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Snow clung to the iron gates like it had a personal vendetta.
Hal hovered just above the drive, boots glowing faintly green as he took in Wayne Manor for the, maybe, third time in his life and the first time under… these circumstances. The place looked different in winter. Softer, somehow. The stone wasn’t any less intimidating, but the warm light spilling from the windows took the edge off it. Wreaths hung along the railings. White lights traced the roofline, uneven in a way that felt deliberate rather than sloppy.
He landed, dismissed the construct, and immediately felt underdressed.
Bruce had told him it was casual. Bruce lied about things like that. The mansion itself was a reason to dress up.
The front door opened before Hal could second-guess knocking.
Alfred stood there, immaculate as ever, hands folded behind his back.
“Mr. Jordan,” he said. “Good evening.”
Hal smiled, relieved despite himself. “Hey, Alfred. Thanks for—uh. Having me.”
Alfred stepped aside. “Please come in.”
The entryway smelled like pine and something baking. A tall tree stood just inside the foyer, decorated in layers—glass ornaments higher up, sturdier ones lower. Hal caught sight of a paper snowflake taped a little crooked near the bottom, its edges uneven, glitter dulled with age. A string of construction-paper bats—bats—looped around one of the branches, interspersed with red and green paper chains.
None of it felt like a billionaire’s idea of decor.
All of it felt like Bruce’s decor.
Bruce appeared from the hallway, sleeves rolled up. “You made it.”
“Barely survived the gates,” Hal said. “They were judging me.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. He reached out, brief and grounding, fingers brushing Hal’s wrist before dropping away. “Come on. Dinner’s ready.”
The dining room was already loud.
Jason and Steph were mid-argument over seating. Tim was standing behind his chair, inspecting something on his plate like it had personally insulted him. Cass sat cross-legged in her chair, quietly content, while Damian stood on the opposite side of the table correcting everyone within reach.
“You are all uncivilized,” Damian snapped. “That is not how one holds cutlery.”
Jason didn’t look up. “You’re ten.”
“I am twelve.”
“Congrats.”
Hal froze just inside the doorway.
Every head turned.
Cass smiled first.
Then Dick, already half out of his chair. “You made it! Hi! So nice to meet you, you’re taller than I thought.”
Hal blinked. “I… thanks?”
Steph grinned. “Oh my god, it’s real. He’s real.”
Tim squinted. “Did you bring wine or any type of alcohol?”
Jason snorted. “Don’t scare him off.”
Damian crossed his arms, glaring. “Father did not mention a Lantern would be joining us.”
Bruce cleared his throat. “Damian.”
Damian tilted his head, eyes sharp. “I see.”
That was somehow worse.
Hal lifted a hand in a small wave. “Uh. Hi. I’m Hal.”
Cass nodded. “Cass.”
“Dick,” Dick said cheerfully, already moving to pull out a chair. “Sit. Before they eat everything.”
Steph added, “Including your soul.”
Dinner was… an experience.
Hal learned quickly not to react to every comment. Plates were passed over him. Someone stole his roll. Someone else stole it back. Tim pushed peas around his plate with open suspicion.
“I don’t trust them,” Tim muttered.
“They’re peas,” Steph said.
“They’re green,” Tim replied. “That’s a warning color. Look at Robin’s colors”
Jason laughed. Damian scowled.
Alfred joined them midway through the meal.
He sat at the head of the table, unfolding his napkin and began serving himself as he watched the chaos happening around him.
“Miss Brown,” Alfred said calmly, “those rolls are for everyone.”
Steph froze. “…They’re communal.”
“You have taken four, not counting the ones in your pockets.”
Steph looked away, and muttered. “They’re emergency rolls Alfie. It’s important for a growing girl to always have food on hand.”
Jason choked on his drink.
Bruce hid a smile behind his glass.
The decorations caught Hal’s eye between arguments. A macaroni star hung from the chandelier, spray-painted gold and slightly lopsided. Paper ornaments with names written in childish handwriting—Dick, Jason, Tim—looped along the windows. Someone had taped a construction-paper snowman to the wall near the kitchen, one mitten missing.
Dick leaned over and nudged Hal “I made that one, my first year here” He said as he pointed to a paper hung up that had a bunch of green smudges, and littler one in a bunch of different colors. If Hal squinted he could see the tiny fingerprints that had created the art. “It’s pretty good right, I think I painted a pretty good Christmas tree.”
So that was what it was. “Pretty good” He told Dick, “Better than I could do.” Dick just smiled at him.
Dinner stretched on. Stories overlapped. Dick asked Hal about flying. Jason asked him about fights. Tim asked him if the ring could hack satellites (Bruce cut that off immediately). Cass asked him if space was quiet.
