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All it had taken was one misstep, and Batman found himself sailing through a hole in the floor that had been concealed by dust sheets and empty boxes. Instinct made him shoot his grapple gun less than a second later, but the hook could not find a grip in the weak wooden floor above. He twisted mid-air, trying to turn the fall into a jump, but not before he crashed through another deck; the weight of his armour and the force of his descent making easy work out of the compromised flooring.
A few seconds later, he hit the ground, landing forcefully on broken debris. Dick cursed -- or he tried to, at least, but the breath had been knocked right out of him. Pain stabbed sharply in his chest, which was so uncomfortably tight that Dick couldn't even gasp from the hurt.
Not good.
This was supposed to have been a quick patrol -- get out, make sure everything was fine and dandy in Gotham, and get back to the Manor in time for Christmas morning. Do enough to keep his conscience clear, and reassure Bruce that no, the other Batman's presence wasn't needed because yes, even crime took a holiday on Christmas Eve. Forcing Damian to stay back had been more difficult, but Dick convinced him that Bruce would want to spend the evening together with his youngest son, it being their first Christmas and all.
Of course, Bruce had needed separate convincing about that, too, since his idea of family bonding involved hunting down escaped Arkham inmates. In the end, Dick -- with Alfred's help -- had shut both Bruce and Damian in the TV room and forced them to watch cheesy Christmas films together.
Which was no help whatsoever now that he was indisposed in an abandoned building, with broken ribs, a punctured lung, and what appeared to be a fracture in his right arm.
... Yeah, Dick was just full of great ideas.
With a loud gurgling noise, Dick tried to get to his feet. He'd dropped into this building, thinking there were signs that it was being put to one of its old uses as a depot for a smuggling ring, and now he had to try and hobble his way out without aggravating his injuries. At least calling up the Batmobile was just a matter of clicking a button on his utility belt.
It took him another minute -- which he spent groping for the nearest wall -- to get his breathing ordered enough to speak properly. He activated his comm link, ringing back to the Cave.
"Alf?"
"Here, Batman. Is everything alright?"
For the moment, he ignored the question. "How're Daddy Bats and Li'l Bird doing?"
Alfred's voice, though tinny over the radio, took on a slight inflection, which was pretty much the equivalent of pleased excitement for him. "They are presently watching "It's A Wonderful Life" and consuming milk and cookies, sir."
Dick closed his eyes with a little smile to himself at the image of Bruce and Damian doing something as innocuous as sitting on the couch together, watching a film, and eating snacks. Movie nights hadn't been a thing since before Bruce's death, but Dick wondered if maybe they should re-start the ritual again.
He also found himself loath to bring up the entire reason for his call. His injuries weren't so bad -- he'd certainly improvised with worse. All he needed was to get back to the Batmobile; Gotham's Batman could manage that much.
Keeping his voice as even as possible, and ignoring the fact that every breath seemed to stab daggers into his chest, he said, "Make sure they don't forget the popcorn strings."
"I've sent up the ingredients, sir, and will presently check on their progress."
"Great." His mouth and throat were dry; Dick licked his lips in a valiant attempt to moisten his mouth. "I hope to see it hung up once I'm back."
"I'll be sure to pass the message, Master Dick."
Dick cut the line, and leaned further into the wall, resting his entire weight on it. He had a bit more time before he was expected back home. Until then, he could rest a short while; allow his body some time to adjust before he put it to work. Just a minute wouldn't do any harm.
====
Bruce stared at the string of popcorn and cranberries in his hand, wondering if he had achieved the correct ratio. Was two kernels of popcorn to one cranberry the ideal, or would it be better with three kernels?
The sound of Damian tutting beside him brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see that his son had pricked another of his fingers on the fine needles they were using to thread the popcorn together.
"Father, why must we do this infernal task?" he complained, in between sucking on the newly-injured fingertip, "We should be out on the streets."
Bruce completely agreed with him, of course, but admitting it would probably not be the parental thing to do. Or so Dick had insisted.
"This is an important Christmas tradition, Damian," he said. Never mind that this was the first time Bruce had engaged in this particular ritual, himself. But he wanted to give his youngest boy some measure of normalcy, given that his entire first decade of life had been anything but.
