Work Text:
Christmas morning did not arrive gently.
December 25th’s dawn was like a candle freshly lit, casting shadows and warm colors across the city. Fog persisted in the air, causing a partial whiteout in New Jersey. Lady Gotham was practically shutting everyone inside their homes or shelter for the holiday. With the littering of snowflakes against an apartment window came the sound of rustling paper, an overexcited whisper that was not, in fact, whispering, and a small, insistent weight landing squarely on Jason’s pecks.
“Jason,” Peter hissed, breath hot against the man’s ear, “Jay! Dad! It’s morning!”
Jason turned his head and groaned into his pillow. His eyes did not open; although they could see orange light from underneath his eyelids.
“It is,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, “That’s what mornings do, kiddo.”
Peter shook the man, once again reminding the other who truly had the most strength. His young voice came out whiny, “It’s Christmas morningggggggggg.”
Jason cracked one eye open at the jostling and immediately regretted it. Sunlight filtered through the blinds at a painful angle, bright enough to be offensive, illuminating the faint dust motes in the air and the unmistakable excitement vibrating out of the kid perched on his bed, and himself.
Peter was still in his pajamas, mismatched red flannel pants and a Superman themed T-shirt, and his hair stuck up in three separate directions, as if Asleep Peter had lost a fight with electricity.
Jason stared at him for a long moment.
Then he sighed, long and put upon, and rolled onto his side. Peter doesn’t try to stay on the man; he crawls off with a victorious smirk and settles to sit on an open spot of the bed.
“Alright,” he groaned, “Alright. I’m up.”
Peter didn’t hide his grin either, feeling like he’d personally won a war.
Jason scrubbed a hand down his face to get rid of his sleepiness, glanced at the bedside digital clock, and muttered, “It’s not even eight.”
Peter tilted his head in confusion. “That’s late.”
“For you,” Jason said with pointed eyes, having turned his head to look at the practically vibrating boy, “Some of us were up late making sure Santa didn’t get shot.” Peter blinked.
“What?” His voice was a mix of terror and even more confusion. It threatened to make Jason feel like he’d ruined Christmas already.
Jason sat up, ruffling Peter’s hair as he did so, “Kidding. Mostly…”
They didn’t have a big Christmas setup; Jason hadn’t known how. He’d tried, in a half embarrassed, overthinking way, and the result was modest but earnest. Their living room held a small tree in the corner with unevenly spaced lights, a few ornaments Peter had insisted on arranging ‘by vibe’, and a scattering of wrapped presents that Jason had triplechecked for sharp edges, choking hazards, and anything that could be interpreted as a weapon.
Peter slid off the bed and padded into the living room barefoot, skidding to a stop in front of the tree like it might disappear if he didn’t look at it fast enough.
“They’re still here,” he said, reverently, looking at the colorfully wrapped boxes that sit underneath the faux tree.
Jason had followed him out and leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with an expression he would deny under oath. “They’re not gonna run off, bug.”
Peter crouched and picked up a present, turning it carefully in his hands. “Can I?”
Jason nodded. “Yeah. Go for it.”
The paper didn’t stand a chance against such a kid.
Jason made coffee while Peter opened gifts, the smell grounding him as much as the sight did. Occasionally, he would look over at the call of Peter wanting to show him his gift. There were books, of course there were books, some clothes that Peter pretended not to care about but immediately touched like he was memorizing the fabric, and a small science kit that made his eyes light up in a way Jason pretended not to notice too closely.
‘Suck it Timbo’
Then Peter held up the last box, smaller than the rest, wrapped in plain brown paper.
“This one doesn’t have a tag,” Peter said, gazing at every angle of the present. Jason froze for half a second too long to be unknowing of why.
“Yeah,” he whispered from the edge of his coffee mug, “That one’s… special.”
Peter peeled the paper back slowly, like he’d learned patience somewhere along the way, and opened the box. Inside laid a simple knit scarf. It was dark red, like cherries. Tiny hands grew mesmerized at how soft its fibers were. Those hands then pulled one end from the box and found that it could wrap twice around his torso.
Peter stared at it for a long moment.
Jason rounded the kitchen counter and stood next to the boy sitting on the floor, clearing his throat, “I, uh– Alfred helped. Picked the yarn. Said it’d be warm without being itchy.”
