#batfamchristmasstocking2019

[preciousthingsareprecious]

On a Cold Winter’s Night

This is for @evergreena for the stocking exchange. I was delighted to find something with power outages and story telling on your prompt list and picked that immediately. I had a lot of fun crafting this fic, and I really hope you enjoy it. 

Characters: Damian Wayne & Dick Grayson 

Words: 2,066

AO3 Link 

~

Damian was seated in the manor’s living room, the grandfather clock ticking behind him, and Alfred the cat lounging over his feet, making his socked toes almost too hot. Even so, he appreciated the weight, and besides, he would never do the cat the indignity of shooing him once he’d graced Damian with his presence.

He was resting against an arm rest, sketchbook propped up on his knees as he faced the large window looking out into the garden. It was not yet too late in the day. Still the sun was quickly moving it’s way across the sky, bringing the light into the perfect tones that existed just before evening. Everything was bathed in warm oranges, making the snow, already dotted with the footprints of Damian’s pets and family, sparkle and look somewhat akin to fire with it’s glow.

It was of course, the perfect time to sketch. Damian would later render the drawing into a painting fit to match the day, but he wanted to get everything down now, and fill a corner of his page with colors that matched what he saw every time he looked up from the book in his lap. It was a lovely scene he wished to attempt to recreate. He might hate being cold, but snow fascinated him. It had been so rare a thing for him up until he’d moved to Gotham. Usually it was simply another obstacle to overcome, or he was busy and didn’t have time to enjoy it. Now though, he could stare out and actually appreciate its beauty.

Damian stayed there, working on his sketch as the sun inched its way lower and lower and darkness began to fall. Outside, the snowfall that had created the source of his work had started again, falling in steady waves, and growing in weight. It covered the footprints, and eventually, it eclipsed his view, forcing him to stop sketching anything new and either focus entirely on it or on darkening the lines of his work.

He chose to look out the window, transfixed by the way it could obscure so completely. He wondered briefly how it would feel to be standing out in it, and then dismissed the idea. It might look soft and inviting, but his nose would grow red and run, and his shoes would be soggy, and it would take him all day to find the warmth he felt now if he went out.

“They’re all different, you know.” Grayson’s voice washed over Damian as he walked in, his tone low enough it did not make him jump, "The snowflakes I mean."  

Damian looked up at his brother, he’d stopped to stand by the couch, arm’s weighed down with logs. Damian raised an eyebrow at the wood and Grayson shrugged.

“I thought I’d start a fire. It’s the perfect day for one.”

“Will we be going on patrol this evening?” Damian asked, turning his attention back to the window, and the dark silhouettes of trees just peeking out behind the blowing snow.

“Nah, not in this weather. It’s supposed to go on like this all night off and on. It’ll keep all but the most determined inside.”

Grayson moved past Damian and over to the fireplace. He settled the wood beside it, and got to work getting it ready for a fire. It was kept immaculately clean, but it was always important to check that the chute was open and that there were no problems that might arise once a fire had been lit.

Damian watched Grayson as he stacked wood and adjusted it, fiddling with it as if they were in the wilderness and the fire was all they had to stave off freezing. As he worked Damian’s mind drifted back to the snowflakes.

“Brown was insisting on making snowflakes.” he mused, “I could not figure out how she thought we were to produce snow.”

From within the fireplace Grayson chuckled, the sound echoing off the bricks, “Did she explain what she meant?”

He shrugged, “Eventually. Once she stopped laughing.” He brushed a thumb up the corner of his sketchbook, feeling the pages flip and fall down, “We never ended up making them."

His brother pulled away from the fireplace, sitting back on his heels, and turned to look at Damian, “Why don’t we do that tonight? Some cocoa and crafting will be fun. I’d love to see Bruce’s face when he comes back to find the whole room out in snowflakes.”

Damian curled his toes into the couch, making the cat huff and shift with the movement. He glanced now at the hallway outside the room, “Father will be late then?”

“Al said he had a meeting with someone from…” Grayson stopped and shrugged, “Can’t remember. It’s in a different time zone though, so this time was the most accommodating.”

“I see.”

Damian turned his attention back to the window. It wasn’t the worst of storms, but it was possible that things would grow worse before Father even left, further delaying him on his return home. It wouldn’t hurt patrol preparations since they were not going out, but Damian would miss the time with him. They had fallen into a habit of working together, either upstairs or in the cave. Each would focus on his own projects, but the time spent together was nice. Father was always just in reach if Damian needed him.

“Then yes, cocoa and crafting sounds fun. How many snowflakes do you think we should make in order to surprise Father?”

Grayson chuckled and suggested a number, then sent Damian off to find supplies while he finished lighting the fire. Damian had to carefully extract Alfred from his feet, but the cat didn’t seem too perturbed by the action.

Once they were set up with everything they needed, cocoa included, the two worked together making snowflakes. They were seated on the floor, with supplies spread around them, and a steadily growing pile of snowflakes. For a while as the snow continued to fall outside. It never halted, as Grayson had suggested it might, but instead continued to pick up it’s speed.

At some point the lights around them flickered and then all shut off, leaving Damian to stare up blankly at the ceiling, like that might make them switch back on.

“Might be a breaker or something, I’m going to go find Al and see what’s up. You stay here.” Grayson said, pushing himself to his feet.

Damian huffed and waved him off, “Do not be too long, it is probably a simple fix and we have not completed nearly as many snowflakes as you said we needed.”

Left on his own, Damian turned to glance back out the window, but there was little to see. The sun had set, and the lights around the house had gone out as well as those inside. He may be able to spot something if he pressed his face to the window, but he would not do anything so undignified as that.

Instead he looked back at the fire, the only thing lighting the room, and let the crackle and pop of it soothe the irrational worry building in his stomach. If power was out here, how bad was it in the city? Would Father make it back at all tonight? And what would they do if the lights did not come back on soon?

He scooted a little closer to the fire and picked up another piece of paper, folding it carefully before beginning to snip at it with his scissors to create a snowflake effect. While he worked, he resisted the urge to grab his phone to check for news. The thought that perhaps he might not have service stopped him. Besides, Grayson would return soon enough he was sure.

Grayson did return, almost ten minutes later, after Damian had managed to work himself into a worry over anything and everything. Really, when had he become so soft as to worry about everyone else?

“Snow collapsed a line further up.” Grayson told him, returning to his seat on the floor by Damian, “It’ll be a couple hours at least before they’ve got it fixed. Alfred’s snuggled in his room by a fire of his own and suggests we stay by ours.”