Damian frowned deeply -- on his 10-year-old face, it was a rather surreal expression to see -- and looked ready to argue the point. Fortunately, Alfred stepped into the room just then, and saved Bruce from having to explain himself.
"More snacks, sirs?"
"Thanks, Alfred." Bruce eyed the item in his hand, realising belatedly that he'd added too many cranberries, and would need to pull them off. With a quiet sigh, he set the pathetically short popcorn string down, and stood to face Alfred. "How's Dick doing? Maybe I should go check on him."
Damian got to his feet immediately. "If you get to go, Father, so do --"
"You will both sit down right now."
Bruce found himself sitting back down without even thinking about it, and Damian followed suit a moment after. Alfred hadn't raised his voice, but when he had a point to make, even Batman listened.
"Master Dick is fine. I spoke with him not a few moments ago," Alfred said, setting down another tray of Christmas cookies. Bruce noticed they were decorated like snowmen. Those used to be Dick's favourite when he was younger. They still were. "He noted his expectation to see your combined efforts hung up on the tree by the time of his return."
Bruce looked back down at misshapen thread in his hands, and the similarly off-beat piece that Damian held. His son appeared to be similarly disgruntled with Alfred's announcement -- at least that was something they had in common.
They were still a far way off from producing anything that would be remotely presentable for the tall, elegant Christmas tree that stood in the corner, by the fireplace.
"Alright, Alfred." Bruce nodded at him, before sitting back down to his needle, thread and bowls of popcorn and cranberries. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Damian's thick brows rise up in surprise, but the boy joined him back on the couch. Neither of them discussed it, particularly, but they returned to work in unison.
Alfred put some Christmas carols on the stereo, and slipped back out of the room again. Bruce, being occupied with not turning his fingertips into pincushions, did not notice the slight look of worry on Alfred's face as he left.
====
Alfred turned the hand on the grandfather clock in the study, and proceeded down the entrance to the Batcave. A slight urgency characterised his steps. Though he had reassured Master Bruce that all was well, a quiet unease had seeped into the back of his mind. It was clear to him now that he had missed something earlier, during his conversation with Master Dick. With any luck, perhaps he was just imagining things; allowing Master Bruce's legendary paranoia to take over his own consciousness.
But as his feet hit the Cave floor, Alfred knew it did not work like that. Not with the night jobs his charges engaged in.
He strode to the main console with a new sense of resolve, and opened up a line to Gotham's Batman.
====
While it was tempting to simply make a quiet exit from the family room, and make their way down to the Cave, Bruce and Damian had learned their lesson. Their first and only attempt had been thwarted in the hallway, by an unimpressed Alfred.
Raising one eyebrow, and stating that little happened in Wayne Manor that he did not know about, Alfred had herded them back into the family room, and very mildly noted that Bruce and Damian should complete their task, or risk disappointing Dick and missing out on the Christmas gingerbread he had just taken out of the oven.
Bruce wasn't particularly swayed by the prospect of confections -- though Damian had been -- but he did know enough to understand that Alfred was at his most dangerous whenever that seemingly placid tone kicked in.
"Grayson had better appreciate this," Damian grumbled, as they jointly worked on one popcorn string. With their combined efforts, it was starting to resemble something that could be placed on the Christmas tree without looking too odd.
"I'm sure he will," Bruce replied distractedly, as he accidentally crushed yet another cranberry between his fingers while threading it with a flimsy needle. Meanwhile, he'd be having his own chat with Dick about giving "advice" on appropriate activities for father-son bonding --
The sound of the door opening and closing interrupted his line of thought, but Bruce didn't bother looking up from his task as he said, "Alfred, we'll need some thicker needles, these--"
"Are perfectly fine for this purpose, Master Bruce; I'd have to provide you with knitting needles if you want anything thicker."
Bruce glanced up, his lips pursed into a frown and ready to spout a rebuttal, but he stopped short at the expression on Alfred's face.
His response was immediate. "What's happened?"
No one else would have noticed anything amiss, and indeed, Damian looked between them in confusion. Though Alfred would always know him better, Bruce recognised the crease between the other man's eyebrows, and the slightly more rigid set to his shoulders. Something had rattled him.
