an old man for his melancholy on such a festive evening.” 

“It’s okay, Alfred,” Tim tried to chuckle, shaking off the feeling of foreboding that had settled on him so heavily for a moment. “Christmas can be a strange time, can’t it?” 

“That it can,” Alfred said warmly, turning back to the fuse box. “But there’s nothing quite like it.”

Tim smiled, pointing the torch’s light deeper into the box. “I know none of us are perfect,” he said. “Bruce included. But my parents, they, uh… they weren’t really Christmas people and they didn’t have a lot of extended family either. I never thought I’d have a big family Christmas even once, let alone every year, and it’s…” Tim ducked his chin and smiled. “It’s perfect to me, Alfred. I’d never want to change a thing.” 

Alfred looked at him with fond eyes. “Me neither, Master Tim,” he said. “Me neither.” He turned back to the fuse box and began delicately picking through the wires again. 

Tim watched him for a moment. “I see hope in him,” he said quietly. “Dick, I mean,” he clarified. “I spent months searching his eyes for it, desperately wishing for him to find his way out of the hole he’d climbed into. But now… now he has that hope, and it’s getting stronger everyday.” Tim laid a hand gently on Alfred’s shoulder. “He’s getting better, Alfred,” he said. “I promise.” 

Alfred turned back to him and looked into his eyes. “Do you swear, Master Tim?” he asked. 

“I do,” Tim nodded. 

Alfred closed his eyes for a moment, rocking minutely back on his heels. “Thank god,” he muttered in a pained tone. It felt like an age before he cleared his throat and finally looked back to the fuse box. “You’d better cover your eyes, Master Tim,” he said briskly. “I believe I’ve found the right switch.” 

A moment later, the lights slowly flickered on throughout the basement, illuminating the dusty stone floor. Tim blinked at the sudden brightness. “I guess we won’t need this anymore,” he said, turning the torch off. 

“Don’t count on that just yet,” Alfred remarked drily. “That’s the beauty of the manor electrics. When a fuse is tripped, the power can be a bit… temperamental afterwards.”

“Oh yeah,” Tim said in distant realisation. “I remember when the power tripped on the first Christmas I spent here the lights came off and on by themselves a few times afterwards.” 

Alfred nodded, closing the fuse box door carefully. “It usually only lasts for half an hour or so though,” he said. “As long as we don’t touch anything else, everything should all be settled in time for dinner.” 

“Alfred?” Bruce’s voice called out as the basement door creaked open. “Are you down here?”

“Oh dear,” Alfred said in a quiet, pained tone. “We’re just coming up, Master Bruce,” he called out. “No need for you to head down here.” 

“Nonsense,” Bruce said, coming down the stairs. “I came to help.” 

“No help required,” Alfred said briskly, walking to the exit with Tim trailing behind and trying to hide his snort of laughter. “But we both welcome the company back upstairs.” 

Bruce clapped Alfred on the arm distractedly as he walked past him. “I might just take a look myself while I’m down here,” he said, peering at the fuse boxes curiously. “I had an idea for how I could stop the intermittent power cuts this time.” 

“There’s no need for that, Master Bruce,” Alfred said quickly, with the expression of a man who knows that he’s playing a losing game. “They don’t last very long, and these electrics are very temperamental.” 

“Alfred,” Bruce shot Alfred a fondly amused look. “I think I know what I’m doing. I am Batman, after all.” 

Alfred gave a long-suffering sigh. “As you wish, sir,” he said. “But on your head be it if the power cuts out in the middle of dinner.”

Bruce laughed. “Oh ye of little faith, Alfred,” he said, nudging Tim with a wink. “I wired all of the Cave’s electrics myself, I think I can handle this fine.”

Alfred looked less than convinced, but simply sighed. “If you insist, Master Bruce,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I left young Master Duke in charge of the kitchen to ensure that nothing burned in my absence and I had better relieve him of his duty.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Tim said quickly, knowing better than to get sucked into one of Bruce’s tinkering projects. The last time that had happened, he’d lost an entire afternoon to installing motion sensors in the Cave’s T-Rex. “Have fun, Bruce.” 

“Hn,” Bruce grunted distractedly, already poking through the wires in the nearest fuse box with great interest. 

“After you, Alfred,” Tim gestured to the stairs, still watching Bruce’s preoccupied form with great amusement. 

Once they’d reached the top of the stairs, Alfred closed the basement door and sighed. “It’ll be a miracle if we have any power at all by the end of the evening.” 

Tim laughed. “He’ll be fine, Alfred. Like he said, he is Batman. How much harm could he possibly do?”

Jason

“Oh fuck, not again,” Jason grumbled as he knocked over his glass of water for the second time. He looked up in frustration as both Dick and Tim shoved their already-saturated napkins into the steadily-growing puddle of water. “Y’know, this wouldn’t happen if I could actually see the table.” 

“Are the twenty odd candles not quite enough for you?” Steph laughed from across the table as she tore apart her challah to spread a liberal helping of butter. 

“The lights will come back on momentarily, I’m sure,” Alfred commented drily from near the end of the table, shooting Bruce a look faint with exasperation. 

“Oh, definitely,” Bruce swallowed. “I’m sure the power cuts are getting better now,” he said. “Right, Cass?” he asked, turning to his side. 

Cass arched an eyebrow at him. “If you say so,” she giggled, picking up a sarma from the platter in front of her. 

Just as Jason added his own napkin to the sodden mess in front of him, the lights switched themselves back on. 

“See,” Bruce said, with only the slightest hint of desperation. “I’m sure that’s the last power cut for now.” 

“I’m certain it is, Father,” Damian nodded furiously from beside Dick, resting his spoon down in his bowl of kwāti. Alfred had outdone himself again that year, including a favourite dish for everyone at the table. 

Mixed inbetween the platters of roast potatoes, chicken and vegetables were Dick’s traditional sarma and Damian’s kwāti soup. The challah recipe Alfred followed originally came from Bruce’s mom, while the chocolate cake waiting on the side for dessert was one he’d perfected years ago with Jason. Steph had perfectly whipped mashed potatoes sprinkled with chives, Cass had mac and cheese with a golden brown crumb and Duke had a platter of medium-rare steak slices. Cooking a dish for everyone he loved was Alfred’s Christmas Eve dinner tradition, and it was one of Jason’s favourite parts about Christmas. 

Alfred’s mouth set itself into a grim line. “Of course, sir,” he said, delicately cutting into his chicken. “I wouldn’t want to contradict your vast engineering prowess after all.” 

Jason leaned over to Tim. “Is Alfred mad at Bruce or something?” 

Tim chuckled as he ladled some kwāti into his own bowl. “Bruce insisted on tinkering with the electrics to make sure we didn’t get the usual half hour of power cuts after the fuse tripped earlier,” he whispered back. 

