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Total awareness of one’s surroundings is arguably one of the most important skills a vigilante can cultivate.
Dick knows it can mean the difference between abject humiliation, and what passes for a good night in Gotham; the difference between wrists rubbed angry and raw with rope burn, and the bubble of pride in his chest at the weight of a gloved hand on his shoulder.
Growing up, it was the lesson Bruce drove home endlessly. With every mottled bruise and twisted ankle Dick couldn’t keep from his watchful mentor, every close call and even closer cut, would come some variation of the same speech— the same guilt pulling tight in his stomach like a hopelessly twisted mess of twine. Dick can still remember the specific shape of Bruce’s mouth as he spoke, the thinning of his lips, the way he barely opened his mouth at all when he spoke.
They weren’t words meant to hurt, but at the time, Dick had thought not even a batarang could be as sharp as Bruce’s tongue.
It’s taken years of careful reflection to be able to look back on those times and not feel the immediate shame of knowing he’s disappointed his mentor. To look back and see Bruce as he was, a man navigating the intersection of affection and concern as efficiently as he knew how; asked to connect with a boy who spoke fluently a language he had yet to decipher, and didn’t wish to appear clumsy with.
Perhaps this is why, as Dick walks through the Manor, tamping down on the very real urge to slide down the banister despite his age and countless reprimanding looks from Alfred over the years, Dick is seized into stillness by the sudden, awful knowledge that he’s overlooked something.
Dread creeps into his chest at the terrible realization that somehow, without his noticing, it’s already almost the end of October.
They’ve just been so busy the past few weeks. With Bruce and Jason butting heads again, the outbreak of suspiciously familiar burglaries that turn up no solid leads, and the sudden and supremely annoying influx of anti-vigilante GCPD officers—not to mention the daily crises outside of Gotham requiring Dick’s assistance. The days kind of flew by.
Honestly, Dick was just excited to get a glimpse of daylight after all the nights he’s been pulling. It had been all too easy to simply forget about life beyond the costume.
They should be as much of a family out of costume as they are in, and Dick can’t stand idly by knowing they’ve spent more time together recently behind masks than they have out of them.
Vaulting off the second floor balcony, Dick calls out loud enough to be heard from most anywhere in the Manor, “Alfred?”
A reply comes from the direction of the library, muffled by the distance, and Dick heads over on light feet. The door to the library is wide open, enough sunlight spilling out of the room and into the hallway to suggest that Bruce is likely elsewhere in the Manor at the moment.
Dick walks into the library and spots Alfred’s familiar shape perched on a ladder. Walking over, he places a steadying hand on one ladder leg; an ingrained courtesy, even though he can see the ladder is securely locked in place. “Hey Alf, what are you doing?”
“As contrary as it is to the spirit of the holiday,” Alfred glances down, wearing that barely-there teasing smile of his. “The dusting must be done, Master Richard.”
“Oh no,” Dick groans, feeling not for the first time like Alfred might actually be some kind of psychic. “Please tell me October didn’t just pass by without me noticing.”
“Not entirely, young sir.” Alfred supplies, replacing the books he’d moved to thoroughly clean the topmost shelves. “You have the rest of today and all of tonight to take notice.”
“No way; it can’t be Halloween already! Alfred, you’re kidding right?” Dick means to sound demanding, but it comes out sounding more like he’s pleading, so he gives himself over to it. “Please tell me you’re kidding."
“I am afraid this is no trick, young Master.” Alfred apologizes, and Dick isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for being the bearer of bad news, or for the perfectly placed pun.
“That’s unfair.” Dick says, not even trying to hide the way the corners of his mouth turn upwards in approval. “You can’t be clever when I’m in turmoil.”
“To be fair to all parties involved, perhaps you should endeavor to remove yourself from tumultuous situations.” Alfred suggests, sparing Dick a pointed glance from above. “For a single night, at least.”
Dick can’t help but smile, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I can take a hint. I know the next step after gentle coaxing is drugging the tea.”
“Ever the imaginative young man, Master Richard.” Alfred says in that invaluably bland, diplomatic way of his.
Fishing around in his pocket for his cell, Dick asks, “Is there room for a couple more at dinner tonight? Maybe I can get Tim and Steph to come over and watch movies with us- oh and Babs too!”
“I can always accommodate for more,” Alfred agrees from above, the rustle of his feather duster on the shelves barely audible. “Although, as far as I am aware, Miss Stephanie is still out of the country with Miss Cassandra, and young Master Timothy is assisting his schoolmates with a production.”
“Oh.” Dick pauses for the briefest of moments to consider this new information, thumb hovering over the screen; he hits send. “Well, I’ll text them anyway, see if anyone’s free. It doesn’t hurt to remind them that they’re always welcome to stop by.”
“Quite right, sir.” Alfred warmly agrees, and Dick can tell the sentiment is genuine without looking up.
A thought occurs, and Dick asks, “Hey, Alfred. Do we have any Halloween candy?”
Alfred shakes his head from above. “Wayne Manor is a ways off the beaten path for the usual trick or treater.”
“Okay,” Dick is willing to concede that point. “But what about us?”
“There is fresh toffee in the kitchen, if you are craving something sweet.” Alfred offers.
“Oh…” Dick can’t pretend he’s not tempted—Alfred makes real English toffee, the kind that melts on your tongue and still manages to glue your teeth together—but it’s the principle of the matter. “Only a loon would turn your toffee down, but there’s something about fun size candy wrappers that I can’t help but associate with Halloween.”