“Any news from Father?” Damian asked, “Have we informed him of the situation here?”

Grayson shook his head, “Service is spotty right now, but I sent him a text. We'll see if he gets it or if I can even get the response. For now, let’s sit tight and keep working on our plan. Lights or no, we can still make the inside look as good as outside.”

Damian rolled his eyes but handed his brother more paper. After a few more minutes working in the silence he asked, “Did you and Father ever do anything like this?”

His brother hummed and considered the question, “Sometimes. Though, Bruce used to tell stories about his time training.” Grayson smiled, “When it snowed, he’d tell all the cold ones about climbing mountains and almost being caught in avalanches.”

“And when it did not?”

“Ah, then he’d pick something to fit the mood. If it was storming he’d tell a dark tale set in the spookiest stormiest setting he could come up with. Half the time I thought he was just making things up. Now, sometimes I think he wasn’t.”

This made Damian smile, a tiny knowing one, “I doubt Father would lie about training.”

Grayson’s own smile fell just a little, not quite enough for most to notice, but Damian did, “Yeah. I guess you’d be able to tell.”

Something in his look made Damian want to squirm, like he was being watched carefully. He did not know how this had gone from speaking of Father to speaking of him, but he wanted the topic changed, and changed quickly. It did not matter what training he had or didn’t have or how he would be able to commiserate with Father. He most certainly did not wish to make Grayson sad over the fact.

“And what stories do you have?” he pressed, “Any tales of cold nights and power outages?”

Grayson leaned back, resting against the ledge under the fireplace, “So many, and not all including Freeze, he doesn’t have a monopoly on being cold you know.”

“Then tell me one about someone else.” Damian challenged, settling another snowflake aside.

“I will.” Grayson said, then set right into a story about fighting Captain Cold with Wally that ended up with the both of them tucked into the batmobile, red nosed and shivering from near hypothermia while their mentors finished things up outside.

Grayson then broke into another story, this time featuring Freeze, a giant red ornament, and a children’s play place that somehow ended up totally frozen. Damian ended up so wrapped up in his brother’s stories he forgot all about cutting any more snowflakes. The two of them ended up snuggled closer and closer to the fire, Damian leaned into Grayson as he talked, and Grayson shifting every so often to check the fire or add a log.

So wrapped up in a story was Damian, that he did not hear the entrance of another to the room. It wasn’t until a voice interrupted Grayson’s story that either of them looked up.

“That’s not quite how I remember it going.” Father’s deep voice rumbled.

He stood by the couch, snow still dusting the top of his hair, nose ever so slightly red, and grinning at them both.

"Well it's how I remember it." Grayson shot back.

Father rolled his eyes and looked over their stack of snowflakes, "What are you doing?"

“Drat.” Grayson said, “We forgot to put up the decorations.”

“Father!” Damian stood, moving over to him, he took his hand and led him to the fireplace, “Do not just stand there, it is cold.”

The three of them shuffled until they were all comfortable around the fire. Scissors and paper were shoved into Bruce’s hand with Grayson’s command to help if he was going to ruin the surprise anyway.

Damian took up his own, “So Father, if Grayson’s story was not accurate, then I believe it is up to you to correct his mistakes.”

“Hey!” Grayson said.

At the same time Father smiled, “Yes, I believe so. It all started on a night much like this one…”

[lazuliquetzal]

oh, where do i begin?

Duke is in the middle of his post-school nap when an incessant buzzing interrupts his dreams. His hand snakes out and snatches the phone off of his nightstand.

This had better be good.

“Hello?” he mumbles into his phone, voice rough with sleep.

The voice that comes through has the decency to be apologetic. ”Oh, shit, were you sleeping? Sorry dude, I can call back later —“

Duke sighs, resigning himself to the conversation. “No, it’s fine. I was going to get up soon anyway —“

He comes to an abrupt halt and blinks as he registers the voice on the other end of the line. “Wait, Hood?”

“Yeah?”

“You — you have my number?”

“... Yeah?”

Duke wonders for a moment about how that happened — he’d only ever talked with Jason Todd in passing, and for Bat-related reasons.

Wait, Bat-related reasons.

“Is something wrong?” Duke asks, suddenly wide awake, because there are a million possible reasons why Red Hood is contacting him instead of Bruce or Steph or Dick, and very few of them are pleasant.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Jason says. “We’re a-okay. Just peachy. Good times.”

“Oh,” Duke says, lamely, working himself out of crisis mode. There’s an awkward silence for a moment before he speaks up again. “Why did you call?”

“Right, right," Jason mumbles, which seemed a little out of character to Duke. His sort-of wayward brother was generally intimidating, even when he wasn't trying to be. "Uh, Dick said that you had a guinea pig when you were younger. How do you take care of a guinea pig?”

“A… guinea pig.”

A pause. “Make that two guinea pigs, actually.”

Duke rubs his eyes. This conversation hasn’t even lasted thirty seconds and he’s still reeling from the expectation-reality whiplash.

“How did you — never mind." Duke stifles a yawn and switched his mental gears. "What’s your setup so far?”

“I have a cage and food. And two guinea pigs.”

“Do you have bedding? Toys? Hay?”

“Have what?”

“Oh my God,” Duke says, offended on behalf of the guinea pigs. “Okay, I’m coming over. Where are you?”

“Uh —”

“Actually, never mind,” Duke says, already rolling out of bed and pulling on pants. “There’s a PetSmart off of 31st, you know which one?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “The one by the Hungarian restaurant, right?”

“Yep,” Duke says. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen. In the meantime, please shred some newspapers and put it in your cage.”

"Are you sure —"

"Jason. I'm meeting you at PetSmart — that's not a question. Think of the guinea pigs."

No bedding, Jesus Christ.

“Newspapers, fifteen, PetSmart. Got it,” Jason says, his voice tinged with relief. “Thanks, Duke. See you there.”

___

Duke drags Jason through the aisles and adds the basics into their shopping cart — food, a water dispenser, hay, various toys and other miscellaneous things. He tries his best to explain the importance of each item as he picks them out. Jason listens attentively, even taking out his phone and keeping notes as Duke talks. He asks questions, and Duke tries to answer, and it’s all very… ordinary. Especially when considering the few things they have in common, like fighting crime and the chaos of being part of the Wayne family.

Once they purchase the supplies, they take the subway to Jason’s apartment, and then Duke is staring at two short-haired guinea pigs shuffling around in their cage.

“What are their names?” he asks. Grinning, he reaches in and picks one up. It’s been a while since he’s held a guinea pig. Arbie died when he was thirteen, and he still hasn’t quite recovered.