Jason checked his watch. “Well, it’s been four hours since the lights first came back on, so I guess he was the opposite of successful then,” he said. 

“What gave it away?” Tim laughed quietly. 

“Oh, hang on a minute” Jason said, comprehension dawning over him. “Does this have anything to do with why we’re eating dinner at half ten at night, then?” 

Tim snorted. “God, your powers of perception are unrivalled,” he said, scooping up a spoonful of the soup. “Yeah, I think that’s why Alfred is so pissed off. The main range is gas, but the second oven runs off the electrics and it kept stopping and starting.” Tim grimaced in sympathy. “It took him ages to get everything cooked.” 

Jason winced. “I feel bad,” he said. “I should have offered to help.” 

Tim shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, be glad you didn’t,” he said. “I tried to offer earlier, and that was the closest I’ve ever seen Alfred be to snapping. I think having anyone else in the kitchen might have sent him over the edge entirely.” 

Tim and Jason both craned their necks to peer down the table at Alfred in unison, who was spearing a piece of broccoli with his fork with a little more force than necessarily required and shooting Bruce a faintly withering look out the corner of his eye. 

“Okay, good point,” Jason conceded. He turned to Dick. “Pass the sarma, would you?” he said. 

Dick shot him an amused look. “As the guy that has to share a car with you the day after tomorrow, I’m not sure I really want to do that.” 

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m just gonna have one,” he said defensively. “I want to try a bit of everything.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t like them,” Dick said, his nose crinkled in humour as he passed a plate of sarma over so that Jason could pick one. 

“Dick,” Jason hissed, his eyes shooting over to where Alfred was sitting to make sure he hadn’t heard. “I would never say such a thing.” He plucked a couple of the cabbage rolls and placed them on his overflowing plate. 

“My mistake,” Dick laughed quietly, putting the plate back in the middle of the table. 

Jason watched as Dick turned back to his own plate, picking up his fork and listlessly pushing around his small pile of peas. His stomach squeezed with anxiety as he noted the shredded sarma, deconstructed in such a way to look as if Dick had eaten far more than he actually had. When they’d arrived at the manor, Dick had been bright and cheerful. But as the hours had gone by, he’d grown quieter and more reserved. Each time the lights had flickered off and on, he’d looked just a little more tired. It had been a long time since he’d been around the whole family, Jason realised. 

Jason opened his mouth to say something stupid and tactless that would make Dick laugh, but before he could voice it, Steph preempted him. “It’s good to see you, Dick,” she said from across the table. 

Dick’s head snapped up, his smile flickering into place a split second later. “It’s good to see you too, Steph,” he said. “How’s med school going?” 

“It’s hell,” she laughed. “But there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” She gestured her knife at Dick’s plate. “Not hungry?” she asked lightly. 

A hush settled over the table as the clattering of cutlery against plates slowed and everyone tried to look as though they very much weren’t listening to the conversation. 

Dick smiled warmly. “I just had a big lunch,” he said, picking up his fork and spearing a piece of cabbage roll with more gusto than Jason had seen him display the entire meal. “But you know I can’t resist Alfred’s sarma.” 

Just as Steph had opened her mouth to reply, the lights turned off again. 

“Oh damn it,” Bruce muttered at the head of the table. He turned to Alfred. “Maybe I should go back down there and try again?” he said hopefully. 

“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred said primly, focusing on his plate. “As long as you don’t mind me tendering my resignation later this evening.” 

Bruce sighed stoically and turned back to his plate. 

“We missed you at Thanksgiving,” Steph said suddenly, looking directly at Dick. The earlier hush settled even more heavily across the table and everyone seemed to hold their breath in unison. 

Jason peered sideways at Dick. The candlelight was flickering, sending shadows roaming across his face and making his expression even more unreadable. “I missed you guys too,” Dick said finally, the same warm smile returning. “It was a real shame I had the flu.” 

“Hey Steph,” Tim said with a hint of desperation. “Did you see that there’s a new slasher film out soon? Did you want to go watch it together?” 

Steph’s lips pursed momentarily, but she took the bait. As she discussed horror movies with Tim, Jason snuck another look at Dick out of the corner of his eye. His heart sank into his stomach as he watched his stone faced brother mechanically place a forkful of food in his mouth, his eyes glazed over and distant. Jason peered down the table at Damian, wondering whether he could get the little shit to say something to Dick, but he was too busy staring at the candles with a deep set scowl. 

“Wanna go smoke a cigarette after this?” Jason murmured under his breath at Dick. 

“Nah,” Dick said quietly, not taking his eyes off his plate. “I’m fine, Jay.” 

“You like first person shooter games, don’t you, Dick?” Duke’s voice sounded from down the table. 

Dick started slightly and then turned to look at Duke. “Sure I do,” he said.

“Can you come help me on this level that I’m stuck on after dinner?” Duke asked with a self-deprecating grin. “I’ve tried so many times that it’s just getting embarrassing now.” 

“Of course,” Dick sounded a little happier, and Jason could have leapt out of his chair and kissed Duke’s cheek in relief. “You just let the pro show you how it’s done, young Padawan.” 

Duke laughed. “Whatever, old man,” he said. 

The old Dick would have given an affronted gasp at being called old and followed up with a friendly insult of his own, but this one just smiled ruefully and returned to pushing peas around his plate. Duke’s smile faltered somewhat, but he didn’t say anything else. Instead, he just took an awkward sip of his drink, as if that was what he’d always planned to do.  

“Damian,” Bruce’s voice sounded. “Could you please pass the challah down the table?” 

Everyone’s eyes turned to the challah, which sat on the border between Dick and Jason and barely in reach of Damian.

Dick reached for the bread board silently, preparing to pass it down the table towards Bruce. But before he could quite finish the motion, Steph sent a meaningful look at Cass, who sighed and stood up. “I’ll get it,” she said. 

As Cass moved lightly around the table, Dick stiffened like a board next to Jason. 

“Be right back, gotta use the bathroom,” Dick muttered, flinging his napkin beside his plate and fleeing his chair. By the time Cass reached his spot, Dick had already left the room. She caught Jason’s eye as she picked up the challah and he gave her a grimaced smile. He hadn’t been imagining it then, Jason thought to himself. Dick had definitely been avoiding Cass since she arrived from her flight an hour ago. If he had to guess why, Jason thought dully, it would probably be that he didn’t want to consider what Cass would see when she looked at him. 

Cass placed a fleeting hand on Jason’s shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly before moving away and taking the bread board with her. He wondered what she could read on him. Grief? Guilt? Love? Hope? Jason sighed moodily and stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. 

In Dick’s absence, the table’s conversation stuttered to an awkward halt, with almost everyone shooting Dick’s empty seat furtive looks as they waited for him to return. Stop being weird about it, Jason wanted to shout at them. But he didn’t say anything, resigning himself instead to wondering who thought it was a good idea to train up an entire family of exceedingly nosy goddamn detectives. 

