Chapter Text
Let it never be said that Damian al Ghul Wayne, grandson of the Demon's Head and son of Batman, was a coward. The last time he'd heard that word, it had been a few weeks after his debut as the Gray Cardinal, spit in his face by painted lips. He'd cleared up that little misunderstanding quick enough: by the time the police arrived, the Joker wannabe was unrecognizable, on account of his nose having been spread across his face like peanut butter on toast.
The days of running scared to his father at the first sign of danger were so far in the past, and so contrary to the personalities that both he and Bruce now possessed, that he might have bet they were entirely fictional, conjured up by the idea that it was something all children did. As for Cardinal... he'd never once run to Batman in his short career. In fact, it was an unspoken agreement that if they ever met on the rooftops, they were to turn down opposite streets and pretend nothing had passed between them.
Damian Wayne was not a coward: that was not why he was standing before the gate of Wayne Manor in the snow, fingers hovering hesitantly over the keypad lock. And the way his hand shook slightly was only because he had so much on his mind that it took him a few moments to remember the number combination.
The light turned green: he'd remembered right. As the huge, black gates began to swing open, Damian let out a sharp breath that turned to steam in the freezing air, and then crossed the driveway back to where his car stood, lights blinking, driver's door still open. It was not his usual car: this was the oldest, most worthless car Damian owned. The deadliest thing about it was the handgun he kept in the glove compartment. It was the only car he'd ever deign to leave unlocked with doors open, because if anyone did try and steal it, the insurance he'd receive would be greater than the loss of the vehicle anyway.
It was also the noisiest of his cars, which meant that when he came cruising up to Wayne Manor in an unfamiliar vehicle, no paranoid, dark-haired, sleep-deprived, secret vigilante with access to a cave full of nuclear weapons would jump to conclusions and fire at will. After all, super villains did not typically arrive by way of the front driveway and a dirt-brown Lexus.
Sure enough, by the time he pulled up to the front door, there was a familiar figure already waiting outside the door. Damian took his sweet time parking the car, checking his appearance in the mirror, and straightening his tie before he zipped up the thick overcoat. He locked the car, and then began the walk towards the front door, acutely aware of how many eyes he could not see must be focused on him.
"Master Damian." Alfred Pennyworth's tone was calm, measured, with just the right amount of warmth to welcome the estranged heir of the Wayne legacy. The expression on his face told a different story. Damian averted his eyes. He did not want to get emotional too.
"Pennyworth," Damian acknowledged. He added a polite smile. "Merry Christmas. My apologies for dropping by without notice."
Alfred raised an eyebrow, but only responded with, "Merry Christmas. This is your home, Master Damian, as I'm sure you know. You are always welcome..." he paused. "Although I'm afraid Master Bruce is not here tonight."
Damian felt some of the tension in his shoulders automatically drop away. The strained smile he'd been holding melted into something slightly more genuine. All inconspicuous micro-expressions that Alfred would not have noticed had he not spent over ten years watching the boy grow up.
"I see. Any notion of when he'll be back?"
"Not particularly." Alfred held the door open for Damian to enter, and he did, knocking his boots against the frame to shake off the snow. "The last communication I received from him was nearly six hours ago: something unexpected came up."
Which meant he would be back anytime from another hour to another week. Wonderful. "Then it's just us?"
"Master Timothy is here for the holidays."
Oh, was he? Damian did not honor that bit of information with a response, and focused his attention instead on trying to remove his coat without soaking the carpet with snow.
"He's doing well, in case you were wondering," Alfred said pointedly, approaching to take the coat.
Damian handed over the coat without a word, and straightened his blazer. He had dressed as befit his status before coming, expecting to have a conversation with his father... but now that he knew Bruce wasn't here, he felt stiff and overdressed.
"If you'd like to visit with him yourself," Alfred continued in increasingly clipped tones, "I believe he's down in the cave. If not, you will see him at dinner."
Damian sniffed. "I'm not particularly hungry."
"While you are under this roof, Master Damian, you will observe proper mealtimes, even if you do not eat. Good food serves another function besides nutrition. It's called-"
"Community," Damian finished.
"Family eats together."
"I'm an adult, Pennyworth."
"So you are," Alfred said gravely. "And I am still your butler." The way he said 'butler' carried several years of meaning behind it exclusive to the Wayne family butler.
Damian sighed. "I will be at dinner."
"And it will be my pleasure to serve you again."
Of course it would. More pleasure than Damian would derive from the rest of his visit here, undoubtedly. He glanced briefly around the main hall. It had not changed, much. One of the paintings had been replaced, and he thought the great vase in the far corner had used to be on the other side, but mostly, it was just the same. It made his skin crawl, how same it was. He did not belong here. The Damian who did was a much younger, much happier one. But he was long gone.
He felt a Alfred's hand on his arm. "If you'll give me a moment to make up your old room, I'll have it ready in an hour's-"
"No." Damian pulled his arm away to cross it over his chest. "No, put me in a guest room." Something less familiar.