“Then I suppose a trip to the shop is in order.” Above him, Alfred sounds contemplative, like he’s rearranging his day to fit this newly discovered task into it.
“Don’t worry about it Alfred, I-“ Dick’s phone chimes in his hand, alerting him to a text message. It’s a message from Tim, prompt as ever, and Dick takes a second to read it.
Sorry, I’m at school helping with the Honor’s section of the Haunted Campus Experience. I can come by when we’re done?
While Dick genuinely enjoys spending time with Tim, and would love to have his younger brother over, he also knows what its like to be a teenaged crime fighter. Normal experiences like going out with friends after a school function, or sneaking out of the house to do something that doesn’t involve smashing goons’ heads together, are few and far between for their kind— even more so for the ever serious third Robin. Dick doesn’t want to rob Tim of the chance to socialize because he felt, however tangentially, obligated to come by the Manor at Dick’s request.
Don’t be sorry, that’s sounds so cool! We’re just gonna watch some movies at the manor. Have fun with your friends!
Sending off his reply, Dick finishes his thought. “I needed a reason to get out of the Manor anyway.”
His phone chimes again, and this time it’s Barbra.
Can’t. Still crawling through cyber garbage to see if I can’t pinpoint the siphon point on these burglaries. The encryption mutates every time I get close to mapping it!!
Followed, not three seconds later, by another text.
Plus, Dad’s got me on candy duty at the house.
Dick smiles imagining Barbra, up to her eyeballs in code, completely ignoring the knocking of candy-crazed children at her father’s door.
You sound pretty plugged in. Are you actually gonna give the candy out?
“Are you certain?” Alfred asks, and Dick easily waves his concern off.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” Dick assures, glancing at his phone when it chimes again.
Only to the batgirls ;)
Rolling his eyes, Dick thumbs out a, Play nice.
“Perhaps then, you would like to take young Master Damian with you.” Alfred suggests.
Dick pockets his phone, interest piqued. “Damian’s around?”
“I do believe so.” Alfred replies, and that’s as good a confirmation as any because no one enters or leaves Wayne Manor without Alfred knowing.
“Great idea Alfred,” Dick claps his hands, excited at the prospect of including the younger boy in his plans. “Do you know where he is?”
“He was headed out to the garden with Titus, last I recall.” Alfred informs, glancing toward the large windows spilling sunlight into the library.
“Alright,” Dick says, and even though it is highly unlikely Damian would be within easy viewing distance from anywhere in the Manor, he glances out of the window on his way past. “Thanks Alfie!”
He’s naturally quick on his feet and eager to convince Damian to come out with him, which means Dick is out of the library by the time he hears Alfred’s, “You are quite welcome Master Richard.”
: : :
After searching Damian’s usual haunts, Dick still manages to find Titus before he finds the teen. Free from any kind of tether, Titus romps around Dick in an excited frenzy, trained out of the good behavior Damian no doubt worked fairly hard to instill in the dane by Dick’s infinite, and typically immediate, willingness to roughhouse. He lopes around Dick’s legs in an uncoordinated jumble of too-long limbs, all whuffling grunts and fist-sized paws, expecting Dick to produce a tennis ball from some magical place on his person.
“No boy, not today.” Dick says, shaking his head, and he feels the distinct unfairness of disappointing an animal that has a biological disposition toward looking let down.
“Oh come on, don’t give me that face.” Dick reaches down and plucks Titus’ jowls into a grin, revealing the shocking pink of his gums. When Titus only tilts his head slightly and raises a doggy brow, but otherwise allows the treatment, Dick laughs; he really is remarkably well trained. “There’s that good ol’ Wayne charm.”
Releasing Titus’ lips, Dick gives the dane a vigorous, affectionate head rub and asks, “You wanna go find Damian?”
Titus’ ears perk and Dick isn’t sure if it’s at the mention of his owner’s name, or if it’s because Dick asked in the same tone of voice he usually reserves for flinging small pieces of steak in Titus’ general direction. Either way, when he asks again, the dane lunges to Dick’s left, whipping his head around and thumping his front paws on the ground as if to say, follow me! This way!
“Find him! Find Damian! Bring me the Damian, Titus!” Dick encourages, giving chase through the soft, perfectly manicured lawn when the great black dane bounds off.
Eventually, after what Dick is sure was just some playful romping on Titus’ part, the dane rounds a hedge, his front end disappearing long before his bony back end, only to be followed soon after by the familiar, indignant sound of Damian’s voice.
“Titus! Cease this mauling at once!”
Dick rounds the corner just in time to see Titus press his giant head up alongside Damian’s, snapping with the unbridled joy of a puppy reunited with his favorite boy. Damian is considerably less enthused with the unexpected face full of enthusiastic puppy jowl he’s received.
“Listen to me!” Damian snaps, pushing Titus’ nose out of his eye and his gigantic puppy paws out of his lap. He makes a sharp downward hand motion, commanding, “Down!”
This, unlike Damian’s previous protests, seems to get through to Titus, and the dog’s large, bony bottom falls to the floor immediately, even if his tail still thumps at the grass in residual excitement.
“Hey, that’s impressive,” Dick congratulates, impressed when he walks over and Titus doesn’t immediately jump up to seek the underside of his hand.