As the dining room door swung back open, the lights switched back on. 

“Now that’s definitely going to be the last time,” Bruce said with forced cheer.

“Definitely,” Damian said emphatically. 

“Hope springs eternal, Master Bruce,” Alfred commented with a sigh as he cut a roast potato in two. 

Dick slid silently into his seat, avoiding Jason’s eyes and picking up his water to take a sip. 

“Hey, Damian,” Duke said, with the voice of someone studiously trying to inject a little lightheartedness into the atmosphere. “Do you want to try some of Alfred’s eggnog?” 

Damian scowled across the table at him. “Don’t make fun of me,” he said. “You know I’m not allowed any. Father says I can’t try it until I’m at least sixteen.” 

“No, it’s alcohol-free this year,” Duke said, before immediately looking stricken as everyone’s eyes shot straight to Dick. 

Jason resisted the urge to smash his head into the dining room table, plate and all. Had they always been this bad at conversation, he wondered. Had it just been the dual social lubricants of alcohol and Dick’s easy friendliness that had carried them through every previous Christmas? The mulled wine, alcoholic eggnog and the brandy that no one ever touched had been conspicuous in their absence, but he’d been hoping that Dick would just somehow… not notice it? 

Jason watched Dick’s hands clench into fists in his lap underneath the dining table, his knuckles growing white from the tension. 

“Oh good,” Tim said, his voice strained underneath forced levity. “I’ve been asking for alcohol-free eggnog for years,” he said lamely. 

Jason was mid-eyeroll at Tim’s terrible attempt to cover Duke’s inadvertent error when the sound of Dick’s chair clattering loudly beside him made him whip his head back around to see Dick standing up. 

“I think it’s probably time for me to address the elephant in the room,” Dick said quietly, gazing around at the table. 

Jason’s chest squeezed in panic as he watched every single person sit up straight and look at Dick. Duke, Steph and Cass all had serious, solemn expressions, while Alfred’s outwardly calm demeanour was only betrayed by the way he was clutching his cutlery a little too tightly. Tim and Damian were both chewing their lips in a strange mirror of each other. Meanwhile, Jason noted with a cruel flash of satisfaction, Bruce genuinely looked like he was going to be sick. 

Dick looked each of his family members in the eye, passing slowly from Damian sat on his right and sweeping across the table. The tension grew sharper as the silence stretched out, taut and fragile. Finally, Dick’s gaze landed on Jason. 

And then, his face angled in such a way that no one else would see it, he winked. 

Jason frowned in confusion as Dick opened his mouth. “Jason’s got a girlfriend,” he said just in time for the lights to flicker out again, plunging the table into darkness. 

“What?!” Jason said in despair. 

“What?” Tim said in confusion. 

“How?” Steph laughed. 

“Hey,” Jason said, affronted. 

“Is she brain-damaged?” Damian asked seriously. 

“Hey,” Jason snapped. 

“When can she visit the manor?” Alfred clapped his hands together in delight as he peered over the candle-lit table. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Jason muttered, turning to his side to glare at Dick. But the seat was empty and the dining room door behind them was clicking softly closed. 

“Where did you meet her, Jason?” Bruce asked politely. 

Jason ignored him completely and turned to Alfred instead. “It’s really early Alfie,” he said. “She’s not even officially my girlfriend yet,” he muttered embarrassedly. 

“Well, that explains it,” Damian said sagely. “She just hasn’t found a way to let you down gently yet.” 

Jason resisted the urge to throw his slice of challah at the little shit. “Look, you can throw all the insults you like when you prove you’ve got enough game to land a girl,” he said, pointing his finger at Damian.

“I’m thirteen,” Damian sneered back. “What’s your excuse?”

“I don’t need an excuse, we’re literally talking about how I landed a girl,” Jason said in exasperation. 

“Damian, be nice,” Bruce said gently, and Jason violently stamped down the desire to turn around and tell him to shut the fuck up. 

“Where did you meet her, Jason?” Cass asked across the table, her eyes glittering happily as she leaned her chin on her bridged hands. 

Jason groaned and sank into his seat. “We met through friends,” he mumbled, absolutely certain that there was no way he was going to volunteer the fact that he’d met her through the play they’d both been in. 

“You have friends?” Damian laughed.

“What’s her name?” Steph asked, her grin a little more sadistic than Cass’. 

“It’s Isabella,” Jason said, feeling his cheeks burn brightly in embarrassment. “And, no, before you guys ask, I’m not telling you what her last name is.” 

“Don’t worry,” Cass said, trying to hide an amused smile. “We don’t need it.” 

Jason sank his head into his hands. “I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered to himself faintly. “I’m really gonna kill him.” 

Steph

“Seriously, Steph, what the hell?” Tim hissed as he followed her into the kitchen, laden with his last load of dirty dishes. 

“What?” Steph snapped, placing her own armful of dishes down on the side next to the sink. She took off the head torch she’d been using to navigate her way down the dark hallway and placed it next to the portable lights that Alfred had set up earlier. 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Tim said hotly, flinging his own head torch on the kitchen countertop. “Why were you grilling Dick at the table?” 

“I wasn’t grilling him,” she replied, roughly placing the plug in the sink hole and turning the hot water on. “I was just asking him if he wasn’t hungry. He was barely touching his dinner, Tim.” 

“And you thought that asking him about it was going to help?” Tim asked, exasperation heavy in his voice as he placed his own load of dishes next to the sink. 

“Well, what else was I meant to do?” Steph said, snapping on some washing up gloves. “Just sit there and pretend that everything’s fine like everyone else was?”

“Yes,” Tim said. “That’s exactly what you were meant to do.” 

“Well I’m sorry that no one sent me the memo,” Steph said irritatedly, squeezing far too much dish soap into the rapidly filling sink. “I guess I haven’t been important enough to get any updates on how he’s been doing.” 

Silence rang through the air as Steph plunged a dirty plate into the water and started violently scrubbing it. Tim appeared silently with a dish towel next to her. “I’m sorry, Steph,” he said quietly. 

“We care about him too,” she said, shoving the dripping plate at Tim. “The last time I saw him without a mask was months ago after his pneumonia, and he’s not replied to a single one of my texts since then. He took a two month break from being Nightwing without any explanation. He missed Thanksgiving with the flimsiest excuse I’ve ever heard, considering I’ve seen him turn up to one of Damian’s art exhibits with a gunshot wound bleeding through its dressing. And now he shows up to Christmas and we’re all supposed to pretend that he doesn’t look absolutely awful.”

“He doesn’t look that bad,” Tim said half-heartedly, drying the plate carefully and setting it on the side. 

“Tim, don’t insult my intelligence,” Steph spat, already scrubbing another plate furiously. “He’s lost at least ten pounds since the summer and he just looks…” she trailed off, stilling her movements and staring into the water. “He looks tired, Tim.” 

