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Damian's inaugural holiday season at Wayne Manor is… informative, he supposes.
The League did not honor holidays of any kind. And, although he is certain various members quietly remembered the sacred days of their birth cultures throughout the year, no outward sign of celebration was tolerated by his grandfather.
Once, Damian had seen a local festival in the village outside the League base. There had been banners and flowers festooning the streets, musicians playing on corners, and freshly made sweets for sale. One older woman, with hair the color of pewter, even tried to give him a sweet without asking for payment.
"It's not a day for haggling, child," she had said with a smile.
Damian had stared at her for a moment, considering, before his mother called sharply for him. Immediately, he had turned away, leaving the untouched sweet in the old woman's wrinkled, outstretched hand, and followed his mother.
"Such celebrations are frivolous and divisive," she had said. Glancing dismissively around the village, she asserted, "We honor only what Father deems fit."
And seldom little was deemed fit to be celebrated within the League. After a successful mission promoting his grandfather's vision for the world, the League operatives were granted two hours surplus to dine and fraternize, but Damian was too young, and too high born, to partake. He would pass the dining hall going to and returning from training, and see glimpses of the returned League members, bruised, quietly speaking, and, perhaps, vaguely pleased beneath their exhaustion. He had very much desired to join them.
Now, he supposes, it was a notion born of a fascination at any change in his restrictive schedule, more than a true desire to be among his grandfather's followers. But he had not realized that, nor, he suspects would it have mattered to him, at the time.
Since December began, or November according to Grayson, Damian has been inducted into the 'holiday season' at Wayne Manor. The term evidently means a variety of alterations: garlands, gaudy ornaments, and cheerfulness that is nearly aggressive. It also includes family traditions. Apparently, Pennyworth, Father, Grayson, and Todd all have them, and, while no one has mandated that he participate in the festivities, there seems little opportunity to avoid them.
They permeate the rooms of the manor; Damian’s primary reaction has been ambivalence, but he supposes cloying, winter cheer is an improvement over the looming shadows of the summer.
—------------------------------------------
Damian discovers the first family tradition after he returns to the manor from bell-ringing.
It is, evidently, a common fundraising method employed this time of year by local charitable organizations. In Damian's research, he has learned that for his plans to run a sustainable non-profit organization to succeed, he will need to raise funds. The Waynes’ vast surplus wealth will be able to cover costs for several years, but the Songbird Society needs the stability, and independence, of multiple revenue sources if it is to last indefinitely (and ideally long after the Waynes are gone).
Damian supposes bell ringing is an adequate foundation on which to develop his fundraising skills. Especially, as most of the Waynes have agreed that Damian is not yet ready to negotiate with large donors. Damian's pride was slightly damaged at this decree, but he is, perhaps, relieved not to have to attend galas with his father and Grayson.
And, he has found bell ringing to be enjoyable. His transition into school this semester has been difficult. The rigid structure provided by the educational institution is not so strange to him, but the type of assignments and social rules are. Fortunately, between Grayson and Pennyworth's endless social advice, and his joining of an extracurricular group - unfortunately named Students Promoting Obvious Improvements Loudly, and whose members are even more unfortunately referred to by the term SPOILers - he has begun to understand the nuances of the school's social web, even if he still finds many of his peer's concerns petty or immature.
"It’s middle and high school, of course it's all petty and immature," Stepanie Brown, the founder of the SPOILers told Damian. "Hell, plenty of adults act that way, too. The world runs on pettiness and immaturity, so I recommend you develop a tolerance."
"Great pep talk, Steph," Jamie had replied. "The cursing and cynicism really bring out the holiday cheer and bolsters the charitable spirit."
Jamie, a slightly melancholy sophomore, was the only other member of the group before Damian joined. Frustratingly, he has never disclosed his full name, so Damian is forced to refer to him by his nickname. The informal address irks him, but when he told Grayson his plan to hack into the school database to learn Jamie’s proper name, Grayson informed him this would be a grave social faux paus.
"You didn’t let me finish," Brown huffed. "Basically, the world sucks, so let’s try to make it a gram less sucky."
"You’ve been watching The Great British Bake-Off again, haven’t you?" Jamie had idly replied. "You’re using the metric system in your metaphors again."
"Shut up and stop being part of the problem," Brown had said.
"I think we’ve found our club motto," Jamie replied.
Damian had observed the entire exchange that first meeting, bemused and fascinated in turn. The extracurricular group, or club as the other members refer to it, focuses on volunteering in the community. The only way he can describe the founder is: aggressively kind. The unfamiliar combination may have caused his brain to short circuit for a moment when he first made Brown’s acquaintance, because when she shouted "Hey, new kid! You're one of us!" across Gotham Academy’s gymnasium, he did not object.
