Work Text:
"If people could be mended,
With candied sugar paste
Then come every twenty-fifth of December,
Each wound would I erase.
Gumdrops don’t make miracles,
Ginger and cinnamon won’t make it right,
But when we try for one another,
Well then maybe, that just might."
Damian watched from the doorway. The scene before him had been playing out for the last twenty minutes and the kitchen had been rendered a warzone. Globs of sugary white icing were smeared over Pennyworth’s usually pristine marble counters. Sprinkles of varying colors dusted both the besmeared counters and the dark cherry of the hardwood floors. Worst of all, candies of every imaginable flavor lay scattered about, with no concern for symmetry or order.
He had been invited to join in the current festivities, of course. Richard was obnoxiously thoughtful like that, but when the eldest of his… brothers … had come flying through the door of his room, Damian had refused outright. He had informed the grinning fool, that he was far too old for something as infantilizing as building a gingerbread house .
For six days, Grayson had been trying to engage him in several holiday themed activities. From the moment he had picked him up from school on the eighteenth, kitschy Christmas music blaring from the speakers of his car, Richard’s enthusiasm had been... excessive.
While Damian was pleased to have him back at the manor, not that he would admit that aloud of course, the heightened level of cheer had been difficult. He had dutifully gone ice-skating twice and had participated in the search for the perfect tree. And of course he had helped Pennyworth supervise the decorating of said tree, but he did have his limits.
Watching the chaos unfolding before him, Damian knew he had been right to stay out of the way. His mind raced with corrections as Richard continued to place candies haphazardly about the shoddily built gingerbread structure.
“Dick, you can’t put that one there!” Gordon’s voice chided, echoing Damian’s thoughts as the older boy attempted to position a length of ribbon candy along the edge of the roof. Even from his far away, it was clear that the sugar piece, as thin as it was, would be too heavy.
“Come on, Babs,” Richard said, grinning despite the obvious issues. “I’ve been decorating gingerbread house for years. I think I know – ”
Damian rolled his eyes as the roof piece caved in, collapsing a wall on its way down.
“You were saying?” Gordon laughed, leaning over to grab the frosting bag they had been using for cement.
“Damn it,” Richard swore, almost too quietly for Damian to hear over the music that had been filling the space. The curse surprised him. He knew Richard swore, and had caught him on several occasions putting together words in very creative ways, but the older boy always avoided it when Damian was around. Instead of making him proud that his position had yet to be detected, Richard’s continued use of foul language made Damian feel as though he’d swallowed an ice cube.
“Hey,” Gordon interrupted after the fifth expletive, her voice soft. “No big deal. We can fix it.”
Damian watched as she shifted on the stool she’d lifted herself onto earlier in the night, her nimble fingers making quick work of the reconstruction.
“It’s not the gingerbread house,” Richard said, his own hands moving to his phone to finally turn off the accursed music.
“I know,” Gordon replied gently. She used a tone that Damian knew far too well. It implied that she was a little disappointed, but not mad, and was going to wait until you bared your soul to her. He hated that tone.
“I know he’s mad at me,” Richard announced, his voice bouncing off the walls now that the music had stopped. Damian couldn’t see his face, but the icy feeling in his chest spread.
“Dick…” Gordon reached out. She was trying to pull him towards her, but Richard refused to budge.
“You don’t need to sugar coat it for me, Babs,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, oblivious to the frosting on his fingers. “I know he is. He’s been more prickly ever since I left. I text him everyday and I call on the weekends but…”
Damian bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from interjecting. The cold inside his chest turned burning hot. Logically speaking, he knew Richard was busy. That he had his own life, and that leaving the manor was the right thing to do in order for the older boy to continue to grow, but it hadn’t made his absence any easier.
All the others had been staying away too. On some level, Damian was grateful, because it gave him more time with Father. On the other hand, their absences – their lack of nose and substance – lay heavy on him like a shroud, or rather a mantle he still wasn’t sure he could support.
“He’s twelve,” Gordon’s voice soothed, as if being young was an excuse. “But I assume he’s been going on thirty-five from birth.”
Damian switched to biting his tongue. He still listened to her tone. Sometimes, he liked to imagine it would be how his mother would have talked to him had she not been raised by Grandfather. Had his life been normal.
“Maybe Christmas just isn’t his thing,” she said, the smallest hint of pain seeping into her voice, like maybe she knew what not enjoying the forced merriment was like.
“But maybe it could be!” Richard insisted, his body a whirl of motion as he turned to face her. “If I was around more – ”
Damian pushed himself flush against the wall of the hallway. He hated not being able to observe their body language, but he knew their words were still important, and they would have to do. He couldn’t risk being seen.
“Not everyone is going to love the holidays as much as you, Dick.”
“Yeah, I know…” Richard said, his defeat evident. “So far I’m oh-and-three.”