Tim reached into the water and took the plate from her hands, drying it gently. “He was being his usual self at dinner,” he tried. “He was laughing around with Duke and Jason.” 

“Tim, seriously,” Steph said, turning her body to him and looking him in the eyes. “You can’t tell me that was the normal Dick Grayson in there. He was so quiet . Usually he’s the life and soul of the party, laughing and joking with everyone. But he was just sat there pretending to eat his dinner while we all sat there and pretended not to notice.” 

“What about the end of dinner?” Tim protested weakly. “He dropped Jason in it with his new girlfriend. That’s something the old Dick would do.” 

Steph felt a fresh wave of irritation flow through her at Tim’s obvious obtuseness. She turned and pointed a soapy finger at Tim. “Right there,” she said. “You just called him the old Dick. You can’t keep pretending to me that there’s not something seriously wrong with him.” 

Tim opened and closed his mouth, looking faintly frustrated. “Steph…” he trailed off immediately. 

Despite her ire, Steph felt herself soften at the conflicted look on Tim’s face. “I’m not trying to be a bitch,” she said quietly, turning back to the sink. “I’m just concerned about him. And I’m not the only one.”

Steph sighed as she remembered her arrival at the manor when she’d been able to catch a moment alone with Cass. She’d been hoping to have a chance to speak to her before they saw Dick, and she’d been lucky enough to pull up in her old, beat-up clunker of a car just as Cass’ cab had started to pull away. Cass had waved brightly, running over to hug Steph as soon as she’d parked and scrambled out the car. 

“I missed you,” Cass had murmured into Steph’s hair as they’d embraced. 

“I missed you too, Cass,” Steph had replied, squeezing Cass back with a smile. “You’ve got to tell me all about your Hong Kong trip, but first…” she had trailed off and pulled away, looking Cass in the eyes seriously. “I’m glad we’ve got a moment to speak before we go inside. I need to talk to you.”

“What’s wrong?” Cass had asked, her eyes scanning over Steph’s face. “You’re worried,” she had answered her own question immediately. “Is it Dick?” she had asked with a frown. “I saw in the mission reports that he took a long break from Nightwing.” 

Steph had nodded. “Yeah, it’s Dick,” she’d said. “I need your help.” 

Steph’s mouth twisted unhappily as she plunged her hands back into the soapy water again. “Cass has been trying to get a read on Dick all night,” she told Tim quietly. “I asked her to talk to him so she could really get a handle on what’s going on for him, but…” Steph trailed off as she thought about how quickly Dick had vanished from the manor entranceway as soon as he’d spotted Cass walking through the front door. “All she’s been able to get is little glimpses of him.” She turned to Tim and gave him a frustrated look. “He even managed to seat himself so that she could barely see him at dinner.” 

Tim looked away and sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said. He looked up at her. “What did Cass see in those glimpses?” he asked, his expression twisting painfully. 

“She said he was sad,” Steph said, turning back to the sink. “And she said that he was ashamed. That his whole body screamed of it.” 

Tim was silent beside her, drying the dishes that Steph handed him with a hollow expression. “He is getting better,” he said eventually. 

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Steph said, handing him a large platter. 

“Steph, you didn’t see what he was like a couple of months ago,” Tim said in a murmur, holding the platter limply. “He was just… he wasn’t himself.” 

“He’s not himself now,” Steph insisted, resting her hip on the sink and turning to Tim. “And it worries me that you can’t see that.” 

“Of course I can see that,” Tim snapped. “Do you think I’m blind? But you don’t know how much worse it was, how worried we were-” Tim cut himself off abruptly and turned away from her with a guilty expression. “Forget I said that,” he muttered, roughly drying the platter with the towel. “I’m breaking his trust by talking to you about this.” 

Steph tried to ignore the stab of hurt she felt at Tim’s words as she followed him across the kitchen. “If you say he’s getting better, then fine. I won't argue with you on that. But how do you know it’s real? How do you know he’s not still…” Steph cut herself off and hit her lip frustratedly. She hadn’t meant to bring this up, but she hadn’t expected it to be so difficult to talk through this with Tim.

“He’s not still what?” Tim asked tiredly.

Steph was silent for a moment. “I’ve seen the same blind item rumours on Twitter that you will have,” she said quietly. “The ones that always quietly disappear a few hours after being posted, which I’m sure has nothing to do with you or Barbara.” 

“Steph…” Tim trailed off immediately. 

“If even half of those rumours are true…” Steph said, drying her hands on a towel and turning to Tim. “If even a quarter of them are true, then something is seriously wrong.” 

Steph waited for Tim to shake his head, or roll his eyes, or tell her that of course none of it was true. But he didn’t. He just stared across the kitchen with hollow eyes. 

“How much of it is true, Tim?” Steph asked, her heart suddenly in her throat. 

Tim turned his head to her slowly. “I don’t know,” he croaked quietly. “And I don’t think I ever want to know, honestly.” 

Steph stared at the kitchen counter in front of her, reeling silently at Tim’s words. The blind items had been filled with salacious language, the sharp, gleeful barbs pointed viciously at one of the kindest, most good-hearted people she’d ever met. The man they’d described sounded nothing like the calm, gentle leader she knew Dick Grayson to be, but they’d been far easier to dismiss as absolute tripe when she hadn’t been face-to-face with the hollow exhaustion etched onto every square inch of Dick’s face. There was a nervous hesitation in his eyes that had never been there before, as if he was reassessing the world and everyone in it as far more dangerous than he’d ever considered. She didn’t know what could have happened to turn him into the man the blind items had spoken about, but she knew it couldn’t have been anything good. 

Steph looked at Tim, and felt the tight ball of worry and irritation in her chest clench at his dropped shoulders. She took a breath and let her anger flow away, before slowly moving across the kitchen and wrapping her arms gently around Tim. “Are you okay?” she murmured quietly. 

Tim let out a surprised, sad laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine, Steph,” he said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” she said, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You’re being all Tim Drake about this, aren’t you?” 

“What does that mean?” Tim choked out another short, desperate laugh as he leaned his head against hers. 

“You’re putting the world on your shoulders,” Steph said quietly. “And then you’re raging at yourself when you can’t hold it up all by yourself.” 

Tim was silent for a moment, but she could feel him trembling underneath her arms. “It’s not been a great few months,” he admitted finally, his eyes closing under the weight of his words. 

“Then let me help you,” Steph said, winding her arms tighter around him. “Let me take some of the burden.” 

Tim shook his head. “Dick barely tells us anything as it is,” he said. “You think I know everything that’s going on, but I don’t. I mean, Jason lives with him now and I still don’t think Dick ever really gives him any real information.” Tim looked at Steph and laughed sadly. “Most people think of Dick as an open book, but he might actually be the most secretive of all of us. And that’s really saying something,” he snorted humourlessly, then sobered immediately. “I can’t tell you anything, Steph,” he said. “I can’t break his trust.” 