Apparently, she had been one of the most vocal advocates for the school’s new mentoring program that encouraged middle school students to join extracurricular groups started by high school students. To promote peer-to-peer mentoring, develop responsible leadership skills, and increase preparedness for high school and college, the official letter sent out by the school stated. Brown had informed Damian that he was the third member of their group, thus making it valid under Gotham Academy's guidelines.
"So don’t even think about bailing on us before next semester," she’d said.
When he'd awkwardly reported this event to Pennyworth, the butler had smiled, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly, and baked Damian his favorite cake for dessert.
On their third club meeting, Damian had been the one to suggest bell ringing as their December volunteering project. Initially, he had planned for his family to participate, but when he’d proposed the idea to Pennyworth, he’d promptly been informed that they'd all gone bell ringing in the past and subsequently caused such chaos that the local charity had banned them.
"I wasn't aware one could be banned, especially for anything short of violence or thievery," Damian had said.
"Nor was anyone else," the butler replied, wry.
According to Pennyworth, Bruce's presence five years ago had brought in too much paparazzi, resulting in a seven street long traffic blockage. Last year, Grayson's attempt to get donations with shameless flirting toward everyone in sight had led to various awkward assumptions, including: two accusations of solicitation, six unintentional promises of courtships, and one loud altercation between a married couple resulting from a misplaced claim of infidelity. Then, four years ago, Todd, stationed in front of an exceedingly upscale and exclusive boutique, had quickly lost any semblance of patience and yelled an assortment of - varied and creative - insults and obscenities at the clearly wealthy patrons who’d pass by and decline to donate.
"Alfred was partnered with Jay that year, and even he got banned for passive-aggressively scolding the same people," mock-whispered Grayson, who’d wandered into the kitchen at some point during the butler’s narration. The first Robin had nearly moved into the manor, he had been staying there so often since Damian had released Drake from the locked room.
Pennyworth had sent a withering look across the kitchen island at Grayson, who just stole a bite off of a cooling slice of garlic bread.
"Away with you miscreants!" he said, shooing them out of the room with a flapping dishtowel. Grayson had grinned mischievously and fled the room, pulling Damian behind him.
"Here," he said, shoving a slightly crumpled slice of bread at Damian.
"You stole that from Pennyworth," Damian accused.
"Dami, trust me," Grayson said. "I wouldn't have made it out of the kitchen if Alfred didn't want me to have it."
"That's not my name," Damian replied. He didn’t accept the bread, and Grayson shrugged and stuffed the entire piece in his mouth, before meandering toward the library where Drake usually read in the evenings. Damian had waited a moment, smelling the scent of garlic and butter drifting out of the kitchen and into the hallway, before following in his wake.
So, the week before Christmas Damian went bell ringing with the members of his new extracurricular organization, who everyone else called his friends, instead of the Waynes. They filled the donation bucket, and Damian pretended not to notice when various members of his family dropped hundred dollar bills into the bucket as they hurried past, their coat collars turned up as if that would sufficiently obscure their identities. Brown had looked at him askance the third time his father walked passed, and Damian had rolled his eyes in response. Brown had nodded sympathetically, and Damian was startled by the sense of satisfaction the small display of camaraderie produced.
Near the end of their bell ringing shift, a kindly shopper gave them a giftcard to get tea at the cafe across the street, and Stephanie and Jamie spoke good naturedly of school assignments and holiday plans as they sipped their warm beverages and huddled together against the chilling wind. The few times Damian contributed to the conversation they listened politely, but they were not insulted by his preference to mostly observe. At the end of the day, they turned the donation bucket into the charity, and the manager had looked deeply relieved that a person named Wayne had volunteered without causing a single debacle.
Thus, Damian, internally, and Brown, externally, deemed the outing a success. Jamie had just shrugged, and waved at Damian and Brown when he left to return home, which Brown asserted was an impressively positive response from the reserved teen.
After volunteering, Damian returns to the manor in the, increasingly earlier, nightfall. Everything in Gotham is stark in the winter. The darks darker, the lights brighter. But, the manor, for all its sharp, imposing dramatics, is warm inside. The yellow light spills out of the windows, illuminating the frost-withered garden in puddles of gold-edged light. The fireplace in the library is warm, crackling, and woodsy; the shadows the flames cast are somehow comforting, small and caressing, rather than the looming shades that suffused the manor upon Damian’s arrival this summer. In addition, Alfred, and Todd, though he thinks he is hiding it, have been baking Christmas cookies, and the house smells strongly of ginger, clove, and cinnamon.