Peter didn’t say anything.
Jason’s chest tightened.
Then, a spark of joy. Peter pushed the now empty box away and wrapped the scarf around his neck immediately, unevenly, crooked, but nevertheless perfect.
“It smells like you…” his voice was muffled by where some of the scarf covered his mouth. Surely, his face and neck would never be cold in Gotham again; fashion trends can go to hell.
Jason barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “Yeah, well. Sorry about that.”
Peter smiled and didn’t take it off.
⋆꙳•❅*🎄*❆•꙳⋆
By the time that a single sharp knock had rung against their front door, which was a few hours later that morning, Jason had already resigned himself to the day going sideways in the best possible way.
The knock came prompt and precise, because Alfred Pennyworth had never been anything else in his life. Jason opened the door to find him in a heavy coat, his own plum colored scarf immaculate, eyes warm and knowing. The scarf wasn’t the only surprise that Jason had planned for Peter that day. Although, he had hinted at it heavily in the past week. He wouldn’t want to freak the kid out.
“Merry Christmas, Master Jason,” Alfred greeted. To anyone else, his voice was clinical, but to Jason? It was practically beaming with smooth, nostalgic happiness.
Jason stepped aside. “Merry Christmas, Alfred.”
Peter skidded into view. “Hi!” he exclaimed. His excitement at a guest that his adoptive dad didn’t hate overcame his shyness.
Alfred’s smile softened as he stepped inside. “Good morning, Master Peter. I trust Santa was generous this morning?”
Peter nodded solemnly, his tone matching the same primness of the highly trained butler, “Adequate.”
Jason snorted.
Soon enough, after the pleasantries were done, Alfred remained standing in his full attire by the front door. Jason explained to Peter that they were going to go have fun before having to slink into Wayne Manor. So, in a few dashes and the rustle of winter clothes being put on, the three left the apartment locked behind them.
Down on the street, they piled into the car shortly after, Damian sat in the back seat with his legs crossed and hands empty like he’d been waiting for precisely this moment. He wore a thick coat, gloves tucked neatly into his sleeves, and expression carefully neutral.
“Good morning,” Damian finally spoke as Peter settled into the backseat as well, Jason taking the passenger seat.
Peter waved. “Hi! You’re coming too?”
“Yes,” Damian replied matter-of-fact, “There will be animals.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, looking behind his leather seat. “That’s your only reason?”
Damian hesitated. “…Primarily.”
Alfred drove, because Alfred always drove, and the city slipped past the windows in a quieter version of itself, streets dusted with frost, storefronts still closed, and Gotham holding in its violent tendencies for a few hours.
Demarest Farms was already glowing when they arrived.
Its famous ‘Farm Lights’ were sprawled across the property in soft yellows and whites, lanterns hanging from posts, strings of lights outlining barns and fences. The air smelled like hay, cold earth, and cider.
Peter went still the moment they stepped out of the car; sensory overload, but thankfully in a good way.
“Wow,” he whispered, his speech coming out like a puff of smoke in the air.
Jason tugged his hood up around his ears and stayed close to the group, hand resting lightly at the back of Peter’s coat as he coaxed him along. Damian walked a step ahead them, posture alert, but eyes betraying a flicker of something like excitement.
They moved through the paths slowly. Peter stopped at everything, goats chewing lazily, sheep huddled together, a horse breathing steam into the cold air. ‘Just like me!’ the boy thought. He watched with the kind of focus that made Jason’s chest ache.
Damian crouched near the fence of a small pen and gestured Peter closer. “Approach from the side. Let them see you,” he spoke ominously. Peter had yet to see what animal he was ‘approaching from the side’.
Nonetheless, Peter did, careful and gentle. In a hesitant moment, a giant black goat with huge horns sniffed his mittened hand in front of the fence before nudging it.
Peter laughed, surprised and delighted.
Jason watched them both, Damian explaining in his clipped way, Peter absorbing everything like it mattered, and felt something settle in his chest. The feeling wasn’t exactly peace; peace was much too flimsy. It was something sturdier, definitely one to be earned.
Moments later, they all, Alfred included, shared hot cider near the central barn, steam curling into the air. Alfred stood a little apart from the boys, content in being watchful.