“Okay,” Steph said quietly. “Okay, I get it, Tim.” She felt Tim’s breath brush against her cheek and smiled sadly. “I really wasn’t trying to be a bitch at dinner,” she said. 

“Yeah, I know,” Tim said, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “And Dick will know that too.” 

“I’ve just been worried about him, y’know,” Steph said, her voice growing unexpectedly tight.

“Yeah, me too,” Tim said. “But, Steph,” he pulled away and looked at her. “He really is getting better, I promise you.”

“I just wish I could help him,” Steph admitted. “I feel like I’ve been so useless. I’ve just been watching this car crash from afar, not knowing what I could do to help stop it.” 

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Tim said. “And there’s nothing you can do now either.” Steph’s face twisted unhappily and Tim continued quickly. “But there will come a time when Dick will want to hang out with you,” he said. “And it’ll be the funnest thing in the world to him. You guys will binge watch shitty reality shows and eat a crap ton of chocolate, and he’ll love it. But, right now…”

“Right now he’s not ready,” Steph finished for him quietly. 

“Yeah,” Tim said. “I’m sorry, Steph.” 

“No, don’t apologise,” Steph said. “You’re right, Tim.” She gave a quiet laugh. “As you usually are,” she admitted with a fond roll of her eyes. “Do you think…” she hesitated and looked up at Tim guiltily. “Do you think I upset him at dinner?” she asked. 

Tim gave her a small smile. “If I know Dick Grayson like I know I do, it’ll already be forgiven and forgotten,” he said. “He’ll know it was only because you care.” 

Steph sighed and laid her head back on Tim’s shoulder. “I just want him to be okay,” she said quietly. She just wanted the old Dick Grayson back. 

“I know,” Tim said, pressing a kiss on the top of her head. “Me too, Steph.” 

Bruce

Bruce silently watched his eldest son peer through the crack in the kitchen door. Bruce had been able to hear every word of Tim and Steph’s conversation from his position staring round the corner via the reflection of the tiny mirror mounted on the wall. Considering this fact, it would be a fool’s errand to hope that Dick hadn’t heard it all as well. 

But, Bruce resigned himself to being a fool in this too. 

Dick was lit solely by the small sliver of light that was escaping through the kitchen door, but even in the darkened state of the powerless hallway, Bruce had seen Dick’s shoulders slowly slump throughout the past several minutes. He looked as if he was being dragged down by a sadness and sense of failure that clearly weighed heavily on him. Bruce had been trying so hard over the past seven months not to notice it, to just pretend that it didn’t exist. Dick was his firstborn, the first glimmer of light to his darkness. Bruce hadn’t been able to bear seeing him so broken, so he’d just stopped seeing him altogether. 

It had been easier to pretend that his son was okay when Dick’s eyes had been hidden under the Nightwing mask. And it had been easier to talk to him when Bruce’s own eyes were safe underneath the cowl. Bruce had told himself that it was better that way.

In the solitude of his own head, Bruce could now admit that this had been a mistake. 

As Steph started chattering about the last horror film she’d seen, Dick clearly decided that he’d heard enough. He pulled away from the door and silently walked down the near-pitch black hallway, disappearing through the doors at the end into the west wing of the manor. 

Bruce let him go, not making a move to follow. It would have been fruitless anyway, he told himself. Dick needed some time to lick his wounds by himself. 

Besides, he knew just where his son would end up. 

Bruce rounded the corner and walked into the kitchen just as Tim and Steph were walking out. 

“Hey Bruce,” Tim said, any trace of his earlier sadness and worry hidden so well that Bruce would never have been able to find it. “We’re going to finish the washing up later, I promise. Steph wants to see the new slasher films I’ve added to my Blu-ray collection.”

“No,” Steph snorted, holding a lit head torch in her hand. “I just want to see what a modern day Blu-ray collection looks like. I didn’t even know they still sold them.” She turned to Tim with a serious look. “You do realise you can stream these movies instead, right?” 

“It’s not the same,” Tim replied hotly, striding past Bruce without a second glance and continuing to bicker loudly with Steph as they walked down the hallway in the opposite direction to Dick. 

Bruce watched them disappear around the corner with a fond smile on his face, before ducking through the door into the kitchen. There wasn’t much he was trusted to do inside its walls, but there was one thing he could reliably make with minimal risk of catastrophe. He opened the fridge and took out the milk carton, before rummaging through one of the cupboards for the packet of really good cocoa that Alfred always tried to hide from him. He hummed quietly to himself as he unhooked one of the saucepans hanging above the stove, placing it on the burner and pouring the milk in. 

It hadn’t been Alfred that had taught him how to do this. No, it had been his father, who would always guide a bleary-eyed Bruce into the kitchen whenever he’d had a scary dream. When he’d been really young, Bruce had sat at the table, swinging his legs from the chair as he’d watched his father gently stir the milk, humming under his breath as he did so. As Bruce got a bit older, his father had hoisted him in his arms so that he could stir the milk himself. 

“When you’re scared, sometimes you need to find something to do,” his father had murmured into his hair as he’d kissed his head. “Something to give you back a little bit of control. And that might feel like it’s really hard, doing something when you feel all frozen inside. But you’ll always have your dad with you to help, okay?”

“Okay,” Bruce had mumbled back, still concentrating on stirring the milk without sloshing it over the sides. 

Bruce hadn’t really understood what his father meant then, but when Dick had first stumbled into his bedroom past midnight with wild, frantic eyes, his father’s words had come flooding suddenly back. 

Dick’s first month at the manor had been a little awkward and stilted, despite Bruce’s best efforts. The charming, precocious child that had appeared during every visit Bruce had taken to the juvenile centre had only remained for the first week, before sliding away into a quiet, listless boy that only acknowledged Bruce when he was directly spoken to and spent his days reading silently in his room. 

“What am I doing wrong?” Bruce had asked Alfred desperately one day as he was cooking dinner. “I just don’t think he likes me.” 

Alfred had fixed him with a look that was somehow equal parts fond and withering. “Master Bruce, with all due respect, that’s probably one of the least intelligent things I’ve ever heard you say.”

“But he’s so quiet,” Bruce had said, watching Alfred carefully consult the goulash recipe in front of him. “He wasn’t like this when he first arrived.”

Alfred had turned to him and given him a sympathetic look. “Master Bruce, I think that’s a good thing,” he’d said gently. “The boy is a performer at heart. He knows how to put on a jolly good show and he knows how to work an audience. If he’s not doing that now, there will be a reason for that.”

“Oh,” Bruce had said. He’d frowned in deep thought. “What reason?” he’d asked.

Alfred had looked suspiciously like he was suppressing an eye roll as he answered. “He trusts you, Master Bruce.” 

Bruce hadn’t really believed that until Dick had knocked so quietly on his bedroom door that he hadn’t been certain he’d heard it. 