"As you wish, Master Damian."
"I will be in the library. Please do not disturb me. Unless..." he added. "Father returns, or something of that nature." He started across the hall, flexing his fingers to keep them from curling up.
"Master Damian."
He slowed, just a little.
"Whatever your reason for returning, or your, or anyone else's feelings about your doing so..." Alfred said. "I am happy to have you back."
Damian stopped. "Your sentiments do not go unappreciated," he noted stiffly.
Alfred made a noise that might have been just a hum of acknowledgement, but could also have been a smothered chuckle. Damian did not look back to discern which.
The reason he chose the library was because, besides the batcave, it was the most secluded, quietest place in the house for study. Unlike Damian, Drake had always found it easiest to work in a place where he could spread out to his comfort: whether that be on his bed, across the dining table, on the kitchen floor while Alfred cooked, or even once on the roof. Damian had soon deduced that what his brother was really seeking was some sort of background noise or human presence to keep him grounded.
Damian himself hated people looking over his shoulder while he worked. Even in the batcave, the whir of the security systems doing their hourly reboot could send him searching for a pair of earbuds if he was feeling particularly touchy. In the penthouse, the room where he did his work was completely soundproof when the door was closed, and he'd never been more content.
While he'd lived in the Manor, though, the library had always been his choice for anything that threatened to take over an hour of his time. Secreted in the twists and turns of hundreds of books on skyscraper shelves, Bruce had placed many desks and armchairs at intervals. It had actually been Damian's idea, years ago, when he and Bruce were the only ones planning to use the workspace anyway. Books had a way of absorbing noise and chaos. One could feel perfectly at peace at one of the library desks, even if there was another person working just two aisles away.
Then Drake had come along, and all of their work places had gotten a technological upgrade. Nowhere and nothing had been safe from the child's intrusive innovation. At the time, Damian had found it charming, not to mention impressive. He'd also had a few other things on his mind at the time besides the modernization makeover the library was getting.
Now, though, when he sat down at the desk furthest from the door and the built-in screen immediately lit up with a chorus of soft clicking noises, all Damian could think of was how loud, bright, and unnecessary it was. He hit the power button with a little more force than he meant to, darkening the desk, and then withdrew the paper that had been burning in his jacket pocket for the last forty-eight hours.
Three lines of Arabic in a clipped, unmistakable hand. There was no signature. There was no need for one. It was not a friendly letter. It was an order.
Damian's fingers prickled, and he jammed them mercilessly into the arm of his chair. He was not a coward. He was not here for Bruce's protection, only for his assistance in properly deescalating the situation. After all, it had only been three years since he'd officially separated himself from his father in everything but name. His assets were good, but nothing compared to what Bruce Wayne had been able to gather together in the past twenty-three years. Money and weapons aside, the Batman had connections with people who'd never even heard of the Gray Cardinal.
That was all Damian needed. Connections. People. Assets. And a plan, because when it came down to it, Damian's detective skills were excellent, but they were nothing, nothing compared Batman, not to mention Red Robin. Old disagreements aside, they were still family, weren't they? If Damian had to swallow his pride in order to call upon the best help he could get... so be it. He was confident, not cavalier. Self-assured, not arrogant. He was not stupid.
Or so he informed that innocuous piece of paper before him. As was typical of inanimate objects, it didn't have much to offer in the way of agreement or objection.
He was wasting time. He had come here to work, hadn't he? Damian allowed himself one second to collect himself, then pushed the paper aside and turned on the desk. He doubted there were any more hidden words or clues to be found in the message that he couldn't have found at his own home, but if he had learned anything from a lifetime with the world's greatest detective... it was absolutely imperative that he check.
. . . . .
He arrived in the dining room at exactly 5:59, because unlike some people, he was capable of being punctual even when there was work to be done. Drake, as he had expected, had not made an appearance yet.
"You've set four places," Damian realized when Alfred came back into the room. "Is there someone else?"
"In case your father makes an appearance," Alfred answered. "It's wise to be prepared with that man."
"You've also set tinsel at the centerpiece. And holly leaves with the napkins."
"I was given the impression that you were celebrating Christmas this year. It's just a week away."
Damian was not celebrating Christmas. The phrase had slipped out in greeting only because he'd been hearing it all over his office and the streets of Gotham every time he left the penthouse. But the plates had already been set out.
"It looks... it is agreeable," he said. He almost took the seat at the head of the table, before he remembered that if Bruce came back, that was likely where he would be sitting. Accordingly, Damian took a seat two down from the head: not directly next to him, but near enough to hold a conversation without being awkward.
"It smells like an angel died in here, Alfred," said a voice from the door. Damian jerked his head up to see Drake entering the room, dressed in sweatpants and an over-large Superman t-shirt. In his hands he held a large tablet which he was still studying. "By the way, have you seen the news?"
"Not recently, Master Timothy," Alfred said smoothly, fanning the steam from the sweet potato casserole. Drake was still looking down at his tablet, even as he sat down.