“It can be,” Hal said.
She nodded, satisfied.
Dessert appeared. Cookies, pie, something Alfred insisted was “not experimental.” Bruce checked his watch and frowned.
“I need to take a call, I’ll be back soon.”
He stood, resting a hand briefly on Hal’s shoulder before leaving the room.
The air shifted.
It became sharper.
Bruce’s footsteps hadn’t even faded before Dick spoke.
“Okay,” he said. “Now.”
Hal straightened automatically.
Jason shoved his chair back hard enough that it tipped before he caught it. Steph climbed onto the table. Tim didn’t move. Cass stepped close. Damian moved closer still—close enough that Hal could feel it.
Dick’s smile was polite.
“You hurt him,” Dick said, “and I’ll take your arm apart.”
Hal inhaled.
“Shoulder first,” Dick continued. “I’ll pull until it comes out of the socket. Then I’ll break it so badly you’ll never throw a punch straight again.”
Jason cracked his neck. “I’ll get legs.”
Hal looked at him.
“Kneecaps,” Jason said. “Both. I’ll shatter them. You’ll heal eventually. But you will never be able to land properly, every time you try you will be reminded of this moment.”
Steph leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I’m not strong enough to do what they’re doing,” she said cheerfully. “So I’ll stab you. A lot. Not deep. Just enough that everything hurts when you move.”
Tim finally spoke.
“I’ll cut every tendon in your body,” Tim said. Calm. Flat. “Starting with your achilles. It will take years for you to walk again.”
Cass tilted her head.
“I’ll paralyze you,” she said. “I know where to hit.”
Damian stepped fully into Hal’s space.
“I will carve my warning into your skin,” Damian said. “Somewhere permanent. Somewhere visible. If you hurt my father, you will never forget who you answered to.”
Hal’s throat worked.
“I won’t kill you,” Damian added. “You will live with it.”
Silence.
Hal nodded once. “I understand.”
Alfred cleared his throat.
That was enough.
Alfred’s presence broke the moment cleanly.
Not easing the tension, but suppressing it.
“That will be sufficient,” he said, voice even. Final.
No one argued. No one needed to.
Damian stepped back first. Jason righted his chair. Steph hopped down from the table. Cass retreated without sound. Tim reached for a cookie like nothing had happened.
Hal exhaled slowly, carefully, like he’d just come out of atmosphere.
Dessert resumed.
That was the strangest part.
Plates were passed. Someone complained that the pie was cut unevenly. Dick argued that it was objectively even and Jason argued that Dick was lying on principle. The moment closed behind them without ceremony.
Bruce came back a few minutes later, shrugging out of his coat.
“Sorry,” he said. “Conference call ran long.”
“You missed nothing,” Alfred replied smoothly.
Hal met Bruce’s eyes for half a second longer than necessary, then looked away.
“Movie night,” Steph announced suddenly. “I call it. I’ve waited all year.”
“You called it last year,” Tim said.
“And I used it well.”
“That’s debatable.”
They migrated toward the living room in a disorganized wave. Someone turned on lights. Someone else turned them back off. The tree lights blinked softly, reflecting off old paper ornaments that swayed when Jason brushed past them.
The living room was cozy.
Blankets folded over the backs of couches. Stockings hung crooked along the mantle, names stitched in mismatched thread. A paper snowflake was taped above the television, one side folded wrong. A construction-paper star sat on the side table, glitter flaking onto the wood.
Hal paused, just long enough to be noticeable, taking it all in.
Nobody mentioned it.
They argued about movies instead.
“No animated,” Jason said.
“No space,” Damian said immediately, eyes on Hal.
Hal raised his hands. “Fair.”
Dick flopped onto the couch beside him without warning, throwing a blanket over both of them. “You’re sitting here. Center couch. That way you can see who’s glaring at you.”
“I can still glare without him noticing,” Damian said.
Dick grinned. “I believe in you.”
Cass curled up on the opposite end of the couch, quiet and content. Tim dropped onto the floor with his laptop, muttering about sound balance (whatever that meant). Steph claimed the armrest like it was a throne. Jason stretched out on the loveseat, boots still on until Alfred cleared his throat from the doorway.
Jason sighed and kicked them off.
And Bruce obviously sat right next to him, his arm resting over Hal’s shoulder.
The movie started.
It didn’t last ten minutes without commentary.
Hal laughed before he could stop himself.
Bruce glanced at him, something soft and unreadable in his expression, and leaned just enough that his head was resting on Hal’s shoulder.
Outside, snow continued to fall.
Inside, the house hummed—voices overlapping, lights blinking, and the TV’s quiet noises.
And despite the threat still ringing sharp and clear in his bones, Hal thought—
Yeah.
This was worth it.