“Hello?” he’d said. 

“Can I come in?” Dick’s small voice had asked. 

“Of course,” Bruce had said, scrambling out of his bed and patting down his pyjama shirt nervously. “Of course you can.”

The door had opened and Dick’s pale, wan face had appeared on the other side. “I had a nightmare,” he’d said quietly. 

“Oh, chum,” Bruce had said awkwardly. “I’m sorry.” 

Dick’s face had tightened, half-hidden by the bedroom door that he was sheltering behind. “It’s the same nightmare I have every night,” he’d whispered. 

“Oh, chum,” Bruce had said, dropping to his knees and opening his arms out in a motion that felt strange and unfamiliar, yet so oddly natural. Dick had crashed into his chest a moment later, throwing his arms around Bruce’s neck and immediately bursting into tears. 

“I can’t ever save them,” he’d sobbed into Bruce’s pyjama shirt. “I keep watching them fall over and over again. And I hear the sound of them hitting the floor and it…” Dick had gasped for breath. “It’s the most awful sound in the world, Mr Bruce.” 

“Just Bruce,” Bruce had said automatically, tightening his arms around Dick’s small frame. “And I’m sorry, Dick. I’m so sorry.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Dick had cried, burying his face into Bruce’s chest. “What do I do, Mr Bruce? I want to help them in my dream, but I’m just so scared.” Dick’s ordinarily perfect American accent had been beginning to slip, an unusual mix of slavic vowels and soft french consonants creeping through. 

Bruce had frozen in place at that moment, his arms still cradling Dick tightly. In theory, he had known that he was the best possible person to answer that question. But, in actuality, he had still been desperately searching for that answer himself. He didn’t know how to stem the raw pain bleeding out from Dick’s tiny body. For a moment, he felt a foreign sense of panic crawl up his throat. But then, out of nowhere, he remembered his father’s words. 

Bruce had given Dick a small squeeze. “When you’re scared, sometimes you need to find something to do,” he’d said, trying not to sound as uncertain as he’d felt. “Something to give you back a little bit of control.” 

Dick’s cries had paused as he’d considered Bruce’s words. “Like what?” he’d asked, his American accent sliding back into place so perfectly that Bruce would have never been able to tell the difference. 

Bruce had gently drawn Dick back so that he could look him in the eyes. “Would you like to make some hot cocoa with me?” he’d asked with a small smile.

Dick had frowned suspiciously. “But Alfred says you’re not allowed in the kitchen,” he’d said. 

Bruce had given a small laugh. “Well, I’m sure he won’t mind me using it for this,” he’d said. He’d stood up and offered Dick his hand. “Shall we?” 

Dick had considered him for a moment, before placing his tiny hand on Bruce’s palm and smiling brightly despite his tear-stained cheeks. “Okay, Mr Bruce.”

“Just Bruce,” Bruce had laughed gently. 

Over twenty three years later, Bruce wondered whether it was a poor reflection on him as a father that his parenting skills hadn’t evolved much further beyond making his son hot cocoa when he was upset. He gripped the wooden spoon he was holding tightly, trying to ignore the white hot shame that speared through his heart. When he’d taken Dick in, he’d made him a promise that he would love and care for him, that he would keep him safe. Somehow, he’d forgotten that over the years. As Dick had grown older, had grown so strong and capable, Bruce had come to believe that he didn’t need Bruce’s fumbling attempts at gentleness any more. After all, what could he possibly teach Dick about kindness or love, when Dick was so much better at that than Bruce had ever been? 

Bruce stared blankly into the slowly warming milk. He was a fool, he thought to himself bitterly. A damned, stupid fool. But he could be better. He had to be better, or he could lose his son completely. They could all lose his son completely. 

Bruce measured out the cocoa carefully. His hands weren’t shaking, because Batman’s hands never shook. But he gripped the measuring spoon a little too tightly, and the sight of the saucepan warped and distorted as he blinked his eyes to clear his vision. 

When the hot cocoa was ready, Bruce poured it into a thermos and collected two tin mugs. He didn’t bother finding a torch for his journey, as he was so intimately familiar with the manor’s hallways that he could make his way through them blindfolded. Instead, he strolled slowly through the manor, stopping off in the entranceway to pick out two thick winter coats. After that, he stole into his office for the small package he’d wrapped earlier that morning, placing it into the pocket of one of the jackets. He climbed up the stairs, passing the first floor, and the second. He climbed until he came to the old servant’s quarters in the attic, barely used except for whenever they needed to access the roof. 

As he’d suspected, the window had been left carefully ajar. Bruce pushed it open gently and climbed through, pulling the coats, thermos and the mugs through a moment later. He rounded the window, and something inside his heart relaxed when he saw his son sat on the rooftop, huddled against the cold in his sweater and smoking the dregs of a cigarette. 

“Oh,” Dick said, clearly surprised to see him. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Bruce said, walking up the roof towards him. “Those’ll kill you, you know,” he said, nodding at the cigarette. 

Dick snorted, holding the cigarette in his mouth as he took one of the coats Bruce was offering him. “I’m gonna quit,” he mumbled around it as he pulled on the coat. “It’s a bad habit.” 

“A terrible habit,” Bruce agreed casually, pulling on his own coat. “You got another one?” 

Dick looked at him and laughed quietly. “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

“I don’t,” Bruce said, unscrewing the lid to the thermos as he held the two tin mugs between his thighs so that he could pour the hot cocoa in. “But, then again, sometimes I do.” 

Dick dug his hand in his pocket, drawing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. When Bruce handed him his mug, he passed them over to Bruce. “I understand,” he said quietly, cradling his mug in his hands as he watched Bruce light up his own cigarette, blowing the first few puffs downwind and away from Dick’s face. 

Bruce grimaced and tried not to cough as he handed the packet and lighter back to Dick. “Where did you get these?” he asked. “They taste like the ones I used to have in Nanda Parbat.” 

“They’re a Russian brand,” Dick shrugged. “They remind me of the circus. The brothers that used to babysit me smoked these constantly.” He laughed and took a drag of his own cigarette. “That probably wasn’t great for my developing lungs, but they’ll always taste like home to me.” 

Bruce looked at him, his detective’s eye glancing over his son. He could see Dick’s familiar laugh lines around his eyes, softly crinkled from years of the bright peals of laughter that still echoed around the manor’s hallways. But there were new lines there too. Stress had carved its way over Dick’s face, furrowing his brow with sadness and hollowing his eyes with grief. 

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t been a good father to his son. 

“You alright, B?” Dick asked curiously. 

Bruce opened his eyes, smiling softly at his son. “I’m fine, Dick,” he said, taking another draw of the cigarette. “I hope you’re not too cold out here.” 

Dick shrugged again. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m warmer now that I’ve got the coat and cocoa,” he flashed a small smile at Bruce. “Thanks for that by the way. The sweater wasn’t quite up to the weather.” 