Once he has stowed his coat in the hall closet off the entryway, Damian follows the wafting scent of spices to the kitchen. Upon entry, he discovers every remotely flat surface is covered in cooling gingerbread people.
"Is this not excessive?" Damian asks, staring at the veritable army of cookies.
"Assuredly not, young sir," Pennyworth replies.
Todd, intently glaring at a batch in the oven, says, "Need plenty if I'm gonna give some to everyone on my hall."
They both seem busy with their work, but it's warm here, and somehow feels bright in a way that does not pertain to electric light. So Damian carefully clears a small space at the end of the marble counter, pulls up a chair, and starts his homework.
Later, when Todd and Alfred have packed most of the plain, cooled cookies into festively decorated tins, and are meticulously working their way through one tin at a time, frosting the confections, Todd slides a plain one in front of Damian.
"Here," Todd instructs, "Red is only for smiles. No making the cookies look gruesome."
Thus, Damian, too, is roped into decorating cookies.
"Mom and I used to do this every year we could afford it," Jason says. "We'd save up all month just to buy the ingredients, and even then we were lucky if we had enough cookies for each neighbor to get one."
And even though he is talking about his deceased mother, and the poverty they'd faced, when Damian glances at him, he is smiling, just a little, as he precisely frosts a green scarf on a gingerbread lady.
Damian has been in Gotham for the better part of a year now, and this is the first time Damian has seen him with that expression. So, even though he is piping his twentieth smile on a gingerbread cookie, and he still has two pages of math homework to complete, Damian reaches for another confection.
—------------------------------------------
As the week progresses, Damian turns this interaction with Todd over in his mind.
He had dismissed the idea of family traditions when Grayson had prattled on about them at the beginning of November. He’d still been adjusting to school, and worrying about leaving Drake for an entire eight hour span for most of the week, and Grayson’s “crash course” in local holiday traditions had seemed frivolous and overwhelming, filled with unfamiliar terms and customs.
But now, Damian has begun feeling more settled at Gotham Academy, and Drake has been fine spending his days with only Pennyworth at the manor, and something about decorating a plethora of confections with Todd resulted in a feeling of contentedness rather than the guilt of wasted time. And, as is so common with Damian since his arrival at the manor, he is seeking answers.
"Is not the holiday of Christmas itself a tradition celebrated by the entirety of the family?" Damian asks Grayson.
"Yeah, but it's, like, the overall big tradition," Grayson had explained. "Family traditions are small, special things your family does together to celebrate a holiday."
Damian considers this, and supposes the closest he has for comparison is after his first successful mission. His mother had not outwardly reacted, afterall success was expected, not something to be suprised by, but she’d left the target's gold-plated wristwatch on the table in his quarters. A token of your accomplishment, the accompanying note had said. At the time he had valued the object as a symbol of his mother's approval. Now, only the faintest vestiges of that feeling remain when he thinks back on it; mostly the memory is a sign of how much of his life was dictated by others.
So, when Grayson asks if he has a family tradition to add to the manor's collection, that is what he tells him.
"That's, uh, interesting," Grayson says, his determined cheerfulness briefly dimmed. It makes his face look older and drawn, as it had in the first months of Damian's residency at the manor. Like the smothering shadows Drake's recovery chased away still live there, hidden away beneath his skin, ready to creep out again the moment Grayson stops his stubborn grinning.
Damian is not eager to recall those early months, so he makes a strategic retreat.
Aside from his brief, cookie-baking truce, Todd still refuses to enter Wayne Manor. However, he does regularly visit the roof of the building. He acts like he stubbornly believes they are not aware of his presence, though, he also must know that they know. Damian has given up puzzling over this strange commitment to denial, as the results are harmless enough.
Or as Pennyworth points out, "Sometimes the wisest strategy is to meet on the other party’s terms."
The next time Todd lurks on the manor's roof, Damian sees the flash of his leather jacket passing the window, and he climbs out to sit beside the second Robin. The manor’s roof is steeply angled, and the night is cold, but no snow has yet come.
"The snow is what makes the cold worth it. The city is gorgeous after fresh snow," Grayson had said when December began, Damian shivering in the passenger seat, as they drove to the store to buy him an array of thick sweatshirts.
Damian is not sure he agrees with Grayson. The snows on the mountains by the League base were often dangerous, and Gotham isn't a city inclined to beauty to begin with. Regardless, he is glad for its lack tonight, as it would make the roof that much more miserable and slick. Not that Damian would lose his balance on such a mundane surface - he may have ceased his combat training, but he is still every bit as capable as before - he just has new goals now.