“Thanks for coming,” Jason said quietly to him, having been the nearest.
Alfred inclined his head. “It seemed appropriate.”
By the time they headed back to the car, Peter was flushed pink with coldness and happiness, scarf still crooked and eyes bright.
Jason buckled him in, tugged his gloves on tighter, and pressed a brief kiss to the top of his head before he could think too hard about it.
“Good day?” Jason asked while in his space.
Peter nodded, a little tired now. “Best.”
Jason let a smile grace his face without shame. Then, carefully, he shut the door and got in his own seat to lean back in. He watched the lights fade behind them as Alfred drove them onward.
Christmas, it turned out, didn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it was just warmth, and animals, and a boy who trusted him completely.
Jason tightened his grip on that feeling and didn’t let go.
⋆꙳•❅*🎄*❆•꙳⋆
Wayne Manor greeted them the way it always did, by being vast, quiet, and pretending very hard not to care who walked through its doors.
Jason felt it the second Alfred guided them inside, the subtle shift from Gotham’s sharp edges to something softer, padded by money and history, and habits that had survived too many disasters to count. The marble floors gleamed. The air smelled faintly of pine and polish, plus something warm drifting from deeper in the house.
Seasonings… Coconut Oil…. Cinnamon…..
Cooking.
Jason, content with the Demon Spawn guarding his kid and Alfred nearby, followed the scent of such. He slowed without meaning to as he breached the open doorway of the kitchen.
Inside, Thee Bruce Wayne was… cooking.
‘Huh.’
That alone should have been enough to make the day surreal.
‘Who let him do that?’
Peter, however, was preoccupied to notice the revelation, already tugging off his coat, eyes wide as he took in the foyer like he was standing inside a museum he’d only ever seen in books. He didn’t rush. He didn’t bounce. He simply looked; up at the vaulted ceiling, along the staircase banister, and toward the hallway that stretched on and on.
“It’s… big,” he said carefully.
Damian removed his coat with practiced efficiency, handing it to Alfred before Peter could blink as he turned to the other. “Titus is in the east wing,” he informed Peter, like this was vital information.
Peter’s face lit up, forgoing how a house with ‘wings’ was like a castle to him. “Really?!”
“Yes,” Damian affirmed, “...He has a Christmas bow.”
Jason made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, walking back into the lobby after silently backing away from whatever sight he had seen. “Of course he does.”
Before Peter could be whisked away by the promise of Great Dane related festivities, Jason’s attention snagged on the sound of clattering coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t violent, just… chaotic.
‘...he’s going to hurt himself in there…’ he ultimately decided. Jason creeped back to where he had just been.
Bruce stood at the center of the kitchen like a man facing an unsolvable puzzle. Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly disheveled. An apron, a fucking apron, tied crookedly around his waist. The counter was covered in ingredients, recipe printouts, and at least three measuring cups that looked like they’d been abandoned mid crisis.
Jason stopped in the doorway. This time, he let the noise of his presence be known.
Bruce looked up.
For a split second, neither of them said anything.
“Jason,” Bruce breathed out finally, voice cautious but genuine. “Merry Christmas.”
“Mm.” Jason crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. “You cooking or committing a crime?”
Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, one so impossibly rare. “I’m… attempting to contribute.”
Jason glanced at the counter that was littered by ingredients and then to the parallel counter across the kitchen, one with empty dishware. “You burn anything yet?”
“Not yet,” Bruce gulped, “Alfred intervened early.”
As if summoned, Alfred appeared at Bruce’s shoulder, hands folded neatly. “Master Bruce has been instructed to remain within safe parameters.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘safe’ to the old man.”
“Minimal fire hazard,” Alfred replied serenely.
Jason snorted despite himself.
Trotting to where voices were, Peter peeked around Jason’s leg, craning his neck to see Bruce. Their eyes met. Bruce’s expression softened instantly.
“Hello, Peter,” Bruce said gently, his words were not rushed.
Peter hesitated, then nodded. “Hi.”
Jason stayed where he was, close enough to intervene, far enough to let Peter choose. Peter looked at the kitchen again, at the mess and the warmth and the absurdity of Bruce Wayne wielding a whisk like it might explode.
“What are you making?” Peter asked innocently.