However, judging from the animated wiggle of Titus’ backside as Dick stops right by him, it looks like a very near thing.
“Grayson.” Damian lays a hand on Titus’ head, reminding the dane to stay put when he trembles with the obvious desire to spring back up. “I should have known.”
“Well, at least one of you had to be excited to see me.” Dick teases, playfully nudging Damian’s knee with the toe of his shoe.
Which apparently only warrants a, “Tt,” from the teen.
Of all the places in and around the Manor, Dick never really spent a lot of time out in the gardens. Mostly he associates the garden area with the extravagant garden parties Bruce would host when Dick was younger, fundraising for this charity or that, seizing the opportunity to play up his airheaded playboy act. For his younger self, the garden was always a more of a work place than the Cave ever could be—sneaky reporters asking all kinds of double-edged questions and tipsy socialites prying into just about everything else. As such, he’d never taken the time to walk around or really notice the gardens as anything more than background noise.
Even now, Dick would say the only interesting part of the garden is Damian’s choice to seemingly lay claim to it.
“So…” Dick surveys the area around the youngest Wayne, noting the sketchbook and drawing materials scattered about. “What are you doing out here?”
Damian immediately flips the cover over on his sketchbook, obscuring the page he had been working on. “Acquiring the adequate amount of vitamin D.”
Dick’s eyebrow quirks up, pointedly looking at the yellow stripes down the arms of Damian’s favorite black jacket. “You may want to lose the jacket if you want that one to fly.”
“Titus requires time outside.” Damian eyes narrow, challenging Dick to find a flaw in this answer.
If Dick were Bruce, proud, truth-seeking Bruce, this would be the precipice for an argument.
Why, after all this time, Damian still feels the need to make excuses, to justify his actions and desires, is beyond Dick’s understanding. Damian isn’t shy about his talents, far from it, but he would never admit to engaging in an activity that holds no greater importance than his own personal enjoyment. Avoiding the minefield that is Damian’s natural tendency to deny wanting anything normal and age appropriate is tricky when he gets like this, arrogantly entitled yet cripplingly self-aware, but Dick is used to finding the right way in.
Instead of calling Damian’s bluff, Dick switches tactics.
He lowers himself into a crouch, eye-level with Titus who licks his jowls, ready to disperse sloppy kisses should his services be even slightly welcomed, and says, “I thought you were hanging out with Colin today.”
Damian rolls his eyes, slightly more receptive to this topic of conversation. “Our plans have changed.”
“Why?” Dick asks, wrapping his arms around his knees.
Maybe its because Dick is the one asking, or maybe, like many other aspects of Damian’s life, he was just waiting for someone to genuinely care about the answer; whatever the reason is, Damian sighs and provides an actual answer.
“Wilkes wishes to beg confectionary parcels off the people of Gotham like a mentally addled pauper.” Damian’s nose scrunches up in visible distaste when he adds, “While wrapped in toilet paper.”
Laughter bubbles out of Dick before he can fully control it, imagining the scrawny boy wrapped head to toe in sheets of toilet paper, tufts of bright red hair peeking out from between the wrappings. Colin’s a good kid, and Dick’s glad he’s enjoying the holiday even if he couldn’t get Damian to participate; he’s sure Colin put up a valiant effort.
“A mummy, huh?” Dick chuckles when Damian shoots him a withering look. “Oh come on, he’s just trick or treating. It could be worse, Dami.”
“I fail to see how.” Damian derides. “He is attempting to make a name for himself as a vigilante; traipsing around making a fool of himself is hardly in aide of that goal.”
Dick could argue that Bruce does the same thing when he puts on his ditzy billionaire act; albeit with less toilet paper involved. Instead, he points out, “Well, he certainly isn’t going to get any candy from people if he goes around knocking on doors as Abuse.”
If Dick were wallpaper, he’d be curling under Damian’s glare.
“Alright, alright.” Dick concedes, holding up his hands in surrender. “Trick or treating isn’t your favorite.”
Damian scoffs. “Everything about this commercially driven holiday leaves something to be desired.”
“Come on, Dami.” Dick encourages. “There are plenty of fun things about Halloween! Everybody gets to dress up-“
“Which only makes our job more difficult,” Damian counters.
“And people give you free candy,” Dick continues.
Again, Damian rolls his eyes. “Hardly a reward, and hardly worth the humiliation.”
“And there’s scary movie marathons, and a bunch of seasonal puns, and spending time together carvi-“ Dick freezes, catching his mouth for once before it gets ahead of his brain.
The teen in front of him tenses up, immediately going on the alert. “What is it?”
( It says something about the two of them; that the second Dick quiets down, Damian tenses up. )
Struck by sudden genius, Dick jumps up, his face drawn in a series of short, serious lines. “I just remembered something important.”
“What?” Damian is on his feet as well, sketchbook forgotten in the grass with his mentor’s sudden, unspoken call to action.
“Come on Damian,” Dick says, turning on his heel and sprinting back to the Manor. “I’m gonna need your help!”
Titus chases them all the way back to the Manor.
: : :
“Grayson.” Damian growls. “This is hardly classified as important.”
“Of course it’s important,” Dick says, combing through the dwindling selection of gourds piled on top of each other in the pumpkin patch. “You’ve got a better eye for symmetry than I do.”
Usually, offhanded compliments like that would be enough to entice Damian’s involvement, but apparently Dick vastly underestimated the betrayal of taking Damian to a pumpkin patch.