"You know the Haly Circus that B and I had tickets to see tomorrow? They were performing tonight too, and apparently two of the acrobats-" he stopped short. He'd finally looked up.
Damian just stared at him impassively. He was not the one making this awkward. He was not the one who'd brought electronics to the dinner table.
Alfred cleared his throat. "Master Damian arrived a few hours ago. He will be spending the holidays with us."
"I did not say how long I was staying, Pennyworth," Damian pointed out.
"You did neglect to provide a time period, so I simply assumed that you were here to spend the holidays with your family, as most polite people do," Alfred said.
Drake had set his tablet aside and was sitting ramrod straight at the table now, mirroring Damian's posture. He had assumed that look of superiority that he got when he knew very well that he was right and everyone else was slow and wrong. "I thought you were mad at us," he said to Damian.
"Tt. A childish assumption," Damian replied calmly. "Father and I simply have a disagreement of methods."
"I distinctly remember yelling," Drake said, still with that superior look. "And a couple priceless artifacts being smashed. But I guess it was a rational, calculated destruction of other people's property."
Damian decided not to point out that the things he'd broken had still been his property when he'd broken them. He settled for an long, dead-eyed glare which he focused on Drake while he served himself some casserole.
"Don't look at me like that," his brother snapped. "I'm not the one who barged in on someone else's Christmas party uninvited."
"This is not a Christmas party. Father is Jewish. He's never celebrated Christmas once in his life, Drake."
"Yeah, you've missed a lot over the last three years, al Ghul." Damian stiffened. Drake, for some reason, had always taken offense to being referred to by his surname. He'd been even more offended when Damian, after calling him Tim for a number of years, had switched back when he'd left the Manor. Still, Drake did not know how much that particular name stung tonight. Damian would have to let it slide.
"We have week-long Christmas parties now. Didn't you see the decorations?" Drake gestured to the tinsel Alfred had set out, which Damian knew for a fact were a very recent addition.
"Boys, please," Alfred said sharply. "You're both adults. A little maturity would be appreciated."
"I have done nothing but respond truthfully to Drake's attempts to provoke me," Damian pointed out, a little annoyed. He should have left when Alfred had told him that Bruce was not here. There was no reason for him to be here. There was no reason that he should have to interact with Timpthy Drake at all.
"And I," Drake began, clearly imitating Damian. "Have done nothing but respectfully inquire into what al Ghul is doing-"
"Do not call me that."
"What, would you prefer Wayne? Sorry, but that ship sailed. And you were kinda the one who christened it."
Actually, Damian had kept the Wayne name precisely because his only other alternative was al Ghul. But of course Drake would ignore that.
"If you boys cannot act civilly, then we shall have this meal in silence!" Alfred said sharply. "This is disgraceful! I know for a fact that you were raised better!"
Silence reigned. Alfred sighed, and then returned to his chicken breast. Damian calmed himself, smoothed his napkin on his lap, and returned to his meal. Drake did not even make a pretense at eating. He just stared across the table with uncensored evil eye.
He'd forgotten how petty his brother could be, when he wanted to. It didn't matter. He wasn't here for Drake. He was here for Bruce, and as soon as he arrived-
The sound of the front door being unlocked suddenly struck his ears. All three of them looked up, towards the wall which separated the dining room from the entrance hall. Unless the Justice League was here, or some villain had somehow snuck past security and decided the front door was the best place to break in, it seemed that the master of the house was home. Damian felt his shoulders tense.
"Just in time for dinner," Alfred commented, rising from his chair. Drake got up as well, but when he was about to follow Alfred out into the hall, his eyes landed on Damian, and he stopped at the doorway. Damian found it slightly insulting that he was being treated like a threat in a house that he'd lived in before Drake was even born.
There were voices out in the hall. Damian recognized his father's, as well as Alfred's quiet murmur. He poked at his plate again, trying to gauge whether or not he could get any food down without choking on it. He must appear casual.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Drake. Damian had only a moment of time to wonder at it before his brother scuttled back from the doorway and quickly dropped into his seat again. A moment later, Alfred reentered, followed by a very weary looking Bruce Wayne.
"-sorry, Alfred, there wasn't time to let you know. Hope it's not too much trouble."
"None at all, Master Bruce. I'll set an extra plate." Alfred hurried back into the kitchen.
Confused, Damian glanced at the extra plate that had already been set out for Bruce. Then at Drake, who was staring not at their father, but, for some reason, at Bruce's knees. Damian followed his gaze, and there, inexplicably, was a little boy.
A little boy, dressed in bright colors that were so stained with dirt and wrinkled with sweat that they looked more depressing than festive or cheerful. His eyes were bloodshot, but his face was dry, and his arms were wrapped firmly around his chest, as if to make sure that no philanthropic billionaire with a penchant for adopting orphans on impulse would take his hand. He was staring resolutely at the floor.
"...Dami?"
Damian raised his eyes. Bruce was staring at him, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of disbelief in those stoic features.
"Good evening, Father," Damian greeted. "I see you've found yourself yet another child. What's this one called?"