"I have been attempting to contact Master Dick," Alfred said. He hesitated a moment, before continuing, "But he did not respond. Having listened to my last conversation with him once again, I now suspect he may have been injured."
"And he didn't say anything?!" Damian demanded, interrupting. "Grayson is always telling me that we're supposed -"
"Damian." Bruce rose to his feet, and strode out of the room. The other two immediately followed. "Alfred, do we have his last known location?"
"Yes, the computer automatically triangulated it when --"
"Good." Bruce walked with long, quick strides towards the study. His partner needed him. "Robin and I will retrieve him."
"Very good, sir."
"Finally. Tt."
====
His eyes felt heavy. It was a struggle to even try to get them open, and Dick momentarily gave up to swallow against the exhaustion that seeped through his bones. But his mouth and throat were too parched; even that minor action seemed too difficult to manage.
Most of the noises above him sounded like gibberish, but Dick discerned a few words.
"-- Emergency treatment, will move him shortly --"
A hand clapped his shoulder, strong and firm and very familiar. Bruce.
So whatever was happening, it couldn't be too bad. Dick might have learnt long ago that neither Bruce nor Batman had the answer to everything, but that reassurance at just having the man there would never go away.
(Especially not after Dick had spent too many days and weeks and months thinking that Bruce was well and truly gone, forever.)
Reassured or not, though, it didn't change the fact that everything was cold. His limbs quivered with tremors, and his skin was so numb that when he tried to wriggle his toes and fingers, he couldn't be certain if he was successful.
"We're taking you home, Dick."
Bruce, again, his words clearer this time though not particularly louder. Sure, he'd been different ever since he came back from time, but that still didn't explain the -- the care in his tone. It wasn't gruff or matter-of-fact, but almost gentle, and that was so... weird.
Something touched his right gauntlet, and it was too small to be Bruce's hand, but those were definitely fingers, there. All Dick could sense was mild pressure through the leather and Kevlar, but he was sure it was another palm resting over his. Another hand squeezing his, but after that he didn't feel anything again for a while, and couldn't contemplate it further.
====
"Irresponsible," Damian snarled, as Father lifted Grayson out of the Batmobile. "Completely irresponsible, I -- "
"Damian," Father said, in that warning tone of his that Damian was starting to be well-acquainted with. "Get changed and wait upstairs."
"Father, no, I can --"
Father turned to him, and Damian almost took a step back at the intensity in his dark blue eyes. "Please. Alfred needs to tend to Dick."
And Pennyworth didn't need distractions, was the unspoken sentiment. Damian snarled his frustration, kicking a nearby trashcan as he stormed towards the showers. He could help -- Mother had trained him in all the important arts, including that of healing. He could help. But Father didn't trust him the way Grayson --
Damian cut that thought off, and instead threw his Robin uniform off and turned the showers on at full blast. Grayson would be getting a telling-off once he woke, he'd make sure of it.
====
There was something warm and wet pressing against Dick's face. His eyes fluttered open to a hazy mix of shadow and light, and his fingers, when he moved them, clenched over soft sheets. Breathing wasn't so easy; his chest constricted with every inhale and exhale, but still the mild scent of cedar and mint filled his lungs as he did so. He could hear soft crackles in the background, like that of logs in a fireplace.
Home. He was home.
Dick blinked a few time, unable to help the little smile curving up his lips, even though his mouth was still far too dry. There a comfort to waking up in his old room at Wayne Manor that had never gone away.
Even as his vision cleared, Dick could make out Alfred beside him, pouring water into a cup.
"I'm pleased to see you awake, Master Dick," he said, bringing the straw to Dick's mouth. "Though I do wish you had informed me of your injuries when we spoke."
Dick sucked as much water as he could, revelling in the soothing trickle of cool water down his scratchy throat. "Where's the fun in that, Alfie?" he asked with a winning smile -- or it would have been one, if he hadn't broken out in a cough.
Alfred frowned sternly. "Young man, you have a punctured lung, and a fractured arm. Regardless of your extensive experience with injuries, those are still not ailments to joke around about." His expression softened slightly, however. "Nonetheless, Master Bruce and Master Damian will be most pleased to hear that you are awake."
"Can I see them?"