“That one’s Jim,” Jason answers. “And the black one is Banana.”

Duke looks over and lifts an eyebrow.

“I didn’t pick the names,” he shrugs.

Duke places Jim back down and reaches for the supplies.

"Let's make these babies comfortable," he declares, and Jason snorts in amusement.

Together, they put in the toys and shred more newspaper. Duke makes sure that Jason knows how to clean the cage, and how often. He watches Jason dutifully add reminders on his phone and on the calendar on his fridge. Fifteen minutes later, the two rodents are happily sniffing around the cage, exploring their new toys. It takes Jim a second to figure out how the running wheel works, but soon he's sprinting along while Banana sips at the freshly filled water bottle. Duke brightens up. Already they look much happier.

“How’d you end up with these little guys, anyway?” he asks, curious to hear the answer. It wasn't everyday that someone just acquired a pair of guinea pigs.

“One of my informants is moving, and their new landlord doesn’t allow pets,” Jason says. He reaches down and carefully picks up Banana, mimicking the motions Duke used earlier to carry Jim. “Oh wow, he’s soft.”

Duke grins at the sight of Jason cradling Banana in his arms, a small smile crossing his lips.

“This should only be short-term,” Jason continues with his explanation. “I just got 'em this morning. I haven’t had time to look for someone to take them in.” He looks up, a question in his eyes.

Duke shakes his head regretfully. “I’d offer, but I don’t have the space.”

“Too bad,” Jason sighs. He holds Banana up to his face and smiles wide. “Well, someone’s gonna love these guys. Hope I find ‘em soon.”

Banana wriggles in Jason's grip, so he reluctantly sets him back down. For a moment, they simply sit and watch.

"Thanks for helping me out so suddenly," Jason blurts out. Duke turns to look at the older man.

"It's just — it's kind of a specific situation, and the little brat has school, and I couldn't really think of who else in the family to call. So, thanks."

Family. Duke's heart warms at the admission, that even though they've never really spoken, Jason still decided to reach out. Still considered Duke family.

"Of course," Duke says, gently nudging Jason with his shoulder. "That's what brothers are for, right?"

Jason smiles at the response. He reaches into the cage and gently scratches Banana behind the ear.

"Can you ask around and see if anyone's willing to take them?" Jason asks. "I'd ask Damian but I think he's hit his animal adoption quota for the year."

Duke thinks for a moment, about friends and classmates and neighbors. But before his mind gets too far, his eyes focus on Jason petting Banana. And Duke is suddenly struck with an idea.

“You should keep them,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“You’d be perfect,” Duke says. “You have space. You have the supplies. And you’re responsible, you can take care of them.”

Jason snorts. “Responsible? Guess you haven’t hung around Bruce long enough to hear what he has to say about me.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Duke scoffs. “You set daily alarms and took notes when I was telling you what to do.”

“I just don’t want to kill them.”

“And that’s why you’d be perfect,” Duke insists.

For a moment, they stare each other down. Jason shifts around.

“I’m not going to be here all the time,” he warns, and Duke knows he’s got him.

“I’d help,” Duke volunteers. “If you’re not in town. I can check up on them. And —“ Jim scuttles up and bumps his nose on Jason’s hand, asking to be pet, “ — you like them.”

Jason huffs a little, but the corners of his lips twitch up. “Okay, fine,” he concedes. "But you gotta help. Not just every once in a while."

Duke beams. "Of course. Should I add myself to the fridge calendar?"

___

“Hey,” Dick greets Duke as he rolls into the Cave. The sun is just starting to set, and the nighttime patrol is just about to start. Duke waves hello and Dick smiles back.

Duke starts removing his gear, laying out his belt and weapons and wriggling out of the body armor.

“So —”

Duke yelps — Dick's voice was right there by his ear.

He slaps at Dick's shoulder but the other man just laughs and leaps out of range. "Give a guy some warning, geez!"

"You and Jason have been hanging out more, huh?" Dick says, still grinning. He lifts an eyebrow.

Duke shifts nervously. "... Should I not be?"

Jason's relationship with the rest of the family is tense and dramatic. Duke knows the story, knows that Jason can be violent and ruthless. But… he also knows that Jason has been trying.

What started as an agreement to take care of two guinea pigs has also led to more . Duke delivers Alfred-prepared food to Jason. Jason pops in and assists on his patrol. They’ve started exploring Lower Gotham in search of the best taco places, texting each other suggestions and ratings and meeting up when they can.

"You two getting along?"

Duke thinks of Jim and Banana, of that one night they decided to marathon Quentin Tarantino movies.

We're family.

“Yeah,” he says, staring Dick down and daring him to object.

Dick’s grin softens at the answer. “Good,” he decides, and he slings an arm around Duke’s shoulder. “I like it when my little brothers get along.”

[primeemeraldheiress]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Under the Red Hood, Red Hood: Lost Days Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul Additional Tags: Surprises, Sibling Bonding, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Fluff, Family Fluff, Beginnings of Family Relationship, Lost Days Jason Todd, Explicit Language, Rating for language only Summary:

Jason took the time to look at the kid and felt his eyebrows creep up his face.

Holy shit… That was definitely Bruce’s kid. The shape of his face, the curve of his lips, that mulish expression. It was B all over.

It really shouldn’t surprise him this much. He knew that T and B used to be a thing.

[solarcelest]

Of Christmas Past and Present

or read on Ao3

It was always freezing on Christmas Eve. It was Gotham, so naturally the temperatures were lower no matter the time of year but Christmas always seemed to come with a sort of bone numbing cold that couldn't be shaken with layers of blankets and expensive heating systems. Dick Grayson knows this, many winters in the city have taught him so, but this was Damian’s first Gotham winter and the boy seemed to be learning the city’s harsh ways as he shivered on the couch.

The power had gone out nearly an hour before and there seemed to be an issue with the generator, which Dick had just tried -and failed- to fix, they would have to call a specialist in the morning (Dick never was very good with handy-man work and knew next to nothing about the electrical heating the tower used to conserve energy). For the time being, he and Damian were both in their warmest pair of pajamas, the air in the penthouse quickly going cold without the heater.

Dick was sifting through the closet once again looking for more blankets, anything that could stop the kids incessant shivering. At first he had thought Damian was exaggerating, trying to be annoying about the outage and insisting that “ -you really should have been more prepared Grayson- “ but Damian hadn’t said a word. Just sat in the dark in his little cocoon, teeth chattering.

Then Dick thought, yeah, ‘course the brat would complain about the outage but Damian would never complain about being cold. He practically had to drag the kid from patrol kicking and screaming when he had come down with that fever last month. No wait- he had needed to do that.