Bruce looked idly at Dick’s sweater, before starting in surprise. “I bought you that,” he said. “I didn’t know you still had it.” 

Dick peered down and grinned. “Oh yeah,” he said. “It’s one of my favourites.” Dick reached to the small battery pack hidden underneath the hem and a moment later the lights flickered dully into existence. “This might be its last year with the lights though,” Dick said mournfully as the various colours flashed out of sync with each other. 

“I can take a look at it for you,” Bruce said. “After Christmas, I mean. I can get the lights working again.” 

Dick took a sip of his cocoa to hide the smile spreading over his face. “Like you did with the manor electrics, you mean?”

Bruce coughed to hide his embarrassment. “I’m sure the power will come back on soon,” he said, trying not to look too worried as he thought about just how long the latest power cut had lasted now. “It’ll be any moment now.” 

“I’m just kidding with you, B,” Dick laughed. “Thanks, y’know, for offering to fix the sweater.” 

“Anytime,” Bruce said, staring at his son. “I’ll do anything for you, Dick.” 

Dick laughed softly as he ground out his cigarette on the manor roof tiles. He balanced his mug of cocoa inbetween his knees as he drew another cigarette out of its packet, holding it between his lips as he lit it. “I know, B,” he said quietly, blowing out his first puff into the night sky. 

Bruce watched Dick carefully. He knew that his son knew that he was staring at him, but Dick didn’t ask him to stop. He just let Bruce examine him, taking in every crease in his face, every premature grey in his hair, every mark of exhaustion that hadn’t been there seven months ago. 

“Are you okay, Dick?” Bruce asked. 

Dick shot Bruce an amused look. “It took you long enough to ask,” he said, taking another drag from the cigarette. He held it for a moment, before his shoulders slumped and he breathed the smoke out towards the stars. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. “I really am. I just… I just thought that I’d find it easier than this.” 

“Find what easier?” Bruce asked. “Being at home?”

“Being around the family,” Dick answered. “Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing them. And I’ve missed them,” Dick’s voice got tight and he cleared his throat. “I’ve missed them over the past few months. But…” Dick looked up to the sky and took a shaky drag of his cigarette. He released the smoke with his words. “I didn’t realise how difficult it would be seeing their worry.” 

“They love you,” Bruce said quietly, taking a draw of his own cigarette. “They want you to be okay.” 

“I know,” Dick shook his head. “I know that, B. But being the person that’s making them worry, that’s…” he laughed bitterly. “That’s not my job. My job is to be okay.” 

“Your job is to be here, to be alive,” Bruce said, his own throat getting tight from the acrid taste of the smoke. “And it’s ours to help you, however we can.” He paused. “I’m sorry about what Tim and Steph were saying.”

Dick looked at him in surprise, before laughing. “Of course you were eavesdropping on me eavesdropping on them,” he shook his head, before looking up at Bruce. “I wasn’t upset about what they were saying,” he said. “I was just upset that they were upset. I’d tried so hard to protect the rest of the family from what was going on. I didn’t realise how badly I’d failed at that too.” 

Bruce wanted to reach across the space and gently shake his son, this beautiful, heart-achingly good person who was somehow completely unable to see just how amazing he was. He wanted to pour all of his love, all of his memories of Dick’s brilliance into Dick’s mind directly. He wanted to show him just how loved he was, and that no part of him was a failure. 

Instead, Bruce gave Dick a level look. “You didn’t fail,” he said quietly. “Please know that, Dick. You didn’t fail them.” 

Dick shrugged. “Whatever, B,” he said lightly, taking another drag of the cigarette and watching its smoke curl upwards and dissipate. “I just… I miss the old Dick Grayson, y’know. I see him again sometimes, in little flashes. And the person that I am now, I’m not as different as I was when things were really bad. But,” Dick shoved the cigarette in his mouth and ran his hand through his hair. “But sometimes I miss the way everything was buried, y’know. I miss going through my life in blissful ignorance. I miss being the big brother who was only there to help. And I miss being a good enough liar that no one could tell when something was wrong.” Dick breathed out shakily, the smoke obscuring his face for a moment. “I think I’ve lost that, a little bit.” 

“I think that’s a good thing, Dick,” Bruce said. 

Dick looked at him, his brow creased in pain. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his eyes dropping to the roof tiles. “I know, B.” 

“You’re doing really well,” Bruce said stiltedly, the praise unfamiliar on his tongue. But he pressed on regardless. “I’m really proud of you.” 

Dick looked up at him, his face twisting into a fond, wry smile. “Thanks, B,” he said, before giving a small chuckle. “Did that hurt?” 

Bruce rolled his eyes in good humour, trying to hide the genuine stab of pain at Dick’s words. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, looking at Dick. “I really want to try, Dick.” 

Dick smiled, holding his mug of cocoa out. “I know, B,” he said. “Sorry, I was being mean.” 

Bruce clinked his own mug softly against Dick’s. “You’re entitled to be mean to me,” he said. “And it was far less than I deserve.” 

They turned away from each other and drank from their mugs, looking out silently into the rich tapestry of stars woven overhead. 

“I feel bad about Jay,” Dick said eventually, staring out at the sky. “I was a bit of an asshole at dinner.” 

“I’m sure he understood,” Bruce said, cradling his mug in his hands. 

“I’m sure he did,” Dick said, an odd tone colouring his voice. “But that doesn’t mean it would have hurt any less.” 

Bruce was silent, dropping his eyes to the cocoa that was growing more tepid by the minute in the cold winter air. “All you can do is apologise,” he said, barely above a murmur. “And hope that he forgives you.” 

“I know that he will,” Dick whispered back. “Because that’s what he always does.” 

“That’s because he’s a good man,” Bruce said, his vision blurring until the cocoa became a dark, muddy mess. “He’s a very, very good man and-” Bruce cut himself off suddenly. He took a breath and faced Dick. “I can’t talk in a metaphor for this. You’re a very good man, Dick. And I don’t deserve you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Dick’s face swam in Bruce’s vision, and he blinked repeatedly until it came back into focus. Dick was looking at him, struck into silence. “I know you’re sorry,” he said eventually. “I know you are.” 

“I need to say it anyway,” Bruce said, turning back to the stars. “You need to hear me say it.” 

“Yeah,” Dick breathed out beside him. “Yeah, I do.” 

They sat together in silence again, until Dick gave a humourless chuckle. “I’m not talking in metaphors anymore either, but I really do feel bad about dropping Jay in it about his girlfriend. He’s never gonna tell me anything again,” he said mournfully, taking a sip of his cocoa. 