Bruce hesitated, frozen in place where he stood in the center of his mayhem. “…Several things.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Jason muttered from the side of his mouth.
Bruce shot him a look. “I’m following instructions.”
“From where?”
“I… texted Clark,” Bruce admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “Who passed me over to Lois.”
Jason burst out laughing.
Like, actually laughing.
Peter looked between them, startled at the loudness, then smiled once his sixth sense calmed down.
“That explains it,” Jason said, “Lois knows food.”
Bruce smiled faintly, relieved. “She sent diagrams.”
Jason shook his head, still grinning. “I can’t believe I’m alive to see this,” he whispered underneath his breath.
Before the moment could linger too long, Damian reappeared, tugging on Peter’s sleeve. “Titus awaits.” Peter brightened.
“Can I go?” The boy looked to Jason.
Jason glanced at Bruce, then Alfred, then back at Peter. “Yeah. Stick with Damian.”
Damian inclined his head and led Peter away with the gravity of someone escorting royalty.
Jason exhaled slowly once they were gone. He didn’t miss Alfred’s knowing look.
“Master Timothy remains upstairs,” Alfred said mildly, “In a state.”
Jason grimaced. “Define ‘state’ too.”
Alfred’s mouth twitched. “Caffeinated.”
Jason groaned. “Of course he is.”
⋆꙳•❅*🎄*❆•꙳⋆
Leaving the mess of, supposedly edible, food downstairs, Jason migrated to Tim in his room surrounded by screens, wires, crusted coffee mugs, and a nest of blankets that suggested he’d been awake for far too long. He blinked at Jason like he was buffering when the door opened.
“Oh,” Tim said after a moment, “You’re real.”
Jason grabbed the back of Tim’s chair and spun it just enough to get his attention. “Downstairs. Family. Christmas.”
Tim squinted. “Is the house on fire?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t leave.”
Jason leaned down, voice low, dangerous, “I will physically drag you.”
Tim stared at him with very wide eyes for a beat, then sighed, “Okay, okay. Let me save this.”
“Save what?”
Tim paused from where he looked to his screens, turning in the chair. “Everything.”
Jason waited exactly two seconds before hauling him up by the collar of his pajama shirt.
“Hey!” Tim protested weakly, “Consent!”
“You lost sane consent when you started drinking espresso shots like water,” Jason said, steering him toward the door.
Downstairs, the house filled gradually with noise. Peter and Damian returned with Titus in tow, the dog was massive, slobbery, and proudly sporting a red bow around his neck that Peter kept adjusting like it was a serious responsibility.
“Sit,” Damian commanded. Titus sat. Peter clapped.
Jason watched from the edge of the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He didn’t know where to stand, didn’t know if there was a place for him here that didn’t feel temporary.
Seconds later from those thoughts, a side entrance door bursted open. Cold air rushed in, followed by laughter and the clanging of thin metal.
Dick stumbled in first, cheeks red, scarf crooked, grinning like he was still sixteen. Steph followed, nearly colliding with him, complaining loudly about the Gotham City skating rink’s ice. Cass slipped in behind them, graceful even in heavy boots, eyes immediately scanning the room.
“Hey!” Dick yelled in joy as they made their way to the sound of voices near the kitchen, “We didn’t miss dinner, did we?”
“Not yet,” Alfred replied.
Cass spotted Jason instantly.
Her face lit up, not dramatically, not loudly; just a quiet, genuine smile. She crossed the room and stopped in front of him.
“Happy Christmas,” she said softly.
Jason swallowed. “Yeah. You too.”
Steph noticed Peter after and crouched immediately to eye level with the boy. “Oh my god. Hi Peter!”
Peter blinked at her. “Hi.”
“I’m Steph, remember!” she said, leaning towards Peter not remembering, “I brought cookies.”
No matter how random the blonde lady may be in Peter’s mind, the reward of cookies blocks out all of his doubt of her being bad. His face lit up and he instantly began to sniff at the air, trying to figure out the flavor of the cookies by his senses. Jason snorted again.
Dick ruffled Peter’s hair without thinking and earned a glare from Jason that made him freeze.
“Right,” Dick said, hands up, “Boundaries. Got it.”