So, he crouches beside Todd near the fourth floor eaves, and relates Grayson's reaction to his celebration story.
"It's cuz you reminded him you were raised in a fuckin’ murder cult," Todd says.
There is not much Damian can say in response to that, and Todd always says exactly what he thinks; it's one of the qualities Damian appreciates about him. So, he changes the subject.
"What about Drake? You all have traditions. He, too, was raised in Gotham. Why don't we celebrate his tradition?" Damian asks. Suddenly, before Todd can draw in a fresh breath, much less speak, another question occurs to him.
"Is it a locked-door reason?" Damian demands. It is the term he uses for anything regarding why Drake was kept hidden away.
"No! Chill, brat," Todd says. "He just doesn't have one." He doesn't even try to insult Drake. He's been doing less of that, if only for Damian's sake.
These days, nobody is surprised by Damian asking after Drake. They also know Damian doesn't put much stock in anything they say about Drake.
"Rightfully so," Pennyworth often says.
While Damian casts no dispersions on Todd’s truthfulness, he is not entirely convinced of Todd's accuracy. Yet, the day after his roof-top conversation, Damian doesn't ask Drake about his family tradition, too wary about another inquiry of his own experiences with celebrations being made.
The responses from the other occupants of the manor have led him to suspect that his meager experience of celebrations, like so many of his experiences, is something that is pitiable to everyone else. He readily admits much of his time with the League was not ideal, especially not compared to his time in Gotham, however receiving the watch was a pleasant memory for him - or the closest he came to pleasantness back then.
But he has found that attempts to explain things like this only make the Waynes more morose. Despite understanding that their reactions are well meant, it's not always the response he wishes to evoke. Sometimes, he just wants things to be, to simply contribute to reminiscences without getting pity in response. And Damian doesn't want to make Drake morose; Drake has made so much progress in the last months. Damian never says it, but he suspects his pride at Drake’s improvement is visible.
Although, perhaps, upon further contemplation, it is only visible to Pennyworth. Most of the Waynes cannot understand emotions which have not been clearly named aloud.
Drake, while reluctant to speak, no longer has screaming fits, and he ventures out into the garden without hesitation. Since the cold has forced them inside, he spends most of his time curled up in the library, between the window and the fireplace. He even independently seeks out interacts with Grayson. Damian has seen them sit together on the nights sleep evades Drake and he wanders the halls; it is an improvement that the only sounds to echo in the arching ceiling of the manor at night are now footsteps.
Damian knows they sit together because he checks on Drake constantly. It is hard for him to believe Drake is safe on his own - from his memories, from the locked room, from the world. Damian knows there is irony in the fact that he is now the one who is anxious for Drake’s wellbeing, when he’d been raised to depose him.
Damian has never had something so close to a friend before, never had someone to protect before.
Even Drake has begun to reach his limits regarding Damian’s constant company. Yesterday morning, he sent Damian away.
Alfred’s french toast is not going to attack me. You don’t need to stay and watch me eat, Drake had written in the leatherbound journal he used to communicate with them.
It had ached, oddly, somewhere behind his breastbone as he vacated the dining room. Grayson, who has also started seeing a therapist in solidarity with Drake, says that a desire for space is natural and a good sign.
However, Damian isn't sure what kind of sign his worry constitutes. Damian's never been scared of losing a person before, and he worries about losing Drake. Not just to a villain, but maybe to the world as well. Todd has recently mentioned finding a GED course for Drake; once that is accomplished, he’ll be ready to go away to college. Damian wants Drake to continue improving, but he doesn't want him to leave. And Drake, always independent and nearing his late teens, is meant to leave soon.
Everything in this last year has been so new, and there have been too many changes to count. And Damian believes those changes have been for the better, but sometimes he just wants something in his life in Gotham to stay steady for more than a moment. He wants something he can hold onto, even when the rest of the world insists on shifting.
Damian is excellent at regaining his balance, but it’s tiring to have to do it all the time.
—------------------------------------------
The next family tradition Damian is inducted into is Grayson's. It is louder than Todd’s, and slightly embarrassing.
"Come on, come on, come on!" Grayson cajoles, as he hustles all the residents of the manor into their winter clothes and out the door.
As they linger on the front step, waiting for Pennyworth to finish turning off the lights, Grayson fusses over them - shoving a pair of gloves at Bruce, tugging Drake’s hat more firmly over his ears, and tossing a wool scarf at Damian. When Pennyworth finally deems the house appropriately vacated and shuts the door behind them, Todd drops down from the darkened eaves to stand beside them in the glow of the porch’s sconce.