Pfft, like hell Damian would say a peep about being cold.

Dick sighed, he was trying to convince himself that they were making some sort of progress, even if it was one step back and two steps forward it was progress. Alfred reminded him of that.

( He found himself guilty of wishing the man’s vacation away. The butler deserved to spend the holiday in England with his family, no matter how out of his depths Dick was. )

“I found another blanket.” Dick said, shaking it out as he walked back to the living room. It was dark in there, and he should probably look for some candles or flashlights in addition to the fire so that they could actually see. Maybe in a minute, after he gave Damian the blanket…

In line with the boys usual behavior, Dick received no “thank you” for his hard work. Just a pair of shiny eyes following his movements as he draped the bl-

Wait.

Shiny eyes?

Dick backtracked, stooping down to get a better look at the boy. It was hard to see in the dimly lit room (lit by nothing other than the gas fireplace beside them) but, yup, there was definitely a sheen to those wide green eyes.

“Dames?” Dick asked, voice soft and as gentle as he could make it. “Are you okay?” He hoped the boy was okay, he hadn’t ever seen this side of Damian before. He had no idea how to handle a crying Damian, a crying ten year old, yes, but not Damian.

The boy's shoulders tensed with the question and he seemed to sit up that much straighter, blanket falling off his shoulders slightly with the movement. He sniffed, so quietly it was nearly imperceptible, before clearing his throat and responding.

“Tt. Of course, Grayson,” he said. The hardness of his tone was fake though, a facade to cover his true feelings. Or an attempt at a facade since even after the mere few months they had been together since Bruce’s death, Dick had a surprisingly easy time reading the boy. It honestly wasn’t that hard to spot the inaccuracies if you paid attention to Damian’s usual mannerisms.

For example; there hadn’t been a comment about “that inane nickname, Grayson”.

“Nuh-uh. What did we say about trust, huh? It works both ways. Tell me what’s been bugging you.” Dick said, settling on one knee in front of the boy.

Damian remained silent, no sound other than the cracking of the fire, tiny fingers fumbling with the blanket on his lap. Dick wondered how they didn’t break, those nimble fingers, when the boy punched the lights out of criminals three times his own size.

“Well,” Dick tried again, “there’s something bothering me .” Damian looked up, big eyes silently questioning the older man. “I’m upset that you’re upset and I can't fix that until you tell me what’s the matter.”

It was probably a low blow, blaming the boy line that but, if it worked…

“It’s Christmas Eve…” The boy started, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched in.

Dick furrowed his brows, “and?”

“And… and I’m not sure what that means?” Damian added, not very confident in his own words. Dick was even more confused, the boy didn’t know what Christmas was? He had thought that Talia would have at least informed the boy of the holiday, even if he was sure Santa hadn’t been visiting the leagues compound.

“What?” Dick asked.

“Everyone’s always speaking of how ‘magical’ Christmas is and- and I’m not even sure what they mean. I-“

Dick must have been doing a bad job of hiding his surprise at the boys admission because Damain stopped himself there. He was looking at Dick apprehensively, muscles tense like he was preparing to up and run. His eyes still twinkled in the dark.

“Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” He asked.

“W-what? No?” Dick said. “You don’t know what Christmas is?”

“Well… I know the basics.” Damian hurried to add. Dick nodded, narrowing his eyes, that couldn’t be all, definitely wasn’t the reason the kid was almost crying. Damian’s emotional barriers were too thick to be torn down by a small moment of ignorance .

“Is that the only thing on your mind?” Dick asked. He almost wished that he hadn’t, for in the next moment the boy’s walls really did crumble, his face pinching up in that way any child’s does before a meltdown. Dicks heart hurt for the kid as he tried to think of what to do, he had never seen Damian cry before.

“ Why?” The boy cried, voice thick with his tears.

“Why what, Dames?” Dick asked. He noticed the dark circles under the kids eyes then, how the boys reaction was most definitely a result of emotional build up and lack of sleep.

Damian shook his head, refusing to say more and, really, Dick should be surprised that he even got as much as he did.

He could fill in the rest himself anyway. Why was Damian born the way he was, to who he was? Why was Talia so cruel? Why did Bruce not know? Why did Bruce have to die?

Why was life so unfair?

Dick thought about an alternate universe almost everyday. The ‘what-ifs’. What Damian would be like if Bruce had known and the boy had grown up in Gotham, if Bruce would have gotten his shit together and actually raised the boy the appropriate way. Really though, Dick assumed anything was better than Talia. Bruce had had his moments but he had been pretty great to Dick.

Life was unfair. It wasn’t right that Damian had these demons to live with, how the ten year old had more scars than some war vets and enough ptsd to last him a lifetime.

It was unfair that Bruce had died, that Dick had no idea what he was doing, that Damian didn’t know what Christmas was.

Suddenly, the power outage didn’t seem so bothersome.

“Hey, hey,” Dick said. He moved quickly, wedging himself next to the boy on the couch and tugging Damian’s small weight onto his lap. Instead of lashing out at him, Damian melted into the touch, tensing first at its unfamiliarity before sighing with relief. Dick felt bad , the boy had probably been starved of comfort.

“I’m so sorry Dami, for everything.”

At Dicks words, Damian stiffened again, seemingly realizing what he was doing.

He sniffed, “I- I- I shouldn’t-.” But Dick didn’t let him finish, instead, he cupped the back of the kids neck and pulled him close again.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay to cry, Dami, I promise .” Dick rocked the boy gently, rubbing his back. Since when had Dick been good with kids?

Five minutes of rocking more and the boys sobs has tapered off to occasional sniffs. Too embarrassed to make eye contact, Damain kept his face firmly buried into the older man’s shoulder.

“Did you charge your tablet?” Dick suddenly asked into the dark. Damian nodded into his neck. Dick smiled, getting up with the boy still against him and snagged said tablet off of the kitchen counter.

“There’s this really funny movie I always watch around Christmas, I think you might like it,” Dick said.

“Is it fictional?” Damian mumbled.

“Some parts of it,” Dick said. He brought the two to back to the couch, settling underneath the blankets for more warmth, the fire gave off some heat but it was still cold without the heater. “It’s called Elf , it’s one of my favorites.”

Damian unburied himself once they were settled, his face was red and snotty and Dicks shirt was damp but neither mentioned it.