“That is entirely irrelevant.” Damian snarls, hands shoved so deep into his pockets it’s a wonder he hasn’t ripped right through the front of his jacket.
“Fine,” Dick says, not giving in to the desire to roll his eyes at the recalcitrant teen. “It’s important to me.”
From behind him, Dick can hear Damian’s, “Tt.” It is low enough to not be outright rude, but nowhere near quiet enough to assume Dick didn’t catch. He’s willing to let it slide, in an effort to keep what tenuous peace they still have.
They make their way through the pumpkin patch, the smell of heavily trampled straw hanging sweet and pungent in the crisp October air. Excited Gothamites have been combing through the patch all day, the evidence left behind in well-worn trails around the bales of hay displaying the pumpkins, and what’s left to choose from is an assortment of what can only be described as left-overs. All of the perfectly round pumpkins have been snatched up by those more prepared for the holiday, leaving only the oddly shaped or obviously bruised.
Unwilling to be dissuaded by himself, especially when Damian’s gloomy presence trailing behind him is already doing its best to drain the fun out of the experience, Dick points out prospective pumpkins, asking for the teen’s opinion on each. Damian shrugs, purposefully unhelpful, nose turned up like he’s being forced to do something much worse than help Dick pick out a pumpkin.
“How about this one?” Dick asks, bending to clear away a pumpkin mostly obscured by a cascade of hay.
When he gets a snappy, “I don’t know Grayson, it’s a gourd like any other,” Dick’s temper flares, and he turns around to spear the teen with a sharp look.
“What is your problem?” Dick demands, hurt turning the corners of his mouth down. “Seriously, you’re acting like a brat.”
Damian opens his mouth, an irritable reply on his tongue no doubt, when a little girl runs by, shrieking happily with her tiny arms wrapped around an equally tiny pumpkin. Her bright blonde pigtails pop out of either side of her child-sized Flash costume, replacing the lightning bolts that would be there otherwise. She’s adorable, thrilled to be dressed up and helping her parents locate a pumpkin, and Dick catches the scowl that causes Damian’s brow to furrow.
“This entire excursion is pointless and childish.” Damian spits the word venomously, like it’s the worst insult he could think of.
Of course.
Dick stands up, feeling most of the pieces click into place.
It’s one thing to be seen as a child, but another entirely to be treated like one. Damian has never enjoyed being treated like a kid—has always gone to extreme lengths to dispel any notion anyone might harbor of his ever having acted his age—and now he’s embarrassed. The last person Damian would ever want to be seen as a child by is a tossup between Bruce and Dick.
( If Dick’s honest, he knows that coin is marginally weighted in his favor. )
Somewhere along the line their wires got crossed, again, and Dick places his hands on Damian’s shoulders, determined to set things right.
“Look, I can tell you’re mad because you think this is a kid thing-“ Dick can feel the stiffening of Damian’s shoulders under his hands, his body tensing to prepare for the prodigious tongue lashing he intends to unleash. Dick gives the teen’s shoulders a firm squeeze. “But it’s not. This is something I want to do with you. Because I want to share it with you.”
The heat leaves Damian’s eyes and apparently decides to travel to the very tips of his ears. He doesn’t take advantage of the momentary pause to verbally eviscerate Dick, which Dick decides to take as a sign to continue. “It doesn’t matter how old you are; the fact is we’ve never carved pumpkins together, and I want to have that memory with you.”
Dick lets go of Damian’s shoulders, moving out of the space he’s grown to understand as inversely proportional to Damian’s comfort level. “If that’s okay with you.”
Damian, the same boy who leaps off buildings and stares unflinching in the face of peril and promised death, looks away and mutters, “Fine.”
It’s honestly more than Dick was expecting.
“Cool.” Dick smiles, fully aware that Damian is likely watching him despite not looking directly at him. “Now let’s find our pumpkins.”
Dick leads them around another bale of hay, testing stems and gauging the relative shape of pumpkins that catch his eye, Damian a quiet albeit considerably less hostile presence behind him. He’s wiping a bit of dirt off a pumpkin, squat and mostly round with a thick, winding stem, when Damian shifts a little louder than usual, announcing his intention to speak.
“The odds of finding a perfectly symmetrical gourd are not in our favor,” Damian is looking back the way they came, and from his spot crouched on the ground Dick notices Damian’s jaw; smooth, but filling in more fully nearly every time Dick turns around. “But you overlooked a passable specimen when we first walked in.”
Grabbing his pumpkin, Dick hefts it up under his arm and bumps Damian with his other elbow. “Okay, let’s see if it’s still there.”
Damian leads the way, hay crunching under his shoes, and miraculously, the pumpkin is still there. It’s a little taller than Dick would usually go for, more ovular than round, but it’s the one Damian pointed out so it’s perfect.
“That’s the one you want?” Dick asks as Damian turns it around by its close chopped stem and inspects it for blemishes the way he’d seen Dick examine the others.
Satisfied with his inspection, Damian looks up and nods, “Yes.”
Dick smiles and goes to find the owner.
: : :
By the time they make it back to the Manor, the sun has fallen from its high point in the sky, dipping behind the cover of Gotham’s skyscrapers, and the Manor looks seasonally appropriate against the darkening backdrop of the sky. They carry their pumpkins inside, a grocery bag of last minute Halloween candy hanging off Dick’s wrist, and Alfred asks them to set up in the family room. He disappears and returns with an assortment of bowls, the topmost of which is filled with water, towels, a few appropriately sized knives, candles, matches, and a stack of cardboard.