Based on the minute drooping of his shoulders, he seems to be vaguely disappointed when none of them so much as twitch at his sudden appearance. He does not have long to wallow, though, before he is running across the lawn, trying to fend off Grayson's attempts to wrap yet another scarf around his neck.
"You’ll get cold!" they hear Grayson call out.
"That’s my fuckin' right, you over-grown mother hen!" Todd replies.
Damian watches them and, as is so often the case, is bemused. And cold. The air is frigid, and Damian is already dreading the idea of spending hours out in the wintry night. Drake, however, has no such compunctions, smiling widely, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. There is no distress in his posture, just easy happiness. So Damian huddles deeper in his jacket, and resigns himself to numb extremities.
"Alright, that’s quite enough!" Pennyworth calls, and efficiently ushers them all into the car.
"Where shall we go this year, Master Richard?" he asks.
"Let’s go into the city," Grayson says. "Last year our neighbors out here didn’t even leave on a porch light."
So they drive into a residential area in Gotham, and exit the car. At this point, Grayson produces a garishly decorated bag from the trunk of the vehicle.
"I almost forgot - I bought us matching reindeer antlers!" he exclaims.
He is greeted by a chorus of immediate refusals from the occupants of the manor - as well as a threat of dismemberment from Todd. In the end, Grayson is the only member of their party to don the atrocious headwear as they begin to wander the neighborhood.
"What, exactly, is the purpose of this enterprise?" Damian questions.
Caroling, Drake writes in his journal. Singing to strangers.
"I wasn’t aware the Waynes were musical," Damian says.
"I believe you will find that we aren’t, young sir," Pennyworth interjects.
Damian watches as Grayson confidently walks up to the front door of the nearest house and rings the bell. The rest of the group lags behind him, clearly less enthusiastic, but they dutifully join him, surrounded by an air of fond exasperation.
"God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay!" Grayson suddenly belts out.
"I don’t know the songs," Damian says, lingering at the very back of the group and hoping to stay out of sight. It seems like a more diplomatic answer than his first thought, which is let us resign from this asinine endeavor immediately.
You’ll catch on, Drake scrawls, a sympathetic slant to his writing. You can just pretend to sing if you want. That's what I do.
"Yeah, most people won’t care," Todd grumbles from the back of the group. "They won’t even open the door."
They carol at every house on the street, and for the most part Todd’s prediction - mercifully - proves true. The wind is bitter, the grass is crunchy and dead beneath their feet, and the smog from the industrial sector blocks any hint of the stars. They sing off-key songs to a stoic audience of closed doors.
More accurately, Grayson sings loudly, and the rest of them mumble and hum in the background. When they finally reach the end of the street, Grayson seems ready to start down another one, but Pennyworth and Father manage to talk him out of it by noting Damian and Drake’s poorly concealed shivering. Damian would resent the perceived weakness in the excuse, except he really would prefer to put this whole strange experience behind him sooner rather than later.
On the way back to the manor, Grayson, wedged in the backseat beside Todd, says, "We used to carol at the circus. Some of the performers would visit family for the holiday, so we’d all have dinner together the day before Christmas Eve. After dinner we’d just sit around and sing. No accompaniment, no lyrics sheets, no practice or parts. My mom was a great singer, but most of the rest of us could barely carry a tune. It made her so happy, though."
The first Robin is flushed with cold and, nearly giddy, happiness as he notes, "Did you see that older couple watching through the window at the second to last house? They smiled, just as wide as my mom used to."
So, despite the pins and needles numbness of his fingers, and his embarrassment at parading around strangers’ houses to sing at them, Damian keeps his complaints to himself.
—------------------------------------------
When they return to the manor from caroling, Todd conveniently disappears between the garage and the front door, and Pennyworth ushers the rest of them into the library. They start a fire in the marble fireplace while Pennyworth goes to fetch something from the kitchen. They gather around the hearth, elbowing each other for space, and hold their stiff fingers out to thaw over the flames.
It’s not long before Pennyworth returns with a tray heaped with hot chocolate, a bottle of cooking oil, a pot, and a large bag of unpopped popcorn. Drake is curled in a blanket on the window seat, Grayson is sprawled on the ground in front of the fireplace, Damian is seated in an overstuffed armchair by the coffee table, and Bruce is somewhere near the back of the library, sitting alone on the sofa.
No one seems surprised by this development, so Damian supposes this, too, is a family tradition of some kind.
"Here," Grayson says, pulling himself up and relieving Pennyworth of the heavy laden tray. "While Alfred passes out the coco, I’ll show you how to make the popcorn."