"Most certainly not, you need your rest, sir, and I--"
Dick widened his eyes and jutted out his lower lip in what he knew was a completely ridiculous pout that had no place on a grown man's face. That was not the point, though.
"Please?" He even batted his eyelids. "C'mon, Alfie, it's Christmas Eve and -- wait, it's still Christmas Eve, right?"
"It has been Christmas morning for several hours now, I'm afraid."
Before Dick could moan about missing out on the traditional Christmas Eve treats, however, Alfred added, "And I have saved you some eggnog and fruit cake, though you will have to wait till tomorrow evening to consume them. Moreover, young man, you will be spending the next three days, at least, in bed, and there will be no cartwheeling or --"
The door opened just then, fortunately interrupting the sentencing.
Damian poked his head in, wearing his usual haughty scowl. It clashed with his sweater, a cheerful, emerald green snowman knit that Cassandra had brought over from Hong Kong.
"Pennyworth," he announced. "Father is in your kitchen."
"And you left him alone in there?" Dick croaked, trying not to laugh; his tender ribs wouldn't appreciate that. But everyone knew that the kitchen was Alfred’s domain, and that he did not entertain uninvited incursions.
Alfred sighed, and set the water cup and warm compress back on the bedside table. "If you would take my place here, Master Damian, I will attend to your father."
Damian stepped inside, even as Alfred stepped out, and crossed his arms over his chest. Casting an appraising gaze over Dick, he stated, "You were irresponsible."
If it were Bruce, or even Alfred, Dick might have tried hedging -- because he could be stubborn, too, oh yeah. But Damian needed a better role model than that.
"Yep," he admitted, after a moment. "You're right, Damian. I made a mistake."
That got him one of those tt noises Damian liked to make. "Well, if you wish to make up for it, then let me hit you." Before Dick could protest, he continued, "You deserve it for being so idiotically irresponsible! Don't start acting like Drake, one drama queen is enough for the family."
Dick suppressed a smile at the hidden sentiment beneath the little rant. "Your concern is duly noted, and appreciated."
"Pfft! Don't be stupid, Grayson. I only say that because Pennyworth and Father were most distressed."
"Distressed, huh?" This time, Dick didn't bother hiding his grin. He hadn't forgotten about the small hand squeezing his, back at the accident site. Now he was just conscious enough to know who it had belonged to.
Damian nodded briskly. "Yes. So avoid such escapades in the future, Grayson, if you would. Father appears to be interminably fond of you."
Coming from Damian, Dick knew better than to take that as a compliment. "Damian, you know your dad loves you, even if he --"
"Tt. Of course he loves me, Grayson, I'm his real son. Of the rest, however, I will concede that you are the favourite."
Dick shook his head, and regretted it -- sudden movements would be a no-go for a while. "Bruce might have trouble showing it, but he loves all of us equally, Damian," he said firmly, though his voice was still hoarse.
The younger boy didn't seem convinced, but Dick didn't have a chance to push the discussion, as Bruce walked back into the room, carrying a small tray in one hand.
"Father. Grayson." Damian nodded at his dad, and then Dick, before exiting the room.
Dick didn't particularly like leaving the conversation there. Still -- Damian had made his choice to stay in Gotham with his father's family. There was time yet for all of them, not just Dick, to reassure their youngest member that he was welcome.
Meanwhile, Dick grinned up at Bruce. "So, is Alfred's kitchen still standing?"
Bruce ignored the jibe, and set the tray on the bedside table, next to the cup of water and warm compress. Dick was pleased to note that his sweater, deep maroon with a snowflake pattern, matched Damian's.
"Sweet tea and plain bread," Bruce said. "You should get some food in you."
Dick blinked to even hear those words coming out of Bruce's mouth. The man wasn't unkind, per se, but he'd always left that sort of thing to Alfred. Besides, he'd been fully expecting a lecture – or what passed for one when it came to Bruce, anyway – on what constituted responsible Batman behaviour (though he'd be one to talk, Dick couldn't help thinking).
Still, Bruce hadn't been entirely the same since returning to them. Apparently fake-death had mellowed him out a little. How long that would last was anyone's guess, but Dick couldn't pretend that he wasn't pleased by it.
"What, no nutella sandwich?" he complained playfully, trying to sit up. "I've been a good boy this year and everything."