⋆꙳•❅*🎄*❆•꙳⋆
The room settled into a comfortable chaos, voices overlapping, Titus snoring loudly by the fireplace, and Tim vibrating on the couch while Cass tried to siphon him away from his phone.
Jason stayed near Peter, close but not hovering. He stayed watching; letting himself breathe. For a while, it felt almost normal… and that scared him more than anything else.
‘Normal’ and ‘Peace’ were fragile.
Jason had learned, a long time ago, that fragile things needed protecting.
⋆꙳•❅*🎄*❆•꙳⋆
Dinner did not begin so much as it happened; the way weather did, inevitable once all the right conditions had gathered.
The long spruce dining table stood solid in the manor’s formal dining room, polished to a reflective sheen that made the overhead lights gleam like constellations trapped beneath glass. Alfred had outdone himself with the decor, as always. The smell of fresh pine was prevalent in the air, dried orange slices hung above the big room’s proportional windows, and all lights were warm instead of cold light.
On top of the table, the spread of food was generous without being ostentatious. There were roasted vegetables, carved meats, warm bread baskets with towels covering, bowls of salad arranged with military precision…
…and then there were Bruce’s contributions.
Jason eyed the dishes Bruce carried in with open suspicion.
“That one looks… aggressive,” he mumbled to someone, anyone, nodding toward a white and orange casserole dish that appeared to be bubbling with intent.
Bruce set it down carefully… “It’s a sweet potato casserole.”
“Why does it look like it’s trying to escape back to the ground?”
Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it. “The recipe said to bake uncovered.”
Jason glanced at Alfred.
Alfred smiled serenely. “Master Bruce followed the instructions to the letter.”
“That explains everything…” Jason muttered.
Soon enough, all of the family gathered around the food filled table. They took their seats in a loose, organic way, no assigned places, and no hierarchy enforced. Jason sat with Peter on one side of him and Damian on the other, Titus wedged firmly beneath the table like an immovable object. Peter’s feet didn’t quite reach the floor, and he swung them idly, his cherry red scarf still looped around his neck despite being indoors.
Bruce stood at the head of the table for a moment, hesitating. His freshly shaved jaw twitched.
“Before we eat,” he said, clearing his throat, “I just wanted to say… thank you. All of you. For being here.”
There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just attentive.
Bruce continued, voice steady but quieter than usual. “This year has been… complicated. And I know I don’t always say this well, but–” He paused, glanced briefly at Jason, then back to the table, “--I’m glad we’re together.”
Dick smiled. Steph nodded vigorously. Cass tilted her head, thoughtful.
Jason didn’t respond, but he didn’t look away either. Damian was silently petting Titus beneath the table. Peter… the boy was simply only paying attention to the bread basket closest to him. He watched the dish with hawk eyes.
With Bruce saying no more, Alfred stepped forward and they began passing dishes. Conversation bubbled up naturally– Dick recounted a near collision between him and the protective borders in the ice rink, Steph dramatically insisting it was entirely Dick’s fault, Tim poking at his food absently while muttering about thermal efficiency. ‘Buzzkill.’
Peter watched it all with quiet fascination, eyes darting from speaker to speaker, absorbing cadence and tone like a language he was still learning.
“So,” Steph said suddenly, leaning back in her chair with a grin that spelled trouble, “important question.”
Jason tensed instinctively.
“What,” he said flatly.
Steph pointed her fork at him, a slice of glazed ham impaled on it. “Taylor Ham or Pork Roll.”
The table went silent.
Jason blinked. “Are you serious right now?”
Dick’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, yes. This is thee debate.”
“It’s Pork Roll,” Jason said immediately, going back to his food, “There is no debate.”
Steph gasped. “Incorrect!” Black and white hair immediately snapped back up.
“It’s literally on the packaging,” Jason argued, “Taylor Ham is a lie.”
Dick leaned forward eagerly, “Okay, but culturally–”
“It’s a branding issue,” Jason shot back, “Invented by cowards.”
Bruce looked between them, baffled. “I… don’t understand the parameters of this argument.”
Tim perked up instantly. “Oh, this is regional. New Jersey thing. North versus South.”
Damian frowned. “You are arguing over cured meat nomenclature.”
“Yes,” Jason and Steph said in unison. Both were glaring at one another now.