Damian reluctantly leaves his cozy perch at Grayson’s insistent waving, and approaches the fire. He watches while the young man pours some cooking oil in the bottom of the pot, and mixes in a considerable portion of the kernels. Then, he shoves the pot over the glowing coals near the front of the fireplace, and waves it to and fro. After a while, the kernels start popping, and once they’re done, Grayson empties the pot into a large bowl and begins a new batch.
"Take this to your father, lad," Pennyworth instructs as he hands the bowl to Damian.
Damian and his father still do not often speak with each other. Father has been spending more time at the manor, and less hidden away at the office or in the batcave, but he does not seem inclined to start many conversations between them - an inclination Damian shares, since he confronted Bruce over Drake’s welfare.
Drake, either noticing Damian’s hesitance or drawn for his own reasons, ventures away from the window. He crosses the room, blanket still wrapped over his shoulders, to settle beside Bruce on the sofa. Bruce startles at his presence, and turns to look at Drake with widened eyes, before looking forward again. There is a noticeable lessening of the tension that normally lays beneath his expressions, an easing of the guilt constantly carried in the muscles of his face.
Damian passes the bowl to Drake, who nods at him to take the last empty seat on the sofa. Damian acquiesces, and watches as his father takes out a needle and thread and begins stringing the popcorn together in a long, fragile strand.
There is a knock on the window, and Pennyworth opens it, letting in a cold draft of air, and a bag of cranberries is unceremoniously tossed into the room. He can hear the already retreating sound of Todd’s voice, as he yells, "You idiots always forget the damn cranberries!"
"You can come in, you know!" Grayson calls from his post at the fireplace, but Todd makes no response.
Drake nudges Damian, holding out his journal. It’s ten pieces of popcorn to every one cranberry, he’s written. So, Damian finds himself sitting on the same sofa as his father, Drake a silent, complicated barrier between them, and strings popcorn and cranberries together into a rudimentary decoration.
When all the popcorn is popped, and the popcorn string is about three-quarters completed, his father quietly speaks.
"My parents and I used to make a garland for decorating the grand stairway every year. My mother’s family used to do it when she was little. Their first Christmas together, my father had a gold and ruby garland made for my mother. She thanked him, made a popcorn one like she’d done her whole life, and donated the proceeds from the sale of the one from my father to the local soup kitchen," he says, his usually somber voice has an unmistakable undercurrent of amusement to it. Damian has never heard his father with that tone before. It makes him sound less like the stoic embodiment of a crusade, and more like a typical person. "The next year, my father asked to help her make the popcorn one."
It’s the first story Damian has ever heard about his paternal grandparents that wasn’t a newspaper clipping about their murder. It makes them seem more real than they ever have before - more like something that is his, not just his father’s. He wonders, had she lived, if his grandmother would be here with them, stringing popcorn. His mother would have declared such musings useless, but he’s not so sure.
He is shaken from his thoughts as Drake throws a crumpled up note at Grayson’s head.
"I’m not eating all the popcorn," Grayson objects, as he shoves a heaping handful of the snack into his mouth. "Besides, I’ve seen you sneaking cranberries all night!"
Drake scrawls another note to attack Grayson with, who replies to whatever insult the paper delivered with an indignant squawk, and Pennyworth turns on the radio to cover up the bickering. He tunes it to a classical music station, and there is a choir singing something that sounds slightly familiar.
"Wait," Damian realizes, voice raising in incredulity, "This is what those carols were supposed to sound like?"
—------------------------------------------
The next day is Christmas Eve, which Damian soon finds out is the day for Pennyworth's tradition.
After lunch, they all settle into the library again. It seems to have become a habit, to choose this small, comfortable room over the cavernous, excess space of the formal sitting room. Pennyworth sits in a wingback chair close to the mantle, and the rest of the manor’s residents settle around him on the floor or curl up on the other furniture. Grayson even leaves the window slightly ajar, in case Todd is lurking outside again.
When everyone is situated, Pennyworth picks up a thin book, with a simple, careworn cover, and begins to read Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
"Marley was dead to begin with…" Pennyworth recites.
It takes a few hours to get through the story, and Pennyworth is a skilled narrator. Damian supposes the story is interesting enough, but as time passes, his attention drifts and his thoughts begin to haze over with the fog of half-sleep. He stirs when the story ends, and realizes the rest of the Waynes are in a similar state of contentment. He can even see Todd’s boot hanging down in front of the window, swinging lazily back and forth, as he lounges on the eaves.
Pennyworth quietly puts the book aside, careful not to disturb the slumbering occupants of the room, and makes his way to the kitchen. Damian, curious, follows him out. Every other person with a family tradition has provided an explanation, and Damian expects this tradition to be no different.