Dick clicked the tablet to life, queuing up the movie. Dick waited and, just as he had hoped, as soon as Papa Elf came on screen Damian snickered. Then, by some amazing Christmas miracle, and because the cruel world did have its little mercies, the generator clicked on. The Christmas lights Dick had coaxed Alfred and Damian into hanging relit and and the tree flared to life. The fire roared beyond their feet and and the heat flicked on above them. Damian was snuggled against him, overtired but warm and safe and there.

Dick smiled, pulling the small boy that much closer. “This,” he said,” this is Christmas, Dami.”

And Dames looked back up to him with every intent of insulting whatever asinine movie Elf was and said: “Merry Christmas, Grayson.”

It may always be freezing on Christmas Eve, but Damian’s found that his brother’s body heat was an acceptable fix.

[thingr1]

oh well, i guess we’re gonna pretend

Rating: T

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Torture (non-graphic, mostly implied)

Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Summary: Robin!Tim gets caught and help comes from an unlikely source.

Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)

For: @lurkinglurkerwholurks for the prompt: A character flipping into hardcore MINE mode over another when the latter is in danger or threatened (bonus points if the two characters are currently on the outs but nevertheless go totally Ride Or Die)

~o~

This was bad.

This was the kind of bad that Tim had managed to avoid so far since taking up the role of Robin.  He’d only hit the streets officially for the first time three months ago, post-many months of intense physical and mental training.  This was exactly the second time Batman and he were apart for longer than a couple of hours at a time.

It was almost funny, actually, how fast Tim managed to screw everything up.  After all, he took on Robin in order to stop Batman from spiraling into a hole he would likely never escape from alone after the death of his partner.  The death of his son.

As far as Tim was concerned, he had one job: Don’t die.  He would also be the first to admit that that was harder than he’d thought it would be.

He’d made a mistake.  He’d gotten caught.  He’d been—was being beaten.  And he wasn’t sure if Batman even realized he was gone.  They’d separated earlier in the night, exactly according to plan.  Tim on recon on one end of town, Batman on the other, chasing two different leads on the location of a major arms deal that was supposed to go down the next night.  They would then continue on their normal patrol routes, Tim flying truly solo for the first time, and meet back in the Cave afterwards.  It was a first flight.  A test of trust on the Bat’s end and independence on Tim’s.

Problem was, the empty warehouse Tim was supposed to investigate hadn’t been empty when he’d arrived.  Either someone tipped the mooks off that the Dynamic Duo was onto them and they’d moved up the date, or Batman’s information had been faulty.  Tim was leaning towards the former.  However, before he could comm the Bat and warn him of the change, someone had clubbed him from behind.

Tim wasn’t supposed to check in for…maybe another hour?  Two?  He wasn’t sure.  Time seemed to be dragging by unnaturally slow, and there wasn’t exactly a clock he could check himself on.  He’d passed out a few times, too, which didn’t really lend itself to accurate time keeping.

His only frame of reference?

The bruise count.  Turned out, baseball bats hurt when they were swung into flesh and bone rather than rawhide.  His ribs could attest to that.  The more time passed, the more aches and pains he accrued.

The other hint that he’d overstayed his welcome: He could no longer feel his hands.  They were strung up somewhere above his head, metal cuffs digging into exposed wrists and holding him up so his bare toes barely grazed the ground.  Come to think of it, he couldn’t feel those either.  Which was…concerning.

But on the plus side, if he couldn’t feel them, they couldn’t hurt.  Unlike his rib cage, twinging and protesting at his current position and every subsequent movement.  Actually, his cheek hurt now, too.  Which…ow.  Ow.

Tim’s head snapped to the side with the force of the next blow, and he groaned as that set his whole body rocking, reigniting the pain signals through to his brain.

“—listening, brat?”

Tim blinked his eyes open—when had they closed?—squinting under the pale yellow glare of the stereotypical bare bulb abandoned warehouse lighting and into the leering face of his captor.

Miles Bandini’s gold tooth glinted a tad too bright in the dim light.  A greasy combover made his forehead appear entirely too large, and a domineering sneer that could put Two-Face to shame completed the mob boss look.

The best part was, there really wasn’t anything special about this guy.  He wasn’t a psychopath, didn’t have a PhD in some random field, and hadn’t assigned a colorful, inappropriate persona to theme his wrongdoings.  He was just another crime lord who’d taken a shine to Gotham and the ease of criminal activity therein.

And Tim, like an idiot, ran straight into his trap.

Noticing Tim’s attention, Bandini’s sneer somehow deepened.  “I guess you’re still alive, then.  For now.”

Tim remained silent, mustering what energy he had left to raise his head and glare.

This seemed to amuse the crook.  He patted Tim’s cheek, right on the bruise one of his goons had left behind.  “Wonder where your big friend is, hmm?  It’s a shame he’s left you alone for so long.”

The henchmen chortled behind him.

“Look, Robin,” Bandini drawled.  “You seem like a nice kid.  So I’m going to give you one last chance to walk out of this building alive.  Answer two questions for me, would you?  Just two, and you get to see the sunrise.”  He leaned forward, hook nose only centimeters from Tim’s.  “Where is the Batman?  And how much does he know about us?”

Tim licked his cracked, bloody lips.  Tongue working in an effort to muster up what moisture he had left.  He opened his mouth.

Bandini leaned forward eagerly.

Tim spat in his face.

The man recoiled with a cry, hand flying up to where a mixture of Tim’s blood and spit now coated his cheek.  Beady black eyes met his, a murderous expression twisting the man’s features.

Tim barely had time to think “uh oh” before the crook pitched a roundhouse into his stomach.  Something in his chest shifted.

Pain exploded as every broken bone, every abused muscle, every organ screamed in protest, even as his voice choked out nothing more than a strangled unf.

Tim couldn’t breathe.  Tim couldn’t breathe.  What air he managed to pull through his mouth came in short gasps and wheezes, not remaining long enough or deep enough in his lungs to perform the appropriate gas exchange.  Spots danced before his vision, fuzzy black creeping in on the edges.

Bandini was yelling, the words distant and muffled as if through fabric, gesticulating wildly with something suspiciously shiny, silver, and gun-shaped at Tim.

With a detached sort of panic, Tim realized he was going to die.  Either from his injuries, or from the bullet the crime lord was prepped to gift him, didn’t matter.

Only a year into the job and he’d already failed his main objective.

Something cold and achingly familiar pressed into his forehead.  The barrel of a gun.

Tears prickled in Tim’s eyes.  I’m so sorry, Bruce.

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse.  Tim flinched.  The gun barrel slid away from his forehead.

Wait…Tim shouldn’t have been able to flinch.  He was…not dead?  For sure, everything hurt too much for him to be dead.