Cass watched them, eyes bright with interest, then signed something to Duke through her phone. Duke opened his phone to a private chat and laughed.
Peter raised his hand slightly. He raised it in the air meekly, like he was still at school.
Everyone paused.
“Yes?” Jason said, instantly attentive.
Peter thought for a moment. “What’s the difference?”
Jason opened his mouth, then closed it. He had to think about it for a moment too.
Dick jumped in. “Okay, so–”
“It’s the same thing,” Steph interrupted.
“It is not,” Jason snapped, “Only one is the right answer.”
“It absolutely is,” Steph shot back.
Peter frowned, processing. “So… it’s the same meat, but people argue about the name.”
“Yes,” Damian spoke dryly from the side of the boy, “Humans are strange.”
Because it was Damian, everyone ignored how that sentence made it seem like he truly was confessing to be spawn of a demon.
Peter nodded slowly. “Then… it’s both.”
Jason stared at him.
Dick burst out laughing. “Kid just solved it.”
Steph clapped. “Neutral ground!”
Jason groaned. “I can’t believe I’m outnumbered by a child.”
Peter smiled, pleased, and went back to eating like he’d just brokered a peace treaty. It was more so, the adults had just decided not to keep arguing about it in front of the ‘baby’.
Bruce watched the exchange with something unreadable in his expression. It was not amusement exactly, but something softer. It was most like longing.
Dinner continued, the tension melting into warmth as plates emptied and voices overlapped like a chorus of experienced singers. Alfred moved like a ghost, refilling glasses, adjusting dish placements, all while humming softly under his breath.
Jason ate more than he expected to. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he wasn’t anymore.
At some point, Bruce gestured hesitantly to the green bean casserole. “If anyone wants to try–”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah–” Jason scooped a small portion onto his plate. He’d be taking one for the team. “Alright. Let’s see what Lois taught you.”
He took a bite.
Paused.
Everyone watched him.
Jason chewed, swallowed, then nodded once with wide green eyes. “It’s… not bad.”
Bruce’s shoulders relaxed visibly.
Tim grinned. “High praise.”
Peter tried it next, face just as serious as Jason. ‘Like father, like son,’ the Wayne family thought as they studied his reaction too. “It’s okay.”
Bruce smiled. “Thank you Peter, Jason. I’ll take that.”
As the meal wound down, conversation softened. Cass leaned against the back of her chair, going back to just being in the shadows. Steph teased Damian about the bow on Titus. Dick recounted a childhood Christmas disaster involving a mistletoe and the Batcave.
Jason leaned back in his own chair, one arm draped protectively behind Peter’s, who had begun to yawn.
For a moment, just a moment, Jason let himself feel it.
Warmth.
Fullness.
A strange, fragile sense of belonging that crept in when he wasn’t on guard.
He didn’t trust it. Not fully.
However, the resurrected man didn’t push it away either.
Peter leaned into his side across the seats, sleepy and content. To which, Jason rested his chin lightly on the top of the boy’s head.
Christmas dinner ended not with ceremony, but with quiet satisfaction.
Empty plates were stacked.
Chairs scraped back against the wooden floor.
Titus snored louder than ever.
Miraculously, Alfred the Cat, whom Damian had proudly introduced to Peter earlier, sat in a loaf by the resting figure of the Great Dane.
Jason stayed seated a little longer than the others.
Watching.
Memorizing.
Because he knew, deep down, that moments like this didn’t last forever.
Possibly, that’s what made them worth holding onto more.
⋆꙳•❅*🎄*❆•꙳⋆
The manor softened as night crept in. Snow began to pile, undeterred outside.
It happened gradually, the way a house exhaled once it realized nothing else was required of it. The clatter of dishes faded into the quiet efficiency of Alfred and the faint hum of appliances. Laughter dulled into murmurs. The sharp edges of the day rounded off into something warm and slow, like maple syrup.
Peter was the first to give in to it.
He hadn’t fallen asleep outright, Jason could tell by the way his fingers still twitched against the hem of Jason’s sweater, but the boy had gone pliant, his weight leaning fully into Jason’s side as they sat on the rug near the fireplace. The fire crackled low and steady, heat washing over them in gentle waves. Peter’s scarf had been abandoned at some point and now lay folded beside them, like it had chosen to stay close anyway.