Pennyworth raises a knowing eyebrow when Damian trails after him into the kitchen, but he waits for Damian to ask.
"Why?" Damian says after a long pause.
Pennyworth shakes his head fondly. "As straightforward as ever," he chuckles.
"I began reading A Christmas Carol to Master Bruce when he was about ten years old," the butler says. "Following the tragic loss of his parents, it seemed a good reminder for the both of us that hope is a worthwhile endeavor, and that - with assistance and determination - redemption is not out of reach."
"You are an astute young man," Pennyworth adds as he begins preparations for dinner, and Damian mulls over his words, "to have realized that the story is often just as important as the tradition."
—------------------------------------------
After dinner that night, Damian finds Drake in the hallway, staring intently out of the window toward the city.
The residents of Wayne manor have been in unusually good moods this past week. Everyone is content, and smiling (or near to it), and that includes Drake. But, Damian cannot help but think, everyone else has had their moment, their memory.
Meanwhile, Drake has stayed to the sides of things, satisfied to live on the edges of the others’ stories. Perhaps, Damian thinks, he is not comfortable in the center of things - but he is also not used to people listening to his requests. Damian knows, Damian was the only one to realize Drake was asking for help for months while locked away.
So, it only seems right that Drake should receive an opportunity to express his thoughts, and to unquestionably be heard.
That’s what Brown says at the club meetings when Jamie is hesitant to speak up: I won’t make you recite a soliloquy, but you get to say your piece and we get to listen.
As the last rays of weak, winter sunlight filter into the hallway, Damian decides the risk of pity is worth Drake having a chance to say his piece.
"Do you have a family tradition?" Damian asks.
I have a Christmas tradition, Tim writes. It’s not something I did with my family. I go to the Cathedral for midnight Mass.
"You go to church?" Damian confirms, surprised. The celebrations in this house, while more or less based in European Christianity (and Christian-adapted pagan practices), are mostly secular.
Drake nods once, and keeps writing. His pen moves fast now, like the words are flooding out of him.
My grandmother on my mother's side was a devout Roman Catholic. She insisted my parents baptize me, and see that I was confirmed. She said my mom wouldn't see a penny of inheritance unless I was raised in the faith. My nanny took me to CCD and Sunday Mass until I was confirmed when I was nine. It was the last year my parents paid for a nanny, so it was lucky; most churches had increased the confirmation age to around fifteen.
Damian idly wonders if nine is young to be asked to pledge your life and soul to a cause. But his life and soul had been pledged to his grandfather's cause before he was even born, and it was never presented as a choice, so he supposes it’s not much of a comparison.
"Do you want to go?" Damian asks.
Drake looks unsure, pausing for long seconds before he writes, but his gaze keeps getting pulled toward the window.
I haven't gone in a long time, he writes. I'm not sure I'm ready to go outside the manor alone, and I know the others won’t feel comfortable there.
But, Damian notes, that is not a negative answer.
So they go, leaving the others to their after-dinner rest, and put a note on the kitchen island for Pennyworth informing him of their whereabouts. They walk, bundled up against the cold, to the bus stop a mile and a half from the manor grounds, and catch the bus that runs closest to the Cathedral in downtown Gotham.
They arrive at the crowded church just before the beginning procession, and find a place in the very back, on the extra folding chairs set out for the overflow of church-goers. Damian glances around, noting the Neo-Gothic architecture, the pristine altar, the indistinct figures in the darkened stained glass windows, and the echoing silence that hangs in the ornate, vaulted ceiling when the pipe organ ceases the processional hymn. It’s beautiful, in an imposing and severe sort of way.
Damian has only a passing interest in the proceedings, but Drake seems calm for the most part. He knows every movement, every word, the memorization from years ago living on in his bones. He seems solemn, but serene for the most part, only an occasional furrow slightly denting his brow, as if some thought has troubled him.
When the final note of the final hymn has decayed up in the high rafters, Drake turns to Damian.
Thank you, he writes. My relationship with the Church’s teachings is complicated. It’s not easy being here, but sometimes something calls to me anyway.
As they exit the Cathedral, Drake asks Damian if he has a tradition. It takes a moment for Damian to read the inquiry, as the wind ruffles the pages of Drake’s journal.
"Not truly," Damian says. He considers leaving it there, but he owes Drake truthfulness. And he owes himself the opportunity to say his piece as well.
"My mother gave me the wristwatch of my target from my first mission for the League," he admits.
Drake is silent for a while, as they walk down the sidewalk toward the bus stop across from the park. Damian supposes it was the best response he could hope for.