Damian thought back. He was sure he had refused Richard more than three times this week, but he knew had participated in at least some of the activities, those that had been disguised as training like skating, or at the very least unavoidable like the tree.
“What do you mean?” Gordon asked, thankfully giving voice to his own question. Damian held his breath as Richard began to pace the kitchen.
“Tim’s not coming home until Christmas Eve,” he began. “And even that’s grudgingly. Cass is following Bruce’s lead – and I haven’t been able to get a straight answer from Jason.”
“Jay’ll come home for Christmas,” Gordon said, sounding surer than Damian felt.
“You don’t know that,” Richard sighed. “I mean… fucking hell, Babs. You’re only here because you feel sorry for me.”
Damian felt his knees dip and lowered himself to the floor. It wasn’t that he minded the swearing, no matter how out of place it felt. But the sound of Richard’s voice, so lost, bordering on angry , left him shaken. Was he mad at him?
“Or,” Gordon offered, her voice so light, Damian could hear her smile. “It might be because I like spending time with you.”
Richard’s laughter startled him. There was a darkness to it that was completely out of character. “You hate Christmas and pretty much everything associated with it. You threatened to destroy my phone when the song “Dominick the Donkey” came on.”
“For starters, that song should be illegal thanks to the Geneva Convention, and I do hate it,” she said, and Damian agreed wholeheartedly. “But, I don’t hate you. And neither does Damian.”
“I don’t know. It feels like he might.”
The boy felt as though the very ground beneath him was going to swallow him whole. A part of him knew he wasn’t supposed to be listening. He and Pennyworth had had many a conversation about his “skulking” and how it was rude to eavesdrop, but Damian couldn’t pull himself away.
“Dick, come here,” Gordon said softly. “You’re the only one who has really happy memories of Christmas as a kid. The rest of us? The holidays are a hellscape.”
“I know!” Richard said, his voice muffled. Damian chanced a quick peek around the corner. Just over the top of the island counter, he could see Richard standing between Gordon’s legs, his face tucked into her shoulder, all of the candy and confections around them forgotten.
“That’s why I’ve always tried– ”
“It shouldn’t all fall on your shoulders, Boy Wonder,” she interrupted, trying to push him back so he would be forced to look at her. “And it isn’t like gingerbread men usually lead to Christmas miracles. Contrary to what that voice in your head tells you, you are not solely responsible for the happiness of this family. Do you understand that?”
Richard pulled away, allowing Damian to see both of them in profile. “Why are you here, Babs? Making a gingerbread house with me?”
“Because you called,” Gordon answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And because sometimes,” she reached out a hand to him as her voice grew stronger, carrying across the distance between them and where Damian still hid in the shadows. “Sometimes, we do things we might not like for the people we love.”
Damian briefly wondered if she knew he was listening. It would be just like the cunning Oracle to slip in little life lessons when he thought he was hidden. He considered coming out to join them, swallowing his pride, but the heavy sigh from Richard stopped him.
The older boy turned towards their ramshackle gingerbread house, now more frosting than anything else. “I don’t know…” he said, gesturing vaguely. “I just thought he would have liked this, you know? It’s kinda artistic, right?”
Damian studied the mess. While it was bordering on a bastardization of Abstract, he could see the potential.
“It’s messy,” Gordon replied, laughing, although not unkindly, as she popped a red cinnamon candy into her mouth. Damian was aware that they were her favorite.
“I know,” Richard agreed, sounding defeated. “That’s why Tim never liked it.”
“No, Tim didn’t like that neither you nor Jason would commit to any kind of plan,” she studied the structure carefully. “Which, now that I think of it, Damian probably would have appreciated too.”
Richard turned back to her and Damian had to pull his head back from the doorway again to avoid being seen. “Why are you always right, Barbara Leigh?”
“It’s a gift,” she sighed dramatically. “A curse really.”
Damian scrunched up his nose, filling Barbara Leigh Gordon’s middle name away for future use.
“Hey, Babs?” Richard said, his voice sounding a bit more optimistic, which immediately made Damian suspicious; his older brother was getting ready to abruptly change the subject.
“Did you just say you loved me?”
Damian had to stop himself from loudly smacking his own forehead. On one hand, it was ridiculous. Of course Gordon loved him. Every last member of this family was painfully aware of that. On the other, Damian knew that this was merely a diversionary tactic, signaling that Richard was done talking about the disappointment he so obviously felt.
As quietly as he could, Damian pulled himself away from the wall. There would be no more useful information to gain from listening to their conversation. Besides, he had his own emotions to contend with now – and a plan to form.
-**-**-
Dick Grayson never would have characterized himself as a heavy sleeper. Years of… well objectively trauma like experiences had conditioned him to wake-up at the smallest of sounds. And that of course made the sight of his littlest brother standing above him, at quarter to five in the morning all the more disconcerting.