Jason shifted carefully, angling himself so Peter’s head rested more comfortably against his shoulder. He didn’t move otherwise. He’d learned, painfully, how easy it was to break these moments if you startled them.
Across the room, Dick and Steph were engaged in a hushed argument about whether Christmas movies counted as ‘seasonal propaganda’ or not. Cassandra sat cross legged nearby, quietly braiding a loose thread from the edge of a blanket, listening with half an ear to their conversation. Duke’s voice filtered in through the hallways, low, content, and teasing, while Tim had finally been corralled into a loveseat with a mug of something Alfred swore was not coffee.
Damian sat at the foot of a couch, back straight, Titus sprawled across his legs like a living, snoring blanket. Damian pretended not to notice the dog’s weight. He failed.
Bruce lingered at the edge of it all.
Jason felt his presence more than he saw it, the way Bruce hovered near doorframes, near people, like he was relearning the shape of the room. When Jason glanced up, their eyes met briefly.
Bruce looked… tired.
Not the bone deep exhaustion of Batman after patrol, but something quieter, thoughtful. Like a man standing amid the evidence of something good and wondering how much of it he was allowed to touch.
Jason didn’t look away this time.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t invite.
But he didn’t shut him out either.
Bruce inclined his head, just slightly, in something that might have been gratitude; Or acknowledgment; Or an apology that wasn’t ready to be spoken yet.
Jason let it sit.
Eventually, Alfred approached, hands folded, voice soft. “It’s nearly time for Master Peter to be excused so he may properly sleep.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah.”
He shifted where he sat so that his head could crane better towards Peter’s, murmuring Peter’s name under his breath. Peter stirred, blinking slowly, eyes unfocused.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.
Jason huffed quietly. “Nah, bug. You brokered peace between warring factions over breakfast meat. That was the only big event.”
Peter smiled faintly at the memory of earlier, proud even half asleep.
Jason stood carefully, lifting Peter with practiced ease in his arms. To hell that he was nine years old; Peter was his kid, his small kid too. The boy curled instinctively into him, arms looping loosely around Jason’s neck. Jason adjusted his grip, one hand firm between Peter’s shoulders, the other steady beneath his knees.
“ ‘Night,” Peter murmured to the room at large.
“Goodnight,” several voices replied, overlapping and gentle.
Jason carried him down the hall toward the guest room Alfred had prepared. He moved quietly, socked feet barely making a sound against the carpet. He laid Peter down slowly onto a neatly made bed, tugged the blankets up, smoothed his hair back with a hand that lingered longer than necessary.
Peter’s eyes fluttered open again.
“Jason?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Today was… good,” Peter said, like he needed to confirm it out loud.
Jason swallowed. “Yeah. It was.”
Peter nodded, satisfied, and drifted off completely this time.
Jason stayed a moment longer, just to be sure.
When he returned to the living room, things had thinned out. Dick and Steph were packing up to head out, promising to argue about skating injuries later. Cass offered Jason a small, warm smile before following them. Tim was shepherded upstairs by Alfred with the firm patience of a man who had done this many times before.
Damian lingered near the fireplace, hands tucked into his sleeves.
“Thank you,” Damian said suddenly, possibly speaking to the fireplace if it weren’t for him turning to Jason a few moments later.
Jason paused. “For what?”
“For bringing him,” Damian said, “..and for earlier. With the animals.”
Jason grunted. “Don’t get used to it, Demon Brat.”
Damian nodded solemnly. “I will not.”
When the room finally emptied, the youngest Wayne sibling making his way to his room, Jason stood alone for a moment, hands shoved into his pockets, staring into the low fire. His reflection wavered in the glass, older, scarred, and softer around the edges than he remembered being.
Bruce lingered near the doorway.
“Jason,” he approached quietly.
Jason turned, expression guarded but not hostile. “Yeah?”
Bruce hesitated. Then, simply offered, “I’m glad you came.”
Jason considered him for a long moment.
“Me too,” he said, surprised to find he meant it.
He headed back down the hall, stopping once to glance toward Peter’s door. He leaned his shoulder briefly against the wall beside it, eyes closing as he exhaled.
Christmas wasn’t perfect.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way though…’ was the last thought in his mind for that night.