Bruce helped him get propped up, just enough to nibble at the bread comfortably. "Hh."
Well, Bruce's conversational abilities sure as hell hadn't changed.
Dick was just swallowing his food, and preparing to fill the silence when Bruce added, "Yes, you've been good this year."
... Wait, what?
Dick stared, open-mouthed, but nothing more was forthcoming. Bruce just stared out the open window in the other corner of the room. Outside, a light dusting of snow covered the grounds of Wayne Manor, but it was still too dark to see.
"In that case," Dick managed, swallowing down another bite of bread to give his mouth something else to do. "Do I get to open a present early?"
It wasn't even early, since it was already Christmas morning, but they'd all agreed to wait for Cassandra and Tim to arrive before getting to the presents. Dick only said it half-jokingly, anyway, because he wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to react.
"I think you deserve it," Bruce said, and holy cow, were his eyes actually crinkled in a smile? Dick nearly choked on his bread. As it was, he had to gulp down a few sips of the tea. This had to be a painkiller-induced fever dream. Dick would have to ask Alfred just what he'd been shot up with.
Bruce set a small, leather box by Dick's hands. "Merry Christmas."
Some lengthy seconds passed before Dick could stop staring at it and very carefully prise the red ribbon off and the lid open. Inside was a watch, clearly vintage, with black leather straps and an ivory face set with gold markers. It was beautiful -- and it had belonged to Thomas Wayne's father. Dick had a vague memory of Bruce showing it to him once, many years before, and saying as much.
"Oh." he said. Bruce's verbosity was clearly infecting him.
"My grandfather's watch, as you may recall," Bruce said. His voice sounded gruff.
"And you're giving it to me?"
"Yes." Bruce cleared his throat. "I want you to have it."
Dick drew in a ragged breath. His chest suddenly felt even tighter than before. "It's okay, Bruce. I don't -- it's better if -- Damian or Tim might --"
"Dick." Bruce clapped a hand to his shoulder, focusing his sharp blue eyes entirely on Dick. It never stopped being equal parts terrifying and exciting, having the entire weight of Batman's attention fixed on him. "After everything that's happened this past year, you deserve far more. Let me do this."
"I --" Dick just blinked, and gaped back. So this is what being injured on Christmas got him, apparently. He sure as heck wasn't complaining. "Okay, Bruce," he said eventually. "Okay. Thank you."
He couldn't help the stupid grin turning up the corners of his mouth as he looked down at the gift in his hand.
"But you know," he began, after a brief pause, glancing back up at the other man. What he was about to say would either have Bruce bolting, or shutting down completely, but it had to be done. It was Christmas, after all. And if Bruce was trying to open up to him, without even being forced to, maybe this wasn't as dangerous as he thought.
"I already got the best present this year." Dick patted Bruce's arm, which still rested on his shoulder. "Having you back, and our family back together again."
Dick held his breath as Bruce digested the words, but then a tiny smile cracked that normally-blank face, changing it entirely. A deep warmth spread throughout Dick's injured body; it was a nice smile and deserved far more use. He returned it readily, his mouth splitting into a wide grin.
"So..." Dick closed the watch box and set it aside carefully. "Have you and Damian finished the popcorn strings?
Bruce blinked. In an instant, the smile vanished, and the Bat-mask was back on. "Popcorn strings?"
Dick usually hated it when Bruce did this -- hid behind the Bat -- but the fact that this time, it had been provoked this time by as simple a holiday activity as threading popcorn and cranberries? Dick couldn't help cracking up.
"Alright," he wheezed, trying to stop himself because ow, laughing hurt. "I take it all back. Batman defeated by popcorn garlands? Best. Thing. Ever."
Bruce's lips pursed into a frown, brows creasing tightly, but it lasted all of a moment before he shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "I'm still your boss, chum," he threatened, though the glint in his eyes suggested he wasn't serious. "Don't think I won't put you on surveillance for a month if I have to."
Dick just laughed. "Whatever, Bruce. Merry Christmas."
"Hh." Bruce sat down in the chair beside the bed, settling in for a vigil, and patted the sheets beside Dick's hand. "Merry Christmas, Dick. Now get some rest."
Dick leaned back into his pillow, closing his eyes with a contented smile. "You got it, partner."