“Thanks Alfie,” Dick says, taking the items from the older man. “Do you want us to wait until after dinner?”
Alfred shakes his head, barely enough to be noticed. “However you wish, young Masters. It seems Master Bruce anticipates a late night.”
Damian perks up from his spot on the floor, suspicious that he’s been denied a chance to patrol. “What kind of late night?”
“The kind that only involves your Father.” Alfred says, in a tone that invites no argument.
One of the few lessons Damian has actually taken to heart in his time at the Manor, is not to back-talk Alfred. He may not be able to hold his tongue with Bruce, or Tim, or literally anyone else, but it was only a matter of time until Damian figured out how fruitless it is to argue with a man who can make the Goddamn Batman sulk like an errant six year old.
Although, being able to hold his tongue, and not looking like he wants to bite it off for the effort of it, are still two very separate skills that Damian hasn’t exactly integrated yet. Dick can tell it’s taking everything in the teen not to run down to the cave to check for the Batmobile.
Dick places a hand on Damian’s shoulder, well aware of Damian’s contempt for hair rufflers. “He knows where to find us. If he needs backup, he’ll call.”
“Quite right, Master Richard.” Alfred agrees.
Damian scoffs, but doesn’t press the issue, which Dick decides to count as a win.
Alfred leaves, reminding the two that dinner can be served whenever they get hungry, and Dick absolutely does not move to obscure the bag of Halloween candy behind his torso. Plopping down across from Damian, Dick grabs the stack of cardboard and maneuvers a sheet under the base of his pumpkin, sliding a slab over to Damian so he can do the same.
“Alright,” Dick declares once he’s appropriately distributed the materials between them. “Now, the first step is to cut around the stem at the top, so you can use it as a handle. Then we pull the guts out!”
The look on Damian’s face is caught between inquisitive and perturbed.
“What?” Dick asks, sinking the sharp point of his carving knife into the firm flesh of his pumpkin.
Damain shakes his head and grabs his knife, following suit. He ends up smashing the hilt into the flesh of the pumpkin when the blade passes through the resistant meat of the gourd and into the empty space within. Likely, even Dick’s quietly amused smile is too loud when it comes to the surprise that briefly steals over Damian’s face; surprise quickly flattening into a scowl.
Not looking to have the moment blow up in his face, Dick scoots his pumpkin closer to him and braces the gourd between his knees. “Pumpkins dry out pretty quickly, so I like to kind of angle the cut inwards so the top doesn’t end up falling through.”
He demonstrates the cut on his own pumpkin, but Damian is quick to pick up on instruction when he wants to, and is already busy carving the angled circumference around his pumpkin’s stem. When Dick pulls his knife out with a soft wet sound of metal leaving flesh, Damian is already done, watching Dick for their next move.
“Now pull it out and find your prize!” Dick grins and grabs ahold of his pumpkin stem, giving it a firm yank.
Mimicking Dick’s actions, Damian pulls the circular section free from the top of his pumpkin, trailing a mass of stringy orange goop and sizeable white seeds in its wake. He holds it away from him, looking to his mentor to make sure he’s achieved similar results.
He has, although Dick is considerably more enthusiastic about the results, already pulling the stringy goop off by the handful.
Damian attempts to follow suit, but the pumpkin’s innards are wet and cold, not to mention excessively slippery and altogether unpleasant to touch. Scowling at his now moist hand, Damian declares, “This is repulsive.”
“Yeah,” Dick agrees, wiping a stringy bit off his hand using the edge of a bowl. “But its kind of fun once you get used to the feel of it.”
“Get used to it?” Damian asks, incredulous, obviously fully intending to avoid any further acquaintance with the wet, stringy mash.
“Yup,” Dick dips his hand inside his pumpkin, his forearm disappearing only to reappear a moment later with a handful of pumpkin innards. He drops it into a bowl with an audible glop, wiggling his soggy fingers gleefully in Damian’s direction. “You gotta clean out the inside.”
Damian patently does not give into the urge to lean away from Dick’s hand, opting instead to declare, very definitively, “No I do not.”
Already pulling out his second glob of pumpkin guts, Dick asks, “How else are you going to carve your pumpkin?” He slops the goop into a bowl and looks around for a serrated scooper, pointing out, “You can’t carve it with all the pumpkin guts in there.”
“I’ll have Pennyworth take care of it.” Damian sniffs, as if the answer were insultingly obvious. “Surely he has perfected the practice of excavating fruits.”
Dipping the carving spoon into his pumpkin, Dick begins scraping the stringy innards off, taking a moment to consider Damian’s proposal. After a moment of scraping, he pulls out the spoon, piled high with pumpkin insides, and says, “But then it’s not yours.”
“Of course it’s mine.” Damian scoffs, adding. “Everything here is mine.”
“If you didn’t put any work into it, how is it yours?” Dick asks, depositing the unwanted mash into his bowl and returning to his task.
The logic is sound, and as such, difficult to argue with—even if Damian very clearly looks like he’d love nothing more than to find a way to do so.
Narrowing his eyes in irritation, Damian haughtily slots the stem back into the top of his pumpkin and pulls off his jacket, tossing it on the couch. With his arms now bare, he pauses to allow himself a face as he removes the newly carved lid, before shoving his hand into the dark, squishy depths of the gourd.