A low, ominous chuckle burst through the ensuing silence, echoing through the warehouse and sending a shiver down Tim’s spine.  The sound of something heavy landing on concrete slammed into his eardrums.

Welp.  Only one way to find out.  Reluctantly, Tim pried his eyes open, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus.

The first thing he noticed was Miles Bandini collapsed on the ground at his feet, blood pooling around him from the hole in his chest.  The second thing was the bright red helmeted figure standing in the center of the room, back towards Tim.

“Well, well, well,” the Red Hood drawled.  “What do we have here?”

Whatever shock Bandini’s mooks seemed to be in began to wear off, half pulling their weapons, the other half taking an uncertain step back.

“Get him!” a voice—ah, the second in command accountant in the tweed jacket—screamed.

Quick as lightning, the Red Hood swung in Tim’s direction, gun hefted in one hand, knife in the other, and Tim flinched.   If he wasn’t dead before, he was definitely screwed now.  Hood pitched the knife in his direction.  But instead of slicing into Tim’s chest, it collided with the cable holding him up, cutting through the metallic fiber like butter.

Tim hit the ground with an oof, what little air he had managed to suck in abandoning him in one pained puff.

Ow ow owowowowow.

Fire lanced up his arms and shoulders as they were released from the strain of holding his weight, joining the steady inferno of what had to be at least two or three broken ribs in his chest.  His vision whited out as agony encompassed every inch of him, making him uncomfortably aware of every little hurt he’d received since being strung up.

Okay, Tim.  Breathe.  Breathing was good.  Breathing was life.

It really shouldn’t have been this difficult to pull in air.

Around him, gunshots rang off the walls and old shelving as round after round was shot off at the lone figure devastating their ranks.  Despite everything, Tim’s inner fanboy lit up.  This was as cool as it was dangerous—for the crooks and Tim alike.

It had been years since he’d last seen Jason fight.  Rather, fight in a way that didn’t involve Tim actively defending himself.  Jason was all muscle, visible beneath even the thick leather jacket, and yet he had the deadly precision of an expert marksman and the grace of a martial artist.  He used all of those things to his advantage as he tore through the mob, laying waste to everyone within his rather large range.  After all, how many people could claim to have been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins?  These amateurs didn’t stand a chance.

Tim just wished he had his camera.

And then, as quickly as the bloody battle started, it ended.  The Red Hood loomed in front of him, hovering almost protectively, gun pressed against the forehead of the last perp standing.

“The only one who gets to take a potshot at my replacement,” Hood hissed, “is me.”

Tim shivered.  From Hood’s tone, or the blood loss, he wasn’t sure.

Then Hood leveled a kick into the man’s rib cage, an audible crack sounding through the warehouse as the man fell to the ground with a howl.

“Tell your friends,” Hood said lightly.  Then, when the man gaped up at him: “Unless you’d rather join them…?”  He gestured at the limp forms of the bullet-riddled, definitely dead crooks scattered around them.

The guy was gone next time Tim opened his eyes.  Huh.  That was fast.

A brief thrill of panic shivered up his spine as Hood’s blank lenses suddenly leveled down at him.  Tim silently cursed himself.  He should’ve used the distraction to escape, should have unpicked the cuffs and scooted out of here before Jason turned on him.  Problem was, he didn’t think he could move even if he tried.

Jason cocked his head—almost considering.  He sighed, the sound echoing strangely through the filter and voice modulator.  “Guess if you bled out now, there would be no point, hm?”

Tim stared.  Not quite comprehending as the former Robin crouched beside him, rolling him over onto his back.  Which actually helped the breathing issue, but….

“I’m going to move you, Pretender,” Jason warned.  “This building’s rigged to blow, and that perp’s got the trigger.  Try to stay loose.”

One arm tucked under Tim’s neck, the other under his legs, and wow, okay, apparently they broke his tibia.

Tim blacked out.

He came to blinking up at the stars through a fire escape in an alley he recognized to be near the docks.  His body instantly protested his very existence, screaming as though he’d been dropped into a compactor and then thrashed in a woodchipper.  Dimly, he became aware of a shadowy figure over him, of gloved hands tightening a pressure bandage around his thigh.

It all came back in a rush—his capture, the fight, Red Hood—and Tim instinctively scrambled back from the man looming over him, heart pounding out of his chest.  He regretted the movement instantly as it jarred his broken body, his wrist apparently some degree of broken as it caved under his weight so he flopped gracelessly back against the pavement.

“Oi, hold still,” Jason snapped, “you’re making yourself worse.”

Tim froze at the command, staring wide-eyed at the crook who had himself beaten Tim to a bloody pulp only a few months ago.

This image didn’t fit.  It didn’t make sense.  There had to be some ulterior motive to saving him, perhaps some mind game to mess with Bruce.  What else would motivate Hood to help him out of the blue?

Resolve flared, hot and fast.  Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be used against the Bat again.

But Jason just continued twirling the fabric around Tim’s leg until he was apparently satisfied, snipping off the end and tying it off.  He snagged another pressure bandage and began work on Tim’s shoulder.  Not speaking.  Not even looking at him.

Slowly, Tim allowed himself to relax, mind spinning in confusion.

“W—Why?” Tim wheezed.  Wishing he could muster something a little more intimidating than the dry, barely audible croak that squeezed out of his throat.

Jason continued wrapping the bandages, quiet for long enough Tim figured he hadn’t heard him.

But then, “No one deserves to die without having a chance at fighting back.”  Quiet.  Angry.  And…if Tim didn’t know better, a hint of the growl Batman always got when he was feeling particularly protective.

Jason tied off the last bandage with a couple quick motions and stood.  He unslung Tim’s utility belt from over his shoulder, pressing the emergency tracker embedded in the side.  How did he know where—?

“Bats should be here soon,” Jason said, voice flat, which didn’t match the gentle pat he gave Tim’s uninjured leg.  “Don’t wait up.”

The older teen stood, his combat boots retreating down the alleyway the last thing Tim saw before his eyes closed against his will.

“Oh, and Replacement?” Tim heard, almost as if through a tunnel.  “Don’t expect a repeat performance.  This doesn’t change anything.”

Despite his swollen cheeks, Tim grinned against the pavement.  Of course not, he thought.  Inexplicably giddy.  Why would it?

Tim passed out to the sound of a grapple fun firing off into the distance and the rumble of a familiar engine echoing into the alleyway.

[solarcelest]

thanks so much! this is beautiful :)

More like on a long patrol with Drake, but w/e.