Do you still have the watch? Drake finally writes. His scrawl is messy from trying to write and walk simultaneously, and it’s hard to read in the murky light cast by the street lamps.
"Would it bother you if I did?" Damian asks, voice quiet.
It's not up to me to feel anything about it, Drake writes, and then he shrugs. All that junk B keeps in the cave isn’t actually evidence like he says. They’re reminders, like your watch. I guess whether it’s good or bad depends what you are being reminded of.
They round the corner, and the park rises into view. In contrast to the sparsely populated sidewalk, the park is bustling with activity. It looks like an event has recently ended. One of the pine trees near the center of the park has been wrapped up with multi-colored lights, and people are crowding around it, hanging up ornaments. There is a banner on the park gate that proclaims: Midnight Tree Lighting! All Welcome!
To reach the bus stop, Damian and Drake have to cut through the park, and as they pass the tree an older woman with graying hair calls out cheerfully to them. She’s standing behind a folding table laden with sweets and hot chocolate. There is a sign that says: Holiday Treats $2.
"Here, boys," she says, holding out two cups of steaming liquid. Drake starts to reach into his pocket for money, but the woman notices and waves a dismissive hand. "We’re finishing up here, and anyway it’s not a day for haggling."
Drake smiles and accepts the beverage, and, after a moment, Damian does the same. Drake, standing close beside him, nudges him with an elbow, and Damian thanks the lady for them. Their bus is still ten minutes away, so they decide to linger in the park, sitting on a bench and looking at the twinkling lights of the tree while they sip their drinks. The hot chocolate is cheap, clearly made from a powdered mix and water, but its warmth makes it taste good in the cold night air.
"I suppose, if I'm going to choose a family tradition in accordance with local custom, bell ringing could be it," Damian says, still ruminating on their earlier conversation. "It’s logical. I enjoyed it and it is valuable preparation for creating the Songbird Society."
Sure, if that’s what you’d like, Tim writes. But you don’t have to have a practical rationale or a connection to your mission behind it. I think you just find something you want to spend time doing with the people you are close to. Something that makes you feel so happy you don't want it to end.
"You didn’t feel that way about Mass," Damian says. He has become accustomed to reading Drake’s posture, and while Drake had been relieved to attend the service, he was also relieved to leave when it was over.
You’re right, Drake writes. I did appreciate it, though. I think it’s the satisfaction of fulfilling an obligation more than happiness. And I used to go alone. That’s why I don’t consider it a family tradition.
Damian considers his words. As he shivers against a particularly vicious gust of wind, he idly notes that it has begun to snow.
"Brown and Jamie are not my family," Damian says. "It seems like a family tradition is meant to be done with family members."
Friends can be your family, if that’s how you feel about them, Tim replies.
"I’m not even certain we’re friends," Damian says. He is not sulking; it is just the truth. The members of his club have known each other for a grand total of a handful of hours.
Ah, Tim writes, an understanding look on his face. Time will usually help clear those things up.
"What happens if they leave?" Damian asks, he purposefully keeps facing forward, despite the gnawing urge to glance at Drake's expression.
If they’re the family type of friends, they usually come back, Drake writes. Especially for the holidays.
Now, Damian allows his gaze to turn, and he considers Drake. His improving health, and his willingness to try and answer any question Damian asks, even when they were only strangers passing notes beneath a locked door. He thinks of how alone he was, and how Drake was the first person to tell him he had a choice about the path his life will take.
"Timothy, you are my friend," Damian declares.
Yes, we are, Drake - Timothy - agrees, his writing fast and smooth.
"We are family, too," Damian asserts, almost like a challenge.
Yes, we are, Timothy easily writes again.
Damian gazes around them, taking in the city. The snow is coming down faster now, accumulating on any available surface: the street signs, the buildings, the trees. The decorated pine tree in the middle of the park looks especially striking as the multi-colored lights reflect on passing snowflakes. Grudgingly, Damian supposes that Grayson may have been partially correct; Gotham is not beautiful, but the snow is, and it makes the wind a little less bitter.
Abruptly, Damian realizes he feels content, like the world has decided to grant him a reprieve and cease its shifting for a night.
"I think I am happy," Damian says, "And I think I’d like this moment to last for a while."
"Me, too," Timothy says quietly, his voice raspy but sure. Damian looks at Timothy, startled. Then he smiles, joy bubbling up in him so suddenly it surprises him, and Timothy's lips quirk up in return.
So, they stay there, drinking watery hot chocolate and watching the twinkling lights of the increasingly snow-laden tree, until the bus pulls up to the curb and they return home.