Distaste quickly turns to disgust as he loses three-fourths of his arm to the inside of his pumpkin. It’s taller than Dick’s, and Damian’s arms are shorter, and all in all it kind of looks like the spirit of Halloween is trying to devour Damian for having the gall to question its relative merits. Dick would give up something precious to have a camera right now; or he would, if he wasn’t absolutely certain of at least two surveillance cameras set up in the room already.
“Makes you appreciate wearing gloves with the costume, right?” Dick asks, trying not to sound delighted.
Damian actually rolls his eyes, and Dick can’t be sure if he’s just so used to the domino hiding that reaction, or if Damian actually feels comfortable enough to be genuine around him.
( Dick knows which one he’d choose, if he had to. )
They sit and clean out their pumpkins, filling up the bowls with pumpkin innards and occasionally dipping their hands into the bowl filled with water when pumpkin juice starts to dry uncomfortably on their forearms. Dick is surprised to find that Damian has actually eaten pumpkin seeds before, although he’s never had to “stoop to retrieving them in such an uncivilized manner,” and Damian manages to refrain from kicking Dick in the shin for humming just the chorus of This Is Halloween until his seventh loop. Dick finishes hollowing his pumpkin out before Damian and cleans his arm off while chatting about this and that, patiently giving Damian enough time to catch up.
When Damian sets his carving spoon down and moves to dip his hand into the water bowl, now murky and tinted orange with pumpkin juice, Dick smiles and raps on his own pumpkin, just to hear the hollowed out sound. “Alright. Now we decide which side is the front and carve something cool into it! Jack-o-lanterns are classic, but some people get really intricate and carve spider webs and witches flying over the moon.”
Gently patting his arm down with the towel, Damian deadpans, “I do leave the Manor occasionally, Grayson.”
“Just covering all my bases, little D.” Dick assures, bowing his head to beg forgiveness- certainly not to hide the curling edges of a grin.
“Tt.” Damian snorts, attention back on his pumpkin, surveying all sides with a critical eye. He ends up deciding on a front based on relative smoothness and flatness of the working area.
Dick bases his decision on which direction more flatters his wild, twisty stem. He plucks a knife up, tilts his pumpkin back, and… realizes he has no idea what he wants to carve.
Across from him, Damian is already poking into his pumpkin with the very tip of his knife, more shaving than carving, but he seems to have a plan. Dick leans over and tries to sneak a peek, asking, “What are you gonna do?”
Damian glances up from where he’s bent over his pumpkin, his eyelashes a dark fan under the strong arch of his brow, and promptly twists the face of his pumpkin more fully out of sight. “You’ll see when I’m done.”
“Its not a competition, Dami.” Dick huffs, feeling suddenly out of his depth even though he’s, arguably, the one with the advantage of experience here.
The smirk that twists Damian’s mouth up does wonders to remind Dick just who he’s talking to.
“Fine.” Dick says, returning to the blank canvas of his pumpkin, trying to recall past designs.
The thing is, Dick isn’t exactly artistically inclined. Over the top, eye-catching designs are his favorite, but he tends to embellish and end up with- well. He seriously doubts he’s ever going to live down Nightwing’s original costume design.
Ability to edit is the key, and then there’s skill to consider, so Dick tries to think of something simple but eye-catching, familiar but still edgy.
It takes a couple minutes and some rooting around in the candy bag before inspiration strikes. Dick sacrifices another couple kit-kats to the gods of inspiration, planning his method of attack—which pieces need to be cut out, and which pieces need to stay connected to keep the entire thing from collapsing in on itself—before he starts in on his pumpkin as well.
They work in relative silence, broken only by Dick’s occasional question and Damian’s intermittent answers to those questions he deigns important enough. After a good half an hour working on his pumpkin, and sporadically trying to distract Damian by tossing candy at him, Dick thinks he’s made fairly good progress. One side is a little lopsided, and the points at the ends need to be made sharper, and he’s weighing the pros and cons of embellishing with an outline, but overall Dick thinks it looks good.
“How’s it going little D?” Dick asks, taking a break to stretch his back out.
Damian, so singularly focused on his pumpkin, doesn’t bother to look up, only affording his mentor a slight grunt in response.
It shouldn’t surprise him, but sometimes Damian acts just like Bruce.
“Well, I approve of the gusto.” Dick teases, directing his attention back to his design.
Twenty minutes later and Dick has decided against the outline, not wanting to mess up the symmetry of his almost perfect circle. He’s sharpened the ends and hollowed out the inside so the lines come to neat points where they join, and all in all, he’s honestly proud of his Robin insignia. Rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, Dick looks up only to find Damian curled so closely to his pumpkin, its difficult to tell whether he’s carving it or having a staring contest with it.
“Dami?” Dick ventures, not sure if he’s going to have to dodge a projectile knife for interrupting Damian’s concentration.
Luck seems to be on his side in the deadly projectiles department, but not so much in the conversation department.
Gathering up his unwanted pumpkin chunks, Dick sets them off to the side with his scraped out pumpkin guts, wondering what Damian is carving that has him so focused. He’s just reaching for another piece of candy, wondering if Damian liked the spider web idea, when his stomach roils.
Candy for dinner probably wasn’t the best idea…
Dick’s stomach is begging for something other than sugar and Damian seems to have transcended into another realm entirely, so Dick decides to tackle the more easily solved matter first. Collecting his bowls, Dick rises from the floor in an easy motion, stepping over his pumpkin. “I’m gonna go grab dinner from Alfred, you want me to bring yours?”