Sleepy Damian for @solarcelest​‘s batfam-christmas-stocking prompt: Falling Asleep in Public

Bonus Tim under the cut:

Keep reading

[batfam-christmas-stocking]

Batfam Christmas Stocking 2019

Hey everyone, welcome to the third year of the Batfam Christmas Stocking! The event is going to run pretty much the same as the last two years, with just a slightly bigger gap between submissions due date and reveal so I have time to organise last minute gifts in case there are problems. For anyone new, it’s fairly low stress and anyone who wants to participate is welcome to.

How it works:

Step 1: If you would like to participate, fill out the stocking template then submit it to this blog (through the “Submit Stocking” link). Stockings will be published to the main page so everyone can go through and have a look at what others would like.

Step 2: Pick as many prompts from other people’s stockings as you’d like (the more stockings the better - we want to make sure everyone gets something) and get creating!

2.1: Please send in an ask (off anon) with the prompts you have chosen to fill so I can keep track of who is getting gifts and makes sure nobody misses out.

Step 3: Upload your finished works to tumblr and/or the AO3 collection on or before the due date. When stockings are released, enjoy the gifts that have been made for you :)

Timetable:

Sign-ups open - November 15

Sign-ups close - November 29

All works due - December 29

Filled stockings released - December 31

Rules:

1. All content must be gen.

2. If you submit a stocking you must create at least one work for another participant. (If for some reason you sign up then cannot do so, don’t freak out. Send a message and we’ll work something out.)

3. Respect the wishes of a person’s stocking. If a person says they do not like a particular thing, don’t include it in any content you create for them.

4. Tag any content you create for the event with #batfamchristmasstocking2019 or #bcs2019 so I can track down gifts for the masterpost and everyone can enjoy them.

If you have any questions, consult the FAQs page or send in an ask.

[ao3feed-timdrake]

oh well, i guess we're gonna pretend

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/37ongi9

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)

Robin!Tim gets caught and help comes from an unlikely source.

Words: 2339, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman (Comics), Robin (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Additional Tags: Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, it's not too bad but there is description of blood and injury, Blood and Injury, Capture, Rescue, Tim!Robin, batfamchristmasstocking2019, Timeline What Timeline

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/37ongi9

[thingr1]

(this is how you) bring me back to life

Rating: General Audiences

Characters: Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Summary: Dick gets comforted by his siblings after a bad day.

Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)

For: @alannaofroses for the prompt: Dick gets comforted after a bad day.

~o~

It was one of those days where nothing went wrong...but nothing really went right either.  One of those days where nothing terribly awful happened, but there were enough false alarms and close calls to keep him on his toes.   Until suddenly he couldn’t keep the pose anymore.

Looking back on it, Dick couldn’t quite determine what had brought him to this point.  Maybe it was the eight-year-old girl trapped under a beam while the house burned around her that he’d barely reached before everything collapsed at four in the morning.  Maybe it was the desperate bullet from a cornered bank robber that shot into his police vest mere centimeters from his exposed neck, leaving a painful, purpling bruise this afternoon.

Or maybe it was all the little things in between; the rush hour traffic when he couldn’t drag himself up early enough after crawling under the covers only an hour before, the empty fridge after work since he forgot to stop for groceries, his TV going up in smoke mid-cartoon.

Whatever it was, Dick was drained.  Past exhaustion, past coherent thought.

Of course, he’d realized this only after Alfred texted to remind him of family dinner at the Manor tonight.  Even Jason was supposed to be there, which was a blessing and a curse in itself.  When the invitation had come last week, there really hadn’t been a reason to say no.

So now here he was, squealing up Wayne Manor’s driveway with eyes half-lidded and pop music blaring in a vain attempt to keep himself from passing out from sheer “doneness with the world” mid-drive.

He ground the car into park, the engine giving a splutter of protest before going silent along with the heavily autotuned singer from the radio.

Dick sagged against the steering wheel, groaning into his frozen fingers.

He couldn’t do this.  He was too tired.  He couldn’t face his family right now, couldn’t handle the drama that was sure to drown him the second he walked through that ridiculously fancy door.

Dick loved his family.  He did.  He did.

But dealing with them on a good day was hard enough when all they did was make each other miserable.  With only Dick to act as mediator.  It was exhausting.  Dick hated picking sides, hated that it was necessary.  Hated that Bruce always mysteriously, conveniently disappeared before he could be dragged into the mess.  Finding middle ground took patience and energy Dick didn’t always have.  Now, would be a good example.

He loved his family.  But the thought of walking into a storm of petty arguments and insults made his stomach twist.

Dick sighed into his hands.  He couldn’t hide out here forever.  Alfred would come looking.  If anything, Dick could just…sleep.  Sink into his bed and not get up until his brain and body had reset into some semblance of functional humanity.  Retreat into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness until he was ready to take up the older brother mantle again and be the responsible adult for a spell.

Yeah.  Bed sounded good.


Now he just needed to get there.

“Okay, Dick,” he whispered.  “Baby steps.”

Step one: Take hands off wheel.

He pried his fingers up—one by one by one—until finally their death grip on the pleather ring was relinquished.

Two: Exit car.

He fumbled with the handle, tugging it so the door unlocked and cracked open.  He nudged it with his foot so it swung out all the way with a dull thud.  Cold, damp air flooded the interior, making Dick shiver.  He swung one leg out, then the other.  Stood up.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, made him stumble back against the car, head heavy and blood rushing loud and fast in his ears.  Whoops.  He remained still, blinking until the spots left his vision.  Okay?  Okay.

Three: Knock on front door.

Muscle memory had him shut the car door, press the lock button on the fob.  He must’ve spaced out for a sec, because the next moment he was up on the porch, hand wrapped around the knocker.  The brass handle barely touched the plating before the door swung inwards.

Dick blinked owlishly at the sudden empty space in front of his fist, at the butler standing just inside.

“Master Dick,” Alfred greeted.  “Do come inside.  The weather is dreadful.”

“Hey, Alf,” Dick mumbled, tongue strangely uncooperative as he shuffled into the front foyer.  “Made it.”

The butler’s eyebrows furrowed.  “Are you quite all right, Master Dick?” he asked, a touch of concern audible in his tone.  “You seem a bit out of sorts.”

Dick nodded numbly.  “M’good.  Promise.”

Alfred frowned deeper at that, wrinkled hands grasping Dick’s wrists to check his pulse.

Dick sagged against the door frame, allowing the butler to fret over him; brush his knuckles to his forehead, check the dilation of his pupils.

“Alf, I’m fine,” Dick croaked; tone dry and cracked even to himself.  “Just tired.”