“Richard,” Damian whispered, his voice insistent.
“I’m up,” Dick said, already moving to throw the blankets from his body. “What’s the matter, D?” The small boy raised a brow at him derisively.
“Nothing is wrong, but I have completed the outlines of enough gingerbread humans that we can use as templates.”
Dick took a minute to fully take in his soundings. Damian hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights; he stood by the edge of the bed, a stack of papers held carefully between both hands.
“What now?” Dick asked, trying to make sense of everything now that he knew there was no imminent danger.
“They’re rough drafts,” Damian said, gesturing with his papers. “I am aware they will need some work before we proceed to the final copies. And I’m sure the medium will be a challenge, but I’m willing to work with what we have.”
“D,” Dick said imploringly. “Bud, it’s really early in the morning, I’m going to need you to talk to me like I have no possible way of knowing what’s going on.” Dick was pretty sure he watched Damian physically beat back the urge to point out that Dick was an idiot, but the small boy’s better nature won out. He moved forward, actually handing Dick the loose papers instead gripping them like a lifeline.
“I made these,” he whispered, voice suddenly small.
Dick took them, squinting in the darkness at the shapes before him. “Damian,” Dick breathed as the images became clearer. “Are these…?”
“I told you they were rough drafts,” Damian snapped. “While I am more than competent with charcoal, colored pencils are still a medium I’m working on, and I have never worked with something as unpredictable as confectionery before so –”
Dick lunged forward, the papers still in his hands, and wrapped his arms around Damian.
“Kid,” he whispered, a warm ache spreading through his chest. “These look amazing.” He waited until Damian’s body relaxed into the embrace before pulling back slowly. “I’m going to turn the light on and have a better look at these, okay?” Dick smiled, seeing even in the predawn light, the blush starting to color Damian’s cheeks.
He leaned over to his nightstand to flick on the light, spreading Damian’s drawings out on the bed between them.
If they had been good in the darkness, they were stunning in the light. Before him lay hand-sketched gingerbread men. Even without the hastily scribbled names in the corner, Dick would have known who these cookies were.
There was Bruce as a gingerbread man, suit, tie, and knowing eyes. Somehow, Damian had managed to convey intelligence in the sketch of a cookie. There was Jason, a red jacket and even a pairof gloves accompanying a somehow cocky smile. Tim’s cookie was designed slimmer, a Superboy t-shirt still managing to look wrinkled. Damian had drawn Cass’s cookie with a pair of pointe shoes; Dick wasn’t sure how they’d carve a real cookie down to the same shape – but he swore to himself he’d figure it out.
“I didn’t think it would be possible to create a wheelchair out of cookie,” Damian said, interrupting Dick’s thoughts and bringing his eyes to the sketch clearly meant to be Barbara, a pair of thin glasses on the cookie’s face.
“But you still designed it sitting,” Dick said with a smile. “She’ll like that.”
“We’ll have to experiment with the icing to get the correct shade of purple for Brown,” Damian continued, watching Dick instead of looking at his drawing. He had already memorized every imagined flaw. “And I know you don’t appreciate being shorter than Todd, even though it does provide you with a tactical speed advantage so I –”
“Damian,” Dick laughed, reaching his hand out to rest it on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s perfect. They all are.” Dick would have done anything in the world to keep the kid looking at him like he was doing now, a shy smile pulling at the corners of his normally frowning mouth.
“They are adequate, but your praise is… nice .”
“Normal kids just say thank you, D,” Dick chuckled. “But I don’t think I’d like you as much if you were normal.”
Damian nodded as if this made perfect sense. “When do we start?”
Dick glanced at the clock. It was almost 5:30; Alfred at least would be starting to stir soon. “What do you say you and I go make some breakfast – a coco for you and some coffee for me, and then we can get started?”
Damian was already starting to collect his drawings from the bed, sorting them into an order Dick couldn’t understand, but seemed to please the boy, and that was enough. “Hey kid,” he said before he could think better of it. “What inspired this sudden rush of artistic genius?”
With the papers held tight to his chest, Damian gave him another cautious smile. “Richard, sometimes when we…” he paused as if tasting his next words before using them. “When we love someone, we’re willing to try things for their sake.”
Dick knew he was probably ginning like an idiot, but hearing the word love come out of his prickly little brother’s mouth made his chest warm. He knew if he made too of a big deal about it he would be unlikely to hear it again, so he just nodded as he stood and reached for a pair of sweats off his floor.
“I love you too, Damian,” he said, once he was ready to head out the door. Damian even allowed him to throw an arm across his shoulders as they walked down the hall. Maybe, just maybe, Barbara had gotten this one wrong. Maybe gingerbread men could lead to a Christmas miracle after all.