Another grunt, more a proof of life than a real response—and really, of all the ways Damian could emulate Bruce, it is lamentable that that is the one that stuck.
Dick leaves Damian to his work, carrying the bowls to the kitchen. Tossing the pumpkin chunks into the trash, Dick takes a moment to contemplate the seeds. Alfred could probably do something with them, but neither Dick nor Damian had bothered to separate the seeds from the stringy mash, and now he’s got two whole bowls of pumpkin innards to consider wading through. Dick empties the bowls out into the trash as well.
Knowing how particular Alfred is about how things are cleaned, especially in his kitchen, Dick rinses the stickiness off the bowls and stacks them in the sink.
Two silver dinner plate covers sit on a tray in the center of the kitchen island, polished to a gleaming shine. Dick uncovers one and immediately grabs a sliver of chicken with his fingers, popping the perfectly seasoned morsel in his mouth. Somewhere in the Manor, Alfred is surely giving him a disapproving look.
Although the platter is set up for easy transport, complete with two sets of cloth napkin wrapped silverware, Dick removes the silver domes and sets them aside. They’re perfectly at home in the Manor, but they’re so extravagant. Dick feels a little ridiculous even handling them in the kitchen, let alone walking around with them. He snags another sliver of chicken off what he’s claimed as his plate, and grabs a couple bottles of Damian’s root beer from the fridge on his way out.
It shouldn’t be a surprise to find Damian right where he left him, but that’s exactly what Dick is when he nudges the door open with his foot and Damian hasn’t moved an inch.
“Wow, you’re really in the zone.” Dick sets the tray down by Damian’s knee and scoops up his plate with one hand, root beer and silverware in the other.
Sitting on the floor just for the sake of sitting on the floor isn’t exactly appealing, so Dick relocates to the couch, folding his legs up and resting his plate on a knee. He turns the television on with a click of the remote and idly flicks through channels, his silverware forgotten under his thigh as he picks at his food with his fingers.
To this day, Dick doubts he’s clicked through every available program in one sitting, although not for lack of trying.
He clicks through several reruns of reality TV programs and pauses on the news, glad to see the live coverage of smiling faces and happy crowds at the Gotham parade. After Riddler’s attack on the parade last year, Dick is surprised to see such an enormous turnout, people packed into the streets like sardines, but the people of Gotham are nothing if not resilient. He leaves it there for a while, enjoying the pleasant drone of the news anchoress explaining the meaning behind certain floats and chatting with various costumed parade-goers as he eats.
A crisp green bean is halfway to his mouth when Dick pauses and squints at the television, almost certain the Catwoman being interviewed is actually Selena. He tosses the vegetable into his mouth when the woman melts back into the crowd and the anchoress’ earrings are still in her ears.
When his plate is clean, save for a few stray potato slivers, Dick starts flipping through channels again, absently wiping his fingers off on his jeans. He passes through about thirty sports channels before he gets to the movies. There’s plenty on, but growing up with a birds-eye view of the horrors in Gotham hasn’t made him the biggest fan of slasher movies. Clicking around, idly hoping to come across a channel showing The Nightmare Before Christmas, Dick pauses when he recognizes the opening credits of Beetlejuice.
He sets the remote down, turning to ask Damian, “Have you seen Beetlejuice?”
Silence probably means no.
Dick pops the cap on his root beer and settles in for a rewatch, unbothered by the sound of Damian scraping pumpkin off his knife every so often.
Wynona Ryder is creeping down a hallway, trying to be quiet, when an unfamiliar gurgling sound interrupts the movie. Dick is confused for all of two seconds, when it happens again, until he recognizes the sound as Damian’s stomach growling. When he glances over, Dick spies the untouched plate by his knee, still right where Dick left it.
“A little hungry over there?” Dick asks, not surprised when he doesn’t get a response. He unfurls his leg and stretches it out to nudge Damian’s foot with his own. Damian responds automatically, nudging him away out of habit, but remains otherwise mentally preoccupied.
Dick frowns, and when he’s certain Damian isn’t just ignoring him to prove some kind of point, he lets a sliver of command creep into his voice. “Damian.”
Damian’s spine stiffens, straightening as if by reflex, before he recognizes its Dick who wants his attention, not Batman. “What?”
There’s a jibe about a Damian’s dedication and starving artists on the tip of Dick’s tongue, but he swallows it and points to the plate by Damian’s knee. “Eat something.”
That Damian hastily unwraps the silverware and stabs at a piece of chicken with little more than an annoyed look in Dick’s direction verifies how hungry he must be.
“How’s it coming?” Dick asks when Damian’s attention goes right back to his pumpkin.
Evidently mollified by Alfred’s cooking, Damian answers, “Acceptably.”
Pushing his luck, Dick queries, “Almost done?”
Damian takes a moment to chew and swallow, a furrow forming between his brows as he scrutinizes his pumpkin. “Almost.”
“Want to take a break and watch Beetlejuice? I can rewind to the beginning.” Dick offers.
Damian doesn’t deign to answer that, mechanically shoving food in his mouth while focusing all of his attention on assessing his progress. Dick shrugs, leaning back into the couch.