Alfred pursed his lips.  “If you say so, Master Dick.  However, I must insist that you remedy this situation before attempting any of your extracurricular activities.  Dinner won’t be ready for another hour or so.  Go rest.”

Dick nodded; more of a droop as his head sagged to his chest and stayed there.  “‘Kay.”

Step…four.  Five?  Go to bed.

The walls spun lazy circles around him as he plodded down the hallway, every footstep dragging as if cement had been sealed into his feet.  At some point he stumbled through an open door as his hand (when’d he put it on the wall?) suddenly didn’t support him.

Blinking, he realized he’d wandered into the main living room.  Didn’t exactly process more than that, hazy vision zeroing in on the couch.  Shuffling across, Dick flopped bonelessly onto the beautiful beautiful silk, sagging into the cushions with a muffled groan.

Just five minutes.  Five minutes, and then he’d slip upstairs and hide in his room before any of his siblings caught him like this.

He was fine.  He just.

Needed…

Five.

…

Dick couldn’t call it sleep, exactly.  That is, he never lost consciousness and fell into the peaceful, black abyss of nothingness.  He just kind of…drifted.  Not fully aware of his surroundings.  But not completely oblivious to them either.

It was almost like he was…floating.

A distant part of his mind prompted a word for the sensation, but the far greater part was content with just…existing.  Not thinking.  Not processing anything.  Just drifting through a hazy gray fog.

Dick would rather just be asleep.  But it seemed his body wouldn’t let him.  So this would have to do.

As if through cotton, he thought he caught snatches of phrases, whispered words echoing around him.

“—when did he—?”

“How long—?”

“—moved at all—?”


“—imbeciles do to Grayson?”

The words became clearer, louder; persistent enough against his senses that Dick began to lose his grip on whatever gray area between sleep and awareness he’d found himself in.

“—you must have done something.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?  Newsflash, brat: This is the first time I saw him today!”

Nope.  No.  Dick didn’t want to hear it.  Wanted instead to sleep and float and forget for a minute how useless he was, how selfish he was to purposely ignore his siblings, how much he wished for a moment he didn’t have to exist until he was ready to face the world again.

He turned his nose into the fabric of the couch, squeezing his eyes so tight he saw stars, attempting to block out the invading sounds without actually moving his limbs to do so.

The whispers, which had been growing steadily louder, stopped.

Crap.  Had they noticed him move?  Please don’t drag him into whatever this was.  Not now.

Then, “Dick?”

Soft.  Concerned.

Dick almost (might have) whimpered.

There was a beat of silence.  Two.

“You good, Goldie?” Gruff.  Somehow gentle, in its own way.

Dick shook his head before he could think the gesture through, huddling deeper into the couch with a shiver.  He was okay.  He just needed to rest, to sleep, and he would be fine.  He…he needed…

He almost jumped at the feeling of small hands on his arm, of a leg looping over his waist.  A familiar small figure climbed over him, pushed at his torso and tugged at his limbs until suddenly someone was wedged in between the couch back and Dick’s chest, both arms wrapped around him in a hug.

Dick blinked down at the spiky black hair—the only part of the barely teen visible since his face was buried in Dick’s shirt.  Slowly, hesitantly, Dick’s arm squeezed back where it had been maneuvered around Damian’s waist.  He pressed his chin into the soft raven crown and closed his eyes.

Damian relaxed into the hold, pressing his nose under Dick’s collar bone.

This.  This was nice.

But before he could settle again, process the new sensation, revel in the warmth radiating from his littlest brother, another hand tapped his knee.

“Oi, Dickhead, move your feet,” Jason griped.

Confused, brain still not quite present, Dick shifted his feet back slightly.  Jason snorted.  And then hands wrapped around Dick’s ankles, hauling them into the air.  Dick felt the brush of a shoulder on the underside of his calf, heard a muffled grunt, felt a dip in the couch cushions.  And then his feet were rested on someone’s—Jason’s—lap.

Jason patted his leg a couple times before propping up his forearm on Dick’s calf.  Dick heard the familiar crackle of an old paperback being opened, the slide of a bookmark being removed from yellowed pages.

There was a rustle by his head, fabric on fabric as someone—Tim, it could only be Tim—sat down in the armchair by Dick’s head.

Thin fingers brushed against his scalp, began to card through his hair; gentle and unsure at first, gaining confidence as Dick instinctively angled into the touch.  It had been years since he’d been on the receiving end of this, of someone gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp.

A memory, brief and hazy, of a larger hand mimicking the same path through his curls as Dick lay injured and feverish in his early Robin years came to him.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this till today.

How much he’d missed being held, being pressed into by people he loved on all sides, sharing a space too small to reasonably contain them all.  If there was one thing Dick missed the most from his circus days, it was the touching that came with shared love, affection, and not enough room to do anything but express it.

But that was the circus.  The Manor was different.  Larger, emptier, easier to escape in the aftermath of disagreements in.

Dick minutely braced himself for the words to start.  For the chatter that would inevitably escalate to something sharper, something louder, and ruin this moment.

But it was quiet.

Well…relatively.

Dick could hear(feel) Damian’s breath against his chest, each puff warm and slightly tickle-y.  Could hear the sshhhk as Jason turned a new page in his book, an occasional quiet whistle or snort through his teeth as he read.  And of course, Timmy clumsily typing with one hand at speeds that still defied all human logic, the other one still curling in Dick’s hair.

No one arguing.  No one speaking.  Just…being.

It was…peaceful.

Dick.  Dick could handle this.  This was good.  This was nice.

Slowly, surely, Dick relaxed.  Damian pressed tightly into his torso.  Jason’s legs bouncing up and down beneath his calves.  Tim’s hand scratching through his hair.

Tears rose unbidden to his eyes as a knot in his core he didn’t even know existed began to ease, warmth taking its place.

Overall, it had been a cruddy day.  But if this could be how it ended…surrounded by family, not bickering, just enjoying one another’s presence…maybe it wasn’t so terrible after all.

[primeemeraldheiress]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Stephanie Brown, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Humour, unlikely teamup, Revenge, Sibling Rivalry Summary:

Jason and Steph, (practically) siblings in arms.

IT’S SO AWESOME, I LOVE IT! THANK YOU SO MUCH!

[ao3feed-timdrake]

(this is how you) bring me back to life

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2u09q7g

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)

Dick gets comforted after a bad day.

Words: 2005, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman (Comics)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, not quite toothrotting fluff but getting there?, minimum editing we die like mne, batbros, Dick is on the receiving end of the cuddles for once, batfamchristmasstocking2019, Dissociation, just a touch

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2u09q7g