“Yes, he will,” Bruce said, his heart twisting painfully in his chest at the thought of Jason. His second son had sworn him to secrecy about the conversation they’d had at Thanksgiving after everyone else had gone to bed, had made him promise to never tell Dick about the threats that Jason had quietly seethed into his ear as he’d pushed Bruce against the wall. Bruce had lost Jason’s forgiveness forever now, and there was no one he could blame for it other than himself. “He loves you, Dick.” 

Dick gave him a fond, lopsided smile. “He’s a good brother,” he said.

“He is,” Bruce agreed, swallowing down his grief with a smile. 

“Still, he can’t have handled you guys asking about Isabella very well,” Dick sighed, taking another drag of his cigarette. “I just couldn’t deal with all the looks everyone was giving me. God, you raised a nosy bunch.” 

Bruce laughed quietly. “Don’t blame me,” he said. “All of you were like that anyway before I found you.” 

Dick grinned. “Yeah, I guess we were.” 

Bruce looked at Dick’s smile fondly, his face being lit in green, red, blue and yellow flashes from his sweater. “Do you want your Christmas present now?” he asked. 

Dick looked at him in surprise. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” 

Bruce checked his watch. “We’re only a few minutes away from Christmas Day,” he said. “Besides, I got you other gifts too. But I wanted to give you this one in private.” 

Dick looked at him quizzically. “Okay, I’m officially curious,” he laughed, stubbing out his cigarette on the tiles and laying it next to the butt of his first one. 

Bruce reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small package. He’d wrapped this one in private, so it hadn’t benefited from Damian’s exacting standards. But he didn’t think Dick would mind the mess of tape and paper. 

Dick took the present carefully, looking up at Bruce cautiously. 

“Go ahead,” Bruce nodded. 

Dick gently tore apart the paper, letting out an almost silent gasp when he uncovered the frayed fabric underneath. 

“To be honest, it’s not really a gift,” Bruce said quietly. “I’m just returning something that’s always belonged to you. Something that I’ve borrowed for far too long.” 

Dick ran a finger over the R symbol on his very first Robin costume. He took the suit from the paper and let the fabric unravel, falling down until the legs brushed against the rooftop tiles. “It’s so small,” he said. 

“Yes, it is,” Bruce said. 

“I was having growth spurts all the time at that age,” Dick said absentmindedly as he stared at the suit. “I outgrew this one so quickly,” 

“Yes, you did,” Bruce said. 

Dick looked up at Bruce. “I think…” he started. “I think I was too young,” he said. 

“Yes,” Bruce said. “You were.” 

They looked at each other silently. There was nothing else to say, but Bruce wanted to be able to speak anyway. He wanted to apologise, to grip his son tightly and tell him that he was a fool, a selfish, awful fool. But he held his tongue, and just stared into his son’s eyes instead. 

“Thanks, B,” Dick said quietly. 

“You’re welcome, Dick,” Bruce said, finally breaking his gaze and looking out to the stars again. He tapped his cigarette’s ash onto the tiles and sighed. “I’m a bit of a collector, as you know,” he nodded at Dick, noting his son’s wry smile. “I’ve kept every costume any of us have ever worn. I tell myself it’s for practical reasons. It’s good to be able to look back at past designs and see how they held up over time. But, I think I’m also probably more sentimental than I’d like to admit too.”

Dick laughed. “We know, B,” he said. 

Bruce ducked his head sideways and smiled at Dick. “That suit doesn’t belong to me, because it doesn’t represent the Batman legacy.” 

Dick’s brow creased in confusion and hurt, and Bruce held up a pacifying hand. 

“It doesn’t represent the Batman legacy,” he repeated. “Because the Batman legacy is grief, darkness and fear. And that’s not what Robin is,” Bruce leaned back on the rooftop and looked up at the stars. “Robin is hope. Robin represents the light in Gotham, the light that you brought to the city and…” Bruce looked over at his son. “And the light that you brought to my life, Dick.” 

Dick stared back at him silently, his expression unreadable. 

Bruce looked into the distance, staring at the Gotham skyline. “It’s okay if you don’t fully feel like yourself yet,” he said. “It took me a long time to come back to myself after Bane broke my back, after the Court of Owls, after-” Bruce swallowed painfully. “After Jason’s death.” 

Dick’s silent presence didn’t move an inch beside Bruce. 

“But you need to know, Dick,” Bruce spoke to the stars. “You need to know that I’ll never think of you any differently. I’ll always love you. I’ll always think the best of you. And I’ll-” Bruce’s voice broke against his will and the stars swam into a liquid mess. Bruce closed his eyes. “I’ll always think of you as my son, even if you never think of me as your father.” 

Bruce felt a hand rest on his shoulder and looked up to see Dick looking at him with a serious expression, the old Robin costume bundled in his lap. “I’ve always thought of you as a father, B,” he said quietly, using his other hand to brush the wetness from Bruce’s cheeks. “I just never knew that you thought of me as a son until a month ago.” 

Bruce looked at his gentle, brilliant son and he felt so many words clamor for release in his chest. He wanted to shout his sorries out across the manor grounds, he wanted to grab Dick tightly and whisper how much he loved him, he wanted to hold Dick’s hands and tell him all about the adoption papers he’d had drawn up the morning after he’d first made hot cocoa with Dick. 

But, he didn’t. Because despite how much he wanted to be a better father, he still couldn’t find the courage to speak those words into existence. 

But Dick was a better man than him, so he spoke his own instead. “I love you, B,” he said quietly. 

“I love you too,” Bruce choked out. 

For a moment, they looked at each other, both hesitant and cautious. But then, they thawed at the same time. Bruce opened his arms at the same time that Dick moved to nestle inside them, and they met each other in a hug. Bruce tightened his arms around Dick, nestling his face into his son’s hair. 

Bruce’s watch beeped and he peered at it without moving. “It’s midnight,” he said in faint surprise. 

As he said that, a hum passed quickly over the manor and the lights began to slowly flicker on, one by one. In the reflection of the pond in the grounds, Bruce could see each floor of the manor light up until the attic window next to them sparked to life. 

The sound of something rapidly inflating started behind them, and both Dick and Bruce jumped, turning around just in time to see the inflatable Frosty the Snowman spring into existence surrounded by artfully placed string lights. 

“Oh wow,” Dick said, grinning at the sight. “Who put that there? It’s brilliant.” 

Bruce smiled fondly at Dick’s happiness. “Damian wanted to put it up for you,” he said. “And Tim helped him.” 

“Oh,” Dick said, swallowing hard and looking misty-eyed. “That’s really nice of them,” he said, his voice sounding tight. 

“They love you,” Bruce said gently, resting his hand on the side of Dick’s head. “They want you to be happy, no matter how long it takes for you to get there.” 

Dick swallowed again and nodded mutely, trying to blink away the tears in his eyes but not having much luck. “Thanks, Bruce,” he said hoarsely. 

“Merry Christmas, Dick,” Bruce said quietly, wiping away the tears on Dick’s cheek. 

Dick smiled. “Merry Christmas, B.”