It’s nearly midnight, the movie drawing to a close, when Dick finally hears the soft clink of Damian setting his knife down on the bowl. He gives Damian a second before he pauses the movie and leans over the edge of the couch.
“Done?” Dick asks, watching Damian wipe his hands off on a towel.
Damian nods, hiding a yawn behind his hand when it sneaks up on him.
“Just in time,” Dick says, sliding off the couch and returning to his pumpkin. Pulling the top off his pumpkin, Dick grabs the book of matches and lights a candle, lowering it into his pumpkin. He offers it to Damian, who already has a candle ready in his hand. When he lights it and lowers it into his pumpkin, Dick gets up and hovers near the lights. “Ready for the big reveal?”
Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the pumpkin he’s poured so much of his night into, Dick is struck, not for the first time, with the intensity of just how endearing Damian can be. He knows better than to say anything, lest Damian scoff and storm out, but Dick tucks this moment away to remember fondly. He hits the switch and finds his way back with only the light from their pumpkins to guide him.
Dick plops down next to his pumpkin and looks to Damian, barely visible in the glow of his own creation. “Turn them around on the count of three?”
The remarkable focus Damian spent on his pumpkin must have dulled his need to deride Dick’s enthusiasm, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “On three,” Damian agrees.
“One. Two. Three!” Dick places his hands on either side of his pumpkin and turns it around with a flourish.
He had been excited to see Damian’s reaction to his Robin insignia carved into Dick’s pumpkin, but he misses any reaction he might have gotten when Damian turns his pumpkin around. Painstakingly carved across the face of his pumpkin is the unmistakable image of Batman and Robin swinging across the Gotham cityscape, pulled by grappling lines of light, their capes stretched taught behind them from the force of their swing. The buildings are indistinct shapes riddled with punctures that let the candlelight inside seep through, made to look like lights gleaming through windows in the night. Their lines disappear into the night sky, which Damian has taken the liberty of gracing with little pinpricks of stars.
Dick should really say something, but Damian beats him to it.
“That’s not scary.” Damian says, sounding accusatory.
Still awestruck by the scrupulous detailing on Damian’s pumpkin, Dick asks, “What?”
The candlelight catches the angles of Damian’s face and turns his crude look somewhat distorted. “The purpose of carving pumpkins is to create something that strikes fear into the hearts of passersby.”
“I thought you said you’ve never carved a pumpkin before?” Dick asks, more confused now than ever.
“I have my means.” Damian scoffs by way of answer, which more than likely means Colin told him the purpose of pumpkin carving at some point.
Dick is still taking in all the little details, the bat symbol on Batman’s chest and the crisscrossing laces on Robin’s boots, the way Robin fits perfectly in Batman’s silhouette. “Yours isn’t scary,” He notes—beautiful, but not exactly scary.
“Tt.” Damian snorts. “What’s scarier than us kicking villains in the face?”
Warmth spreads through Dick, making it impossible to keep the smile from his face when he asks, “This is us?”
In the glow of the candlelight, Damian just looks like he’s contemplating his pumpkin, but Dick would bet anything that the tips of Damian’s ears are burning.
“It’s Batman and Robin.” Damian finally says, an answer and avoidance all in one. That almost seems like all he’s got to say on the matter, until he looks up from his carving, the candlelight catching his ghost of a smile and throwing it into a sharp grin. “We can’t help it if we were the best.”
Dick will go to his grave swearing he could no more have stopped the hugging that ensued than he could have voluntarily traveled back in time.
Once Damian successfully manages to peel Dick off of him, they grab their pumpkins and take them out to the front stoop, setting them down just outside the door. Dick takes another moment to admire their pumpkins side-by-side. He can see now that his Robin symbol is still slightly lop-sided, and Damian’s pumpkin is a masterpiece next to his, but he’s unspeakably thankful to share this small moment of normalcy with his youngest brother.
His Robin.
When they’re back in the family room, Damian deposits himself on the couch, right where Dick had been.
“You’re not gonna clean up?” Dick needles, sliding onto the couch next to Damian.
“Pennyworth exists,” Damian can’t fight off the yawn that truncates his answer, unable to cover his mouth with his arms caught up in shrugging his jacket back on. “For a reason.”
Dick gives him a look, residual endearment all that keeps him from chiding Damian for sounding like a brat.
As if sensing this, Damian settles into the couch and folds his arms over his stomach, nudging the remote over to Dick. “Rewind this so I can see what you found so amusing.”
“So you were watching.” Dick accuses, but does as he’s told.
“Tt.” If Damian weren’t visibly tired, Dick’s sure his nose would be thrust up in the air right about now. “I have complete awareness of my surroundings at all times.”
“Alright Dami.” Dick says, pressing play.
Not ten minutes into the movie, Damian is dropping off, his chin resting on his chest and his head listing towards Dick’s shoulder. Dick doesn’t say anything, knowing he’ll scare Damian off if he does, but just angles his body so Damian has a more comfortable place to rest his head when sleep inevitably takes him. He thinks Damian is down for the count when his temple rests against Dick’s shoulder in a barely-there touch, and mumbles something so quietly Dick misses it entirely.
“What?” He asks, softly, just in case Damian didn’t actually say anything.
After a moment, Damian repeats, a little louder, “Thank you, Richard.”
Somehow, Dick manages to resist pulling Damian into his arms this time, savoring the moment for all that it is.
“No,” Dick says, affection swelling his heart to a truly disproportionate size. “Thank you, Damian.”